Page 52 of The Next Chapter
There’s a beat of silence that feels monumental. That is, until Phil says, ‘Good idea, Lily,’ and Clementine says, ‘I could pop to the bakery down the road for today.’ Seb squeezes my shoulder and says, ‘That was painful.’
But I feel lighter, like I’ve grown an inch or two.
‘I’d better get on,’ I tell Seb. ‘I have that meeting with Mr Vandergilden in ten minutes.’ I pull my headphones out of my desk drawer and begin the process of disentangling the wire, looking down at the notes I’d made ahead of our meeting.
Mr Vandergilden – final check list
Statute of limitations?
Does second affair add to narrative – Already established that you were a hit with the ladies.
Trigger warning for hunting chapters?
I open the Zoom meeting, even though I really am too tired to deal with this today. My headache is so expansive that it’s spreading down my nose, which I didn’t think was a thing.
‘Eat this.’ Seb shoves half a croissant at me, and I wolf it down. I don’t have the energy to worry about that reel I saw of a croissant being made and the shocking butter to pastry ratio.
The screen fills with Mr Vandergilden as I swallow the last bite.
‘Laura, is that you?’ His face is so close to the screen that I can see the broken capillaries across his nose, which make the end of it look super red. Like Rudolph.
I stifle a laugh at my own joke. ‘It’s Lily.’
‘What?’
‘My name, it’s Lily.’
‘Huh, I was sure that you were a Laura.’
‘Nope, that’s not my name.’
He mumbles something that’s hard to make out under all the hair on his face. Probably a good thing.
‘Anyway.’ I draw it out, feeling vaguely reckless. ‘Shall we get started?’ I ask. He answers with more mumbled nodding.
We run through my checklist (don’t worry about that, yes, no) and a couple of things that he’s noted that aren’t quite right.
He’d like me to expand on the chapter we’ve entitled, ‘from the woods to the plate,’ for instance. The result is a book that’s hedonistic, completely immoral and totally offensive.
I’m slightly in awe of the fact that this is the legacy that he wants to leave.
‘If you’re happy with it, we can get it to the printers early next week and ship you your copies?’ I ask him.
He coughs. ‘That’ll do nicely, missy. So long as I get it for my birthday, I’m gonna give everyone a copy.’
I nod. This has been the plan all along, to work towards his October birthday deadline.
‘Normally, people give them out at Christmas,’ I tell him, just making conversation while I type.
He coughs again.
‘Nah, won’t be here by then, not according to the docs at any rate.’
I stop typing and look up. Now that he’s said it, maybe under all of his facial hair I can see that he looks a bit thinner around the jowls.
It’s not a particularly unusual situation. Writing the memoirs of a dying man. Women tend to get theirs done earlier in my experience, but men often wait until they’ve had the final, ‘get your affairs in order,’ talk with their doctors.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr Vandergilden.’
It’s true, I am. I can think he’s a bit of a knob and be sad for his situation at the same time.
In this job I realized a long time ago that bad people die, just like good people die.
The thing that really matters is how we live.
There’s a choice to be made, every single day that we’re alive.
We all get to decide whether we’re a force for good or bad.
And maybe it won’t matter in the end, but it matters in the here and now.
It matters in the tiny moments that make up a life.
And really, in the end, that’s what counts, isn’t it? The choices we make.
‘Pah, I’ve had a good innings. Nothing to go getting your panties all twisted up about.’
I nod, because what else can I say?
‘The thing to remember about all of this, Louisa—’ I let the Louisa go this time, ‘—is that you’ve gotta take the bull by the horns.’ I think we’re talking about life here, though I can’t quite be sure. ‘You gotta do what makes you happy, even if it scares ya. Fuck the rest of ’em.’
If I were feeling less generous, I could point out that Mr Vandergilden certainly did his bit when it came to fucking people over. But it is making me think about Lola, about Noah and how much the thought of them both leaving scares me.
Even though they sounded like they wanted to stay this time, how can I trust them not to leave? Everyone leaves me.
Sometimes I wish I was braver. I wish I could move through the world freely, without resistance. Sometimes being me feels like one long battle through a wind tunnel.
‘Thank you, Mr Vandergilden, I’ll keep that in mind.’
‘Make sure you do, missy. When you’re scared, that’s where the magic happens.’
I’m almost certain that he’s referring to the story of when he almost got mauled by a bear during a particularly bloody hunting trip, but the sentiment rings true.
We say our goodbyes and then I just sit, staring at my screen as the office moves around me. I don’t even take off my headphones, so the sound is all muffled.
Mr Vandergilden was right (and there’s a sentence I never thought I’d think). I need to do the thing that scares me.
But there’s one more thing that I need to do first.
I pull my headphones off.
‘I’m going for a walk,’ I announce to the office.
Clementine and Phil are playing chess.
‘Fucking finally,’ Seb says.
I head outside, ignoring the ominous rumble of clouds above me, heading in the direction that I’ve been in so many times before.
Neither Mum nor Dad wanted a traditional burial.
They weren’t religious and they both asked for that poem, ‘do not stand at my grave and weep,’ at their funerals.
But after Mum died, Dad picked out a memorial bench for her and put it in Whitworth Park.
It’s where they met all those years ago.
There’s a plaque with Mum’s name first and then Dad’s next to it, the etching newer.
I march all the way there, the air cool and the rain spitting.
The first sob comes as soon as I clock the bench.
Sometimes, I think that Dad didn’t choose anything bigger than a bench because he knew how much time I’d spend cleaning it.
And even now, I’m proud of the fact that their bench is the best looking one in the park.
The council didn’t seem to mind when I revarnished it after the winter.
And their new plaque is super shiny. That plaque polish I’d bought from Amazon really is the best in the business.
I sit in the corner of the bench, facing the plaque and wondering what I’m meant to do now.
Normally when I come, it’s the weekend or after work. I bring a book. Just being here is a comfort. I’ve never before arrived in a fit of dramatics on a Monday morning.
The first splash of rain hits my nose.
‘I can’t believe you made me go find her,’ I tell them, thinking that if now is the time that I start to talk to myself, at least there’s no one here to witness it. ‘But then, I guess you always knew what was best.’
The rain starts harder. I don’t have an umbrella; I didn’t even pick up my coat.
‘The thing is, I really want to hate her. It was easier when I hated her. But now I like her and I’m so scared.
What if she chooses to go again? What if she doesn’t choose it but goes anyway?
Leaving isn’t always a choice we get. You both didn’t want to leave.
’ Dad’s letter. If I could have stayed, I would have done.
Obviously, no one answers.
‘And then there are the letters. I wonder, did you keep them from Lola? I think you did. I’m so mad at you for that. And for not telling me. For thinking that I’d have picked her over you.’
I think back to how obsessed I’d been with Lola as a child. About what Mr Cains said about how happy Mum and Dad had been when they brought me home.
Maybe we’ve all just been scared this whole time.
I hate the thought of Mum and Dad being scared.
What would I tell them? What would I tell Dad when he told Lola that he couldn’t lose me?
I’d have told him that they could never have lost me. That in this life and any others that there may be, they’ll always be my parents.
I’m all out weeping then. My face is so wet it’s hard to know where the rain ends and my own tears begin.
‘I think I need to go back. Not to replace you both, she could never do that, but I don’t think I can let being frightened stop me anymore.’
A man walking his dog under a huge raincoat gives me a wide berth. Probably wise. There’s a chance that I’ve started to lose my mind, because as well as talking to myself, I’m starting to hear things.
It really sounds like the ghost of my mum is calling me.
‘Lily!’
What the fuck? Today of all days would be the day I start getting haunted.
I twist round to look back at the path.
Except it’s not a ghost.
It’s Lola.
Lola is here, in this park.
And she’s coming towards me.