Julia kept three things from her brother's flat for herself - a newly and tearfully compiled album of old photos, a pair of spectacles, which were somehow far too intimate to throw away, and a big purple thesaurus, which she could remember seeing in the bookcase in the living room (but never using) as a child. These all went into her suitcase - they were not for others' eyes.
Most things she had burnt or taken to tips and tossed into skips. She had been to a number of different dumps, afraid that someone might scavenge the whole lot in one go, rebuild his life somewhere in a street she didn't know.
She arranged for one box of belongings to be shipped for Michael and Gracie to sort through, and lined up the remaining six to be collected as planned. And that was it. It was time to go home.
She slept through the flight.
Michael and Gracie were at JFK to meet her. Gracie grabbed her leg and Michael took the luggage. She kissed her stepdaughter on the head and her husband on the cheek and walked with them though the airport to the car park. Michael reached for her hand on the way, but she kept it in her pocket.
She got Gracie onto the back seat, buckled up her belt and went to sit in the front, whilst Michael arranged and rearranged the boot. She watched him in the mirror, trying and failing to make it shut. As he at last squeezed down the lid, she sighed and rocked her head back against its rest. It was all packed in.
"Are you alright?" the little girl asked from the back. Julia reached around for her hand and squeezed it.
It took them two hours to get back. She stared out of the window all the way, trying to remember what she had been like as a child.
No comments:
Post a Comment