Page 3 of Lora
Chapter Two
Lora
Arriving home a little after six, I find my best friend, Kali, nursing a mug of tea at the kitchen table.
‘Everything okay, babe?’ I ask. She insisted I go to work today, that she is okay to be left alone after the attack on Friday night.
‘Hmmm,’ she says in response, lost in her thoughts as she runs her finger around the rim of her mug.
‘Would you like me to call Noah, see if there are any updates?’ I ask as I begin preparing stuff for dinner.
‘No, he already rang to give me the details I need for the solicitor.’ She stands from the table. ‘I’m going to get some fresh air.’
She is so distracted with things to do with her ex-husband, and I’m concerned for her mental health. Her body healed well, but who knows what scars the years of abuse have left behind.
My phone rings, Noah’s name flashing on the screen. ‘Hi, bro.’
‘Lora, mum has taken a turn, can you go to her? I’m stuck at work for probably another hour.’
I pull the pan from the hob and turn off the heat. ‘Yeah, I’m on my way.’
I let Kali know where I’m headed just in case she needs me for anything, and head out to mums. Mum still lives in the house where we grew up. It has begun to look a bit dilapidated in recent times but with work and doing up my own house I haven’t had the time to dedicate to keeping on top of this one. Noah is the same, being the only police officer on the island off-season, he has to be in the community and help with the various rescues that happen. The island is an astounding place of natural beauty, but it can be dangerous for those who don’t understand it. And that is almost every single tourist, it seems.
‘Mum, it’s Lora.’ There’s no response and guilt threads through my nerves. I should be visiting every day, but since the early-onset Alzheimer’s she has rapidly forgotten who I am. We have been paying for care assistants to come to her, stay with her, essentially live with her. But I know deep down I should be the one providing her care.
A shriek rings out through the house and I bolt upstairs. The sound of splashing and grunting comes from the main bathroom before my mum shrieks again.
‘What the hell is going on?’ I demand as I open the door to find my mum grappling with the care assistant. She looks so frail; she is only in her early fifties, but she is skin and bone. Her hair hangs limply around her gaunt face.
‘I was trying to wash her hair and she grabbed me.’ The care assistant, a curvy woman with her hair tied tightly at the back of her head finally manages to wriggle out of mum’s grasp. My mum begins to sob as she covers herself up with her arms and my heart breaks.
‘Mum,’ I pause, sometimes she remembers me and sometimes she doesn’t. ‘What about if I finish washing your hair?’
She sniffles quietly as the sobs subside.
‘And then we can have a nice cup of tea after.’
My mum nods and I indicate to the care assistant to leave me to it and make a pot of tea. Mum looks at me as I kneel beside the tub.
‘I don’t like water in my eyes,’ she says, and I smile gently, hoping she can see I’m not a threat.
‘I’ll be really careful.’ I soap up her hair and pour warm water over it, making sure to keep the water running backwards. Once finished I help her out of the bath and wrap her in a fluffy towel before leading her through to her bedroom. The clothes she puts on are baggy and sag on her petite frame, elevating my concern for her even further.
Once we’re downstairs, seated in the living room that has seen better days, tea poured in small cups and the trauma from the bath forgotten about, I take out my phone and text my brother. It takes a lot of effort to press down the tears. What am I even supposed to say?
It’s time.
Justin
I’ve taken today off work to head back to the mainland for the annual visit to my wife’s grave. It’s been five years and somehow the hurt is still potent, still right there smack in the centre of my chest. Probably because she took our unborn daughter with her. I lost more than my heart that day. Most of my soul was ripped away from me too.
I place the bunch of pink roses, Miranda’s favourite, combined with sprigs of baby’s breath in front of the stone that tells me the day she was born and the day she died. As though her life amounted to nothing more than a number. She was a wonderful person with a wonderful heart, and I still wonder what our baby girl would have been like. She would have been four now. Would she have liked animals, like me? Or would she have been a genius with numbers, like her mum? It’s one of those things I can only ever hope to find out one day when I face whatever comes after life.
Looking down at the headstone doesn’t break my heart as much as it used to, and I’m ashamed when thoughts of Lora pop into my mind. How is she today? Is she managing at the clinic on her own? I angrily pull my attention back to the grey stone. Have some respect. But the angrier I get at myself the more I feel like Miranda is soothing me, urging me to move on. The shame and anger lifts and is replaced by a sadness not quite like the sadness I felt when I first lost her and the baby. It feels more like a letting go, as though I’m sad but it’s time to move on. They’ll always be part of my past, and some of my happiest memories. But how long am I supposed to be angry and alone?
After losing them in a car accident involving a drunk driver, I sold every part of our lives, both the businesses and our home and moved to Rugged Island. There were just too many memories here.
I place a kiss on my fingers and press them against her name, before turning and heading home. It’s time to let go of my past.