Page 22 of A Mother’s Last Wish

22

LOUISA

Waking up in my parents’ flat is so strange, that for a moment or two I wonder where I am and, when I remember, I’m filled with an aching void of loneliness. It’s the same feeling I had when I missed my mum as a kid, but if we were back at the pub on those dark days and not with our grandparents, Holly would always be there. She’d sense when I was having a tough time, and she’d wrap her arms around me, holding me tight.

I’d never heard of a weighted blanket being used to calm anxiety back then, but she was the human equivalent of that. She weighted me down with her embrace, until I felt grounded and safe again. She was my rock, she still is, and yet I’ve pushed her away at a time when I need her more than ever. But I don’t want to need her the way I do right now, and I don’t want my husband and children to need her either, even though I know she’s the one keeping us all going. She’s the person I’ve been able to talk to about everything my whole life and yet I can’t talk to her about this. I can’t talk to anyone who’ll understand, because how could they if they haven’t been in my position? Instead, I do what I seem to be doing so often these days and reach for my phone, posting a message on The Grapevine forum.

If you’ve seen my posts before. You’ll know I thought I could make myself feel better about leaving my children behind by lining them up a ‘new mother’ for when I was gone. Some of you told me I was being ridiculous and it turns out you were right. I can’t find the perfect person to take my place, because I don’t want anyone to do it. I want to be there for them, for my husband, my twin sister, my parents, and everyone else who really matters to me. There’s less and less I’ve got the energy to do now, and I’m watching the people I love carrying on with life from the sidelines. That makes it all too easy to imagine their lives without me in them and now, when I think about someone taking my place in any of those situations, the jealousy I feel is unbearable. Those people are my loved ones and I don’t want someone else to have them. I know that sounds just as crazy as my other posts, and I know some of you will come back and tell me so, but it doesn’t change how I feel. My children are so young and I’m scared they’ll forget about me altogether. If they do, it won’t be a case of this other person filling a gap I’ve left behind, because there won’t be a gap. For them, it’ll be like I never even existed at all.

My eyes are so swollen and sore from all the crying I’ve done lately, that I would have sworn there were no tears left. Turns out I was wrong about that too. I know I’ll get some replies saying that it doesn’t matter if my children don’t remember me, because I won’t be around to experience the pain that brings, and it’s probably better that way because then at least they won’t experience the pain of missing me, but right now it feels like it’s the only thing that matters. My children are the best thing I’ve ever done and I want to believe I’ll mean something to them when I’m gone. I don’t buy into that crap about not missing what you’ve never had either. Holly and I never had a happy family set-up, but we both still missed it like hell.

It’s only a matter of minutes before the responses start to ping in. To my surprise, they’re all empathetic, and no one is accusing me of being selfish or self-indulgent. Most of them tell me that the people who love me won’t allow me to be forgotten, and that they’ll tell the children what I was like and how much I loved them. I know that’s true, but apart from a handful of memories that we’ve made lately, which I hope will stay with them, most of those stories will still come through the filter of someone else’s memories of me. When a response comes up from @itsnotalloveryet2, it’s the first that contains some practical advice.

I don’t know you, but having read your posts you don’t sound like someone people could forget. It’s different with your children being so young, I understand that, and I’ve worked with lots of people who are facing a similar situation to yours. My advice would be to video everything you possibly can, to focus on making and recording as many memories as possible that your children can watch back later.

They might be too young to recall everything, but those videos should help fill in the blanks and maybe even trigger their own memories. For me, my earliest memories are a mixture of vague recollections of the every day, and special occasions, although those might be a mixture of what I remember and what I’ve seen in photographs. If there’s a special event you can organise, or a place they’ve always wanted to go to, it might be significant enough for them to remember it and your part in it, especially if there are a lot of photos and videos taken too.

If there is advice you want your children to remember you giving them, or things you want to be able to tell them later on that they’re not old enough yet, you could write letters. Or if that feels too much right now, you could record messages. That way your children won’t ever be left wondering what Mum would have said, or what advice you would have given at key moments in their lives, and you can still be a part of their memories of those special times, even when you can’t physically be there xx

We’ve already done things to help embed lasting memories for Flo and Stan, so it’s the last part of the post that makes my breath catch in my throat. It isn’t that I haven’t thought about writing letters before, but I never thought of it the way she’s put it. The idea that those letters wouldn’t just be words on a page at my children’s weddings, or the birth of their children, but could somehow instead become an integral part of their memories of those days, fills me with hope. Something I was beginning to think I might never feel again.

‘Mum!’ Just seconds after opening the bedroom door and calling out I hear her rushing along the hallway.

‘Are you okay?’ Panic is written over her face and I feel a rush of affection for her. As far as I can tell, she hasn’t touched a drink since I came to stay, and I know how hard she’s trying to be what I need right now.

‘I’m fine. I mean not fine, but you know.’ I manage a half-smile and she looks shocked; it’s the first time I haven’t cried as soon as she’s spoken to me since I arrived on her doorstep. ‘I just need one of you to get some writing paper and envelopes if you don’t mind going to the shop, and then I’m going to call a taxi to take me back home.’

‘You’re going back?’ I can’t read Mum’s expression, at least not until I nod and then she smiles, the relief obvious. I don’t know if it’s because she’s pleased I feel ready to go back to my family, or whether it’s because she won’t have the responsibility for me any more. Either way she looks happy and, for the first time since the children were dancing with Lilo and Stitch, I feel something close to that too. It might not be happiness in the way I used to know it, but I feel like there’s a point to me still being here. I’m not just waiting to die, there are meaningful things I can still get to do, and that’s more than enough for now.

Just as I’m about to phone for a taxi, a call comes through to my mobile from Kate, and a jolt of fear shoots through me in case she’s calling to say something has happened to one of the children, my sister, or Tom. I know it’s crazy, because it wouldn’t be Kate calling if that was the case, but I can’t stop my mind from going there. I seem to be catastrophising more and more lately, and I’m suddenly terrified that it might be too late for me to tell the people I love just how much they mean to me. Snatching up the phone, I can hear my own breathing, heavy and urgent, my voice high as I say her name.

‘Kate.’

‘Hi Lou, is it a good time? You sound a bit…’ She catches herself, not wanting to say that I sound odd, or breathless, or whatever it is she was about to say, in case this is my new norm. People do that now, tiptoe around me for fear of saying the wrong thing, and quite a few of them have started to avoid me altogether. My illness makes them uncomfortable, forcing them to confront the idea of their own mortality. I get that, I really do, because every time I look in the mirror, or attempt a day-to-day task that used to be easy, I’m forced to confront mine too. ‘I just wanted to check that I’m not interrupting anything.’

‘Not at all. I’ve been staying with my parents for a bit, but I’m just about to get a taxi home.’

‘Oh.’ Kate sounds taken aback and I’m not surprised. It would shock anyone who knows about my life that I’ve chosen to stay with my parents at a time like this. Her family lived next door to my grandparents and I’m sure she knows more than I’ve told her about just how difficult my childhood was. ‘Where are they living now? Still at the pub?’

‘No, they’ve got a flat in Chetsford.’ My parents’ town is less than ten miles from Castlebourne, but it’s about as different from our pretty village as anywhere could possibly be, at least at the grotty end, where my parents’ even grottier flat sits above a kebab shop. Holly and I have both offered to help them move somewhere nicer in the past, but they always insisted they love it here. It’s opposite their favourite pub, and there’s a handy twenty-four-hour minimarket three doors down, which has a whole wall of alcohol on display, available any time they want it.

‘Why don’t I come and get you?’ Kate’s offer takes me by surprise and my immediate thought is that she’s saying it out of pity. I can’t help wondering why she hasn’t asked about Tom or Holly either, and why I’m not getting either of them to pick me up. Maybe one of them has told her how irrational I’ve been, pushing them together one moment, and then screaming at them for leaving me out the next.

‘It’s fine. I got a taxi over here and you must have loads to be getting on with.’

‘Not today. In fact I was going to ask if you were free to meet up with me, Dad and Irene for a coffee this morning? Brenda Lamb, who’s in the choir at the church, is having a charity coffee morning in her garden, and we’re all going to be there. I’m sure we can find a quiet corner to have a chat.’ Kate pauses and when I don’t answer immediately, she starts to apologise. ‘Sorry, you probably don’t want to do that. All those people, and if you’re not feeling great…’

‘It’s not that at all.’ I wonder if she knows I’m lying, because she’s hit the nail on the head. The idea of being in Brenda’s garden and everyone looking at me – poor Lou, the woman with not long to go – is almost unbearable. But what’s even more unbearable is the thought of continuing to hide myself away, and missing out on the last good days that could have been mine. I can’t pretend I’m not terminally ill, and hiding myself away won’t change that. This new version of life is the only one I’ve got left and I need to try and wring every drop I can out of it. ‘I can’t stay too long, because there’s a project I need to start at home, and I get tired so easily now. But if you wouldn’t mind picking me up, I’d love to pop in and have a chat for half an hour or so.’

‘Perfect. Text me your parents’ address and I’ll leave now. Dad and Irene are so looking forward to seeing you, and I really think it might help.’ Kate’s tone is warm, and it makes it easier to believe what she’s saying. I really hope she’s right, because then I might finally be able to stop trying to control the lives of the people I love, even when I’m not here, once and for all.

The journey back to Castlebourne was passed in conversation about the children. Kate’s daughter is in the same class as Flo, and it was lovely to talk about ordinary things, like just how much paint they manage to get on their hands by the end of the school day, and the horrors of combing medicated shampoo through long hair, when there’s been yet another letter about an outbreak of headlice. I even managed a joke about not needing to treat my hair any more, grinning at Kate and telling her that I’ll just need to pop it in a boil wash next time there’s an outbreak. She’d hesitated for a moment, not sure whether to laugh, but when I did, she joined in too, and it felt so good to be normal. Well, maybe not quite normal, given the subject matter of my joke, but it was wonderful to realise that my sense of humour isn’t completely dead, even if it is much blacker than it used to me.

I’m sitting in Brenda Lamb’s garden now, trying not to notice the furtive glances in my direction from some of the other people. It’s late morning and there are eight trestle tables and a mismatch of chairs, all borrowed from the church hall, dotted around the sunny garden. Most of the tables are close to the house, where French doors open in to the kitchen. There’s a tea urn on the counter and an array of cakes set out on the island, offered up in exchange for a small donation. Our table, which Kate’s parents were already sitting at when we arrived, is away from the others, next to a beautiful weeping willow at the far end of the garden, much further away from the kitchen. I suspect it might have been moved to this position for my benefit, but I’m not going to ask.

The conversation so far has been pleasant but mundane, and I’m still working my way up to asking the meaningful questions that I came here to ask when Irene suddenly cuts to the chase.

‘Kate told us you wanted to ask about our experiences of being a step-family?’

‘Yes, please.’ My response is even more straightforward than her question, but it really is as simple as that.

‘I’ve loved it.’ Irene smiles, putting a hand over Kate’s. ‘That’s not to say it’s always been easy, especially at first, but having Kate in my life has been one of the best things to ever happen.’

‘That’s lovely.’ I wrap my hands around my teacup, gripping it tightly, because it’s the tough bits I need to know about and I’m going to have to ask. ‘What was difficult about the early days?’

‘It was…’ Irene pauses for a moment and turns towards her stepdaughter. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you resented me at first. It felt as if you didn’t want someone else coming into your life, and that you thought I was trying to take your mum’s place. It was almost three years after Sally died that Steve and I got together, but it still felt far too soon to Kate, I’m sure.’

‘I don’t think it would have mattered when it was. I probably would still have thought it was too soon.’ Kate sighs and looks at me. ‘I was pretty horrible at first, but Reenie was so patient with me, and it didn’t take me long to realise that my life was better with her in it. Not to mention Dad’s, of course.’

The two women exchange an affectionate look, and the nickname Kate has for her stepmother is another obvious term of endearment between them.

‘It definitely made my life better, but it wasn’t something I rushed in to by any means.’ A look of sadness suddenly clouds Steve’s face as he speaks. ‘For the first two years I was too deep in grief to even contemplate the idea of meeting someone else. But when the worst of that fog finally started to lift, I realised just how lonely I was. Kate was beginning to get more independent by then. She was fifteen, and she had her own life. She didn’t want to spend every waking minute of it with her dad. When I met Reenie at work, the attraction was instant, but it was the idea of what Kate might think that held me back for so long. I didn’t want to do anything that would hurt her, when she’d already been hurt so much.’

‘I don’t think Steve would ever have made a move, so in the end I was the one who asked him out for a drink. See it’s not just you youngsters who can be strong, independent women.’ Irene laughs. ‘I wasn’t sure how I felt about getting involved with a man who had a teenage daughter at first, having never had a child of my own. I thought it might bother me, having my needs come second to Kate’s. But the more Steve spoke about her, and the more he made it clear that she was his priority, the more I fell in love with him. I could see what a wonderful father he was, and just how much he cared for the people he loved. I wanted to be one of the people who he cared about that way. We both knew from the start that all the time Kate was living at home, she would always be his priority, and he was clear with me that I needed to accept that before we went any further.’

‘And you never resented that?’ I can’t help wondering whether it would really be possible for anyone not to feel at least a shred of resentment that they weren’t their partner’s priority. I know people in biological families, who’ve found it difficult to cope when children became the centre of their partner’s world, and they’ve felt sidelined as a result.

‘No, because I knew what I was getting into. Honesty was the key for us. And once I lived with Steve, Kate became my priority too. I could see how much Sally’s death had affected her, and it was easier not to take her difficult behaviour personally when I realised it wasn’t about me, it was about her grief. This young girl had been through so much and it made me want to make her my priority too. It would have been easy to rush in and try to smother her with love, but I realised I had to hang back. The last thing she wanted was me trying to step into Sally’s shoes, so instead I tried to prove that I was someone she could rely on, someone she could trust, and we built it up from there. Over time things changed, she softened towards me, and we became closer, realising we had things in common.’

‘Yeah, like the desire to gang up on me!’ It’s Steve who laughs this time.

‘We did usually get what we wanted when we worked together.’ Kate nudged her dad gently, and grinned at Irene. ‘But I think Reenie’s right. It was honesty I needed, and they were upfront with me from the start. Dad also checked in with me regularly, about how I was coping with all the changes, making sure we had some quiet time on our own, where I could be really honest about how I was feeling. Things changed quickly in that respect, and the resentment I felt towards Reenie changed into gratitude that Dad had found someone like her. She was kind and loving, and most of all she made him happy. I didn’t have to worry about him being lonely any more, especially when I went off to university a couple of years after Reenie moved in.’

‘Things changed for us then too and I was shocked at how much I grieved the empty nest.’ Irene shakes her head, looking surprised even now. ‘It was a bit odd, suddenly being able to prioritise one another, but that’s been lovely too.’

‘I would have hated it if Dad had never met anyone else, because I’d have been so worried about him.’ Kate briefly leant her head on her father’s shoulder. ‘It wasn’t easy at first and there have been some bumps along the way, like there are in any family, but I’m so glad he met Reenie.’

‘It sounds like she was just the right person to come into your family.’ I smile at Kate, before turning towards her father. I don’t know if there’s a question I can ask him that will give me the answers I want, but I need to explain why I’m really here. ‘I’ve been so worried about Tom finding the right person after I die, and it sounds crazy now, but I’ve even wondered if there’s a way I can engineer who that might be. I know I can’t, but I’m still scared of leaving it to chance. I just want to know that he’ll make the right decision, but every time I try talking to him, he just closes down and tells me he doesn’t want to meet anyone else.’

‘Do you think Tom will prioritise your children?’ Steve raises his eyebrows as he speaks.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘And do you think he’d want to be with someone who wouldn’t allow him to do that?’

‘Of course not, but what if she?—’

Steve cuts me off. ‘I think you can trust him, Louisa. This woman, whoever she is, won’t be able to take your place, because she’s not you. She won’t be all the things you are to your children, there’ll always be a space where you should be, and that’s a good thing. But if you trust that Tom would only want to be with someone who adds to the children’s lives, rather than takes away from them, then I think that’s all you can ask for.’

‘Thank you.’ There are tears in my eyes as I reach out and squeeze Steve’s hand. There’s so much comfort in what he’s said. I can’t be replaced seamlessly, as if I was never even here, and he’s right when he says that’s a good thing, because I don’t want to believe I’ll be so easily replaced. But he’s right about the most important thing too, that I can trust Tom to be the kind of father who’ll put the children first. I might have doubted that at first, but I’ve seen it in action from the moment I got my diagnosis. Tom understands that this has all had to be about the children, even though I know how much the prospect of losing me is hurting him too. I might not be around to control what happens when I’m gone, but I’m leaving my family’s future in the hands of the best possible person. Suddenly I know I can trust Tom to do the right thing, and the peace that’s been evading me finally feels like it might be within reach.