After the End(107)
“We did English,” she says, after a full five minutes with nothing but the sound of our spoons. She glances up at me. “In school.”
“Cool.”
“And Maria Perez hurt her ankle in phys ed and had to go to the ER.”
“That’s not so cool.”
Brianna shrugs. “No one likes Maria Perez.”
I do, I think.
fifty
Pip
2017
The bench is on a hill overlooking the park where Max and I used to bring Dylan. We were playing there when everything went wrong; me, sitting with Dylan in the sandpit, my phone ringing with a call I didn’t yet know was urgent, walking a few feet away from the playing children, one eye still on Dylan, one finger pressed to my free ear so I could hear.
We’ve had the results of Dylan’s blood tests. The consultant would like to speak to you. When could you come in? No, not tomorrow. Today, if possible.
The bench is made from teak. It has a curved back, and smooth arms, and a silver plaque I polish with my sleeve every time I come.
DYLAN ADAMS, 05/05/10–16/04/13
We scattered Dylan’s ashes along with handfuls of meadow seed. Now, wildflowers abound on either side of the bench, filling the air with their scent, and with the buzz of honeybees. Buttercups and yellow rattle colour the ground with sunshine.
“Mummy!” Grace is fourteen months, at that stage where every day brings new discoveries.
“I see! Clever girl.”
Today’s finding is that, if she faces away from me, and bends to look between her legs, I will appear upside down, and that, if she leans forward from this position, she will tumble over and end up sitting on the ground. This she does, over and over, until she is dizzy.
I look down the hill to the playground, where a woman is attempting to round up several small children. As soon as she has one of them standing by the gate, a second one breaks for the seesaw, and a third makes a bid for freedom. The fourth takes off the coat his mother has just this moment put on him. It is like watching a particularly unsuccessful sheepdog trial, and I can’t help but smile. Beyond her, a man walks from the car park. He passes the play area and continues up the hill.
“Gracie, Daddy’s coming.”
She stops, mid-forward-roll, and untangles herself, pushing herself up on all fours before getting to her feet. She is still unsteady, with more purpose than direction. “Dada!” She runs to meet him, and I wince as she careers down the path, waiting for the trip, for the skinned knees, for the tears.
But Max thinks the same, and he runs to meet her, scooping her up before she falls, and giving her a great bear hug, before setting her down again. They walk up, hand in hand, and I hear Grace chattering to him in her own peculiar brand of English and Grace-language.
“Hey,” he says to me, and he kisses me on the cheek. The logistics of divorce take some working out, and I’m grateful for the fact that Max and I remain not just on speaking terms, but good friends. Best friends, I suppose, with the caveat that I don’t want to know the details of his relationship with Blair, and I imagine he would prefer not to think too deeply about me and Lars. They have met, of course, not just when Grace was born, but several times since. They are polite to each other but unlikely to ever reach the going-for-a-drink stage, which I think is reasonable. Max still lives in the UK, but he spends increasingly more time in Chicago. Blair and I are Facebook friends, which is terribly modern and civilised, and means I am forever untagging myself from photos in which I’m not wearing makeup, or where I have hair that looks like it belongs to one of Grace’s matted dolls.
“Hungry?” I open the hamper I’ve lugged up the hill, and spread out the picnic blanket. “Grace, can you help me unpack the picnic?” She takes out a stick of bread and the hummus, olives, paté, and cheese I packed this morning, sticking her fingers into each one in turn to taste it, before finding a place for it on the rug.
Max kneels next to Grace, and opens his rucksack. He takes out three plastic mugs, a half bottle of champagne, and a carton of apple juice, and lines the mugs up on the bench to pour the drinks.
He has a flat, with a pink-painted room full of Grace’s toys and clothes, about half an hour from the house that remains in both our names. Once a fortnight, when I go to work, Max stays in the guest room at mine. He takes Grace to daycare, and goes on to the UK office, thanks to Chester’s finally agreeing to Max’s not unreasonable request to spend more time in the UK. It is an unusual arrangement, but it works. Occasionally, I will get back home to find Max has made supper, and we eat it together, and I think how strange it is that we get on so much better now. We separated just in time, I often think, as though someone took the lid off the pan right before it boiled over.
“Cheers,” Max says softly, touching his plastic cup to mine. “Happy birthday, Dylan.”
“Happy birthday, Dylan.” I can’t help it, my eyes still fill with tears, but I smile and blink them away, and look at our amazing daughter, who has a fistful of olives in one hand and a mug of juice in the other.
“Gracie!” She bangs her juice against my cup, and then Max’s.
Max shakes his head. “Not Gracie’s birthday—your brother Dylan’s. It’s his seventh birthday.” He looks at me, and his tone changes. “Seven.”