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‘My mawasbeautiful. Inside and out. But I don’t need colour on paper to remember her. I see her every time I close my eyes. Painting is just a distraction.’ Sketch pauses and sighs. ‘Do you know who I thought of when I was out there in the orchard all alone?’
‘Your mother.’ I smile, enjoying his special story.
‘Yes. Of course. I thought about her with every brush stroke.’ And Sketch smiles. ‘But I thought about you too, Annie. I remember what it was like to grow up with a best friend who loved apples. I thought about how much I missed my ma. And how much I missed you.’
‘Sketch, I’m so sorry your ma is gone,’ I say.
‘Me too.’ He slouches. ‘But you’re still here, Annie. Don’t deny me that. Please. Please let me see you again.’
I shake my head. My grip on the door handle once again tightens. Sketch is a lovely person, and it’s been surprisingly easy to fall back into the comfort of friendship with him. But Sketch’s affections could get me in a lot of trouble.
I offer the painting back to him, but he places his hands above his head in mock surrender, scratching his fingers against the roof. He shakes his head, and the sadness that glistens in his eyes breaks my heart.
‘Please, Annie. Just take it. Take it and think of me.’
‘All right,’ I say with a nod, accepting the paper Sketch rolls neatly. ‘But you can’t come here again…’
‘Annie, please…’
‘Sketch. You don’t understand. You. Can’t. Come. Promise me?’
‘I do understand, Annie.’ Sketch shakes his head, sadly. ‘I do understand. I won’t get you in any trouble. I promise.’
I open the car door and jump out before Sketch has a chance to say another word. The dark clouds overhead clatter and bang and sudden thunder startles me. Huge cold raindrops suddenly pound from the sky. I run, and I don’t look back. But, no matter how fast my feet scurry, there’s no escaping the torrential rain. I’m thoroughly saturated in seconds.
I burst through the front door and shut it behind me. I stand with my back firmly against the door praying that Sketch won’t be stupid enough to follow me. Counting backwards from one hundred in my head, I feel my legs quiver in rhythm to each number.Silence. Sketch hasn’t followed me. And my father isn’t awake yet.I’m safe. I smile as I curl my fingers tighter around the rolled-up painting behind my back. I crouch and lift the coal bucket next to the door. I unroll the painting and fold it in half. Placing it on the floor I set the heavy bucket back down on top. I stand up and smile, content that I’ve chosen a spot where my father will never find it.
Giddy still, I skip towards the kitchen, remembering, suddenly, that I’ve left the brown paper bag in Sketch’s car. Pa’s lunch.
Oh my God.
EIGHT
HOLLY
My grandmother tosses and turns in her sleep. They’re not major, jerky movements; they’re more like tiny spasms that pull her body from left to right as if she’s rocking gently on a boat. I think they mean she’s dreaming. Sweet dreams, I hope.
I stand and stretch my legs. I’ve no idea how long I’ve sat on the edge of Nana’s bed. The day nurse didn’t stay long. She injected Nana with something potent that knocked her out. My mother has drifted in and out of the room. She’s restless and unable to stay for longer than a few minutes at a time. It’s even harder for Mam than it is for me. Nana is my mother’s rock. It must be terrifying to watch your rock crumble.
I pace in the confined space of Nana’s bedroom. I’m wishing time away while simultaneously wishing time would never pass. I pause in the bay window for a while, staring out at a cloudless sky. It looks deceptively bright for a cold January day. The winter sun is shining low in the sky and kissing the pebble stone driveway until the stones sparkle like glitter. It’s the kind of crisp winter’s day Nana loved. She would head outside no matter what the weather, wrapping up in a hat and scarf if the cold demanded it, and go for her daily walk. Every day, five miles a day. She said old habits die hard. I didn’t understand then, but I do now. I finally understand.Oh, Nana.
The sleeve of my jumper brushes against the bouquet on the windowsill and delicious perfume wafts into the air. I take a deep breath and savour the scent that, for a moment, masks the stench of antiseptic and medicine. Nana’s bedroom suddenly smells the way it used to when I was a child. I close my eyes, and for a second, I pretend that I’m just a kid again and I’m visiting on my summer holidays from school. My recess is short-lived; my eyes flying open at the sound of Nana struggling to drag air into her weak lungs as she sleeps. I spin around and hold my breath as I watch her chest. Content to see it rise and fall, albeit shakily, I breathe again. Her eyes are still firmly closed, and aside from the terrifying gargling sound that she omits every few seconds, she seems to be sleeping soundly. I have to remind myself that the nurses said she’s not in any pain. I have to believe them or I might lose my mind.
I turn back and concentrate on the flowers, desperate for a distraction. I straighten a lily with a damaged stem and find a small gold envelope hiding in the middle of the bouquet. It hasn’t been opened. Whoever put the flowers in the vase must have missed it. I fish it out and open it. I read it with the intention of letting Nana know who her admirer is.
Annie,
Thank you for your advice.
You were right, I found a lot of answers among the stars.
Nate x
I almost drop the note and shake my head.My ex-fiancé is sending my grandmother flowers?I can’t decide if it’s highly inappropriate or wonderfully thoughtful. Nate must have had them delivered yesterday after he read the Post-it that I stuck on his laptop screen before I ran out of the office. I wonder what advice Nate is thanking Nana for and why he is doing it now. I said Nana was sick, but I didn’t say how sick. I’m guessing Nate read between the lines. With shaking fingers, I slide the note back into the envelope and place it on the windowsill next to the vase.
I take my phone out of my pocket. Every time I look at the screen, I find more missed calls from Nate. He really is desperate to get in touch. I’ve been ignoring him since his plane landed in Dublin five days ago. He didn’t come home to the apartment, and I can only guess he’s sleeping on his brother’s couch. I only see him in work when I absolutely can’t avoid it. Even then, it’s as simple as passing him in the corridor. I avoid eye contact, but I can always feel his eyes burn into me. My email inboxes are overflowing with stuff from him. Both my work and personal accounts are littered with his name. I move everything straight to trash without reading a word. He didn’t want to talk last week when he took off on a last-minute holiday to Ibiza with his single brothers. He didn’t even tell me he was going. I had to hear it from one of the guys in the office. Nate didn’t email that week. Or text. The most he could manage was a call, and he waited until he was drunk to make it. If he can go on a self-indulgent week without contact when it suits him, then surely he can give me some space now to be with Nana. He knows how much I love her. If he cared about me at all, he’d leave me alone right now.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and Nate’s name, unsurprisingly, flashes on the screen. Before I have time to chicken out, I hit the accept button and hold the phone to my ear. I’m so ready to tell him to back off, but, when I open my mouth, all that comes out is a dull whimper like a wounded animal begging for help.
