Page 111 of Malaise
“Not making any promises, baby.” He shifts his hand out of mine, and places his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close. “Now, which way is the car?”
I point right and we set off down the street, the sun warming our backs, and the endless possibilities that freedom and the world laid out before us present. We could stay here, move somewhere else, or become transient. The ability to choose your path in life is a luxury for some, and I can’t fathom a world where that ability is restricted.
Makes me realise how damn ungrateful I’ve been for what I do have, wallowing in what I’ve lost, since Den, and even before. I’ve been the first person to complain about what wasn’t gained, about missing out, and seeing it in perspective now, I hate to admit it, but I’m fucking ashamed.
I’ve got so much to be thankful for: the man beside me, broken families like his that still pull through, the fact that even though I may not be on speaking terms with my own parents right now, the future is infinite and nobody can predict where we’ll be in a year or ten. However long it takes, they’re still here, still alive, and I’m blessed to have that opportunity to set things right still, to take a step back and breathe before trying again.
Some people aren’t so fortunate.
I glance up at Carver as we walk, a small smirk still on those full lips of his, and ask, “Where is your mum buried?”
He frowns, looking down at me. “Why do you ask that?”
“I haven’t visited Den yet, and I kind of wondered, if they were at the same cemetery, if you’d like to introduce me to your mum?”
He’s at war with what to say, the expressions flitting across his face like pages of a book. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked? Maybe it’s still too personal?
“That’d be nice, I think.”
Maybe you never know until you try?
“She’s buried in Whitecaps, then?” I clarify.
He nods. “Yeah. I haven’t been to see her in a few years.” He ducks his chin, clearly ashamed. “I didn’t feel like I had anything worthwhile to tell her, that she would have been disappointed in me, you know?”
“From what Tanya’s told me about her, I think she’d be proud of you. Maybe not what you’ve ‘achieved’, but definitely of the man you are.”
He squeezes me into his side as the Falcon comes into view. “I think she would have loved you, too.”
***
The weather has shifted by the time we reach Whitecaps and pull into the small gravel parking lot beside the graveyard. A typical New Zealand summer day; we step out of the car into light drizzle, although the wind blowing it across us in gusts is still mild.
Carver shields me with his body, leading the way to the ornate gates that are covered in flowering jasmine, the scent amazing as it’s carried on the humid breeze.
“You want to go to Den first?”
I shake my head, catching a glimpse of the newer headstones at the far end of the plots in my periphery. “Can we visit your mum first so I can get used to being here?”
Seeing the grave markers, catching glimpses of the heartfelt inscriptions, it makes it more real than ever before. This is where I’ll come from now on to feel remotely close to my brother. This is where he’ll lie forever frozen in time while I age, while I get older, start a family, and reach milestones that were only ever dreams for him.
All those things I take for granted were never his to have. Life seems so trivial when you think of it like that; what’s the point in working for that promotion, or trying to impress the “right” people when all of it can be snatched away without warning? How differently would he have lived his life if he knew how short it was going to be? Would we have argued as much as we did, as brothers and sisters do? Or would he have been more patient? Would I?
I’ll never know.
Carver’s fingers thread through mine as we make our way to a short statue of an angel with her arms and wings wrapped around two small children, a third cherub nestled into her legs. As we near the marker, I realise the larger children are a boy and a girl, clearly supposed to be Brett and Tanya. The cherub—well, that explains itself.
So damn sad.
“We took out a loan to pay for it,” he explains after catching me staring at it. “I couldn’t imagine having just a normal headstone for her. She meant so much more to us than that; it didn’t capture who she was like this does.”
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, squatting down to read the inscription.
Morgan Carver
Beloved mother, dedicated wife, and forever in our hearts.
Simple, but heartfelt all the same.