How Not to Die Alone

— CHAPTER 9 —

Andrew left the office in a daze, shaking off offers from Cameron and Peggy to accompany him home. He needed fresh air, to be on his own. It took all his strength to pick up the phone and call Carl. But Sally’s husband—Sally’s widower—wasn’t the one to answer. Instead, it was someone who introduced herself as “Rachel, Carl’s best friend”—a strange way for a grown adult to describe herself, especially given the circumstances.

“It’s Andrew. Sally’s brother,” he said.

“Of course. Andrew. How are you?” And then before Andrew could actually answer: “Carl says there’s no room for you at the house, unfortunately. So you’ll have to stay at the B & B down the road. It’s very near the church . . . for the funeral and everything.”

“Oh. Right. Has that all been arranged already?” Andrew said.

There was a pause.

“You know our Carl. He’s very organized. I’m sure he won’t want to worry you with all of the little details.”

Later, as the Newquay-bound train pulled away from London and copses replaced concrete, it wasn’t grief or even sadness that he felt. It was guilt. Guilt that he hadn’t cried yet. Guilt that he was dreading the funeral, that he’d actually considered the possibility of not going.

When the conductor appeared, Andrew couldn’t find his ticket. When he finally found it in his inside jacket pocket he apologized so profusely for wasting the conductor’s time that the man felt compelled to put his hand on Andrew’s shoulder and tell him not to worry.

—

He spent a week in a damp B & B, listening to angry seagulls keening outside, fighting the urge to leave and get straight back on a train to London. When the morning of the funeral arrived, he ate a breakfast of stale cereal alone in the B & B “restaurant,” the proprietor watching on throughout, standing in the corner with his arms folded, like a death row prison guard observing him eating his final meal.

Walking into the crematorium, the coffin resting on his shoulder, he was aware that he had no idea who the men were on the other side (it had seemed impolite to ask).

Carl—who had entered his fifties in disgustingly healthy and stylish fashion, all salt-and-pepper hair and wristwatch the value of a small market town—spent the service with his head raised stoically, tears spilling metronomically down his cheeks. Andrew stood awkwardly next to him, fists clenched at his sides. At the moment the coffin went through the curtains Carl let out a low, mournful howl, unburdened by the self-consciousness that consumed Andrew.

—

Afterward, at the wake, surrounded by people he had never seen, let alone met, before, he felt more alone than he had in years. They were in Carl’s house, in the room dedicated to his burgeoning yoga business, Cynergy. The room had been temporarily cleared of mats and exercise balls so there was space for trestle tables struggling to support the regulation wake spread. Andrew looked at the homemade sandwiches, pale and precisely cut, and was reminded of a rare occasion he’d seen his mother laughing, having recalled the Victoria Wood line about a typical British reaction to the news that someone had died: “Seventy-two baps, Connie. You slice, I’ll spread,” she’d said in a perfect imitation, tweaking Andrew’s ear and dispatching him to put the kettle on.

As he chewed on a damp sausage roll, he suddenly got the sense that he was being watched. Sure enough, Carl was looking at him from across the room. He had changed out of his suit into a loose white shirt and beige linen trousers, and was now barefoot. Andrew couldn’t help but notice he’d kept his expensive watch on. Andrew realized Carl was about to make his way over, so he quickly put down his paper plate and was up the stairs as fast as he could go and into the thankfully unoccupied bathroom. As he washed his hands his eye was drawn to a shaving brush on an ornate white dish on the windowsill. He picked it up and ran his finger across the top of the bristles, specks of powder flicking off into the air. He brought it to his nose and smelled the familiar rich, creamy scent. This had belonged to his father. His mother had kept it in the bathroom. He couldn’t remember talking to Sally about it. She must have formed an especially sentimental attachment to want to keep hold of it.

Just then someone tapped on the door, and Andrew quickly slipped the brush into his trouser pocket.

“Just a minute,” he said. He paused and forced an apologetic smile onto his face. When he emerged, Carl was standing outside with his arms crossed, biceps straining against his shirt. Up close, Andrew could see that Carl’s eyes were raw from crying. He caught the scent of Carl’s aftershave. It was rich and overpowering.

“Sorry,” Andrew said.

“No problem,” Carl said, though he didn’t move to let Andrew pass.

“I was thinking I might head off soon,” Andrew said. “It’s a long journey back,” he added, more defensively than he’d intended.

“Of course you were,” Carl said.

Andrew chose to ignore this comment. “See you then,” he said instead, stepping around Carl and heading for the stairs.

“After all,” Carl said, “this must be much easier for you now that Sally’s gone.”

Andrew stopped at the top of the stairs and turned. Carl was looking at him, unblinking.

“What,” Carl said, “you don’t agree? Come on, Andrew, it wasn’t as if you were ever really there for her, no matter how much that obviously hurt her.”

That’s not true, Andrew wanted to say. She was the one who abandoned me.

“Things were complicated.”

“Oh, I’ve heard all about it, believe me,” Carl said. “In fact, there wasn’t really a week that went by when Sally didn’t talk about it—going over it all again and again and again, trying to work out how to get through to you, how to make you care, or at least stop hating her.”

“Hating her? I didn’t hate her—that’s ridiculous.”

“Oh is it?” Renewed anger flashed in Carl’s eyes and he moved toward Andrew, who dropped down a couple of stairs. “So you didn’t hold such a grudge about her apparently ‘abandoning’ you for America that you basically refused to ever see her again?”

“Well no, that’s not—”

“And even when she spent weeks on end—months, actually—trying to reach out and help you sort your life out, you were so pathetically fucking stubborn that you wouldn’t let her in, even though you knew how much it was hurting her.” Carl pressed his fist to his mouth and cleared his throat.

Oh god, please don’t cry, Andrew thought.

“Carl, it . . . it was com—”

“Don’t you dare fucking say it was complicated again,” Carl said. “Because it’s actually very simple. Sally was never really happy, Andrew. Not really. Because of you.”

Andrew dropped down another step and nearly stumbled. He swiveled and used the momentum to keep on going. He needed to be as far away as possible from this. He’s got no idea what he’s talking about, Andrew thought as he slammed the front door behind him. But the doubt that had begun to nag at him as he left only intensified during the train journey home. Was there some truth to what Carl had said? Had Sally really been so cut up about their relationship that it had somehow contributed to her decline? It was a thought too painful to even consider.

—

With all the lights off, the brightness of the screen was harsh on Andrew’s eyes. TinkerAl’s forum avatar (a dancing, laughing tomato), usually a cheering sight, seemed malevolent tonight.

Andrew made himself look at the words he had typed and untyped so many times he’d lost count.

I buried my sister today

The cursor flashed back at him expectantly. He moved the mouse until it was over the “post” button, but took his hand away, reaching for his plastic tumbler of foamy beer instead. He’d been drinking in an attempt to re-create the comforting sense of warmth he’d felt in the pub with Peggy, before Cameron’s awkwardly delivered bombshell, but it had just left him with a dull, repetitive throbbing behind his eyes. He sat up straight and felt the bristles of the shaving brush in his pocket poking into his leg. It was three a.m. Carl’s words were still swimming in his head—the confrontation still horribly vivid. What he’d have given now for loved ones around him. Gentle words. Mugs of tea. A moment when a family was more than the sum of its parts.

He looked again at the screen. If he were to refresh, there would be tens, maybe hundreds of messages now shared between BamBam, TinkerAl, and Jim. Something about spotting some limited-edition rolling stock or a platform footbridge for sale. They were the closest he had to friends, but he couldn’t bring himself to confide in them about this yet. It was just too hard.

He moved his finger to the delete key.

I buried my sister today

I buried my

I buried

I