Page 93 of The Two Lives of Lydia Bird

‘Hey,’ he says, low and familiar now. ‘It’s felt like for ever for me too, you know.’

‘Has it?’ I say, a sob catching hot in my throat because I never truly realized how long for ever is until the day I saw Freddie’s name etched in gold on his headstone.

‘Of course it has,’ he says, like it’s obvious. ‘I won’t stay away this long again, Lyds, promise. It’s driving me nuts.’

It’s been a million times harder for me, I think, but I don’t say it.

‘I haven’t been sleeping so well,’ I tell him instead. ‘The bed’s too big without you.’

‘Don’t knock it. This thing’s like a plank of wood.’ His arm is flung behind his head and he raps his knuckles on the cheap pine headboard. ‘Make the best of it while you can, Lyds. Starfish all you like.’

Make the best of it while you can. I store his advice away for later.

‘I’ll try to,’ I say. ‘Every day. I promise.’

‘Just don’t go getting too used to life without me, okay?’ he says, after a beat.

My mouth tries to form words, anything at all, but I can’t because getting used to life without Freddie Hunter has become the story of my life.

‘I love you very much,’ I say.

He smiles. ‘Love you more than Keira.’

‘Straight in at the top, huh?’

‘Tired.’ He stifles a yawn.

‘Shall I let you go?’ In all of my days, I don’t think I’ll find any other words more difficult to say.

He nods and I hold his gaze, knowing he’s ready to leave me.

‘Goodbye, my love,’ I say, tracing my finger over his cheekbone, the familiar curve of his bottom lip.

‘See you in the morning,’ he murmurs.

It’s something we always used to say last thing before sleep, a promise, an endearment, an ‘I’ll be here waiting for you when you open your eyes’.

‘See you in the morning, Freddie.’ My voice burns in my throat as I say it back one last time. ‘I need to go now,’ I tell him. ‘Sleep easy, my love.’

He half smiles, too far towards sleep to see that I’m crying. ‘Over and out,’ he whispers, and then he sighs just one more breath.

Oh, Freddie Hunter. I try to smile through my tears, and I look at him for a few more last-me-a-lifetime moments before I make myself press the ‘end’ button. He’s frozen on the screen for a second, already sleeping, and then he’s gone – and this time it’s for ever.

Tuesday 1 October

I was so terrified about the idea of saying goodbye that I didn’t really think too much about how I’d feel once it was over. If I had to guess, I’d probably have predicted I’d be a tearful mess, exhausted and broken, too lonely for words. And I’d have been right, to an extent. But what I wouldn’t have imagined is that I’d feel my own strength, that I’d be able to look at myself in the illuminated bathroom mirror right now and feel quiet pride. That I’d know in my bones that it was the right thing to do. Right for me here, me there, and right for the people who love me. ‘What a journey you’ve been on,’ I whisper to my reflection, unscrewing the lid on the bottle of pink pills.

I catch my own eye in the mirror and smile, because it’s the kind of comment that Ryan would take the piss out of me for. Maybe I’ll tell him one day, if I can find a way to do it that doesn’t make me sound insane.

‘Right,’ I say, resolute, the open pill bottle clutched in my hand. I have to do this. I need to show the girl in the mirror that I have her back. It’s half past five in the morning. I need to do this right now and then go back to bed for a couple of hours’ rest.

Vita asked me a while ago what I’d do if I wasn’t afraid. It’s a question I’ve thought about quite a lot since getting back here and one I ask myself again now as I stare at the pills. There are eleven left in the bottle. That’s eleven more visits. I could keep them. I could. I could eke them out, allow myself just one visit a year. I could absolutely do that. Spend one splendid day each year with Freddie. My birthday or his. One every other year, even. Or I could space them out even more, every few years or every five, slip in and see what becomes of us. I’d get to see our children. Oh God, imagine. I could make their breakfast, help them with their homework. A tear slides down my cheek, because it’s too tender a thing to imagine rocking my child to sleep in my arms even once.

But if I do that, if I keep these pills safely tucked away, what will it mean for my life here? I swallow hard, because I know the answer. It would mean life here is always second best, for ever a waiting room, and that isn’t fair on me or anyone else in my life. This life has to be my only option, but more than that, my best option. I need to do the thing I’d do if I wasn’t afraid. It’s time to leave the other me to her own devices, let her know the joy of making breakfast for her children and birthdays with Freddie, unencumbered by the occasional visit from a sharper-edged, world-weary version of herself.

My hand is shaking as I hold the bottle out over the sink, and that’s okay, because this is hard. I turn the tap on full and hold my breath, my heart racing, and then I do it, fast, all in one rush so I can’t change my mind and stop midway through. The pills upend into the gushing water and swirl around for a few seconds, turning the water pink as they jostle to leave. I watch them, feeling everything: proud of me, heartsore, relieved, shattered. And then they’re all gone, vanished at last, and I turn the tap off and look myself in the eye in the mirror.

‘Just you and me now,’ I say.

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