Page 89 of Before You Say Goodbye

Her tone made Autumn feel guilty. She felt irritated by the pressure Emma’s comment put her under, but then reminded herself that this poor woman had no idea what else Autumn was going through.

“I miss you all too,” she said. “How’s Marley?”

She couldn’t help herself. She had to know how he was coping.

“Still here,” Emma said. “Barely. But still here, so far. Autumn, there are times when he breaks his heart so hard it’s as if he might literally cough it out. There is no getting through to him. He won’t go anywhere near Bowie’s bedroom, won’t let any of us mention his name in his presence, won’t let us sort through any of his things or move any of his stuff. He barely speaks and I can’t get him to eat. He keeps telling me he wants to die but he’s too afraid to kill himself. He says he can’t get the image of Bowie and the way he looked that night out of his head, but he won’tagree to go to therapy either. I don’t know what else there is to do but wait.”

Autumn had been battling ugly flashbacks too. When they’d found Marley alive after the night his brother had died, she and Maddie had left Marley lying on Bowie’s bed. He had been clinging to Bowie and begging him to come back. Holding each other up, Autumn and Maddie had crept into his parents’ bedroom to tell them he had gone. His mother had known the second she’d seen them step into the room. She’d screamed and bolted out of bed, pushing aside a trembling Pip and Bluebell — who’d heard Marley wailing, and beaten their mother to Bowie’s bedside — to throw herself manically onto her lifeless son, clutching desperately at his face, his arms, his neck, and sobbing into his pyjamas. She’d read and re-read Bowie’s suicide note, clutching it to her heart and shaking her head in disbelief.

Before they’d called anyone, Maddie had explained that it was better for everyone, including Bowie, if they didn’t tell anyone he’d committed suicide. She’d explained that would lead to a coroner’s inquest, which could take months. Instead, she’d insisted they call the family doctor, who she’d been sure would sign off Bowie’s death on the basis he had been very sick. That would mean they could bury him sooner. Emma had objected at first.

“I want to know what he took and what happened to him,” she’d said. “I need to know if he was in any pain.”

“Then he’ll have to have an autopsy,” Maddie told her. Emma shook her head, and that was that. There was no way she’d let them cut Bowie open, so they hid his suicide note and did as Maddie said.

They'd given Emma and Marley plenty of time to kiss Bowie and hold him in their arms, to touch every bit of the man they could not imagine living without, and then Maddie called Bowie’s GP and an undertaker. When the funeral directorarrived in the afternoon, he found Emma, Marley and Ben still hysterical with loss. Ben was gradually coaxed into Pip’s arms with gentle encouragement and support from his kids, but they had to physically pry Emma’s arms from around Bowie’s neck and Marley’s fingers from Bowie’s wrist as they pleaded with Autumn, Maddie and Bluebell not to take him from them, not to leave him all on his own, he needed them, he was cold, they said. Autumn would never forget the way Bowie’s body rocked rigidly from side to side when she helped Maddie and Bluebell drag their devastated mother and brother away from him, nor how cold his skin felt against her fingertips. The GP’s medical certificate of cause of death concluded non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Autumn never found out what happened to the suicide note after it was hidden.

Autumn pulled herself back into the present. Emma was still talking about Marley.

“I can’t lose another child. I can’t. I just can’t, Autumn.”

Her words caught in her throat. As Autumn listened to the sound of her crying, she tried to imagine what it must be like to love that fiercely. She let her fingers roam tentatively across her pelvis and told Emma it would all be OK, but she knew that her words sounded empty. She wasn’t actually sure that any of them would ever feel OK ever again, especially not Emma. Still, she didn’t know what else she could say.

“I hope so.” She sighed. “I’ll let you go, my love. You know where we are if you need us.”

“I do. Tell them all I love them.”

“I will. And they know,” Emma said. “I’ll call you again in a couple of days. We love you, darling. Bye.”

* * *

A fortnight later, Autumn found herself inexplicably craving the outside world. She dressed and let her feet carry her to the nearest coffee shop.

“Hey, it’s your season,” said the barista. Autumn blinked at him blankly.

“Excuse me?”

“Autumn, right?”

He seemed so sure of her name, but Autumn didn’t recognise him.

“I gave you a free coffee that time you forgot your purse. Months ago now. Back in winter.”

“Right!” Autumn said. The morning she’d met Bluebell. A couple of months before she’d met Bowie. January then. It seemed like years had passed. “I remember.”

“You haven’t been back here in a while,” he said. “Been busy?”

“A bit, yes,” she said. She winced.

“Can I buy you another drink?” he asked her coyly. “I’m almost done for the day. I could join you for a coffee?”

Autumn nodded numbly. He was cute and she was feeling lonely. His name was Toby and he was a medical student. He had thick, black, curly hair and nice teeth. He was from Los Angeles. He had two brothers and a sister, and called his mother every day. He asked Autumn about herself, but she deflected his questions flirtatiously. She let him hold her hand across the table for an hour or so, then invited him back to her apartment. She dragged him through the front door by his shirt collar and slammed his back against it. He kissed her hungrily.

Autumn had been by herself in New York for almost a fortnight, though she knew that Walter knew she was home. He’d left a note tied to her staircase, along with a number of donations of ham sandwiches that she’d had to throw away. She would get around to speaking to him at some point, but she hadbeen busy. She’d spent the first week editing the second draft of her second novel and telling herself there was no pregnancy. The book was with her publisher now and she’d had nothing to focus on since, other than how desperately alone she felt, and how time was running out for her to make a decision about whether she’d show up at the clinic appointment she’d made for the following week.

It had been weeks since she had felt any sexual urge at all, but she’d masturbated, with thoughts of Bowie in her mind, for three days in a row. She was frustrated and had been left feeling empty. She’d needed more. Someone to hold her. She’d gone out looking to meet someone, but she knew as soon as Toby kissed her that she’d made a mistake. He was nothing like Bowie at all. His lips were rough, his kisses uncaring and self-centred. He reached clumsily for her groin as though he’d never touched a woman before. His hands on her felt wrong. The way he touched her was wrong. She produced a condom from her bedside table and made sure he put it on, then jammed her eyes shut, forcing herself not to think about how wrong it all was until he was finished.

Afterwards he wanted to hug her, but Autumn asked him not to. He looked offended. They lay side by side in uncomfortable silence and she wished he would just leave.

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