Petals to memories. Something that once was. The yellow still bright in my mind.
‘Daisy’—GRAY
I lift my hand to press the bell three times before I give up and turn away. Now I know. I finally understand how hard everyone found it to speak to me after Dan died. Because what is there to say?
There’s nothing that can make it better. No words that will bring Jolie’s cheeky smile back.
I take two steps away from the house before I catch myself and squash the instinct to flee. This isn’t about me; I’m here for Luc. Because despite knowing that not a single thing I can say will make it better, not coming would be worse. My hand touches my wrist.
I remember.
I remember that people tried. I remember that my pain mattered enough to Cass and Finn that they at least tried. No, I didn’t want to hear it. Yes, I threw it back in their faces and pushed them away, but I remember they tried.
I ring the doorbell. The sound echoes through the house. The blinds are drawn in the front windows, as though the inhabitants can’t bear the bright light of the first autumn day. The grass has grown long, but the flowers in the pots lining the path are exploding with defiant colour.
Jolie’s touch, I bet.
I listen for footsteps. Maybe they’re not home? But there are two cars in the driveway. The one their dad drove them to Cass’s in that first day of our trip, and a beaten up old green Ford. There’s a pale blue bike leaning against the side of the house. Jolie’s, I’m guessing. It looks like she leant it there in a hurry, heading inside to grab something, intending to come right back.
No-one is coming.
There’s no external sign that grief lives here. After Dan died I remember it felt like there was a neon sign flashing from our double brick, telegraphing our loss for the neighbourhood to see. The house had to look different—the whole world had changed forever.
But there was no sign then and there’s none now. For all people know, this home could be filled with joy.
Except it isn’t.
I press the bell again. If no-one comes, I’ll leave them in peace. Every breath is tight as I wait. Once, when I was about seven, I stole the remote to Dan’s prized model car. And broke it. He held me down with a beanbag until I thought I’d pass out. I feel the same way now—like I’m trying to suck oxygen through a mountain of polystyrene beans.
I’ve thought of a thousand versions of what to say and discarded them all.
The handle turns, the door opens, and he’s there. Smaller somehow, still gorgeous but unshaven and red-eyed. The cargo shorts he’s wearing hang low on his hips, his flat stomach revealed by a mis-buttoned blue shirt. His feet are bare and part of me thinks they look strange, because they’re free of sand. He’s different here. Not just because he’s grieving but because he’s home. Sometimes I worry that the Luc I knew on the trip existed only in my head. But then I remember the conversation we shared after playing basketball, and the intensity in his face when he kissed me.
It was real. We’re real. I have to believe it.
He blinks like he’s taking a second to work out who I am and why I’m standing on his doorstep.
‘You didn’t answer my texts,’ I say. It’s not what I planned, and it’s all wrong, but I’m flustered and he’s looking at me like I need a reason for being here. ‘Not that I mind,’ I add quickly.
‘Why are you here?’
‘I thought—well, I wanted to see you.’
He shoves a hand through his already messed up hair, making it stand up in all directions. ‘This isn’t the same thing.’
His face is a mask. One made from his bare bones and veins, after pain has stripped him bare. ‘I don’t know what you thought, but we’re not going to bond over my sister’s death.’
‘I didn’t . . .’ But my voice fades away because maybe I did think something like that.
His expression goes from cold to icy. ‘Duty done. You can go now.’
He steps back into the shadows of the hallway and goes to close the door in my face.
I reach out, gripping the damp skin of his bare wrist. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe I imagined myself as this caring angel that would sweep in and help you through this and maybe that was beyond dumb of me. But only because I care about you.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘Nothing.’
He shakes his hand free. ‘Look, we had some fun, but I’m not in the mood for fun anymore.’
‘It was more than that.’ I sound so desperate, but I’m sure what we had was real. ‘I wouldn’t be standing here otherwise.’
He doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t disagree either. It makes me brave. ‘The timing is bad, really bad, I get that. And if you don’t want me around right now . . .’ I take a steadying breath. ‘Well, I get that too. But when you change your mind, and I am certain you will, remember I said I’d be waiting.’
A brow lifts. ‘You’ll be waiting.’
It could be a question, or a scornful echo, but I choose to interpret it as a statement. ‘I will.’
‘Good for you,’ he says, turning away.
‘One more thing,’ I say. ‘Please.’
He glances back but there’s no warmth in his face. ‘What?’
His eyes are cold and I want to flee, but then I see it. A flash of grief so raw that I fear he’ll crumble before my eyes. Without planning or thinking I take a step towards him.
He steps back.
I flinch, but take another step. I’m practically in the doorway now—he can’t shut the door.
‘I’m here.’ I say it loud and strong so he has no choice but to hear the words. ‘And I will be here for you whenever you need me. I’ll wait as long as it takes.’
His face stays blank. There’s not a flicker of reaction in those dark eyes.
‘Come to me, call me, whatever. Any time, day or night.’ Now my voice wavers, but I force myself to go on. ‘For anything.’
His head jerks.
I step back, and the door closes.
He needs time, that’s all. I’m confident we’ll find a way back to each other. I’m sure of it, right up until I reach my car and slide into the driver’s seat. Then the sobs begin, wrenched from deep in my chest. I can’t forget the blank look on Luc’s face. The ice in those eyes that used to hold so much heat for me.
I said I’d wait for as long as it takes but right now, as I wipe away tears with the back of my trembling hand, I’m afraid I’ll be waiting forever.
* * *
Cass and I sit at the back of the huge chapel a week later. The old stone building is overflowing with people of all ages. I’m guessing Jolie touched a lot of lives—she was that kind of girl.
Like everyone else, I honoured her request to wear colour to her final party. My hot pink and black zigzag dress with its royal blue collar, which seemed too bright in my bedroom mirror, fits right in with the crowd, and matches the blue streak in my hair. The sea of colour brings a few smiles amid all the tears. I guess that’s what she wanted. The chapel is dominated by two huge flower arrangements. Red, yellow and pink gerberas overflow from the vases, set off by achingly pure white lilies.
The service passes in a blur of stories and music and memories that are almost too hard to hear. But I listen to every word.
I can’t look anywhere but at Luc. The dark waves of his hair, the stiff line of his shoulders. His blank expression when a blonde woman who I guess is their mum tries to talk to him.
I want to be at his side, but I don’t want to intrude. Luc needs to get through this however he can. Apart from that one terrible visit, I haven’t spoken to him since Jolie died. I’ve texted a few times, but he hasn’t responded.
The minister in charge of the service calls Luc forward, and he stands.
He walks with heavy steps, like he’s being dragged down by grief. The bright blue of his crisp shirt is the summer sky or the calmest sea. I cling to the edge of the pew to stop myself going to him; it’s smooth and cool in my hands. He makes it to the small podium, lifts his head and scans the crowd. I’m pretty sure he’s not seeing anything.
Except . . . our eyes meet.
I swear he sees me; the air between us positively crackles. But then he’s scanning again. He picks a spot high above all our heads to address his words.
‘Jolie wanted me to speak today,’ he begins. His voice is steady, but his hands tremble, holding a tattered piece of paper. Even from this distance, it’s clear the thing has been folded and unfolded a million times. ‘In fact, she wrote out what I should say to make sure I’d get it right.’
He lifts the piece of paper, covered in loopy scrawl, and all around me people chuckle.
‘That’s my girl,’ someone murmurs.
It doesn’t surprise me. I only knew Jolie for a little while but she saw what she wanted and she made it happen.
Luc’s eyes are shining and red-rimmed, but no tears fall. ‘She first wrote it forever ago. It wasn’t too long after she was diagnosed, and she was in hospital. The docs thought she didn’t have much time left and she wanted to get things sorted. She was just a kid, but she refused to leave anything to chance.’ His voice wavers but he keeps going. ‘As she outlived every one of their predictions and grew older, she made modifications to that first speech. Because the kind of impression a twelve-year-old wants to leave is a bit different to a nearly adult.’
As he speaks, something a lot like pride fills my chest. He’s doing what I couldn’t, when I couldn’t sing for Dan—and he’s doing it so well.
With an almost smile, he tells the life story Jolie wanted told and he annotates it with his own memories. Or corrections, where he thinks she took too much licence.
His mouth kicks up at the corner as he finishes reading Jolie’s description of how she always annoyed him, insisting on following her big brother everywhere he went. ‘Despite what she might think, I was always glad to have her walking home from school with me. There’s this yappy little dog with attitude, and surprisingly big teeth, on one corner, and it tried to bite me whenever she wasn’t there.’ His voice cracks. ‘I’d better go a different way home now I guess.’
He shares how happy she was to make the road trip she’d dreamed of, and how she never gave up hope of getting there.
After his speech Luc returns to his seat. The rest of the service is a blur of songs and prayers, and then it’s over, and the family are escorted out by the minister. I linger for a moment, thinking about Jolie and hoping it was the farewell she would have wanted.
I’m not the only one who stays.
Light through a high stained-glass window catches my eye and because of it I see him. Standing on a balcony, mostly hidden from view, is a person with his head in his hands.
And then I realise, under the bad wig, the person is Gray. Gray, who I’ve heard through Cass and Finn spent hours at Jolie’s bedside in her last weeks, getting to know her, building the friendship I glimpsed that first night. I ache afresh to see him so sad.
There’s been nothing about them in the media. Nothing about that night after the concert, or where Gray has been since. The stadium show was the last date of his tour and as far as the world is concerned, he’s disappeared. He’s only visible for a second, then he steps back out of sight.
Outside, the sun shines bright overhead, an echo of a summer just gone. Leaves flushed with autumn colour swirl around our feet.
A line of mourners snakes from the steps of the chapel, all waiting to pass on their condolences. Something in the way that Jolie’s family stand makes it obvious that someone is missing from the group. It’s like a photo where someone has been cut out.
Cass and I approach and I cross my fingers that Luc won’t be mad that I’m here. I’ve tried to tell myself his anger the other day was part of what he’s going through, but I can’t help the tightness in my belly as we approach. I’m here to remember Jolie and pay my respects, not to make this any harder for Luc.
Memories of standing in Luc’s place months ago wash over me and I fight back tears. I can feel my brother’s presence, helping me keep it together.
The blonde woman I saw earlier stands a little way apart from Luc and his dad. Their mother. I have to bite my lip to stop myself shouting at her but the words echo in my brain anyway.
How could you?
How could anyone leave their family when they needed them most? Leaving Luc to cook and be responsible and sacrifice everything. Leaving Luc’s dad to somehow parent alone. Leaving Jolie.
But I see the pain bowing her fair head and slumping her thin shoulders. She missed the last few years of her daughter’s life. That will follow her forever.
On the other side of Luc’s dad stands a larger woman. Her bright red curls are adorned in a green and gold scarf, her curves wrapped in a purple dress. This is the aunt Jolie told me about that day at the Twelve Apostles, I’m sure of it. She has an arm around Jolie’s dad, supporting him, and every few minutes she speaks softly to Luc, taking some of the strain from his features.
I try not to listen in but the rise and fall of his voice as he speaks to the older couple before us is impossible to ignore. It’s mechanical, and I know he’s going through the motions. I want to promise him he’ll be okay, one day, but I can’t. Mostly because I know better than anyone that it might not be true.
Then it’s our turn and Cass is speaking to Jolie’s mum and they’re saying all the stupid nothing things no-one will ever remember. I mumble something too, then I take another step and I’m standing in front of Luc.
He stares through me at first and I don’t know if I can talk. This is worse than I thought. But then he blinks, and the hard lines of his face soften. ‘You’re here.’
He hesitates. ‘About the other day—’
‘It’s okay. I caught you at a bad time.’
He takes my hand in both of his. ‘Thank you for coming. Really.’
‘I am so very sorry for your loss.’
I’m about to move on when he leans forward and brushes his lips across my cheek, sending a little shiver over my skin.
‘Thank you,’ he murmurs again. He looks like maybe he wants to talk, but there’s a line of people after me and he has things he needs to do.
‘Anytime.’
And then I’m stepping past him and he’s releasing my hand. His dad mentions the road trip and how happy it made Jolie. I share the story of the lookout at the Twelve Apostles with him and Jolie’s aunt. They smile to hear it in that way that breaks my heart a little. A moment later and Cass and I are through the line.
The chapel is on a busy road. I gaze at the traffic as we walk over to where Cass parked. Car after car passes without the drivers glancing this way. The world goes on as though nothing has happened. As though there isn’t a family left shattered and broken by loss.
Cass’s hand on my arm draws my attention. ‘Want to stop somewhere on the way home?’
‘Please,’ I reply.
I’m not ready to return to the ordinary world, and the homework that’s waiting. I text Mum while Cass drives and she sends a reply immediately. I’m glad we’re back in a place where if I don’t let her know I’ll be late, she’ll be worried.
Cass drives towards the beach and a dessert place we used to go to after school all the time. We were such regulars they started making our waffles before we even ordered. We’d dump our bags and talk about everything important. School, boys, make-up, music. All the big issues.
Then Dan died and one blustery grey day we scattered his ashes off the jetty at the end of this very road. After that, it seemed insane to indulge in waffles. Or the small talk that had once been all that mattered.
Today we walk through the doors and the waitress looks up and points us towards a table by the window. ‘Have a look at the menu, and place your order at the counter.’
I nod, instead of telling her I know, because I’m not a regular anymore.
I stare at the plastic menu but the words blur. I can almost feel my brother, so close, left at one of the beaches he adored. The place he proposed to Shivani after they walked all night on the sand.
‘Waffles to share?’ asks Cass, interrupting the weight of memories threatening to start my tears.
I lift my head and there’s uncertainty in her face. After the day we’ve had and given where we’re sitting, I know her question is about so much more than waffles. It’s about us and where we’re at and what’s going to happen tomorrow and the next day and the next.
‘Waffles would be great,’ I say, despite the churning in my belly.
We take turns eating from the mountain of sweet delight. The crunch of the waffles and smooth chill of the ice-cream smothered in chocolate and maple syrup is punctuated by shared memories of the brief time we knew Jolie.
Cass’s eyes meet mine as she plays with her teaspoon. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
‘For?’
The light catches the edge of the spoon as it twists in her hands. ‘For everything. Your brother. Finn.’
‘How did you two . . .’ My voice trails off. ‘I don’t want kissing details or anything, but you had to know it would hurt me.’
‘After you did what you did, he came to me. I guess because he thought I knew you best.’
‘I didn’t even know me.’
She nods. ‘At first when we were spending time together, it was about helping you. Coming up with ways we could stop that destructive thing you had going on. We were worried.’
‘So you thought dating would help?’ I manage to keep bitterness from my tone, but her head drops.
‘It wasn’t something I decided. I can’t speak for Finn, but I felt bad. The more time I spent with him, the worse I felt. But I liked him too. A lot. We were rehearsing late one night, weeks after you broke up, and well . . .’
I pretend to block my ears. ‘I saw enough on the trip,’ I say, but I smile. Seeing her actual remorse helps. And so does the way I feel about Luc.
‘Anyway, it’s over now,’ she says.
‘So you guys can’t work it out?’
There’s no joy in me when she shakes her head. I’d figured as much, but when I’d asked a few days ago, she still hadn’t been sure.
‘And the online guy?’
‘I came clean about Finn, and told him that I want to take some time alone before rushing into anything.’
‘Good idea.’
‘I really feel bad, Zoey.’
The spoon rotates over and over as she sighs. ‘It’s not only the stuff with Finn. It’s everything. I think maybe I’ve always been jealous, and that came out as judging you rather than caring for you. I wasn’t there for you when Dan died. I didn’t know how to be.’
Now I know how hard it is to be there for someone, and how easy it is to let them push you away. If the situation was reversed, I don’t think I’d have done much better. My hand on hers stills the spoon.
‘It’s okay,’ I say. And unlike the million other times I’ve said those words since Dan died, this time I mean it. ‘I didn’t know how to let anyone in. I was broken.’
I always will be, I think, but I don’t say it. But when she leans across the small table to hug me close, blinking back tears, I think maybe I don’t have to. Not this time.