"You and him"

It burns deeper on the inside now. That existential dread, the bottomless pit emptying my stomach, the rumbling chasm that echoes throughout the dead ribs of the quaint village church. I would scream but would my stomach think of it as an invitation to let out all the hurt. I hadn’t eaten in two days so all that would come up is bile, the choleric, fiery pain where the burning began.

I hear it again, louder this time. “Dani”. My mother’s voice, chiming past the ringing flat E bouncing around my ears, sounds almost impatient, the same tone she would use if I was keeping her from work, but careful as to not spook the ghosts parroting in my head. “It’s your turn Dani”. So it was. It must have been a minute passed since the officiator first called and sent me into this perspiring panic.

Dad was only in his early fifties when he passed. Mum and I knew it was coming, the doctors had said the cancer had been getting more violent for the past two years but I think Dad always held hope. It probably sounds selfish to say I really wish I didn’t have to talk in front of all these people, but their piercing gaze said otherwise. I pulled out the eulogy I prepared minutes before we left, the rain-soaked scrap of paper lugging itself to the chipped lectern. I knew what I wanted to say, but I couldn’t tell everyone else that; it wouldn’t mean anything to them. I looked up for a second, the collective mass of dreary faces amidst the black, mourning sea ever patient for the grief stricken girl. I began with a croaky burst, trying to clear my coarse throat so the words could flow out. I hadn’t actually spoken in the two weeks passing his death other than the occasional murmur whenever asked to hang the washing out or clean the dishes, so of course it did not work. Instead the words stuttered and stumbled out of my mouth like I was finding my functions again.

“Thank you all for coming, erm, Dad is, was…” I could already feel myself beginning to stammer, not good. “He wasn’t much for funerals but I’m sure he’d be glad that so many people came out to say goodbye”, I know I certainly wasn’t, this was hell. “Dad really cared about people, y’know. He didn’t often say much, he didn’t need to, but he was always there to listen and offer a smile”, the pale heads floating amongst the black sea were almost bobbing in agreement now. The audience was captivated but the vile base of my stomach was most definitely not. Nonetheless I carried on, mumbling the same blasé speech given by everyone and everything, only now remembering the sodden eulogy crumpling between my dripping fingers.

The ringing of the church bells interrupted the rest, probably for the best, and I packed away my dreary notes and sulked down from the podium as if almost conditioned by years of school was finally paying off. As the waves of people depart from the church, me and mum remain to breathe heavy sighs and bask in the momentary silence of zero expectation. A quick moment at that as folding in from the corner of my eye, the resemblance of a figure takes me aback. April. A pleasant if not slightly unruly reminder of a life with Dad still there. Best friends since birth if only by convenience; the convenience of having been born in a tiny village, living across the street from one another. In reality April was the direct antithesis of me, especially at my lowest point now, having always been included in the popular cliques surrounded by likeminded gorgeous people with all the suitors to take her fancy; at times I wished I could be one said suitor. I, on the other hand, was merely a speck in the sea to these types with only the promise of good grades to get me by (which even that was failing me by this point). We hadn’t spoken to each other since I left for university but now felt like a good enough time to

“I didn’t see you in the crowd”, I mildly claimed. I had, the vibrant blossom of her liveliness was hard to miss in what was otherwise a dreary mist.

“Must’ve been the new hair”, she let out a brief giggle, although seemed wary this wasn’t the occasion to do so. It was a bright blonde set in a neat bun as opposed to the brooding auburn locks I was accustomed to seeing her with. It suited her, if I wasn’t now so selfishly self-aware of my own appearance I could almost say she was a light in the darkness. “Are you going to the wake?”

“Honestly, I would rather die”, I glanced at mum realising the time and place of my words. Mum promised to attend the wake, if only to keep appearances, but I made no such promise. She delivered a shunned gesture as if to relieve me from the occasion.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to”, mum said as she tiredly straightened my skirt, “I won’t be too late honey, go spend some time with April”.

We walked back home, April’s parents offered to take us back but even the thought of fast motion flipped my stomach upside down. We didn’t speak, just wallowed in eerie silence that clung to the West Brook moors, sinking in the more pleasant memories of a time gone by; a time where Dad was still here. We passed the park’s where we would spend countless hours in mindless fun, the leisure centre where we would rollerblade as kids deep into the night, the . We passed Lake Juliet where I cried to Dad as he picked me up and took me away from the girl that broke my heart for the first time. He wasn’t there for that anymore. Dad was gone.

“We could order a takeaway, watch some Netflix? Anything, Dani?”. A takeaway didn’t sound too bad, at the very least it would chase away the taste of grief. We’d been sat back at home for over an hour, me sat staring lifelessly at the ceiling whilst April wished to do anything else; she was there out of courtesy at this stage.

“I’m still waiting for it”, I said bluntly.

“Waiting for what?”, she replied, evidently happy that there was finally a break in the silence.

“The revelation”, I trailed off. “I dunno, people always make it seem as though there’s some sort of revelation but I’m still waiting, like… what am I supposed to do with all this?”, it was rhetorical but I think April nervously wanted this to go on.

“All of what exactly? The money?”, she fumbled through a few words before managing to muster up something meaningful. “You can talk to me Dani, whatever it is… I know we haven’t exactly been there for each other over the past two years but,” she paused, it felt like hours went by now that I noticed how awkward and distant the silence was before. “I’m here now”.

I didn’t know how to respond to that. This girl was one of the few things that mattered before but now I didn’t know how to talk to her. I felt as nervous as the day I first met her, the butterflies now filling my stomach replacing the dread that grief had brought about. “Netflix sounds good”, was all I could muster out.

We had prepared for this, me and mum. We knew this would come but yet it still felt as though I was sleepwalking through life; it had been this way for the past two years. Dad had even unexpectedly left around $20,000 for us as a fund to help us live our lives and dwell in the grief as long as we needed (that was his inner councillor coming out). I left for university however, to escape the pity and special treatment I was getting at home which, don’t get me wrong was appreciated, infuriated me to no ends. I needed to get as far away as possible but the 250 miles I decided on seemed to match the weight of the guilt I bear on my shoulders now. I avoided coming back to see him one more time because I was scared but now all I wanted was to see him that last time. I was back now though, if only to say goodbye with mum and not the fact that grief and financial troubles as a student don’t pair well.~

I went to get some money from upstairs for the takeaway, leaving April downstairs alone probably giving her some much needed respite from the cloud above my head. Manoeuvring through the battlefield that was my room I gathered the loose change on the desk and heading back through the landing. I stopped. His study was right there, looming over me. Mum and I never went in his study, with Dad always saying it was his private space where work stays and does not leave, we both respected that (there was also the whole ethical conundrum of snooping around a councillor’s space). I knew I shouldn’t but it felt as though the room was calling to me, this was Dad’s world, his life. I had to get in. I reached to the groove above the glass doors where I saw him leave the key when I was eight and curious about the world around me, I had the same feeling now.

Entering the room was like walking into someone’s grave; if that grave was perfectly air conditioned and well decorated. The air was stagnant, dust littering the countertops and furniture and it smelt of strong disinfectant. I’d become accustomed to this smell around Dad as he spent so much time in and out of hospitals over the past two years. However, amongst all this stillness, something stood out. Sat in a plastic bag from the hospital, almost as though it acted as some kind of evidence in a criminal investigation, was a leather bound, black book. It looked like it had been placed there recently, the dust around hadn’t settled, it felt as though I was disturbing a deep sleep by picking it up. I jolted backwards as two notes slipped out of the journal and carefully picked them up resuming my tiptoed approach. They were addressed to me and mum, one for each. I placed down hers and began reading mine.

The note began with “Danielle”. I hated that, he knew it. I continued through it, keeping back tears as he goes on to describe how grief takes many forms, that things like money helps some people but not everyone. He knew it would help mum, give her more time to come to terms, it made no difference to me. The small black notebook lay stiff in my hands, a cruel metaphor for Dad I guess. I opened it and the floodgates came with it. This was everything he thought but didn’t say, an account of his love over the past two years.

I was experiencing it again as I read, the ire and denial arriving, as thick as thieves. Why did he keep all this from me in life? I thought he had just left the money and the emptiness of him not here anymore. But this book was him. This was worth more than any amount of money he could leave behind. Dad was here.

It took me far too long to realise April was stood there watching over my shoulder, like an angel descending from the heavens. I wiped away a tear, retreating into myself as her cold hand pressed against my cheek.

“Whatever you need”, she whispered.

“Just you”, gazing down at the notebook brimming with life. “You and him”.

Words and photo by Jack Bailey