Goodnight, Beautiful: A Novel (46 page)

Leaning forward, I kiss him, filling it with as much of the love
I have for him as I can. I want him to know I love him. I want him to feel that we both tried, but this was way too big for us: we aren’t going to survive this. Even if I hadn’t done what I did with Mal, almost all the strings of our marriage have been severed; waiting together to say goodbye is the last one. Once it has been cut, only love will remain. And it takes more than love—no matter how fervent, deep and passionate—to keep two people together.

The door to Leo’s hospital room opens and Aunt Mer steps out, shutting it behind her. Her eyes glisten, but she is calm. Calmer than when she went in: as if all fear and worry have left her. She tugs her bag onto her shoulder and walks a little way down the corridor before she stops and leans against the wall with her back to us. When we were allowed to visit her in the hospital, sometimes she used to do this: stare into space, her body unnaturally still. It was the medication, Mum and Dad reassured us, but I wasn’t scared. Mal and Cordy always were, but I knew she was there. I knew we’d be seeing her again sometime, that the standing and staring were just a rest.

After some time, Mal comes out of the room. He is broken. He was my rock last night—he held me for hours while I cried for the first time, drove me home so I could shower and change and pick up some new clothes for Leo, and he had driven me back to the hospital—now he is diminished; devastated and broken. He shuffles a short distance, then stops, falls back against the wall, his head tipped upwards, and then his knees give way and like a stone dropped into a pond, he sinks quickly and heavily to the ground. He draws his knees to his chest, jams his fingers into the blond waves of his hair and begins to cry. Loud, uncontrolled sobs. He rocks as he sobs, whipping up his anguish, losing all grip on himself.

Out of all of us, he’s the only one for whom it’s too late. He never got to talk to Leo, never got to hold him, never had a Leo moment he could call his own. Aunt Mer comes to him, all the calmness she radiates suddenly explained: he is her baby, her little boy, and he needs her. For the first time since he was a baby, she is able to completely support him. She brings him to his feet with gentle coaxing, then she allows him to swamp her with his large frame as he throws his arms around her and cries, all the while saying he is sorry. He is really sorry. She rubs his back and hushes him, says she knows he’s sorry, as the calmness she has diffuses slowly into him. Once he is able to stand alone, she takes his hand like the little boy he will probably always be to her, and she leads him away from here. I watch them go and then vanish like everyone else.

Keith’s goodbye is the shortest.

He has a lifetime of things to say to Leo and no time to say them in. So he says goodbye, and retreats.

Before me, the doctor with the young face and old soul and Nurse Melissa go in to check on Leo. To make sure things are going the way they think they will.

On his way past, the doctor says it will be a few more hours yet, but I know for a fact he’s wrong. I know Leo. It won’t be long now.

I step inside the room, sealing us in together by shutting the door, and I can’t help the grin spreading across my face. It’s Leo after all. How can I not smile when I see him?

“Hey, Leo, sweetheart, it’s me.”

I
pick up his right hand, measure and weigh it in my own.

Chubby and childlike, four perfect digits and a thumb. I made those, in my body, I made them. I kiss each one, lingering as I press my lips onto the tip of every perfect finger. I turn his palm over, press a special star magic wish, as he used to call them, into the well of his hand. He would curl up his hand and close his eyes and make a wish. He never told me what he wished for or if they came true, but he always did it, so it must have given him some rewarding returns. Or maybe he was always hoping the next time it would work.

I pick up his left hand, the mirror image to his right, press kisses onto those fingers, that thumb, the well of that hand.

This is the last time I will be able to do this. The last time.

We say “last” so many times, but never consider the gravity of the word. How final it is. Binding.

How soon will I forget?
I wonder. I have virtually no videos or films of him. After he was born, I used to take copious amounts of photos, but even their number dwindled after a while because, with only two of us to take pictures, I preferred to spend time on the other side of the camera, with him, doing things. I can hear his voice in my head and the words are clear, but some of the intonations are slightly fuzzy. How soon before his voice is completely gone? With nothing etched in stone to remind me,
how will I remember? He is on my wedding video, of course, but that was over two years ago and his voice has changed since then, as he worked his vocal cords around his ever-increasing vocabulary.

How soon, too, before I lose the full range of his expressions? Some were captured on film, frozen in photos, but they weren’t the same as seeing him. I can close my eyes now and remember how he would turn his nose up at broccoli (“You know it’s poison, Mum”) but would devour spinach as though it was nectar. I can bring up so easily how he would look up to the heavens as he searched for an answer to a question, how his eyes would widen and he’d stick the tip of his tongue out the corner of his mouth as he battled to reach for the newest level on the PlayStation. I can luxuriate in his frowns at injustices—like not being allowed a dolphin. I can lose myself in the memory of his huge smiles. But how long will they last? I thought they were etched into my mind and heart, but are they? Won’t time erase them as it softened and blunted all memories?

He’s wearing his green Teen League Fighter power suit. It’s his favorite thing. If he could choose the one thing to put on every day, it’s this. Because then he can legitimately go out and fight crime. I haven’t put on his mask.

I lean down, touch a kiss on each of his eyelids. Each one closed, the long lashes resting gently on the area under his eyes. I press my lips to his forehead, lingering there.

I stroke my fingers down one side of his face, marveling as I always do at how soft his skin is. I stroke my fingers down the other side of his face. My baby. My beautiful, beautiful baby.

I sit down in my chair, take his right hand and hold it in mine again. He held my hand almost every day—while we crossed the road, while we walked along the promenade, while we
strolled through the park, while we ambled along the road. Sometimes while we watched TV and he got scared at something and would reach for me because, he said, he didn’t want me to be scared on my own. I hold his hand against my cheek.

“You know, Leo, I realized something. You always worry about me, don’t you? So, I realized that you might still be here because you’re worried about me. I’ll be fine, though. I want you to know that. Remember that, always. There are so many people who will look after me. Grandma, Grandpa, Aunty Cordy, Nana Mer, Dad, Amy, Trudy, even your other dad. I’ll miss you, of course I will, but I want you to stop fighting this if it’s hurting you. I love you so much that I never want you to be in any pain.”

I hold on to his hand as I lay my head down on his chest, still feeling the warmth of him, the outline of his hand against my cheek.

“I love you and it’s OK to go now. I’ll see you again, so I won’t say goodbye. OK? I’ll see you again. I’m going to say goodnight, instead. Sleep tight, Leo, my love. Goodnight, my beautiful boy. Goodnight, beautiful.”

The rhythm of the machine is changing. The bleeps are slower, the gaps in between them longer.

I close my eyes. I wish I could go to sleep. I wish I could go to sleep and be with him and hear him speak to me one last time. Have him hug me, roll his eyes and ask if I’m going to start crying now.

I keep my eyes closed, allow myself to drift away.

“I love you,” I say to him.

The bleeps of the machine slow. Slower. Slower. Slower. And then … 
Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeepppppppppppppp.
Steady. Slow. Continuous.

Over.

His hand is cold by the time I sit up. My face, cold. Everything cold.

“Goodnight, my beautiful boy,” I whisper to him. “Goodnight, beautiful.”

M
eredith is the one who calls me.

She tells me with gentle words shaped by her soft voice.

She asks me if I am all right, if I need her to come and be with me.

She explains that Mal has been sedated by a doctor and is asleep in her hotel room.

She doesn’t know when they’ll be home.

She doesn’t talk about a funeral.

She wishes me goodnight; blesses me with her love.

She hangs up.

And I realize then how quietly the world can come to an end.

I
sit by the beach.

Surrounded by the expanse of stars scattered all around me in the night sky, I absorb the sound of the wash of the sea.

I watch the sun come up.

I listen to the world come alive: the seagulls swooping into the waves to catch breakfast; the disciplined joggers following their routine; the not-quite-awake dog walkers doing their duty; the all-night partiers stumbling home.

Home.

I don’t have one of them anymore. Not when he’s not there.

W
e held on to each other as we slipped, slid and clambered down the steep bank of pebbles.

The sea lay before us. Foaming and fizzing as it gushed toward us, bubbling as it was sucked back. We kicked off our socks and shoes, stood beside each other, our feet cold, waiting for the sea to try to gobble them up, seeing who could wait the longest before running away.

The sea went away, he and I stood firm, shivering in the cold, our legs close together, giggling with anticipation, waiting for the tide to come for us. And then it was racing toward us. The tremors of excitement thrilled between us as the water came and then I was squealing, running backwards, I was the one who caved first. The chicken. He stood his ground, let the sea come and come, until his feet were completely submerged by the gray, foamy water. His face grimaced at the coolness of the water, and he screamed in delight and didn’t move.

He turned toward me, to see where I was when I should have been beside him.

I laughed at him and he laughed at me, his childish giggle bubbling up and out of him.

Playing chicken with the sea was our favorite game. I always ran away first. He was the one who stood his ground. The bravest boy in the world.

Someone is watching me.

I know everyone here is watching me, wondering how I am, how I’m coping, whether I’m going to break down, whether I’ll finally let them comfort me, but these eyes are different as they study me. They aren’t concerned, they are curious. Trying to read me, to see what I am thinking as well as feeling; trying to burrow into the hidden places of my mind.

I slowly open my eyes and find her staring at me. Like the last time we both saw each other on the tube, the day I decided to move away from London, our eyes lock.

She looks appropriate: dressed in a simple, straight-cut dress, the long, honey-blond locks of her hair pulled back into a low ponytail, flat black shoes, pearls around her throat.

I hadn’t told Mal he couldn’t bring her, because it hadn’t occurred to me that she would want to come. Nor that she’d find enough courage to do that.

She is startled, a deer caught in fast-approaching headlights, by the fact I have caught her staring at me. Color rises in her cheeks, but she does not look away. She knows I know what she was doing. She was trying to see if she could work out my frame of mind so she could come and talk to me. She was trying to work out if I would turn my back on her, shout at her, tell her to leave me alone, or politely listen to her hollow words.

She doesn’t realize that whether she speaks to me or not, none of this means anything.