Page 33 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

His housephone, occupied.

I text him. No reply.

I sit by the phone and wait. And wait and wait. I practically chop off Violet’s arm when she tries to use the phone to call her irritating friend Katrin who always speaks in a fake American accent. I eat a satsuma. I pick at the wall. I draw stars and eyes all over my day planner. I do ten sit-ups and then read out the ingredients on the back of the air freshener like I’m the voice-over for an advert. If I make one mistake, I have to restart again from the top or else Lowe will never speak to me ever again.

The phone rings.

‘Hello?’ There’s breathing. A crackle down the line. But not much else. Is it him? ‘Lowe?’

More silence. ‘Is everything OK? Are you OK?’

‘My mum’s died.’

Stone. Cold. Silence.

He breathes. ‘ … she’s been sick for a while and she … yeah … she died this afternoon.’

I try to speak but nothing comes out.

I should probably say something but I don’t know what to say. I am not trained in this kind of thing. I didn’t even know his mum was ill! He barely spoke about his family. A wave of freezing cold needles sucks me under, spits me out – hot all over – and it all makes sense: the quietness, the constant need to get home … of course, his offness was never anything to do with me. It never is when someone is going through something hard.

What the hell do I say? Where do I start?

‘I’m here,’ I say, somehow. Because it’s true. And it’s kind. I think? I say it again. ‘I’m here.’

And he lets himself cry. I can tell how hot and wet his face is from tears, every cell puffed up and sore from crying. He clears his throat, straightening his voice to be practical. ‘Will you come with me to the funeral?’

‘Of course I will.’

I’m taken aback that he’s even asked me.

‘I’m so sorry, Lowe,’ I add because I mean it.

When all I want to say is: I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU.

I take the day off school. I don’t even own anything black so I have to wear one of Mum’s linen dresses with a belt that makes me feel like I’m one pair of wedges away from looking for love later in life in Marbella. Because I own no smart black shoes, I have to borrow my neighbour’s great-niece from Birmingham’s spare pair of black work heels. Soak up that sentence.

At the funeral, the first thing Lowe points out are the borrowed shoes on my feet.

‘Are they your shoes?’ he asks, accusingly. I didn’t think he noticed stuff like clothes.

‘Yeah,’ I lie. I don’t want him to know I’m wearing my neighbour’s great-niece from Birmingham’s work shoes to his mum’s funeral.

Whereas Lowe wears the sort of stuff he always wears. An old holey blue washed-out Fruit of the Loom hoodie. Beaten up Reebok Classics. His eyes are pale and watery, the rings around them dark and deep.

At the service, I’m totally out of my depth. I remain on standby, like a guard or a solider. I’m on duty. But I’m not sure what my tasks are. The polished floor is so slippery under the soles of the heels that every working muscle in my entire body is activated so I don’t trip. I’m surrounded by faces I’d never met. Why the hell am I here? I have no place here. This is an almighty privilege that I have not earnt.

Lowe’s aunts stand to talk. His mum’s sisters: one older, one younger. They have the same sparkly eyes and big smile as Lowe. The three used to share a room as children and tell a story about finding their mum’s diary, which she used to write in code as a kid. When they finally cracked the code, all it said was, HELLO, WITCHES. THIS IS NOT MY REAL DIARY. DO YOU REALLY THINK I’D LEAVE IT OUT SO YOU TWO COULD READ IT? HA. HA. HA. LOVE YOU. And the whole room managed to laugh at that, the atmosphere breaking, like that sentiment was an insight into the type of person Lowe’s mum was: warm, playful, always one step ahead.

When Lowe stands to read, this was something I was not expecting at all. He holds a small sheet of handwritten paper, his other hand in the back pocket of his jeans. Bob Dylan lyrics I’m guessing, from what I can recognize, maybe a song I’ve heard him singing to himself before – but he doesn’t say specifically because this is not a presentation or performance. Lowe reads casually, calmly, holding his nerve, his voice almost breaking but then rolling down like waves. He’s speaking only to his mum; the words are for her, not for us. He forgets we’re even here watching him. How is he doing this? How are these words coming out of his mouth? And this just makes me respect him, admire him, love him even more than I already do. I stand at the back but within Lowe’s eye-line, and watch the love of my life become a little boy and a man at the same time.

At the burial I find him between the shoulders of strangers. He can’t see me but I can see him. That’s my only job. To look out for him: my target. He puts his handwritten reading with her, even though I wish she could be with him, by his side, hugging him, saying it will be alright.

How on earth did he deal with his mum’s illness without telling us, without talking about it? Without siblings? All those calls and letters. And me bitching about how much I hate my parents. Saying I wished I was an orphan! And he was going through such pain and this slow ripping, this terrifying, awful, painful shock. I was so selfish and naive. I’m so sorry, Lowe. I’m so sorry.

And when people begin to filter away, when it feels OK to, I rush towards him and hug him the tightest I possibly can.

There are a few close family members invited back to his house on Orchard Road. We take our time, stagger back on our own, down the backroads, under the buds of magnolias, away from the people he doesn’t have the energy to say hi to. I’m not used to wearing these painful heels or the clicky noise they make along the pavement, which might be distracting and irritating for Lowe, so I kick them off and walk barefoot. We hold hands. A V of white birds take off into the sky. Lowe takes out a rollie from his hoodie pocket and smokes it. We don’t talk. But I feel like I should say something. I’m sorry again. Or thank you for letting me be here with you. Or that I’m proud of him, that he did so well today, but how can you do ‘so well’ at a funeral? Everything seems a not OK thing to say given the circumstances, so I just walk and try to say everything I can with my hand in his. I trace the word SORRY and I LOVE YOU in his palm with my thumb.

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