The Aftermath, Gail Schimmel [sneezy the snowman read aloud .txt] 📗

that the baby was wiped down and Julia’s nether regions were safely under the blankets. He held the baby and declared him a fine chap, and kissed Julia on the head and said, ‘Everything’s going to be okay,’ and beamed like he had done something awfully clever.

Julia wiped away his kiss and said it was my turn to hold the baby.

And suddenly, my grandson was in my arms.

I don’t know if it’s because I’d just seen the photo, but he looks exactly like Jack. I feel like I’ve been hurled back through time, and my own son is in my arms. My son who had such a short time with me. And now, here is this boy. This boy who is tied to me by blood. And I can’t even process the waves of love I feel. I don’t know who they are for – this boy now or that boy then. And I don’t know if it matters.

‘So,’ booms Daniel’s voice, as if from another galaxy, ‘what are we going to call this little chap, Julia?’

I turn to look at her.

‘I’ve always known what I would call a little boy,’ says Julia. ‘My whole life, it’s been like I’ve been waiting for a baby boy. His name is Jack.’ I look up at her and she’s looking at me, not Daniel.

‘Mummy,’ she says, ‘who’s in the photo I found under the bed?’

I hug Baby Jack to my body, and I go and sit right next to Julia on the bed.

‘Daniel,’ I say, ‘could you leave us for a few minutes? There’s something I need to tell Julia.’

And, thank goodness, Daniel leaves, planting a kiss on the baby’s head. And I am alone with Julia, and, finally, I start to speak.

PART 4

MARCH

Dear Mike,

Our grandson is six months old today – but I feel like it’s really my own anniversary. My anniversary of being me again.

It feels strange to write to you – knowing you’ll never read this. Accepting, finally, that you’re never coming back to me. That in all the ways that matter, you died with Jack.

It’s a strange thing – I never used to remember anything bad about our years together before the accident. When I was depressed and suicidal and believed that my only peace lay in both our deaths, I painted the past rose-coloured. But since I’ve accepted the truth, I’m remembering the bad things too. The way you slurped your tea; the way you drank milk from the bottle; the way you left the toilet seat up; the way you never, ever put a towel in the wash basket; the way you always blamed me when we got lost. And you had a temper sometimes, and you were grumpy for whole days when we lost the rugby. These memories make me miss you more, not less. They make you feel more whole in my memory. But yes, they also allow me to let go of you. To love another imperfect man.

I should tell you about the baby first, though. Oh, Mike – the baby is magnificent. He is funny and cuddly and warm and giggly and perfect. When I look after him, I can lie for hours just watching him. And when I make him laugh, it’s like all the angels in heaven are laughing. I bury my face in his stomach and blow raspberries, like you used to do for our Jack – and he chuckles and laughs his baby laugh and time flows together and I am you and this baby is that baby and it all suddenly makes sense. Because life goes on, Mike. For too long, I didn’t get that. But it really does. And I have so many years to make up for, and so many mistakes to make up to Julia.

Julia.

When I told Julia about Jack’s death, about the brother she had forgotten, she was angry and sad and incredulous. But mostly she was relieved. I don’t know how I thought she would have forgotten him in her bones. I don’t know what I was thinking, to be honest. But for Julia, the story of Jack made everything fall into place. Sometimes she looks at me, and then at Baby Jack, and her eyes fill with tears and she says, ‘How did you bear it, Mum?’ And I explain that, of course, I didn’t. And because I didn’t, I failed her. I failed her completely. But she has her own Jack now, and I think she understands. She can’t imagine losing him, and neither can I.

Julia’s still living with me. She makes half-hearted noises about moving back to her flat, but we both pretend it would be very cruel to throw Daniel out. We don’t let the fact that Daniel’s worth more than the GDP of a small country bother us with this pretence. Or even the fact that Daniel now has a girlfriend. ‘Where would Daniel go?’ we ask ourselves, shaking our heads at the impossibility of it. If Claire is here, as she often is, she snorts and says, ‘Anywhere, actually,’ and we all laugh. But Julia stays put. I know one day she’ll take Jack and move on with her life, but I’m not going to push her. And maybe she needs to be looked after for a while – because I didn’t really do that before.

But I’m being careful not to make her my whole world. I have all these friends. God, Mike, I don’t know where they all came from, or how I went so many years without them. I belong to a yoga group that I joined with Claire and a group of widows she and Julia know, and a book club, and a gardening club. And I go to dinner parties and lunch parties. And I’ve started nursing again. Proper nursing. I’ve decided to train as a midwife. It seems right.

And then there is Larry. My boyfriend, Larry