You can remember her only that she is gone
or you can cherish her memory and let it live on.
You can cry and close your mind,
be empty and turn your back.
Or you can do what she'd want:
Smile, open your eyes, love and go on.
David Harkins
*
Alan woke to the soft tapping of raindrops on the bedroom window. It was still dark and his mind was groggy with sleep. He lay on the right of the double bed, his side, against the wall - habit not necessity. Not anymore. He reached out to the empty side of the bed, only cold sheets and a fluffed pillow, where she had lain. His hand recoiled, hard fact callously rejecting memories of love and warmth. Debra was gone now. Gone forever. He would only see her in photographs, camcorder memories, and in restless dreams that left his pillow wet with tears, and his heart empty.
It was a month since the cancer had taken her. It had had taken her young -- only forty-eight -- in turn his friend, lover, fiancé, wife, mother of his -- their -- child. Some part of him was comforted in the knowledge that the time they'd had together in their lives was precious, and he had been lucky to have her. But another part, the bitter voice in his head, screamed at the unfairness of it - that such a beautiful loving woman be taken so young, while others -- criminals, druggies, rapists, paedophiles - the dregs of society - seemed to live to ripe old ages. Only the good die young -- wasn't that how it went?
He turned to face the wall, tried to turn away from painful memories, the gutting sense of loss. He wanted to sleep again for that was the only refuge from the pain, if only a temporary one. Waking to an empty house was hell. It no longer felt like home, rather a prison where he tormented himself with ghosts of memories played out over and over in his grieving mind.
Only this weekend, it was not empty. Beth, his -- no, 'their' daughter had come to stay. She'd left her husband with her kids, Jack and Amy, back at Milton Keynes, and come up to London to stay at her old family home. She was worried about him, and although he had tried to fob her off, tell her he was fine, the waver in his voice betrayed him, and she had insisted. She was staying in her old room, where she had grown up, only now it was the guest room as Debra had designated it.
He had to admit, he was glad really, Beth's imminent visit had galvanised him to tidy up the house, focus on cleaning for a whole day -- a semblance of normality.
Beth had been a rock though out the whole period, spending much of her time with her mum as the cancer increased and Debra weakened. When the time came Beth had arranged the funeral service -- throwing herself into busy role of organiser -- perhaps that was her coping mechanism. Alan felt it should have been him taking the lead, but the loss of Debra was more devastating and complete than he could have imagined. Even though he knew it was coming, when she went, emaciated and defeated by the disease it was as though Alan had died too.
Alan closed his eyes. Let his mind drift back into the fog of sleep. The rain beat a gentle tattoo on the window pain that was somehow comforting, a reminder that life went on. The world outside still turned.
Then, an awareness of movement by the bed. Alan kept his eyes shut, suspecting it was a dream, then he felt a depression on the other side of the mattress, heard the duvet pulled back the sound of someone getting in.
'Debra?' he mumbled, his senses confused . 'It's just me, dad,' Beth's voice sounded, gentle, calming.
Alan said nothing.
'I couldn't get back to sleep - the rain . . .'
'I know,' he mumbled.
'You okay?' she asked, lying next to him.
Silence.
'I mean, with me here?'
'Of course,' he said, feeling the pull of sleep lessen.
'I mean in bed,' she said, awkwardness in her voice.
'I know. It's okay, Beth.'
She cuddled up to him, her breath warm on the back of his neck, the warmth of her body seeping through their night clothes, heating his back. It was almost as if it were Debra. He sighed.
Beth put an arm around his chest, and squeezed a hug. 'It's been a while since I got into this bed,' Beth remarked lightly.
'You were never out of it when you were little.' Alan replied, feeling warm with the sudden memory.
'Me, you, mum and teddy,' she said, dreamily.
'And you always in the middle,' Alan said, remembering how she would break up Alan and Debra's embrace, and thrust herself in the warm gap she created.
'All kids go in the middle. Jack and Amy always do.'
'How are they taking it?'
'Kids are pretty tough at five and three, they ask after Nana a lot, but I tell them she's up in heaven keeping watch over us all, they seem pretty content with that.'
Alan smiled at the notion, and wished he believed in heaven, in an afterlife. Such comfort belief must bring. He was aware suddenly that he had an erection. It was nothing to do with Beth, just one of those involuntary muscular reactions men got in the mornings. Morning glory, Debra had playfully called it. Awkward, but it would go down on its own soon enough.
'How are you coping, dad?' Beth asked, her fingers idly playing with his chest hair through a gap in his buttoned pyjama top.
Alan sighed, 'I'm . . . I'm trying, but it is hard - so bloody hard. I can't stop thinking about your mum, and in that state I can't do anything, and I know in order to be able to function -- to go on, I need to start thinking about other things -- going back to work, seeing friends, but I feel like I'm betraying her memory if I start to let that go.'
