Chapter Thirty-Four Soundtrack: To the Mountains by Lizzy McAlpine

My languorous, drawn-out weekend passes in a series of small choices. I can't stop to acknowledge what I'm doing in case the realisation overwhelms me. I just have to take each decision as it comes, and, I remind myself, to keep deciding to progress.

I start with the flat. Specifically, I start with the countertops. Every single morning, for four years, I have rested my palm on them while I make my coffee and been pricked by a small, spiny splinter. Every. Single. Morning. I have tried touching every spot on the countertops and yet there is no escaping the rage buried in its wooden surface. For a few weeks, I seriously considered calling in an exorcist in case a trapped spirit was causing trouble.

I haven't ruled that out yet. But first, I'm going to sand it.

I haven't done it yet because, let's be honest, sanding is hard. But more importantly, because Ben promised to sand it, and it was the last thing he said before climbing in the passenger seat on the day he died: a final response to my nagging throughout the afternoon that would be his last. When levelled against that grief, a few splinters were nothing.

Ben isn't coming back, though. I wait for the guilt to hit at that thought, but nothing happens.

So the sanding falls to me.

Sanding is really hard.

The dust clings to my eyelashes, my shirt, my lips. The paper scratches my fingers so raw that the splinters feel preferable. This countertop is actively resisting being sanded, a fact further proven by the colour of the wood that my endeavours reveals: the best descriptor is puce. It's the most revolting shade I've ever seen.

But as it's the funeral colours of my old nemesis, my kitchen counter, I can live with it. If anything, it's a badge of pride. Because after three (THREE!) hours, my countertops are smooth and splinter-less and my heart is soaring. I did that. All by myself.

Next, a group support session after I've rewarded myself with a quiche. What a thrilling Saturday night.

The bereavement group sessions are hosted in a church basement in Ealing. In classic avoidant fashion, I am only attending now that the worst of my grief is over. Sandra has pushed me to try them for years. Still, better late than never... Right?

The door creaks open and I flinch, instinctively, at the fear that anyone will look up. No one does. Okay. Instead, the low-ceilinged, sugary-scented room is populated by twenty or so people, chatting in small groups. They hold thin paper cups of indeterminate liquid, but since the AA group meets here after us, it's probably tea. Disappointing.

A circle of chairs breaks up the clusters of people. I've seen enough films to know that soon, we'll sit in them, look each other in the eyes, and sand the splinters off ourselves too, wearing away the spikes of hidden grief, revealing the colours buried beneath.

The thought pushes me against the wall, looking at my phone, my shoes, anywhere except at the woman trying to catch my eye. Her lanyard informs me that she's the 'GROUP LEADER'.

She must give up because she begins the meeting, calling everyone to sit in the chairs. It being a circle, there's no way to avoid the middle. I sit nervously between an older woman and a man near my age. A few empty chairs remain.

'Thank you all for coming,' she welcomes us. A smattering of people respond. 'It's great to see so many new faces. Before we start the group discussion, I want to remind everyone how these sessions go.

'Anything that we share today remains within these walls. That allows us to share openly and trust each other. I will guide the discussions if needed, but this is an open forum to share our experiences of grief: the little things and the big things. However, please be mindful to let others speak, to avoid obscene language as much as possible, and that this is a space of mutual respect. We all have different beliefs and religions, but we're united in our desire to heal and manage our grief, so let's be understanding.'

A chorus of agreement follows this.

'Would anyone like to start?'

The man beside me raises his hand.

'Ian?'

'Hi everyone, I'm Ian.' He has a soft Welsh lilt, gentle and laughing, and I see from the laugh lines around his eyes that he has been loudly and frequently happy. What a joyful thing to wear on your skin.

'I guess a lot of you know, but last year I lost my dad. It was sudden and we weren't close. In fact, he was a real basta—' He catches himself. 'A real difficult man. So I didn't think it would bother me. I actually used to say he'd be better off dead.' He laughs darkly.

Murmurs of understanding pour from the group. The man on his other side squeezes his hand once in reassurance. Clearly, many of the attendees have heard him speak before.

'But since he died, I've had these moments of rage. Just flip the furniture anger that comes from nowhere. My wife has been so wonderful, and she keeps telling me it's normal, but I hated the man. So I couldn't understand why it bothered me so much. And I guess I was scared that I was becoming just like him.

'But I've realised that a lot of the anger came from before he died and now, there's no way to tell him. So that made me even angrier. Telling you all about him has really helped. It's helped knowing that I can hate him and still love him, and that it's okay to grieve. And last week, my wife and I found out we're having a baby.'

Everyone gasps. The moderator breaks out into a huge smile.

'I was scared to become a father with all this anger inside me. But I won't make his mistakes. And I just wanted to share with you all, since I've been on this journey with you.'

The room applauds and I see an older woman wiping away tears. Ian leans back into his chair and smiles, his face breaking into those huge, happy lines, and I feel teary too.

Behind me, the community centre door slams open. From the corner of my eye, a familiar woman rushes in. She drops into one of the empty chairs, mouthing apologies at everyone.

It's Kehinde. She catches my eye, smiles, and looks away.

The moderator brushes off her apology. 'Thank you for sharing, Ian. And congratulations! I think I speak for everyone when I say we couldn't be happier for you.'

'Thank you.'

'Kehinde, would you like to share next?'

Kehinde looks up from her bag and grins sheepishly. 'Kind of.'

'There's no pressure.'

'I think I'd like to read a poem instead, if that's okay?'

The moderator nods.

'I didn't write it. It's by Edna St. Vincent Millay, but I came across it this morning and thought it was the closest I've come to describing how I feel,' Kehinde says. 'So I wanted to share.

'To what purpose, April, do you return again?

Beauty is not enough.

You can no longer quiet me with the redness

Of little leaves opening stickily.

I know what I know.

The sun is hot on my neck as I observe

The spikes of the crocus.

The smell of the earth is good.

It is apparent that there is no death.

But what does that signify?

Not only under ground are the brains of men

Eaten by maggots.

Life in itself

Is nothing,

An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.

It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,

April

Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.'

The room is silenced by her reading. Her voice lilts and lowers as she speaks, and though she's reading from her phone, I feel in her words that she has read this poem over and over, and that its lines come from somewhere deep within her.

Everyone applauds when she finishes. She glances at me again and I smile.

I won't ask her more about her story today. She'll tell me if she wants to and, besides, I've promised not to share what I hear in this room. It's not like I can bring it up at work. But I hope that, if she wants to share, she will.

We continue around the circle, and I'm relieved that several other people pass. It makes it easier to stay quiet myself. I'm here to listen today, I think. Maybe I will share next time.

The moderator shares her own experience with grief and the struggles of finding a new partner after being widowed.

My last session with Sandra flashes through my mind. God, she'd just love to know that I'm thinking about her. She's obsessed with me taking her advice.

Which yes, okay, I do pay her for, but still.

I mentioned my date with Tomas in the last five minutes of our session. I've started using this trick—saving the most important developments for the end—so that we don't have time to really discuss them. I always hope that she'll give me a thumbs up or down, but I guess that's not how therapy works. Instead, she just looks slightly disappointed and wonders why I didn't bring it up before, but, as I have told her, I like to avoid difficult things.

I told her I was going to cancel the date.

'Why?' she asked, and then interrupted me before I spiralled. 'What's the worst that could happen?'

'I kill the next person I love?'

She sighed. 'No, Ellie. The worst that could happen is that you never love anyone again.'

But hey, what does Sandra know? Other than everything about me.

I keep this thought to myself.

*

this beautiful poem is 'Spring' by Edna St. Vincent Millay. i wanted to include a poem but am hopeless at writing them so i hope you enjoyed this one!