Jenna’s knees were sore, her neck was aching with the crouch she’d forced herself into, and her nostrils and throat were sanded with irritation from the dust in her mother’s attic. In order to give herself a little breather she’d moved into the centre of the steep A-shaped space and straightened herself out.
She’d climbed up the creaking loft ladder ostensibly to find her mother’s Christmas decorations – a notion her mother had sneered at: Fuggin’ Christmas – waste of time – never liked it – which was a patent lie when you considered the sheer number of decorations that had been boxed and labelled. Although perhaps it was her father’s writing on the boxes, and he was the one who loved this time of year.
Whatever the truth of that was, it also gave her an opportunity to look for her old papers and the moleskin notebook she’d begun to use when she’d heard that Danny had died in a car accident. The case was to be tried in the sheriff court that had been part of her beat as a junior reporter.
Now, with the perspective of time, she was able to view her actions as those of someone struggling to grieve; someone feeling that in some way she didn’t deserve to. She’d abandoned the guy knowing he was fragile, guessing that he would find a destructive way to deal with her departure.
She’d felt every bit as guilty as the guy who was driving the car.
How she hadn’t twigged until recently that the car had been driven by Luke was difficult to understand. She’d seen his photo. Or had she? Memory was playing tricks on her. When she went there she came up empty. But then again, perhaps this was not so unbelievable. She was a mess at the time, and her dad had fallen ill and subsequently died. That had pulled the feet from under her. Any interest in the cause of Danny’s death had paled in comparison with the loss of her father.
Her phone sounded an alert. She picked it up, and her heart gave a little twist. It was a reminder that they were due to take Nathan to the Christmas funfair today.
Luke had called the previous two evenings, no doubt to see if she was going with them, but she simply stared at the phone as it rang, mind swinging back and forth on a confused pendulum. Yes. No. Yes. No. In the end she settled for not answering the phone at all. Which, of course, was an answer in itself.
She looked around. In the weak glow of the naked lightbulb she saw nothing but dust-covered boxes and dark corners. Working slowly and methodically, she placed the boxes labelled Xmas Decs in a neat pile by the entrance to the attic.
The next box she opened in her search contained a surprise. It was her parents’ wedding album. A white, cushioned cover with gold lettering opened to a page of crisp tissue. She pulled that back and lost herself in a swoon of feeling. Her dad was in his army uniform, her mother in a white fish-tail gown. Clear-eyed and smiling, they both looked into the lens of the camera as if certain of life’s future joys.
Theirs was a good marriage, as far as their only daughter could tell. She rarely heard a cross word, and both appeared consistently committed to each other and to her. She must have been a disappointment to them both. An expensive education, an honours degree, and now two damaged lovers into a wasted adulthood.
Oh, Dad. She traced her index finger over his face. Not once did he express any of that disappointment. The best lessons, he’d said on one occasion she’d come home in tears, are the ones you learn for yourself. So, go, learn your lessons and know that when you need to lick your wounds – he’d put one great paw lightly on her shoulder – there will always be a place here for you. As he spoke her mother was sitting by his side, nodding in agreement.
It was such a shame that it took these photographs to remind her of those sentiments.
Realising she was growing maudlin, she carefully closed the album and placed it back in the box, to revisit some time when she was able to view it from a place of contentment.
She moved that box to the side and scanned the space. Where might her stuff be?
There.
A black plastic bag had something underneath it. A gift bag, its once-bright primary colours now dim with age and dust.
Inside there were some photos, some cards, and a notebook.