‘Don’t think you can run away from us, either. You’re hurting and we’re going to talk about this.’
‘I’m all right, Mum. I’ve had bad break-ups before. I just want to get on with it.’
Chandice sits across from me with a mug of tea. ‘For God’s sake, Casey, just call Holly.’
Mum gestures to Chandice as though a master of sage relationship advice has just spoken. ‘Listen to your sister.’
‘What’s the point of calling her when she won’t even respond to a message?’ I say. ‘Keep up.’
‘A message is different,’ Chandice says. ‘Have you actually dialled her number, left a voicemail, sent an email so you can get more words in, and not given up because she didn’t reply?’
I glance out the window, my jaw tight. It’s a typical grey, miserable mid-October day. ‘I called her a couple days after the funeral. She didn’t answer. My last message was weeks ago, and she didn’t answer that either.’ I face Chandice. ‘She’s getting on with her life and I’m getting on with mine.’
‘Jesus, Casey,’ Chandice says. ‘Maybe she’s had other things on her mind since the funeral, like grieving. It’s not all about you, you know.’
‘I didn’t say it was, but I thought she was open to talking again. Next thing, I’m getting a message not to contact her. And before you have a go about me giving up, I responded to that.’
‘She’s lost her mum, love,’ Dad says. ‘Her head will be all over the place.’
‘Yeah, and if I was important to her, she would’ve let me be there for her,’ I shoot back. But my cheeks burn with shame over my lack of compassion, and underneath my hurt, my heart breaks for Holly’s loss and what she must be going through.
‘That aside, it’s not the time to be racing off and getting up to God-knows-what in another country,’ Mum says. ‘I think you need to stop here and get through this.’
I drop my head into my hands and let out a frustrated groan. ‘You lot are doing my fucking head in.’
‘Ours and all,’ Chandice says.
I jump up and head for the front door.
‘Where are you going?’ Mum shouts after me.
I grab my coat off the hook in the hallway and slam the door behind me.
An hour later, at the Tate Britain, I head straight for the 1800s room. My strides are long and heavy, carrying my anger at Mum and Chandice for having a go, and at Dad for agreeing with them. It’s a busy Saturday morning in the gallery, but as I walk into the room I want, a couple of people exit and I’m alone. I sit on the bench and gaze at Sappho and Erinna in a Garden at Mytilene. The tension in my body eases as I become lost in their story. Sappho clinging to Erinna, painful longing on her face, their lips a breath apart. Erinna leaning against her, the dress slipping off her shoulder, soft eyes gazing straight ahead, daring the viewer to ask questions.
The first time I saw this painting I was in my third year at university. After being surrounded by classic art, I finally found a historical painting I connected with. I related to Sappho’s longing for Erinna, her darker skin and more androgynous features, but mostly it made me feel close to the memory of Holly and me. Every time I looked at it, I’d work through another layer of emotions, and the ache would shift.
And now, as I lose myself in the connection between the two women, my longing for Holly surfaces. I dig into my pocket for the photo she gave me the morning I left Berlin and a sadness rolls through me. I run my fingertip over the image, remembering Holly showing it to me the night she took it. How confronting it was to see that intensity between us reflected back at me at a time when I was struggling to understand what it all meant.
I lean forward, elbows on knees, head in my hands, trying to work through the confusing thoughts in my head. Am I running away? Would Sappho and Erinna run from each other? Or would they run towards each other? Holly leaving Australia and heading straight for Berlin wasn’t running away; it was facing her emotions head on, reclaiming that city for herself. Maybe that’s what I need to do. Run towards Holly, run towards dealing with it. What’s stopping me going to Australia? She’d have to talk to me if I were on her doorstep.
There’s movement beside me as someone sits, followed by a familiar scent of leathery aftershave. I lift my head and sigh. ‘For fuck’s sake, Dad. What you doing here?’
‘Oh, that’s nice, innit? Don’t let your gran hear you talking like that.’
‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to swear at you, but you’re supposed to be at work.’
He’s changed out of his work gear and into jeans and a jumper. ‘Give myself the day off sometimes. Especially when my little girl is heartbroken,’ he says, scooting across the bench.
I hang my head. ‘Just hurts, you know?’
He wraps his arm around me and draws me tight against him, kissing my temple. ‘I know it does, love.’
I lie my head on his shoulder. ‘How could I mess this up so badly?’
He rubs my upper arm. ‘You’re being too hard on yourself.’
‘That’s not what you said this morning.’