Authors: Janelle Harris
The plane is small and cramped and looks more like something that should only be used to island hop. It certainly doesn’t appear to be capable of transporting a couple of hundred people to the far side of the ocean. I voice my concerns to Mark, but he thinks it’s simply another stalling technique on my part. The closer we get to boarding, the more reluctant I become.
As I expected, the flight is horrendous. The passengers are packed together like sticky marshmallows on a skewer and the in-flight meal is obviously something they’ve bought in bulk after seeing a dog food commercial.
‘Are you excited to be going home?’ I ask.
Mark raises his head slowly from leaning against the window and rubs his eye. He’s clearly unimpressed that I’ve disturbed his cat napping. He shrugs his shoulders and punches his jumper into a neat ball to form a pillow. He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it softly before preparing to drift back to sleep.
‘I am looking forward to you being back home. I really missed you,’ he says with his eyes closed but with a large smile that lights up his whole face.
I snuggle close to him hoping that the next time I open my eyes will be when we’re on the ground in Dublin.
Hours later, the wheels have barely touched the runway when Mark turns his phone on. The loud string of beeps from unread text messages are embarrassing as the distinctive noise reminds all the other passengers to find and fiddle with their phones. I guess it’s work trying to get in touch. I realise I hadn’t considered Mark’s business when I tried to relocate us to the other side of the pond. I’m not sure if I should apologise for my stroppy attitude or not. I decide to say nothing unless he brings it up first.
Mark listens to his voicemail as we wait for our bags to come through. Some messages make him smile and others worry him because he frowns as if someone has just squirted him in the eye with lemon juice. He dials a number I don’t recognise and asks me to watch out for our luggage as he walks away to find a quiet area to talk.
Our bags appear quickly and I load them onto the trolley and fight to push it in a straight line against the stubborn defiance of a wobbly front wheel. I can’t find Mark anywhere. He’s taking ages, and I begin to wonder if he has headed into the arrivals area and is waiting for me to follow him through. I’m just about to push the crippling trolley through the automatic doors when Mark taps me on the shoulder.
‘Sorry about that,’ he says as he kisses my cheek.
‘Who were you calling?’
‘No one,’ Mark mumbles.
‘Well, no one is very chatty,’ I joke.
My effort at indifference is disastrous. But Mark is so familiar with my nosy nature it washes over him.
‘I need to go to the loo. Will you wait here for me?’ Mark says.
‘Sure.’ I shrug.
Mark throws his heavy jacket and carrier bag on top of our other luggage. ‘I’ll only be a minute.’
Mark isn’t thirty seconds gone when his phone vibrates inside his coat pocket. I pick it out and I’m about to answer but almost drop it when I see the name that appears on the caller ID. It’s Doctor Hammond. I press the reject button immediately and stuff the phone back into Mark’s pocket. I wait a while nervously tapping my foot on the ground. The temptation to check his call log is overwhelming. I scan the baggage area like hunted prey. Checking to see if someone, anyone, is watching me. I roll my eyes at my ridiculousness.
I feel guilty, but not enough to stop. My fingers tremble as I run through Mark’s recent call activity. He has made a call to his mother from the airport in New York and one to an unknown number shortly after. His last dialled number is Doctor Hammond, and he made the call just moments ago. I quickly shove the phone back into his jacket and try to calm my wobbly nerves. I’m shaking uncontrollably. It’s my own fault. I know I shouldn’t have gone snooping. Now that I have, I need to deal with the confusion that comes with what I’ve found.
I wonder why Mark refused to tell me that he was speaking to my doctor. Why was that the first call he made as soon as the plane landed? I comfort myself with the explanation that Mark was telling the doctor that I have my memory back and I no longer require his services.
But isn’t that right reserved for me?
What about doctor-patient confidentiality? Shouldn’t I have had the pleasure of telling the assuming and irritating doctor to get lost? I can’t help but smile anyway. Either way it doesn’t matter. As long as someone has told Doctor Hammond to piss off, I’m happy.
We drive straight from the airport to the graveyard. I insist…against Mark’s best advice, of course. The journey is silent apart from the occasional rev of the engine. Each bend in the road is a painful reminder of the day of the funeral. Various images from that horrific day flash inside my head like scenes from a desperately poignant television movie. The sights and sounds of the journey are just as blurred now as they were that day.
The melancholic memories are so strong that they all but transport me back to that moment in time to experience the heartbreak all over again.
I walk silently behind the hearse. My feet can’t feel the concrete of the ground beneath them, but the sound resonates in my head like the beat of a loud drum. Mark’s hand is tightly wrapped around mine, but I don’t feel that either. My whole body is numb. I find myself rubbing my eyes often. They’re irritated and sore. A combination of salty tears and disbelief stings between every blink.
Lorcan’s tiny white coffin sits on display in the back of the hearse. The timber is finely polished and simplistic as it cradles its sleeping angel inside. The baby bluebells and ivory lilies that hug the tiny white box lovingly spell out Our Son.
Adam organised most of that kind of stuff. I can’t remember now if I thanked him or not.
I can’t take my eyes from looking through the window of the hearse. Family and friends’ wreaths litter all around. Flowers in every colour of the rainbow fill the gaps in the back of the hearse where the coffin is too small to occupy. It’s like a packet of Lorcan’s favourite fruit pastels have spilled all over the back of the hearse. But all I can focus on is his tiny coffin. Once I can see it then he’s still here.
Breathing is no longer a voluntary action. I have to consciously force myself to suck air into my lungs, and every so often, I forget to exhale, but soft whimpers release trapped air from my body.
Cars slow down as they pass by us. Drivers automatically bow or shake their heads as they notice the lonely, little white coffin. However, they will soon forget the sombre scene as they carry on with their lives. I hate them for that luxury. For us, the pain of this day permanently carves into our souls.
The headstones as we walk through the graveyard tease me. Men of ninety lie resting in the ground; some with wives beside them who have lived full lives and died in old age. Lorcan was just a little boy and he was stolen from us, condemned to join them in the cold earth. My mind screams in anger at God, the world, and everyone in it.
I stand at the edge of the open grave. Blackbirds fly overhead. How dare they, I think. How dare they fly today? Today the world should stop and mourn. Mark’s cousin stands beside us. Her antique violin trembles under her shaking chin. The sound of Eric Clapton’s Tears in Heaven soars as pallbearers lower the tiny white box deeper and deeper into the cold ground. It’s a beautiful song, but I hate the music with every fibre of my being. I force the full weight of my body into my feet, firmly cementing them to the ground. I’m losing composure, and I don’t care. I’m not going to say goodbye to our little boy. Not now, not ever.
I lunge forward, forcing anyone beside me out of the way. I viciously throw the violin out of the young girl’s hand and knock her to the ground after it. Everyone gazes on; some throw their hands on their face, others gasp or whisper, but no one tries to stop me. I charge at the pallbearer. I tug the ropes from his hands in some naïve attempt to rescue Lorcan from the cruel hand that faith has dealt him.
Mark’s arms wrap around my waist and pull me backwards. I kick and scream. The full force of my desperation thrashes wildly against him. He’s weak against my fight, and I feel his chest heave as he cries. We fall to the ground together, our bodies tangled, one as broken as the other.
~~~
‘We’re here,’ Mark says, parking the car outside the gates of the graveyard.
I follow reluctantly as we walk through the graveyard until we find a lonely headstone. It’s cold and uninviting. Some stubborn weeds creep up and around the bottom of the granite.
Lorcan wouldn’t like this
, I think. Of course, he wouldn’t like it.
What am I thinking?
No five-year-old should have to like their headstone. God, it is all so wrong. He was just a little boy.
I look at the grave to my left. It’s beautifully maintained with fresh flowers and lots of teddies and toys. It’s obvious some broken-hearted mother visits every day. I wipe the heavy tears from my eyes and try to read the loving caption engraved. The names are hard to make out as so many flowers block my view and I don’t dare touch them.
Aoibheann Louise O’Rourke
Died 3
rd
Nov 2014 age 29.
Beloved wife and devoted mother.
‘
Forever loved, never forgotten
’
Another inscription is engraved just below.
Robert David O’Rouke
Died 3
rd
Nov 2014 aged 3.
‘Sleep soundly in Heaven with Mommy, little man.
Daddy loves you.’
I can’t take my eyes away from the words. I read and re-read them.
Maybe that baby boy has made a new friend. Maybe in some playground up there, Lorcan is joining in a fun game. Maybe he isn’t alone.
‘Oh, Lorcan. I wish it were me and not you. I wish I were dead. I don’t want you to be alone,’ I whisper as I kneel on the cold ground.
I look back at Mark. He’s nodding. I know his heart is just as broken. I know this is what he wants; he wants me to talk to Lorcan.
‘I know how afraid of the dark you are, Lorcan. I hope you're brave and not scared. I miss you. Do you miss me? Can you see me? I want to hold your hand. I wish you could come home because I need a cuddle… I need a cuddle,’ I whisper to the grave as if the little boy can hear me through the soil.
‘I don’t like it,’ I say as I turn to face Mark.
He steps closer to me and grips my hand, squeezing it so tight it pinches.
‘The headstone, I mean. It needs Mickey stickers. Lorcan loves Mickey Mouse. You know that.’
‘We can get some stickers,’ Mark says with a sad smile. ‘We can go to the shop for some now, if you’d like?’
‘You go. I can’t leave Lorcan alone. He’s afraid of the dark, remember?’
Mark tugs on my hand, and I know he’s going to try to guide me away. I pull against him. I don’t want to leave; this is the closest I can ever be to Lorcan again, and I plan to stay here forever.
I visualise myself tearing away the clay, opening the tiny box where he lies and wrapping my arms tight around his precious little body. God, it hurts; breathing is physically painful. I never knew it was possible to ache so much for something. All your senses tell you how much you want something and your head cruelly reminds you that you can never have it. I just wanted to take Lorcan home.
When Lorcan was born and I held him for the first time, he had instinctively wrapped his tiny little hand around my finger. I was so incredibly happy at that moment. I kissed his soft forehead and promised him that I would love him forever. Forever wasn’t meant to be this short.
Mark gently places his hand under my chin and turns my head towards his.
‘Laura.’ He pauses, maybe waiting for me to answer or maybe just waiting to gain my attention. ‘We have to go home. It’s time.’
‘I can’t leave Lorcan.’
‘I can’t do this alone anymore, Laura,’ Mark admits. At nearly six foot, I have never seen Mark so small before. He’s hunched forward like a little old man. ‘I lost my baby, too. I hurt, too,’ he spits through a clenched jaw. I know he isn’t angry with me, but for a moment, it feels that way. I wouldn’t blame him if he hated me. It was my fault. I caused this. I had taken everything away from him.
‘I want to go to bed and just not wake up because maybe then the unbearable pain I feel every day will go away. But I can’t. I have to be strong. So many people depend on me. I can’t fall apart. I want to. Every single second of every single day, I want to. Mostly, I have to be strong for you.’ Tears hang heavy in Mark’s every word. ‘I am crumbling and I need help, Laura; please help me.’
I stand up and take Mark’s hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
It’s a broad-spectrum apology, but I know by the way that Mark squeezes my hand that he understands.
‘I want to show you something,’ Mark says.
Mark and I walk hand and hand to the back of the graveyard. I watch Lorcan’s grave until it’s out of sight. Mark doesn’t stop me. He just leads the way, and I follow. We reach a smaller, less well-kept grave that stands alone beneath a large weeping willow. The grave is just a slightly raised mound of clay that has been all but levelled over time. A delicate timber cross marks the head of the mound. There are no flowers or teddy bears here. But the square of ground is small. This is also a child’s grave.