Page 10 of The Chemistry Test

Cam

When I get back, Callie is purring and padding around on a heated mat. I pick her up and look at her more closely. She seems alert and immediately starts kneading my t-shirt when I put her on my lap.

‘I swear she wasn’t like that when I texted you,’ Ryan says, walking in.

‘She was probably just tired,’ I say, standing to make her and Tabby a bottle.

‘You did the right thing messaging me.’ I cuddle her close.

It’s always better to have a false alarm than to miss something.

The thing is, Callie is kind of a miracle.

Her littermates are already twice her size, and her fur is a lot more tufty and scruffy than theirs, but she’s a happy little cat. And most importantly, she’s still here.

She survived being abandoned with her littermates. She’s surviving being allergic to the world. And she’s learning to navigate life with cerebellar hypoplasia, which has given her an almighty tremor and incredibly poor coordination. But no matter what comes her way, she just keeps on keeping on.

‘I really am sorry for making you come back when I said I’d watch them,’ Ryan says, looking at her fondly. ‘She’s just so small and I never want anything to happen to her, you know?’

‘I know, mate,’ I say, standing up to pass her to him. ‘But she’s going to be alright.’

Later that evening, I find myself sitting in the car park of a community centre, twenty minutes away from campus. I didn’t get on well with the individual counselling sessions I tried a few months ago, but Mum found me a group specifically for bereavement to try instead. So here I am.

I sift through the sweet wrappers in my glove compartment for an unopened Starburst and peer out through the windscreen. Cap or no cap, I’m not going in until the coast is at least a little bit clearer.

There are small groups dotted around who I assume are waiting for their kids to come out of their evening clubs, but even more notably than that are the people who make their way towards the entrance as the clock creeps closer to seven.

Even though it’s getting dark, I can see the same heaviness in some of them that I feel in myself.

It’s a peculiar, invisible type of heaviness to people who haven’t experienced it and it’s only slightly more noticeable to those who have.

But here, where loss is at the forefront of everyone’s mind, weighing them down more than it ordinarily would, I can’t not see it.

Although, in a strange way, seeing them carrying their own weight is somehow making mine feel a bit lighter.

Perhaps it’s the thought of us all carrying it together.

By the time I force myself into the building and through the door with the handwritten sign that reads ‘Julia 7 p.m.’, most people are already seated.

I was kind of expecting to be the only young person, but much to my relief there seems to be people of all ages here. So far so good, Mum, I think to myself.

There’s a big table in the middle of the room, full of biscuits and mini cupcakes on white paper plates.

I don’t know why, but I thought we’d have to sit in a circle like children – although even that would have been better than the stark, clinical room where my last counselling sessions were held.

Much to practically no one’s surprise, I didn’t last two seconds at any of them.

Before she can text me first, I send Mum a quick message to let her know that I’ve kept up my part of the deal – I’m here and ready to give it a shot.

Looking up at this new group of people who are already engaging in light, friendly chatter, I almost feel comfortable filling the last empty chair at the end.

The two people to my right, both women in their thirties, briefly break their conversation to include me in it. I’m just about to speak when someone knocks on the door.

‘Ah, yes! I knew there was meant to be one more of us!’ Julia says as she springs up and opens the door. ‘Hi, I’m Julia!’ she continues. ‘I take it you’re here for the bereavement support?’

‘Yeah, sorry I’m late,’ he says, his rapid breaths starting to return to normal. He sounds like he’s been running.

‘That’s quite alright, we haven’t started yet.’ She smiles, stepping aside to let him in.

The man thanks her before looking around the already full table. And before he has a chance to speak, Julia picks up a chair from the other side of the room and just about manages to squeeze it into the tiny space next to me at the end.

‘This is cosy.’ He laughs, breaking the awkwardness at being sat shoulder to shoulder, and firing back up the conversation in the room.

Then, after looking at me again, I watch as his eyes narrow in recognition.

Crap. I know he knows. And he knows I know he knows.

I can practically see the cogs turning in his head as he tries to place me.

He clicks his fingers as it comes to him.

‘The Age of Artemisia!’ he says finally. Just like I knew he would. ‘That’s where I know you from. I’m only on the first season, so I haven’t seen much of you yet, but you and the whole cast are amazing.’

‘Thanks, mate,’ I say, feeling that familiar buzz in my chest. It’s such a strong mix of pride and disbelief, no matter how many times it happens, that not even being at a bereavement group can stifle it.

And even more so because it was about the first season, which, if anything, is the slightly weaker one.

I don’t think anyone else can tell, but I was definitely still finding my feet that year.

It wasn’t until season two that Gran started coming up to the set to give me pep talks and teach me some strategies to remember longer lines – with Sherlock’s mind palace, or method of loci, being a firm favourite.

That was when Arturo, as small as his role is, really came to life.

‘You have a lot of good stuff to come, the next season is even better,’ I say, trying not to think about the fact Arturo could very well lose that spark in the later seasons now Gran’s gone. Or the fact there might not be any more seasons for him at all, if I throw in the towel.

The guy shakes his head, completely oblivious to my inner doubt and apprehension.

The way he’s looking at me now, drop-jawed and slack-mouthed, you’d think he was talking to the mastermind behind the whole thing – not just some guy who plays a fairly minor character so far.

I want to give him a hug or at least shake his hand, but there’s just not enough room here. ‘I’m CJ, by the way.’

‘Nice one, CJ,’ he says, patting me on the back. ‘I’m Blake.’

At least I know who to blame if this story gets out, I think to myself and then instantly hate myself for it.

Also noticing how it would make no sense – if anyone here was going to try to sell it anywhere, it wouldn’t be the overt fan who’s introduced himself by name .

.. would it? I guess that’s the problem – you just never know.

I learned that lesson the hard way not too long ago, and have pretty much stayed on high alert ever since. Mum even goes as far as calling me ‘ overly cautious Cam’, but I’m not convinced that’s even possible. At least, not for people like me.

When everyone’s settled down, Julia gives us a slightly more formal welcome and suggests that we all introduce ourselves, saying as much or as little about what’s brought us here as we like.

And I’m pleasantly surprised at how okay I feel about it.

Still not great (I mean, it is a bereavement group for god’s sake), but definitely okay.

Normally I hate telling people about losing Gran and how it happened because no one can hide their pity.

And there is no right thing for them to say.

But this feels different. Just by virtue of walking through the door, everyone here already knows the worst of what you’ve been through.

You’ve said it without saying it, which is often the most difficult part.

There’s a lot of solace in that. So, as I listen to the introductions and stories, instead of the usual shock and pity that unintentionally (and perhaps benevolently) divides us, I feel a strong sense of unity.

So much so, that when it gets to my turn, I’m actually looking forward to telling them about Gran.

I don’t really talk about her to my family anymore in case I upset them, and I don’t tell new people about her in case it makes them uncomfortable. But none of that applies here.

‘Okay, so my name’s CJ and I’m nineteen,’ I say, trying not to think too deeply about what I’m about to say.

‘And eight months ago, I lost my gran. And not just any gran, but the best grandma in the whole world .’ I pause for a split second.

‘Just like all of yours.’ I manage a small smile while I wait for a few sad chuckles to die down.

‘But seriously, everything I achieved and loved in my life was because of her,’ I say, as her comforting face floats into my head, spurring me on. I didn’t expect to tell them the rest of my story, but everyone looks so calm and friendly that I can’t help it.

‘I was there the day she died,’ I say, struggling to keep my voice steady.

‘She had a heart attack, and it was just so sudden.’ The memory makes me wince.

‘The last thing she told me before she died was that she thought she was going to faint. But I knew what fainting looked like.’ I take a deep breath. ‘And I knew it wasn’t that.’

There. I said it. I actually said it. And it felt so unbelievably good.