Last night was what dreams are made of and I’m totally unashamed to say that I enjoyed every last second of the time we spent together. We just about made it up the stairs before stumbling onto my king-size bed and we made magic happen between the sheets for hours until we fell asleep together, our arms and legs exhausted from the fun-filled passion we’d been building up to for so long.
I leave him to his sweet dreams and go to the shower, looking out through the window on my way to the bathroom, wondering if my mother has begun her journey from Dublin yet. It’s 7.00 a.m. and it’s perfectly still outside, much to my relief as I don’t want the weather coming between us today, not for her or for any of our guests, for that matter.
‘Ruth?’ I hear Michael call, just as I’m about to turn on the water. I go back into the bedroom.
‘Yes?’ I say, holding a towel over me to cover up.
‘Happy Christmas,’ he says to me, his eyes squinting in the light that shines from the landing. ‘I just wanted to be the first to say that to you today. Are you okay? You know, about last night?’
He looks so beautiful, so vulnerable, so bloody gorgeous that I want to get back in beside him and do it all again.
‘I’m the best I’ve been in a very long time,’ I tell him. ‘Happy Christmas to you too, Michael. Go back to sleep if you want to. It’s still early.’
He snuggles the duvet up under his chin and lets out a pretend moan.
‘Oh, I wish. But I have to go home and get changed for the big day ahead,’ he says to me. ‘We have so much cooking to do. Do you mind if I have a quick shower before I go?’
I know exactly what he means by that. A shower? Just as I’m about to step into it myself?
‘Of course you can, you cheeky devil,’ I say with a smile and I walk to the bathroom again, this time with his footsteps behind me. I can think of worse ways to start my day. Happy Christmas to me, indeed.
We grab a quick breakfast of poached egg and bacon, put the turkey in the oven and Michael leaves me to it while he pops back to his own apartment to get freshened up before our guests arrive.
When he is gone, I baste the ham in the honey and mustard glaze we’d prepared the night before, pop in some cloves and then set it to the side with the intention of putting it in along with the turkey to roast when the time is right. The potatoes, veg and all the trimmings have been peeled and chopped and are ready for Michael’s magic when he returns, but for now it’ s just me and Bing Crosby and I put the kettle on, very much intending on enjoying a little me time before the real work begins.
I make a coffee and sit in my father’s armchair in the dining room by the window, watching out on the street below as the Christmas tree lights glisten beside me, and I wonder if I’ve ever felt this content in a very long time. I miss my father so much and the only thing that could top off this wonderful day would be to have him here with us, but for some reason I can feel him in my every move and in everything I do. I look out onto the park, silent and still for once, and I can see the butterfly monument in the distance, the one that he helped to have installed and the one everyone who visits remarks on, wondering and debating on the many symbols it might have represented to those who put it there.
I feel an awakening inside me and I close my eyes, thanking my lucky stars for this new lease of life that is laid before me, then I let my eyes fall asleep, just forty winks, and when I wake up my coffee has gone cold. I squint in the morning sunshine and realise that the doorbell is in fact what has woken me up and when I look outside and see her car is there, I jump up, like an excited child and I race to the door to greet my mother and welcome her, at long, long last, back home.
There are no words when we embrace, just relief on my part that she got here safely and without changing her mind. On her part, I imagine, there is too much going on in her mind to even speak right now.
She walks into the hallway, her heels clicking on the floor as she looks around the walls, gasping at how her past surrounds her in all the photos and memories that he kept, waiting and hoping that this moment would one day come to life for real.
‘It’s . . . it’s still almost exactly the same as it was when I left,’ she says, her face crumpled, and she shakes her head. ‘He didn’t move on at all, did he? He waited for me. Oh my goodness, he waited for me for all this time.’
I hold her close and let her weep on my shoulder, then bring her to the dining room, relieved that we might find some breathing space in here with the table so brightly decorated and the sun stream that comes in through the front window. I take her coat and place her bag of gifts under the tree, wondering if she’ll notice that, if nothing else, at least the tree is new.
‘I love it,’ she says with a smile, reading my thoughts.
‘I know you never liked the fresh pine, but I couldn’t resist the thought of something new. I think it freshens the place up a lot. What do you think, Mum?’
She nods in agreement.
‘Nature,’ she says to me. ‘It’s funny what you begin to notice when life is stripped back to the simplest of ways. I’ve learned to see the beauty in things I didn’t see before and perhaps never appreciated enough. It’s funny how you can choose to let the falling needles irritate you rather than focus on the delight that a fresh pine tree can bring to your home at Christmastime. I see you are selling up, Ruth. Don’t think you have to change your mind just because I’m here now.’
I’m so glad she said that as I couldn’t bring myself to explain my reasons for wanting to sell up. She has given me her blessing and, despite my stubbornness from before, it’s nice to have it as it was once her home here too.
I watch as her eyes wander round the room. Her books still line the shelves, her smell I believe, still lingers somewhere and her vinyl record collection still sits exactly where she left it all that time ago.
‘He really was a terrible hoarder,’ she recalls with a smile as I make the tea moments later. ‘You know, even though we had so much in common, in ways we were worlds apart but that’s what made it so exciting in the beginning. He taught me so much, Ruth, and I will never forget him for it. He was a wonderful man in every way. I wish I could have shown him that in a way that he deserved.’
I come back into the dining room and carefully hand her a cup of tea. As much as I know how overwhelming and emotional coming back here must be for her, I really want her to try and enjoy the day ahead and focus on herself and the here and now, rather than what has gone or what could have been.
I check the time. It’s almost nine. Still early, then a thought crosses my mind.
‘Would you like me to take you to Mass?’ I ask my mother, assuming that she might say yes and that we can both visit Dad’s grave after the service. I don’t have any particular interest in a religious service, but out of respect for her and to acknowledge her own upbringing and all the days she took me there as a child, I feel that I should balance the morning out and make her feel as welcome and as part of it as I can.
Her eyes light up at the suggestion.