Where the Moon Isn't (24 page)

‘No, he isn’t,’ I said. ‘Simon isn’t speaking to me. He isn’t here. He isn’t in the room. He died a long time ago.’

Mum snatched a tissue from the table.

Dr Clement cleared his throat. ‘My feeling is that you’ve been making real progress—’

‘Can I go home?’

‘As I say, you’re making progress but these things take a while. It’s best not to rush. We’ll try some short periods of leave first, away from the ward. One evening at a time. It’s early days for you to be at your flat by yourself but—’

‘He can stay with us,’ Mum said. ‘He can stay with us. We can look after him.’

‘That’s an option, certainly.’

I can’t remember too much after that. It was difficult to keep up. So I don’t know exactly when the lady from the community team started talking. She was looking forward to working with me, but this wasn’t about who would look after me, it was about laying a path for me to look after myself.

That’s how she put it, anyway.

I never know how to respond when people say stuff like that, how to fill the expectant silence that always comes attached.

‘What’s your name again?’

She smiled, ‘It’s Denise. Denise Lovell. Good to meet you.’

I stared at the sickly plant for a while, and eventually Dr Clement made a show of looking at his watch, saying how productive this had all been.

It was sort of awkward because he cut straight over a man who was still enthusiastically talking about some Day Centre, where there were lots of groups that I’d be more than welcome to attend.

‘Sorry, Steve.’ Dr Clement said. ‘I’m just aware of the time.’

‘No, no. I was wrapping up. Just to say that the Art Group’s very popular. I hear you’re good at Art, Matt? Oh, and we’ll be getting a computer at long last, so there’s that too.’

He nodded at me. And winked.

The policeman left, taking the doll away with him, making a silent gesture to Annabelle’s father, with his fingers held to his face like a telephone receiver, mouthing the words, ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, mate.’

Annabelle felt her toes lifting from the floor.

She landed with a gentle bump on her daddy’s lap. If she closes her eyes and concentrates, she can still feel the warmth of his hand against her teary cheek, the way he held her face to his chest. She can still feel the edge of his tie tickling against the side of her nose. She can still hear their conversation.

They didn’t talk about the dolls. They didn’t talk about the little boy. What they talked about, properly talked about – and for the first time since she had died three months before – was her mummy.

Annabelle told her dad about the way her mummy had said sorry to her over and over again when she explained about the cancer. How she said sorry like it was her own fault somehow, but that it wasn’t her own fault was it? And Annabelle’s daddy explained that this was because she didn’t want to not be there for her, to not be there for Annabelle to turn to whenever life got difficult. Because life can be difficult. But that she could always come to him, always, and that they could always think about what Mummy would say.

‘Mummy would want you to keep reading me bedtime stories,’ Annabelle said.

‘She would, wouldn’t she?’

‘Yes.’

‘And she’d want me to make you eat your vegetables, all of them. Even the broccoli.’

‘No.’

‘Wouldn’t she?’

Annabelle pressed her face into his shirt and said a muffled, ‘Yes. She would want that. But she would want you to stay and watch me at ballet lessons and not go to the pub until I finish.’

If she closes her eyes and concentrates, Annabelle can still hear it all.

‘I think you’re right. I think you’re right.’

She remembers holding the little yellow doll’s dress to her chin, stroking it between her finger and thumb as they talked.

The funeral had been too big and strange. And everything since had been empty. But sitting on her dad’s knee, sitting long into the night because they both agreed that this one time, just this once, her mummy wouldn’t give her a bedtime – they began to say goodbye.

‘It was a memorial,’ Annabelle said to me.

She was smiling now. She had cried a bit and her eyes were wet and sparkly. But she was smiling as she said, ‘It was the beginning of things getting better.’

I stood up from the upturned boat and felt the pebbles shift beneath my boots.

‘Are you okay?’ Annabelle asked.

‘What was that word you said?’

‘When?’

‘What you called it. A memorial, was it?’

‘That’s what it felt like.’

‘It sounded nice.’

‘It was. It really was.’

‘Annabelle. I’m ready to go now.’

The sun doesn’t set in the east. But seeing the light blue band stretching across the horizon, it looked just about ready to rise.

After the meeting, Mum and Dad took me to the hospital canteen. We ordered two coffees and a hot chocolate with squirty cream and a flake. ‘I can stay with you then?’ I asked.

‘You always can,’ Mum said.

‘I mean, on leave or whatever. Away from this place?’

‘That’s what Dr Clement said.’

‘That’s a bit of good news, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. It is.’

We went quiet then, sipping at our drinks. A lady with a hairnet came around wiping tables. Someone in the queue for the tills dropped their tray, then stared at the mess as if willing it to tidy itself. An announcement came over the loudspeaker saying something about something else. People came and went. We didn’t talk for ages. Then I said, ‘I want to do something.’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘Not now. Next summer.’

‘Well that’s a way away,’ Dad said.

‘I know. But I’m too— I’m too ill at the moment. I need to get better first. I know that now.’

Mum put down her cup. ‘Well what is it?’

‘I don’t want to say. But you have to tell me I can. You have to tell me that I’m allowed.’

‘Well—’

‘No. I need you to trust me.’

Dad leaned in and spoke quietly. ‘Ami. It isn’t that we don’t trust you, but we can’t just agree to—’

It was strange that it happened this way around. I would never have guessed it would be my mum lifting her fingers to her mouth, stopping my dad from asking.

‘We trust you,’ she said. ‘It’s fine. Whatever you need to do. We trust you.’

keepsake

I wrote the invitation letters sitting right here.

They were the first things I wrote on this computer, before I even thought to write my story on it. I still have them saved, but I needed Steve’s help finding them again. He was a bit distracted. They all are today. You have to hand it to them though – keeping the doors open right to the end.

‘Steve.’

They’ve even had the kitchen open, and the occupational therapist has been in there with some of the others, making a Goodbye Everybody cake.

‘Steve. You busy?’

He was taking down notices from the pinboard. ‘Hey Matt. Sorry. I was a million miles away. How ya doin’?’

‘I’m okay. How are you?’

‘Ah, you know. Bit hectic. Lots of boxes.’

‘If you’re too busy?’

‘No, no. What’s up?’

I told him what I was after, and he pulled up a chair to sit beside me. He did that thing where you spin the chair around and sit on it back to front, with his arms folded casually on the backrest. ‘Some time last summer was it?’

‘Yeah. But don’t worry if you can’t—’

‘We can but try, eh?’

Whilst he clicked through the folders and files, he mentioned something about there being public computers in the library too. ‘It might be worth— if you’re not already a member, that is. It might be worth joining up,’ he suggested. ‘So you can carry on with—’

All my printouts, all my typewriter pages – the whole lot is stacked in an untidy pile beside the keyboard. It was Jeanette from Art Group who added my drawings. When I arrived this morning she was quietly clearing up the art room, taking down posters, putting brushes into boxes. But then she stopped clearing things away and moved to the big table, where all the paintings and pictures that have been left behind were carefully laid out.

I stood in the doorway watching as Jeanette gently stroked her thumb over one of Patricia’s poster paint rainbows. I didn’t want to interrupt, but she caught sight of me and smiled. ‘Aren’t they all wonderful? Yours too, Matt. They’re wonderful. You must take them home and keep them safe.’

It’s the first time I’ve put it all together. All the words and pictures. Steve gestured to the pile, stopping just short of patting it like a little dog.

‘I won’t need to use the library computers,’ I told him. ‘I’m finishing it today.’

That even surprised me, how sure I sounded. But I am sure. I have a whole hour stretched out in front of me, and I’m getting pretty fast at typing. The lady at the front desk says I’m quicker than her now. I’m not, but I reckon I’m probably getting close. And anyway, it was kind of her to say it.

‘Ah. Here we are,’ Steve said. ‘July the eighteenth. Does that sound about right?’

‘They’re letters.’

He double-clicked, and they all popped up on the screen. That sort of nudged me back a bit. I felt my grip giving way, felt myself slipping down the thread of time.

‘Is this what you’re after?’ Steve asked.

Patricia walked behind us, wearing her leopard-skin leotard top and a pair of Lycra leggings. She was carrying a bowl of crisps in one hand, and a bowl of peanuts in the other. Someone else was behind her with a plate of sausage rolls.

I guess that nudged me back a bit too.

‘Is this what you’re after, Matt?’ Steve asked again.

‘Yeah. That’s it. Thanks Steve.’

18th July 09

Dear Aunty Mel,

I hope that you are well and enjoying the summer. I hope that Uncle Brian is well too, and Peter and Sam. This letter is for all of you. I’ll be writing a separate one to Aaron in London.

Thank you for the cards you sent me when I was in hospital. I know it’s a long time to wait to say thank you and I’m sorry for that. I’ll get to the point. Did you know that it is nearly 10 years exactly since Simon died? His accident happened on August 15th 1999. I have decided that on August 15th this year it would be good to have a memorial.

I have done the arranging myself. The memorial will be in Bristol at the Beavers and Brownies Hut near to Mum and Dad. I did think of having it at the church hall but Simon found church dead boring. And if you remember we had his tenth birthday at the Beavers and Brownies Hut and that was really good.

The memorial will be at 12 o’clock. I hope you can come.

Love Matt.

18th July 09

Dear Aaron and Jenny,

I hope that you are well and enjoying the summer. Nanny Noo tells me that the summer feels hotter in London because of all the traffic. It’s hot here too.

It’s Matt by the way. Aaron’s cousin. I know it’s not like me to write so I will start by thanking you for the Christmas cards you always send me. I’m crap at that sort of thing.

Aaron did you know it is nearly ten years to the day that Simon died? There will be a memorial for him which I am arranging at the Beavers and Brownies Hut near to my parents’ house at 12 o’clock on August 15th. I know that you are very busy with your new job at the bank but it is a Saturday so I hope you will be able to come. You can stay at my flat if you need somewhere to stay.

See you then hopefully, Matt.

P.S. Jenny. I know you never met Simon but he would have really liked you so please come too if you want. Also I’m really sorry if I’ve got your name wrong. Part of me thinks it’s Gemma. Please forgive me if I got it wrong. Not making excuses, but I am a schizophrenic.

18th July 09

Dear Aunt Jacqueline,

It’s Matthew Homes. Your nephew. It’s been a long time since I saw you and I know that is because you don’t really get on that well with my mum. Nor do I some of the time, so I understand.

I would like to invite you to a 10 year memorial for my brother Simon. It will be at the Brownies and Beavers Hut near to Mum and Dad’s house on August 15th at 12 o’clock. I’ve already hired it.

I hope to see you then. Also I know you smoke quite a lot and so do I. So we can keep each other company.

Matt

18th July 09

Dear Nanny Noo and Granddad,

Nanny I really wanted to tell you about this when you came to see me on Thursday but I knew you would want to get an invitation in the post like everyone else.

Guess what I have done? Last week I looked up the number for the Brownies Hut near to Mum and Dad’s, and I have booked it for August 15th.

I have decided to arrange a memorial. I didn’t really know what they were, but do you remember what I told you about Annabelle? How she sort of had one for her mum? That got me thinking. It got me thinking a lot. And I think we should do one too. I’ve been planning it for ages. You don’t have to, but if you want to help me make the sandwiches and stuff then you can. But you really don’t have to. See you next Thursday. See you soon Granddad – I hope your cough is getting better.

Love Matt

July 18th 09

Dear Mum and Dad,

Last year when I was in hospital I told you that I wanted to do something this summer. I didn’t tell you what it was but you said that you trusted me to do it anyway.

I never said thank you. So thank you.

On 15th August we are having a memorial for Simon. I have invited the whole family. Or I will invite them but I need you to tell me their addresses first. I’ve written the invitation letters already and I’ve bought all the envelopes and stamps. I’ve also booked the Brownies and Beavers Hut for 12 o’clock. I will bring all the food.

I hope you will understand that I had to do this by myself. I needed it to be something that I did for him, because you already did so much – but I never got to.