The doctors and nurses were mostly great, but there were a few who weren’t clued up about how to deal with his needs, leaving Michael worried and unsettled.
At least I could go and see him every day, which I wouldn’t have been able to do if I’d lived further afield. Thankfully, Shirley was able to visit too, as well as some of his friends from his social club, but it wasn’t enough. Michael told me,sobbing, that he missed Mum and Dad, and it crippled me. I ached for them too. It was around then that I started sculpting them.
I called Finn more often throughout all of this, but the contact actually made me feel worse. I’d ring, crying, and discover that he was out at lunch or in the studio and I’d clam up, not wanting to disturb him. He was recording his first solo album for an indie label and sometimes he simply wasn’t available. I know it hurt him too, not to be able to comfort me.
In the end, I told him, tearfully, that it was too hard, that it would be better to have no contact at all than to experience what felt like rejection, even if it wasn’t intentional. It was a torturous decision to make, but I think he understood.
We haven’t been in touch for over four months and now that we’re into August I’m close to cracking and reaching out to him. So far, my pride has kept my curiosity in check. I feel as though I’ll lose something if I’m the first of us to make contact after all this time. I can’t explain it.
He usually returns during Tyler and Liam’s school holidays, but the boys went to LA at Christmas so there’s a chance he won’t even visit this summer. The thought of him not coming makes me feel ill, but the agony I’ll feel if he does return and then leaves again will be worse.
I focus on my phone and post a couple more pictures of the progress the foundry workers have made with my parents this week. I have ten new followers, I realise, clicking on Notifications. My attention zeroes in on one name:Finn Lowe.
My heart skips a beat.
There you are …
Finn changed his surname to Lowe for his solo album. Iguess he decided that Finn Finnegan didn’t have a nice ring to it after all.
He’s liked all of my posts and has commented on a couple.
‘Stunning’ he says simply of a close-up of my mother’s face.
‘Beautiful’ is what he says of another.
After skipping a beat, my heart is now racing.
I do follow his Instagram feed, but I never comment. It doesn’t make me feel good to look at it, so I tend to avoid it. Seeing pictures of him and his happy-go-lucky life in LA makes me feel horribly disconnected from him.
But now that he’s written, I can’t resist replying.
I feel nervous as I send him a DM: ‘Well, hello, stranger.Visiting our shores anytime soon?’
I doubt he’ll be awake yet, so I force myself to close the app and go downstairs to the bar.
Chas is standing in the corner, facing the wall, one elbow propped up against the bar top. There’s something about his body posture that doesn’t seem right. He looks smaller. He looksolder, I realise, and he is, of course. He’ll be celebrating his seventieth birthday next year.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask him.
He glances over his shoulder at me, his usually deeply tanned face seeming a little pale.
He wrinkles his nose. ‘Not feeling that hot.’
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask with concern, as Chas hasn’t taken a single day off for ill health in all the time I’ve known him.
‘I don’t know,’ he replies. ‘Maybe I’m coming down with something.’
‘Symptoms?’
‘Nausea. A bit of light-headedness.’
‘Go home,’ I insist, walking over to him and rubbing his back.
‘No, I’ll be fine.’ He brushes me off.
‘At least go and sit down on the balcony for a bit, get some fresh air.’
The fact that he obeys worries me.
