I clear my throat and settle back on the couch, considering my next words.“Murph left me a letter.”Fiona’s eyes go wide, that curiosity returning, accompanied by something like hunger.“The lawyer gave it to me when I went in to sign papers for the cottage.”
She slides to the edge of her seat once more, her knuckles going white around the frame still clutched in her hand.“What did it say?”she asks in a choked whisper.
“I haven’t read it yet,” I admit.“Haven’t been able to bring myself to open it.I feel like a coward, but it’s the last new thing I’ll ever have from him.”
The anguish on Fiona’s face makes me regret my words.I’ve been so careful around her and Mae, not wanting to add my own pain to their immeasurable grief.I start to apologize, but she holds up a hand to cut me off, giving her head a jerky shake.
“No, no, it’s okay.Sometimes I get so caught up in this…this…” She presses her palm to her chest, then fists her fingers in the hoodie.I nod to show I understand what she means: this agony that’s so intense there are no accurate words to describe it.
“There are moments when I forget that Mum and I aren’t the only ones who loved Dad so fiercely,” she says.“We’re not the only ones who are feeling his loss in ways that echo into every area of life.And foryou…everyone experiences grief differently, and it’s not a competition of who hurts more, but you were there for him every single day.You were there when he died.I imagine that adds a different layer to your grief.”
I hadn’t considered that, but I suppose she’s right in a way.Being in the room when Murph died—seeing him draw his last breath, watching his hand go slack in Mae’s—it changed me.It was as if a light went out not only in the room but also in the world, and a part of me was swallowed by the darkness.
“I’ve been too afraid to ask this of anyone before, but…was it quick?”Fiona asks.“It must have been, right?I was just talking to him the day before.Mum always promised she’d tell me if the end was near so I could be here.”
Her words are rapid and desperate, her voice shaking.She’s so close to the edge of her seat now, I’m worried she’s going to drop onto her knees at any second.The sight of Fiona on her knees, clutching a picture of her dad and me as tears shimmer in her eyes might just kill me.
My body acts without consent from my brain, and before I know it, I’m the one on my knees in front of her.I imagine the surprise splashed across Fiona’s expression is mirrored on my own.I take her hand, ignoring the fleeting reminder that this is one of the only times I’ve touched Fiona voluntarily since last December.Before that, I purposely avoided physical contact because I knew it would stir up a torrent of memories and emotions, which is exactly what happens when our skin comes into contact now.
“It was fast,” I tell her.“He’d been slowing down and growing weaker over the last few months, but we knew to expect that.The doctor talked to us about hospice and palliative care, but didn’t think it was time yet.And then, on the morning he died, he just…didn’t wake up.He was there, but not.We all knew he could hear us and was aware we were there.He’d make noises or squeeze our hands when we spoke to him, but…then he was just gone.None of us even thought to call the doctor because it all happened so fast.”
Tears drip onto our joined hands.I’m not sure whether they belong to me or Fiona.She sniffles, and her throat works, as if she’s trying to swallow down the sobs I imagine want to escape.God knows there’s a part of me that wants to let go right now and wail like a baby.Maybe it would be cathartic for both of us if we did.
Instead, I release her hand and cross the room to grab a box of tissues.When I return, I sit in the chair beside hers.While she collects herself, I think of the things I’ve left unsaid.The things that feel cruel to admit to her, like that my anger hit an all-time high at one point shortly after Murph died, because Fiona wasn’t there.It was completely irrational, consideringwedidn’t even know it was the end, so there was no wayshecould have known.
It was followed quickly by a sense of relief that she wasn’t there.That she’d missed seeing Murph—this larger-than-life figure, her hero—slowly deteriorate after her visit at Christmas.That she wasn’t there to hear her mother begging Murph to wake up, to let her see his eyes, and hear him tell her he loved her one last time.Those images haunt me.Fiona has her own ghosts to contend with, but I’m glad she doesn’t have those particular ones.
She draws in a shuddering breath and straightens her shoulders.A few stray tears continue to slip down her cheeks, but she no longer looks like a soft breeze would knock her over and shatter her into a million pieces.“Thank you, Nathan.For telling me that, and more importantly, for being there for my parents this whole time.And for being there when Dad died.”
Now it’s my turn to swallow convulsively.“It was an honour and a privilege, Firefly.”
Firefly.The word seems to suck the air from the room.If Fiona’s barely audible gasp is any indication, I’m not the only one who feels it.My old nickname for her hasn’t passed my lips in over a decade.I’ve gone so far as to teach Rex to call the little beetles ‘lightning bugs’ when they appear each summer.
Needing to escape the weight of Fiona’s gaze on me, I stand and go to the fireplace under the guise of stoking the flames.This is another reason I’ve avoided Fiona all these years: being around her always throws me into the past.I used to stop the thoughts immediately, command my brain to reroute and think about literally anything else.As my hostility waned and my resolve softened, I was able to see the memories in a different light.I rarely allowed myself to dwell on them, but it was better than attempting the nearly-impossible task of eradicating all thoughts of someone I’d known and loved my entire life.
The nickname came about the summer after my grandma died.I’d already experienced loss in my life, namely when my dad left, and then when my grandpa died.Fiona was always a lifeline, but especially that summer.Things between us had been slowly changing, morphing from friendship into something more, and it all came to a head one night on the bridge over the creek at the back of the Murphys’ property, when I told Fiona I loved her for the first time.It was something we’d said to each other over the years as friends, but we both knew this time was different.
“You’re my firefly, Fiona,” I’d told her, gripping her hands tightly in my sweat-slicked palms as fireflies danced around us.“A spark of light guiding me through the darkness, giving me hope.”
“For what it’s worth, Nathan, you’re not a coward,” Fiona says now, breaking into my thoughts.“You’re the furthest thing from it.”
The luminescent dots in my vision are replaced by the flickering flames in front of me.It takes my mind a minute to emerge from the distant past into this moment and catch up with Fiona’s statement.What were we talking about?
“You don’t have to decide right now, but if you want company while you read the letter, I’m happy to provide emotional support,” she says.“I don’t have to read it, and you don’t have to tell me what it says, but if you don’t want to be alone…”
I stand and reach for the carved wooden box in the centre of the mantel.It was one of the first things I ever made.My grade eleven woodworking teacher saw something in me and offered to work with me after school to hone my skills.The box was a Mother’s Day gift for my mom; it’s far from perfect, but she loved it and displayed it proudly.After she died, I filled it with sentimental things of my own: photographs of my grandparents that were too faded or worn to put in frames; a sonogram picture of Rex where it looks like he’s giving a thumbs up; postcards Fiona sent me during her summers in Ireland.Murph’s last letter to me was the most recent addition.
I take the letter out and sit on the couch.My name is scrawled across the front of the envelope in Murph’s familiar handwriting, and the back is sealed with a wax stamp featuring his initials.He always did have a flair for the dramatic.The envelope is thin, but it feels heavy in my hands.
“You don’t have to,” Fiona says quietly.“It’s fine if you’re not ready.”
“They say a funeral is the final goodbye, but I feel like I’ve spent the last few weeks saying goodbye over and over again.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”Fiona rises, taking both of our glasses to the bar cart in the corner.She tops them up, then hesitates for a few seconds before sitting on the far end of the couch.“Is this okay?”she asks.At my nod, she settles in, tucking her legs under herself.“Take your time.”
I take a swig of my drink before carefully prying open the seal on the envelope.Just like my mind played tricks on me with the weight of the envelope, I’m not sure whether the faint musk and peppermint scent is real or imagined.
My eyes scan the page first, taking in Murph’s familiar handwriting and the date in the corner: January first of this year.I take another sip of whiskey, followed by a deep breath, and then I start reading.
