Better than Christmas, he used to say, didn’t he? Less pressure. More sunshine.
Just as much chocolate, Freya adds.
And I thought it would be poignant, Josie says, to come together today, and put a few things … to rest. In his memory.
Nora is not following. Her mind is half on the bus with Robin, and not in this room. But Bren shifts in the corner, something flickering across his face as he lowers the tea towel, his nose smeared red with his own blood.
No, he says. Then repeats himself: no.
Nora sees him looking at Josie, then down at his own smart shirt; his mother’s shining, patent shoes in place of her slippers. That song is still playing and Nora’s brain tries hard to catch up.
It’s okay, Josie tells him. It’s all right, pet.
Your father died, Bren, Freya says, in the voice Nora’s heardher use when talking to her tomatoes. It’s time you acknowledged that, don’t you think?
And then Nora understands, too. Her desire to go home – to chase after Robin – wanes slightly. As if what is happening here is weighing her down, like stones in her pockets, making it too hard to move.
I know he died, Bren says.
Do you, though, Josie says. Because you seem unable to talk about him.
Rush of air, as the wind blows. Back door banging against the wall.
I thought this could be, Josie says, gesturing at the four of them, a chance to scatter his ashes, together. Finally.
A memorial, Freya suggests.
No, Bren says again.
Sweetheart –
I didn’t sign up for this, he says. It’s not what I came home for.
He looks panicked; Nora sees it, the look she saw so often in childhood when they’d get out of the house, roam the fields, put time and distance between him and whatever was happening back home. A look she’d not yet seen in him, in adulthood.
But you never grieved properly, Josie pleads.
I grieved just fine, he says.
I’m with him on this, Nora says, and the other three look over at her, surprised. It’s not right, she says. It’s – inappropriate, she adds, in Freya’s direction, but her mother holds her gaze, unashamed, as Josie says Nora, you need to –
We don’tneedto do any of this, Nora says. We had the funeral. We paid our respects.
Bren didn’t, Freya says, and at this, something snaps; something Nora knows was already pulled taut, being stretchedand stressed, all day, maybe ever since he got back, or for twelve years, before that, with his mum’s condition and his father’s death and his own suppressed, fearful young heart.
You think Ididn’t? he says. You think I don’t think about him, every single day? You think I need to behereto know he fucking died? I was there! I was fuckingthere, in that driveway, when it happened!
Bren –
None of you were! None of you saw it! None of you have to play it over and over, how he fell down and puked, all over himself, the way he looked at me like he wanted me to – to help him!
Oh, Bren, Josie says, her face crumpling, but he goes on, he is ranting now, has stopped bleeding from the nose and it’s like the words are outpouring, instead, hot and red and gushing.
Ihad to catch him,Ihad to turn him over, andIcouldn’t make it okay, Bren says, becausehewas the one that made things okay! When things never were! You were too sick! Too scared, too fucking scary! Buthewas there, he said he wouldalwaysbe there, and then he wasn’t, and I – and I –
Nora watches him, as he melts down. Like she’d always thought he might, one day, half expecting a choked phone call or heartfelt email, except years had gone by and no such thing had arrived and now it is happening in front of her.
Josie has moved towards him, her hand outstretched.Don’t, Bren says, backing away. Don’t touch me. And don’t tell me I didn’t grieve, just because I didn’t wear a suit and tie and sing a fucking hymn. Don’t tell me I didn’t know how it felt, to lose him.
