The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(91)

I sit now and think back over the last eighteen months. I acknowledge how far I’ve come since Freddie’s death, and how far I still have to travel. Decades, if I’m fortunate.

I think briefly of New York: calamitous, everything it shouldn’t have been. I don’t know when I’ll feel strong enough to go back, and bigger questions are hovering on the edges of my mind waiting to be answered.

As I close my eyes and turn my face up to the sun, I consciously remind myself that I’m still here, anchored. My sneaker-clad feet are planted on this dry, dusty earth, my flesh and bones rest on this plain wooden bench. My heart may be a loose cannon in my chest, unsure if anyone owns it, but I’m still here. I take slow, measured breaths, focusing on the scent of pine needles and the chatter of birds, until a steady, all-encompassing sense of sanctuary wraps itself around me like an invisible shield. It’s the safety of my grandparents’ dinner table and the strength of my mother’s hug. It’s Elle holding my hand, it’s Freddie making my perfect bacon and beetroot sandwich, it’s Jonah at the piano in The Prince on New Year’s Eve. It’s all of those things and all of those people, as surely as if they’re filling the pews around me. It’s Vita’s serenity and Petar’s kindness, and it’s Dawn and Ryan picking up the slack for me at work. It’s Kris expecting nothing from me, and Julia’s second-hand flowers. But moreover and most of all, it’s me. Right here, right now, on this bench, it’s every version of me. My sunburnt shoulders, my too-long hair twisted into a knot on top of my head, my make-up-free face, the frayed cotton braids around my wrist from the beach seller, the chipped green polish on my fingernails, it’s me, it’s me, it’s me.

I feel a tide swell inside me, this sense of myself as a whole, loved person, as owner of my own heart, a whisper and then a roar.

Me. Me. Me.

If I was somewhere other than a shrine, I’d shout out at the top of my lungs: I’m Lydia Bird and I’m still here.

I run into Petar washing off the pavement outside the restaurant as I park the moped up in Vita’s space.

‘Did you find it?’ he asks, leaning on the mop handle.

I climb off the bike and unclip the helmet. ‘I did. It’s quite an amazing place, isn’t it?’

‘I love it,’ he says. ‘Did you pray?’

I wrinkle my nose, apologetic. ‘It’s not really my thing.’

He nods, philosophical. ‘Everyone is different.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Although I did feel something … I don’t know how to put it …’

‘Not alone?’ he suggests.

I think about it. ‘Sort of, but not exactly,’ I say. ‘More like –’ I touch my fingertips against my breast – ‘more like acceptance. I found the old me, still in here, and the new me sitting right alongside her. We made friends.’

‘The old you and the new you,’ he says slowly.

I don’t expect him to understand because I’m not sure I really understand myself.

‘I think … I think I’ve been trying too hard to be everything to everyone,’ I say, working through my jumbled thoughts for my own benefit as much as for Petar. ‘It’s hard to accept that life always marches forwards, isn’t it? Always forwards, never back. I was forced to change when my life suddenly changed around me, but even if it hadn’t, I’d have changed in one way or another sooner or later, wouldn’t I? Because people do, don’t they, no one stays the same for ever. Everything is just so fragile, isn’t it? We make our decisions dependent on the day, the weather, our mood, the phases of the moon, what we had for breakfast … I can’t keep questioning choices I may or may not have made, blaming myself for being too soft there and too hard here. I see now that I’ve been walking in circles, making crazy patterns.’ I stop and draw breath. ‘I need to walk in a straight line, Petar.’

Petar stares at me, taken aback by my ramble. I’m not sure how much he understood, or even how much I understood.

‘It’s not always easy to accept the things you cannot change.’ He takes the moped key and helmet from me. ‘Go and rest for a while.’

Vita has been into my room while I was out, leaving behind a mason jar of wildflowers and a note to tell me she’s replenished my linen and bottled-water supplies. I lie down on the fresh sheets, thinking about Petar’s words just now. It’s a clichéd line from a million posters and fridge magnets, but the concept of acceptance is settling itself on my bones.

Sitting at the shrine today, I felt almost like two people. The old me, the girl I was before Freddie died, and the new me, the woman I’ve become since the accident. It probably sounds ridiculous, but as I sat there in the silence this morning, it was as if the two versions of me inched closer and closer on that pew until finally, finally, they became one whole person.





Wednesday 7 August


I’ve been here for seventeen days now. It feels auspicious because it’s more than the usual package holiday. More than my leave allowance at work too. I emailed Phil a couple of days ago to try to explain, or rather to beg for leave of unpaid absence because I’m not ready to go home yet. I know I’m taking liberties; he’s already been so generous and accommodating, and I have no right to expect him to understand. He’s replied that he’ll try to juggle things for a while longer, a weight off my peeling shoulders. Mum was a little trickier. We haven’t argued as such, but she couldn’t keep a lid on her simmering discontent. Elle’s daily texts and photos have slipped to every other day or so too. It pains me that my absence is difficult for them. I honestly wouldn’t stay away if being here didn’t feel vital for my sanity. I need to stay here for a little while longer yet, be Lydia the beach waitress, just passing through.