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I swallow as my eyes well. My heart aches with too much want for a body to manage. I feel so satiated in his arms. Once I step away from the anchor of him, I’ll be lost again.
I feel as if I’m stepping out of myself as I step back. Our gazes hold. His face is leaner. Sharper. I can see it plainly, and it makes my heart bleed.
My throat stings as I rasp, “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
There’s a certain sweetness on his face, a gentle boyishness about his small smile. Imagine if I’d met him in the schoolhouse. The thought hurts, so I wipe it away, giving him a tremulous smile before I push back through the door.
Twenty-Five
Finley
There’s only five of us at morning mass: old Mr. Button, Mrs. Adams with the poodle hair, Mrs. Dillon on the organ, Father Barnard, and myself. Father Barnard wears his purple Lenten vestment with the small stain on the left sleeve and blows his nose four times on a kerchief.
I wear a mint-green dress that snags a few times on a rough spot on the pew. The dress is one of those we received last year in a mass order. The green was my size; I look fair in green, so I bid for it. Many of the dresses were for smaller girls…like Holly. I won’t think of her now. Not in church.
I clutch my favorite rosary—the one with ocean blue glass beads that belonged to Gammy’s mum—and steer my inner monologue so it flows from the blessing to dismissal to my silent prayers after I’ve bid everyone goodbye.
O my Jesus, forgive us of our sins. Save us from the fires of hell. Lead all souls into heaven, especially those most in need of thy mercy.
I can whip through the rosary more quickly than an auctioneer, but I work through the prayers slowly as I trek from Upper Lane to Lower in the soft, blue morning. The words are like an incantation, warding off all thought, obstructing sorrow. I don’t notice until I reach the clinic that the morning’s oddly quiet and cold enough to numb my ears and mouth and nose.
I slip the key into the lock on the door of the residence, and I hear Baby’s hooves click. When I step inside, her warm, wee body presses to my stockings.
“Hi there, fluffins.”
She peers up at me with her sheepy eyes, and I crouch down beside her.
“There’s my wee ewe.” I stroke her soft head, and she presses against my dress. “Did you miss your Mummy?”
She peers up at me, and I think she looks happy.
If nothing else, I still have Baby. I’ve made her a leash and collar out of a bit of red canvas I fashioned for her at the sewing machine. I attached a pink and red hair bow to the collar last night after my crying jag was over. It was mine when Mummy was still here. I laugh every time I look at Baby in her collar.
I spent the remainder of the night baking. Now I pack it all into a woven wood basket. I spend some time poking through the bathroom cabinet as Baby rubs her fluffy self against the coolness of the tub.
“You silly ewe, you.”
We emerge with several of my favorite oils and tinctures. In the kitchen, with Baby pressed snugly against my legs, I write out instructions for my favorite vodka-based sleeping tincture, which includes a bit of skull cap, ashwagandha, chamomile, hops, and rhodiola root. I label a bottle of capsules filled with valerian, and two others containing B-vitamin and magnesium supplements (both being good for the mind). Then I’ve got a bit of passionflower. I toss in some melatonin and Unisom for good measure, along with a note explaining he ought not use all the remedies at once.
After that, I walk into the bedroom, where at the bottom of the quilt-clad bed there is a purple velvet blanket folded into a large square. I scoop it up and hug it to me as Baby looks on.
“This is Mummy’s special blanket. Gammy made it for me with the weight inside it long ago, and recently I re-covered it with this fabric.” It smells of lavender and feels like home.
Biting my lip, I roll the blanket tightly, bind it with a strand of white ribbon I braid into my hair for weddings and receptions, and wedge it into the picnic basket alongside soup, breads, and cookies. I pack in a jug of my honeyed green tea and load it into Doctor’s white Land Rover. It had been with Gregory Green, who was patching an oil leak, but I got it back late yesterday evening.
With the passenger’s seat scooted back and Baby standing like a fluffin princess in the floorboard, I drive up to Gammy’s cottage. His Land Rover is there—of course it would be—but I don’t let that deter me. I walk to the small porch, set the basket down, and ring the doorbell once. Then I drive off.
He’ll take us from here. If he doesn’t reach out—and I doubt he will, based on history—it’s quite possible I might never speak to him again.
* * *
I start making bargains with myself. I didn’t see him yesterday after I dropped the basket off. If I don’t see him today—Thursday—and I likely won’t, as I’m working through appointments at the clinic—I’ll build on that; I won’t seek him out tomorrow. I won’t even walk near where they’re digging.
If I don’t see him either day, I’ll tell myself it’s well and truly over—for the best.
What happened in the closet was a moment of shameful weakness. For us both. He’s still poorly. I’m the only one who knows about his suffering. I’ve soothed him before. And I’m that sort, besides.
