Chapter Eight
Entrusting our sister to God’s mercy
I’m writing an article calledTen Lip Masks To Treat Your Smackers, for the beauty section of a supermarket magazine calledFresh Living, and as usual, I’m distracted. Why do certain words look so odd when you stare at them for a while – in this case: ‘smackers’? It’s not a great headline, admittedly, but magazines like this would never let me freestyle. If I had my way, it would beLip Lip, Hooray! But maybe I should stop trying to make the headline funny and concentrate on the article itself, the part I’m not so good at. Cassia Carver would make light work of this… sometimes I wonder if I’m even cut out for this kind of writing, which is a depressing thought as it’s been the basis of my entire career.
I google my name to see if last week’s lash growth serumTried and Testedfeature has gone live, then roll my eyes when all the search brings up is another death announcement. At least this one is from Kansas and not Florida, for a change. I scan the page and I’m about to head to Instagram to see what Cassia’s#OOTDis when I spot the opening line: ‘With heavy yet grateful hearts, we announce the death of Erica Mary Pells, born 1926’. Heavy yetgrateful? What, as in they’re grateful she’s dead? I read on. She had an amazing career, tons of children and grandchildren and devoted her retirement to philanthropy. In lieu of flowers, ‘the family suggests honoring her with contributions to the Baker University Wetlands Discovery Center’. So by ‘grateful’, they mean lucky she was around so long. Wow. Who would say that about me?
A message from Mother Pells brings me back to earth.
Erica, could you collect me on the way to the crematorium, I can’t remember the way. Probably The Inevitable. x
OK Mum. I’ll be at yours at 11.30. x
Thanks. Been thinking about poor Carol this morning, wonder what she’d be doing now. x
Before I can reply, another message lands, this time from Nandy.
How’s your vag?
I smile and, thinking of Gabe and the fizzy chest feeling, reply quickly.
Unexpectedly coming back to life haha
‘Erica, you look like a clown,’ are Mother Pells’ first words as she gets into the car.
‘Erm… thanks Mum. Lovely to see you too,’ I say as I manhandle Josie’s Kia out of her driveway.
The atmosphere is tense on the fifteen-minute drive, and I can tell it isn’t just about my blatant disregard for the twenty mph speed restriction zone near the primary school.
‘You’re wearing a lot of make-up, Erica. You look like one of the Kardashables.’
‘Oh my god, Mum. I thought you’d want me to look nice for Carol’s funeral. Out of respect.’
Mother Pells harrumphs. ‘Respect for Carol went out the window when you sent that horrible message about her coming back to life. It wasn’t funny in the slightest, as you seemed to think.’
Ah. The message for Nandy about my vagina. Probably not worth explaining that.
‘Sorry Mum. That wasn’t meant for you.’
‘Who else are you texting about poor Carol? For goodness’ sake, Erica. Anyway, Simen is now coming today too. At leasthe’llshow some respect.’
‘Sorry… Did you just say SEMEN?’ I nearly veer off the road.
‘Simen. S-I-M-E-N. But yes, it’s pronounced “Semen”. It’s the Norwegian version of Simon. Didn’t Simon tell you that’s what he wants to be known as now? It’s because he did his ethnicity DNA test. He’s four per cent Scandinavian! I think it’s on my side, not your dad’s.’ She arranges her bosom proudly with her forearm.
‘So, to be clear, he’s ninety-six per cent NOT Scandinavian and he’s changed his name? Jesus wept.’
‘Please don’t talk about Jesus on the way to a funeral, Erica.’
I grit my teeth and focus on not getting snapped by a speed camera in somebody else’s car.
I used to like the autumn, watching the trees change colour in Regent’s Park and poring overMarie Claire’s101 Ideasto find the perfect plum-coloured jumper and brown coat for the new season. Now this time of year just says rising energy bills and flu jabs, with some vitamin D deficiency thrown in for good measure. There’s also the fact that I hate it when people use the word ‘brisk’ to describe the temperature, and autumn sees the beginning of this season, which lasts until around April the following year.
The other reason I’m not keen on autumn is because that’s when Father Pells died. They said that he would have ‘a good few years in him yet’ if he hadn’t been exposed to those chemicals at work. Apparently, they were experimenting with ways to make aircraft invisible to radar – I didn’t understand it then any more than I understand it now. But it happened, and to start with it was just skin rashes, and a fatigue he couldn’t shake. After retirement didn’t give him his energy back, he had more and more tests. Mother Pells retired too, earlier than planned, to look after him. He would sleep a lot, and nothing seemed to ease his itching. His face hollowed and the light behind his eyes dimmed.
Test after test, then finally a diagnosis: a rare form of cancer. They would do ‘all they could’, but the reality was, he’d been poisoned. People at work were talking about lawsuits – a few other members of his team had health problems too. A cloud settled over the house, and even Oli and Sam – fighting, laughing, breaking the silences – couldn’t blow it away. Hospital trips became hospital stays, and Mother Pells picked at her lips until they were raw, which had always been her nervous habit. I gave her expensive lip balms that I got free from PRs, but they were never going to help. He died at home. I wasn’t there, but I’d said goodbye the day before. ‘Make us proud, my funny little Erry,’ he’d told me.
It’s cold and windy when we get out of the car at the crematorium and my dress keeps blowing up, despite the long coat I put over it. The car park is covered in dead leaves, transformed by the rain into what look like soggy cornflakes, which I pick my way around for fear of slipping in my heels. By contrast, Mother Pells is dressed sensibly in smart ‘slacks’ and a black jacket. She’s tall and elegant, with a silver bob, more like Simon than me; I inherited my father’s short legs and heart-shaped face.
