Page 131 of Worth Every Risk

“I’ll be here,” he says when he looks up again. “If you need me. I’m staying at the—”

“Hawkston?”

He nods. Only a few weeks ago, I’d have laughed at this. So obvious. So funny to stay in a hotel with your name over thedoor. But not now. There’s no humour in this moment, or this day, and frankly, I can’t imagine laughing ever again.

His eyes are full of care, full of pain, and I know he wants to take me in his arms just as much as I want to be held. But I hold back. I don’t know what he is to me anymore. He’s not my boss, and he’s not my friend. We haven’t spoken in weeks.

And yet, seeing him standing there, it feels like he’s the other part of my soul, offering himself up to me. So close, and yet still so far away. I can’t breech the gap between us, but I desperately long to do exactly that. “I need time.”

His hands burrow deeper into his pockets, his shoulders hunching. “Of course. Take as long as you need. I’m not going anywhere.” He frowns. “Actually, right now I’m going to go. But I won’t be far away. I’ll be—”

“At the Hawkston. I know.”

He gives me a sad little smile. “Yeah.”

The wake is held in a dingy room in the basement of a local hotel. Perhaps I should have invited Matt, but what I said was true. I do need time. I don’t know what to think or what to feel. I need to say goodbye to my mother first.

There are a hundred people here, all condoling me. I’ve heard the same phrases over and over again, so many times that they’re already rolling into one blurry memory. Meaningless noise in the background of my grief.

I’m sorry for your loss.

Your mother was a wonderful woman.

Time is a great healer.

I want to scream. My ability to accept the kind words of others has run dry. I know they mean well, but it feels like they’rehanding me condolences the way parents give children sweets at a party; to numb their emotions with sugar, keeping them quiet so they don't cause a scene or make anyone else uncomfortable. I drink a couple of glasses of cheap red wine that sticks to my teeth, and make an effort to smile at a few more people, have a few more empty conversations. It’s only after an hour of the same that I realise I don’t have to stay here. I’m allowed to leave.

I say my goodbyes as calmly as I can and push through the other mourners out into the bleak, grey car park. Overhead, the clouds rumble and the heavens open, and rain pours down, as though every tear I’ve held back today is spilling from the sky, soaking me in seconds.

I run all the way home, fueled by a barrage of angry thoughts.Why did it have to be Mum? Why couldn’t Dad have been the one to die? Dad who never gave a shit. Dad who abandoned us and never cared that Mum was sick, beyond thinking of what he might get out of her death. Why couldn’t it have been him?

I don’t even have it in me to feel guilty about wishing him dead. I’d do anything to bring Mum back, but I can’t, and powerlessness rages inside me like a violent storm.

I’m splashing through the puddles in my Doc Martin boots. The only black shoes I own. Cars roar past, waves of rainwater splashing me, drenching me. But I’m past caring. I don’t even notice them.

I unlock the door to Mum’s house, and then silence engulfs me. “Mum?” I call. “Mum?”

I begin to run through the house, smashing doors open as I rocket from room to room, calling her name. I know she’s gone. I know she’s not here, but I can’t bear it.I refuse to accept it.Mum always said we make our own reality. Well, I’m making mine now.She’s here. She’s fucking here. She should be here.If she’s not… where is she?

I begin to scream, running up and down the stairs, beating my fists on the walls, smashing whatever I can lay my hands on. In the background of my mind, I know I’m losing it. But maybe if I scream enough, break enough things, the pain will go. Maybe I can purge it out of me if I make enough noise; drag it out through a raw throat.

But it doesn’t work. The pain doesn’t lessen. I’m breaking, shattering, dying with it. Even after I’m hoarse and weak and shaking, the pain is still there, tearing at my heart, weakening my limbs.

I sink onto the floor outside Mum’s bedroom, pulling my knees up to my chest as sobs wrench their way from my lungs, great spasms of pain I can’t control. I’m lost to it… lost to the grief and the pain and helplessness of it all.

How will I survive this?

A screaming sound ricochets around my skull. My mother. Dying. Dead. I put my arms around her, trying to soothe her, but she keeps screaming. I can’t do anything to stop it.

The sound stops. Begins again. Stops. Repeats, dragging me from the dreamworld.

I’m still on the floor, curled in a ball, wearing the same damp clothes from the funeral. Everything aches.

What is that noise?

The doorbell. I ease myself out of my scrunched position and make my way downstairs. Through the frosted glass of the front door, I can make out a hazy figure. Tall. Dark clothes. If it’s someone trying to sell me something, I’ll murder them right there on the doorstep.

But it’s not.

---