depart verb: to leave. Go. Gone. As in
not coming back. Ever?
Mum says there’s a reason for everything. I can’t see any good reason why I should have to lose my best friend. It’s just not fair. I feel sick every time I see a plane. I want to rip England out of my atlas, declare it a non-country so they can’t leave. I have dreams where I’m on the runway, holding on to the wings of the plane, my body buffeted by the wind at take-off.
I don’t want to say goodbye to Jane. Who thought of that word anyway? There’s nothing good in Jane’s leaving. What if I never see her again? Jane knows everything about me. She knows the scar on my leg is from when I fell on a nail in the adventure playground after Brendan Carlen dared me to walk on the fence. She knew to stand there smiling and then run and get my mum as soon as he was out of sight. All my secrets are hers, liking Nick, missing Dad so much I can’t stand it. Laughing with her makes everything all right, but maybe it would be better to pretend that she was never my friend so that I won’t miss her.
She opens the door and I feel her shoulderblades through her jumper as I grab her and hold on. Tight. Maybe if I’m quiet no one will notice me hanging on to Jane as she walks onto the plane? Jane lets go before me. ‘Faltrain,’ she says,‘ you’ll be all right without me.’ I know that to get through the rest of this year, I will need to remember the way her voice sounds when she says it.
‘But I’ll miss you. Who’ll save me a seat on the bus in the mornings? Who’ll listen to me about Nick? Who will I watch videos with?’
‘And who will I hang out with, Faltrain? Have you thought about that?’ Her voice is dry and cracking like clay. I tell her she’ll be all right but it’s like I’m talking through a screen door. She’s on the other side and I can touch her through the wire, but she’s just a shadow that I have to strain my eyes to see.
‘Gracie?’
‘Dad! Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to call you.’
‘I know, kiddo, I’m sorry. I’m going to be a little longer; I’ve got some things to tie up here.’
Have you ever tried really hard not to cry? It just gets harder and harder to speak, like there’s a tennis ball in your throat and you either need to spit it out or swallow it but you can’t do either. I don’t want Dad to know I’m crying, so I have to be quiet, say things like, ‘Uh-huh. Yep.’
‘So I’ll see you soon, honey?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I love you, kiddo.’
‘Yep.’
‘Gracie? Are you all right?’
‘Yep. Yep. Yep.’
How can I explain to her that I just can’t come home? It’s too soon, it’s too late; I do want to be with Helen every second of the day but at the same time I don’t want to be with her at all. I want to have back what I felt at the beginning. I could no more leave her then than leave my arms or legs.
How do you find the beginning though? There are no roads or signs. You start to doubt it even exists. The hardest thing isn’t deciding that I want to go back to when Helen and Gracie and I were us. The most difficult thing is finding the map to get there.
Imagining that Gracie and Helen aren’t real anymore gives me a little peace. Except at night when I dream of them on the beach, walking along the shoreline. They’re looking out for my ship; it’s just a shape pasted on the horizon. They’re rubbing their arms in the cold and waiting for me to drop anchor.