Eddie
Dear You,
It’s 3:37 A.M., nearly eighteen hours since I touched down at Heathrow.
Nobody was waiting for me, of course, because the only person who knew I was coming back today was Mum. I feigned indifference as I scanned the sea of welcome cards that didn’t say my name. I whistled a bit of Bowie.
I called Mum on my way to the Long Stay car park. For reasons as yet unclear, she seems to have found my absence particularly hard this time. Maybe it was the distance that threw her. It certainly isn’t the first time I’ve gone away for two weeks. Anyway, she told me she’d been up all night worrying about my plane crashing. “It’s been awful,” she told me. “I’m so tired I can hardly speak.” But she must then have made an immediate recovery because she went on to spend ten minutes telling me about the things her sister failed to do in my absence. “She still hasn’t taken the recycling away. It’s just sitting there by the front gate! I can’t bear to look out of the window. Eddie, do you think you could pop over on your way home?”
Poor Aunty Margaret.
Mum came close to a panic attack when Margaret tried to take her for her psychiatrist’s appointment apparently, so I’ve got to take her next week. She said she just couldn’t cope with cars, hospitals, people. Not without me. The conversation was plowed with deep furrows of guilt. Mine, for having just buggered off—even though Mum’s always telling me I’ve got to lead my own life—and hers, because she knows this is what happens when I do.
I picked up the Land Rover and drove back down the M4. Back to Gloucestershire, to Sapperton, to this life. I listened to the radio for a while, because it stopped me thinking about Sarah. I came off at Membury Services for a cheese sandwich.
Then something weird happened as I headed down the Cirencester Road: I didn’t slow down for the Sapperton junction. I didn’t even indicate; I just shot on past. I carried on to the Frampton turnoff, but I didn’t come off there, either. I found myself driving to Minchinhampton Common. I parked at the reservoir and got an ice cream and walked round Amberley, and then dropped into the Black Horse. I had an orange Henry, then sat there for about two hours, just staring across the Woodchester Valley.
I’m not sure what was going on in my head. Everything felt oddly detached, as if I were watching CCTV footage of myself. All I knew was that I couldn’t go to Mum’s.
By this point she’d texted and called me several times, worried I’d crashed on the motorway. So I told her I was fine, had just got held up sorting something out, but that was more because I didn’t know what I was doing than because I was hiding something specific. At about four I was back at Tom Long’s Post, and that’s when it got really worrying, because rather than turning right toward Sapperton, I found myself turning left toward Stroud.
I went for a pint at the Golden Fleece and then popped in on Alan and his wife, Gia. They were lovely. So kind and supportive. Let me share Lily’s tea and told me I’d done the right thing, walking away from Sarah. They had no idea I was hiding from my own mother.
Lily refused to go to bed. She sat on my knee and drew mermaids. Since meeting Sarah, I’ve felt a strange breathlessness when I hang out with Lily, a pressing sadness mingled with the love and affection I feel for my best friend’s little girl. Sarah broke some kind of a seal in me, I think. After years of disregarding the idea, I began to be able to imagine myself with a child of my own. Lily drew an ink mermaid on my hand and I felt a deep trench open up inside me, like a fissure in the ocean floor.
I texted Mum and said something had come up with Alan and that I wasn’t going to make it tonight. I’ll be over in the morning, I promised. She wasn’t happy, but she took it. It’s not as if I make a habit of standing her up.
Relief, despair, when I finally unlocked my door. I love that barn more than I ever imagined loving bricks and mortar, but it’s also a grim reminder of the facts of my life. To the outsider, my barn says, The Good Life. Glasses of crisp Picpoul as the sun sets over the trees! Dinner made of foraged organic vegetables while the birds roost! Crystal-clear Cotswold water, pulled fresh from the earth!
They have no idea how trapped I am. Even if I told them what it’s like with Mum, they wouldn’t believe me.
Later on I gave the workshop a bit of a tidy and organized the whiteboard for tomorrow. I didn’t make dinner. When I walked into the kitchen, I was assaulted by memories of Sarah and me in that same space, cooking and talking and laughing, our minds galloping wildly into the future. And of course then I couldn’t face cooking alone, in silence. So I ate some Bombay mix and went to bed. Letting Sarah go was the right thing to do, I reminded myself, while I was brushing my teeth. I noticed I had a minor suntan.
Then I lay under my skylight, stars winching slowly across the sky, congratulating myself on my fortitude, my determination, my willpower. Well done, mate. It wasn’t easy but you had to do it.
Only, the longer I waited for sleep, the less I believed that.
For a while I got up and tried to watch television. Take my mind off things. But all I got was a news report about a terrible pileup on the M25, multiple fatalities and severe injuries, and before I knew it, there was a voice in my head asking me how I would feel if Sarah died. (Really helpful.) What if you had a call to say she’d been in a motorway pileup? it asked. Caught in a cartel shoot-out? Run over by a truck? Would you still feel like you’d done the right thing?
I turned off the telly and went back to bed, but the idea was there by then. Like a rusty hook in my consciousness. Pulling and dragging. If Sarah died, would you still think you’d done the right thing?
And that’s the problem, Alex, because—if I’m honest with myself—I would not. If Sarah died, I would regret it for the rest of my life.
I’ve lived well these last two decades. Fought my way out of grief and into life. But I’ve allowed Mum to be more important than me, all that time, because I’ve felt I had no choice. What decent human being wouldn’t look after his mother if she needed help? But something changed when I walked away from Sarah on the beach. Choosing Mum didn’t feel right. And it still doesn’t.
It’s 3:58 A.M. Am literally praying for sleep.
Me x
