Maggie's Five ...the first in a LOVE story (6 page)

Or maybe it’s
because she already took the third of my heart that belonged to
Ella. At least she doesn’t bother with sympathy pats or rehearsed
expressions, she simply wipes away a stray tear and lets me know to
contact her directly if I have any questions, then leaves the
room.

So that’s it
then. We’re done.

My family has
been taken away from me.

Three precious
lives cut far too short and all that’s left to show for it are
hollow words and lifeless forms.

Chapter 3

I’VE COME TO learn that there’s only
one thing harder than picking out the casket to bury your husband
in. It’s choosing out two additional caskets to bury your children
in.

And if that’s
not hard enough, the next challenge is the lining. Black for
Brendan - he always looked handsome in black. For Ella, it’s pink
bedding with a soft as silk purple pillow and Mattie girl, orange
with a blue pillow to cradle her in her forever sleep.

The casket stain
is a dark brown, almost black for my husband.

My
husband
.

Is Brendan still
my husband now that he’s gone? How do you refer to the love of your
life when they’re no longer there? He’s not an ex - we never parted
by choice, didn’t divorce, yet we are separated. So what does that
make him?

Where does that
leave me?

Both of the
girls are given white cas- cask- encasements. What colour could I
possibly choose other than the symbol of purity, even if you can
argue the point when it came to Mattie and her adventurous
spirit?

Is that what she
is now? An adventurous spirit?

And Ella? A
cautious princess spirit?

If you’re
wondering how I can be so frank about all of this, I can’t. I’m
lying to everyone, especially myself.

I can’t stand
the sombre tones the funeral directors speak in or how they sound
as though they’re talking down to a three year old me, using no
greater than two syllable words consisting of a maximum two vowels
and three consonants.

They must think
you lose brain cells when you lose loved ones.

You don’t. Trust
me, it would be so much better if you did.

I don’t like the
way they walk with a practised rigid step and make that annoying
static scuffing sound. I hate the way the place is artificially
quiet and how everyone talks in whispers. It’s irritating. The dead
are already dead, for God’s sake. It’s not like we’re going to be
able to wake them speaking at normal volumes. Hell we could shout
out from the roof tops and still not disturb them.

Idiots.

I loathe the
cliché music they suggest I use during the service, the videos they
want to play and photos they expect me to suffer through in front
of everyone because that way we can all reminisce and remember the
good times from
way back when.

How can a child
even have a
‘way back when’
to reminisce when they’ve barely
had a chance to live in the first place?

I detest the
dressing up, the doing of hair, applying of makeup, the making of
fake appearances. I hate it all. If it was up to me, we’d all be
wearing our pyjamas, hair unkempt, faces free of camouflage,
sitting around scooping up ice cream with chunks of chocolate and
drinking coffee. Real life, real losses. None of this pretending
bullshit because it’s easier to hide behind or because it looks
nicer or is expected.

You know
what?

If you can’t
take my reality, my forever, then stay the hell away. Burying my
family is about my loss, my anguish. Not about softening the blow
because you’re weak. It’s shit and that’s it.

I’m sitting in
the first pew second seat in from the carpeted walk way. Luke’s in
the first spot, waiting patiently with his arm secured over my
shoulders, hugging me in the same way he has since the day we met.
He’s been a rock, staying with me for every minute of every hour.
Sleeping on the couch just in case I wake up during the night and
decide to take a walk - like I may have on the first evening I
spent in my empty house alone.

Jon’s been
great, bunking down in the spare room, disappearing from time to
time without a word, his dull eyes filled with tears. He’s lost his
only sibling, so needs to grieve too. I understand that; we’re all
different and cope in our own way. It’s fine.

I’m
fine.

Dad needs his
time to mourn in his own space for the girls and his son-in-law,
after the loss of Mum to cancer. I can only imagine how turbulent
his feelings are. As do the rest of my family, we all need time and
that’s fine. I understand. I’ve wanted to be alone, I still
do.

Yet, for
whatever reason, Luke’s stayed by my side. I’ve never asked why and
he’s never offered an explanation. It’s not like we sit around
sharing deep and meaningful conversations; we’re lucky to speak at
all.

Jon and Luke
came home with me after I left the hospital and stayed, that’s it.
There’s no epic story to tell, sorry.

I can’t say that
I know Luke that well. It’s been a long time since high school and
I certainly don’t understand why I feel so comfortable having him
here. I mean, we all got on well as kids, but I don’t know the
adult Luke, not really.

I only hope that
they don’t come to their senses and realise that living with a
shell of a person isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.

Save for the
Christmas festivities being packed away by persons unknown, and the
pile of bedding that seems to live at the foot of the couch and
doubles as a foot rest, the aesthetics of the house is back to
normal. Normal kitchen, normal bathrooms, normal living room. Empty
bedrooms.

In front of me,
Brendan’s resting on the diagonal to my right; an eight by ten
centimetre photo of him from our wedding day resting in the centre
of his cof- coff- encasement. The girls are side by side, also on
the diagonal, resting to my left. Their painted homes are polished
to sparkling and draped in colourful flowers to match the fabric
they rest in, though only a few are privy to this because I’ve
opted for a closed service. Photos taken hours before the accident
rest in the centre of their floral displays, the girls’ large
smiles filled with holiday joy exploding off the canvas. The
beautiful copies are addictive to the eye and excruciating to look
at.

The pews in the
church fill with murmuring guests, family and friends wishing to
pay their respects, say their last goodbyes. My tangled fingers
swell start to tingle and I need to open and close them to move the
fluid.

Luke tightens
his hold on me as I adjust my seat and I’m grateful to feel the
warmth radiating from him, to help ease the chill creeping in my
bones while we wait in silence, inhaling the stuffy heat of the
stagnant summer afternoon.

At this point,
I’m glad I put my foot down and insisted with breaking with
tradition, to hold the wake prior to the burial. The thought of
having so many witnesses to my family’s final act is overpowering
and I just can’t. I need to do this as privately as
possible.

The Priest takes
his place between my deceased family as discussed yesterday. He
commences his speech on life and love, of living to the fullest, of
endings that come too soon and I tell myself that I’m calm, I’m
fine.

I focus on
taking in a breath, holding it for three seconds, one for each
beloved member before me, and then release it. Inhale and hold for
three seconds, then release. Again and again I repeat this process
praying for the service to end, and yet for it to go on
forever.

I’m not ready to
say my goodbyes. I’m not ready to let them go.

I’m not ready to
be on my own.

My breaths start
to shallow and become difficult to hold in for the full three
seconds. Blood is pounding through my heart, creating unbearable
pressure behind my eyes as they strain to hold unshed tears at bay.
Luke presses a kiss to my temple and Dad takes my free hand into
his. Jon’s on his other side, holding hands with his
mother.

A sob betrays me
and fills the silence when Father Bernard places his hands on my
girls, wishing them a safe passage into their next life. Dad
presses further into my side and Luke wraps his other arm firmly
around me and rests his chin on my head. The sermon continues. My
vision’s so blurred, I can barely see past the unrestrained tears
seeping free to run off my chin and soak my black blouse. Father
Bernard walks the short distance to pray for Brendan.

Soon there isn’t
much left to say. Father’s coming to the end of his service; my
husband, my children are reaching their final end and I’m not ready
to say goodbye. I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want any of
this.

I’m shattered to
my core and have had all that I can take, so I let it all go. I’m
sorry for my open display of heartache adding to everyone’s grief,
but I can’t help it, it’s all just too much. My chest heaves, my
throat tightens, squeezing painfully as my anguish breaks
free.

I’m desperate to
leap off the hard wooden bench and tear my children out of their
confinements just so I can hold them one more time, tell them how
much I love them one more time. Tell my husband that I love him
more than air and I’ll never be able to exhale again, make sure he
knows that he is my life, my whole. My everything.

I’m selfishly
not prepared and I don’t know what to do.

“
Daddy,” I choke. “Don’t let them take my life from me please,
I’m not ready to be alone. I don’t know how to do this. Please
Daddy…” My words are garbled, jumbling with my sobs. Luke’s
muscular build tightens next to me and I can’t help gravitating
towards his strength, burrowing deeper against his chest and no
doubt soaking another of his shirts.

“
Oh
Chicken, no, you’ll never be on your own,” Dad sniffs, his words
breaking, his fingers tightening around my hand.

He’s wrong. I am
already alone in a room full of people - the way I will be for the
rest of my life.

Music begins and
heavy maroon drapes creep from the edges of the altar to close the
cask- coff- encasements off from the congregation. I push to my
feet, drop my father’s hands and pull Luke along with me. Not by
choice - he’s holding fast, grounding me to this earth the way he’s
done relentlessly for the last four days.

My head and
heart are screaming, pleading for me to fight him, break free and
go to my deceased family, stop the curtains from sealing them away.
I jerk my shoulders only to feel Luke clamp down and know it’s
useless. No matter how hard I’ll fight, he’ll keep me
here.

The heavy drapes
overlap to ensure a complete seal and the music trails off. People
being to stand, some I know, others I don’t; they approach and
offer their condolences. They gather around us kissing cheeks,
patting shoulders and cupping jaws before they leave for the
‘Celebration of Life’.

‘
Celebration of life’.

Sounds like a
sugary name for a wake to me.

THE SKY’S
FLAWLESSLY clear, the perfect summer blue scattered with the odd
fluffy white cloud and the softest of breezes kissing my lightly
tanned skin to keep me comfortable.

If a day could
be described as happy, this would be the day.

Betraying
bastard.

The so-called
‘Celebration of Life’
is in full swing, so I’m hiding with a
bottle of white wine, which I hate but can no longer taste so it
doesn’t matter. I’m sick of hearing all the
wonderful
stories about my
wonderful
family in past tense. So I snuck
out and found a big arse tree to sit under.

My head’s
swimming and I can see that I’m holding a glass in my other hand,
but can’t seem to feel it under my fingers. I lift it up and look
at the sky through it, twisting and turning it, watching the
sparkle and soft colours reflect off the crystal, and eventually
hold it upside down. It’s empty. I must need a drink then. I raise
the bottle to my lips and swallow the tepid liquid until it’s as
empty as I am. My sluggish gaze goes to the light reflecting off
the large diamond on my finger. My hand lowers, my thumbnail
catches in the band.

One night.
That’s all he got to see me wear it. One lousy night, after he’d
got down on one knee and asked me to marry him every day for the
rest of his life. If only we knew the rest of his life would come
to an end so soon. The night that we made love for the very last
time. When Brendan carried me for the last time, held me in our
bed, kissed me before going to sleep… for the very last time. If we
only knew…

“
There you are, Chicken.”

I startle a
little then look up. And up. Jon’s just so darn tall.

I roll my eyes.
“Ugh, not you too.”

His deep chuckle
is comforting. Annoying, but comforting. “It kinda fits you know.
You’re still smaller than anyone I know.”

“
I’m
average height for a woman so you can shut right up.” My head tips
back by itself, suddenly too heavy for my neck. My hair catches
with the bark of the tree. “I wonder if the girls would have grown
to average,” I speculate out loud, lolling my head from side to
side over the splintering trunk. “Suddenly it sounds pretty darn
good to just be average, don’t it Jonny Boy?”