“She’s not going to upchuck.” Mick grinned, bringing Lily down into his arms. She was little anyway, but Liv’s dad was a big guy and she looked tiny and adorable clinging to him. “Soul of a pilot, this one.”
It was Sunday lunch, and this time Mick and his wife, Dee, had been able to join us, so it was a full house. It was actually hard to think, what with the children giggling and chasing one another, Bray crying, which was upsetting a usually docile Belle, and the adults trying to be heard over one another. I loved our huge makeshift family, but on a day when I needed them to take my mind off Marco, all they were able to do was make my head pound with their cheerful but disjointed noise.
In order to escape some of the cacophony, I volunteered to do the dishes and shot my arse into the kitchen. It was still noisy, but at least there was distance between me and the worst of it. There I was able to replay the scene with Marco at the restaurant over and over again, as I had been doing for days. I’d been so sure as I stood there and told him we were through that it was the right thing to do, but as soon as that door closed behind him I was seized with instant panic. The truth was, I didn’t know what was right and what was wrong. I wished there was some kind of magic wand I could wave that would give me all the answers. Likely some people would call me foolish – tell me that surely the answer is so obvious. If you love someone, you should be with them.
Was it really that simple, though, when there was so much history and hurt? Could we really work through that? Could I really let myself be vulnerable with him again when there was absolutely no way of knowing what the future held for us?
I was exhausted from going over it all over and over and over again.
I scraped the plates and had started loading them into the dishwasher when I felt another presence in the kitchen. I looked up to see who it was, and my eyes collided with Nate’s as he leaned against the doorjamb.
“You okay?” I asked, my eyebrows drawn together in concern.
“I was actually going to ask you the same thing,” he replied, walking slowly into the kitchen.
I shrugged. Really, what was the point in lying?
Nate sighed. “Thought so.” He leaned back against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “You know that Liv and I were just friends before anything romantic happened between us?”
“Yes.”
“Well, when we did go down that road, we both knew what was between us was special. Except I didn’t want to admit that because I was afraid of losing her in the long run.”
“Because of what happened to Alana?” I asked, tentatively because Nate rarely talked about his ex-girlfriend. She had died when they were only eighteen and Nate had had a really difficult time moving on from her death.
“Aye. I pushed Liv away and I really hurt her, all because I was too afraid to go there with her. I almost lost her for good, Hannah. There was a moment when I thought my stubbornness had destroyed us. It was one of the scariest moments of my life. And sometimes I allow myself to think about what my life might have been like if I hadn’t won her back. It doesn’t even bear thinking about. How does someone live with that kind of regret?” I felt his hand on my shoulder. He gave it a squeeze and said kindly, “You’re a good teacher, Hannah. I just hope a lesson in regret isn’t something you’ll be able to teach well in the future.”
Nate’s words of wisdom stayed with me through the rest of the day and well into the evening. I returned home that evening with a box from my parents’ attic in my arms. I dumped it on the floor of my bedroom. At first I flicked through the pictures of Marco and me from the last few months that I’d taken with my camera phone. From there, I dug through that box and unearthed all my old diaries.
For hours I pored over the documented history of my teen years, filling myself up with all my old feelings for Marco, and hoping they’d collide with the new and somehow breach the blockade of fear.
Because one thing I did know for certain – Nate was right. That kind of regret was a lesson I didn’t want to learn.
CHAPTER 26
I
knew there was something wrong as soon as I stepped into the school.
There was a hush in the air.
Walking down the first corridor of the English department, I thought I heard sniffling coming from one of the common rooms. I was about to stop to listen harder when Nish called out to me from the open doorway of the staff room.
As soon as I saw her face I knew my gut had been right. Something was very wrong.
“Can you come here?” she asked softly, looking stricken.
I hurried over to her and she gently guided me into the staff room. Eric, Barbara, and two other members of the staff were in the room. Barbara had tears in her eyes and Eric’s features were strained, his face pale. “What on earth is going on?” I asked. My pulse started to race as nervous butterflies took flight in my stomach.
Nish grabbed hold of my hand. “Hannah… Jarrod Fisher was killed on Saturday night. We just found out this morning.”
I stared at Nish blankly, trying to make sense of her words. “What?” I shook out of her grip, glancing at Eric and Barbara. “Is this a joke?”
“Hannah, I know he was a favorite of yours. I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t understand.” I looked back at Nish incredulously. “I don’t… I don’t… no.” I shook my head.
Her kind eyes grew wet with tears. “He got into a scuffle with an older boy. The wrong boy. He pulled a knife on Jarrod. Jarrod died in surgery.”
A knife? Jarrod?
Smart, charming, funny Jarrod, who I’d told umpteen times that he needed to check that short fuse of his. Jarrod, whose mum and wee brother relied on him. Jarrod. A fifteen-year-old boy who had his whole life in front of him.
Gone.
Just… gone?
No more?
It wasn’t possible.
The sob burst out of me before I could stop it and then I was in Nish’s arms, bawling the burning pain of his sudden loss into her shoulder. As I thought about his mum and his little brother and the grief that would gnaw at them, that would ache in every muscle, and hang in a dismal pall over their lives for the months to come, I only cried harder.
The tears finally had stopped. I attempted to catch my breath as I pulled out of Nish’s arms. “I’m sorry.” I swiped at my cheeks, feeling embarrassed for breaking down in school. One look at my colleagues’ faces, though, and I knew they understood. Jarrod had been that kid for me, the one where I really felt I could make a difference in his life. It was hard in our job to feel that way, to feel like what we did mattered. I’d imagined discussing university choices with Jarrod next year, helping him get funding, feeling proud of him and how far he’d come. I’d felt like I saw him when no one else did and I’d hoped that it mattered to him.
It was like I’d stepped into some horrible, surreal nightmare.
Children didn’t die in knife fights in my world.
Where were we to stop that?
How could it be that he’d been in my classroom just last week, and now I was thinking about him in past tense? How did someone go from being this tangible person to being a ghost, a player in a film reel of memories?
The tears started coming again.
“Hannah.” Nish rubbed my arm in comfort. “You’re going to have to get yourself together, sweetheart. You’ve got classes, and you’ve got… you’ve got your fourth-year today.”
Oh, God.
How was I going to make it through that class when his empty chair would be staring at me the whole time?
I blew out a shaky breath and wiped at my tears. “I know,” I said, my voice trembling, my lips quivering. “Just give me a minute.”
“His funeral is on Thursday,” Eric told me. “Thursday, eleven o’ clock at Dean Cemetery.”
I winced, sucking in my breath to hold back another flood of tears. “Do you think they’ll give me time off to go?”
“Hannah, you were his favorite teacher,
” Eric said kindly. “We’ll make sure you get to say good-bye.”
I pinched my lips together, my eyes blurring with fresh tears.
“Get rid of it now,” Nish said softly. “So you can face the kids.”
My first class that morning had not been easy, but it was my first-year class and they were subdued by the news of Jarrod’s death, which had already met their young ears as it passed through the school halls, and they quietly put their heads down and got on with the task I gave them.
It was when my fourth-years walked in that I felt myself waver and I had to turn my back, suck in the emotion, and count to ten before I could face them. When they were all settled in their seats, I looked them over, taking in the tearstained faces of some of the girls and the shocked, pale features of the rest of them. Even Jack looked upset.
I knew some of them had never been touched by death, and most of them had never been touched by the death of a peer – someone so young, so vital. There is a general belief in one’s own immortality when you’re young, that you can see and do anything and you and the world as you know it will still be there in the morning.
I wondered how Jarrod’s classmates and friends were coping with their sudden mortality.
My gaze came to a stop on his empty chair and I leaned back against my desk, my fingers curling into the wood.
“I wish I could tell you why,” I said, clearing my throat when my voice broke on the last few words.
Staci, a pretty blond girl who sat at the table behind Jarrod and often walked out of class with him, caught my eye as she swiped angrily at her tears.
“Why it is that life can change so quickly?” I continued. “How it’s possible for a heart to stop beating so suddenly, instantly breaking all the hearts that were ever connected to it? But the truth is there is no sense in what happened to Jarrod. None that I can see. I wish I had a better answer, but I don’t.”
The entire room watched me silently and I kept speaking. “I can tell you that it’s okay to feel whatever it is you’re feeling right now. It’s okay to miss him and it’s okay to hurt and it’s okay to feel lost – just as long as you come to me, or your friends, or your family, when all those feelings try to overwhelm you. Because in amongst all those feelings, some of you are going to be angry, and some of you will need someone to blame. It’s okay to be angry. I can’t tell you if it’s right or wrong to feel blame, but what I can say is don’t be angry for too long and don’t hold on to the blame forever. That kind of anger can take away a piece of you, a piece of you that you might not get back. Jarrod wouldn’t want that. Under the bluster and swagger, he was a really good person” – my lips trembled and my eyes were bright with unshed tears I couldn’t and honestly didn’t want to hide from them – “and I don’t think he would want that for any of you.
“I won’t lie to you. This changes things. It may even change you. I know it will change me.” I shrugged helplessly, feeling suddenly so young, too young to help them. “I guess it’s a reminder of the uncertainty in life and the foolishness of merely existing when the world is pleading with you to live. If you take anything from this, please take that. We take life for granted. We have to stop that. We have to start living.” I looked around at them all, catching some of their grief-stricken eyes. “If any of you need to talk to me, even if it’s to write it down, to put what you’re feeling on a bit of paper, then I’m here.”
I smiled sadly through the blur of tears and tapped the pile of books at my side. “Jarrod once confessed that his favorite book when he was younger was Danny the Champion of the World by Roald Dahl. His primary school teacher read it to the class. So we’re going to honor him today – you can read along with me as I read it to you.”
Before class I’d run over to the primary school next door and asked them for copies of the book, explaining why I needed them. They were kind and gracious enough to let me borrow the books. I passed the copies out to my kids and placed the last book on Jarrod’s desk slowly, fighting my tears. His friend Thomas, who had always been full of cheek in class, made a choked noise at my gesture and when I looked his way I saw him bury his head on his arms on the desk, his shoulders shaking as he tried to muffle his sobs. I passed him, squeezing his shoulder in comfort before walking to my desk, fighting the burn of emotion in my own throat. The muscles in my jaw, in my gums, in my cheeks, ached with it.
Somehow, I managed to open the book and I started to read.
Feeling as though I were wading through mud, I got through the day. I had e-mailed the teacher I shared the adult literacy class with and explained why I wouldn’t make my Thursday evening lesson this week. I got a kind e-mail in response from him and he told me he had it covered. From there I finished up my classes and jumped on a bus to Leith after work. There was one person I wanted to see more than anyone.
I wanted Marco. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and feel his strength, breathe him in, and know that I hadn’t given up on living the life I really wanted, the life I needed.
I was determined that someday in the near future I would do just that. The Hannah I used to be, the Hannah from my diaries, wasn’t afraid of anything. I didn’t want to be afraid anymore, and I didn’t want life to pass me by. However, I didn’t think it was right to use Marco as an emotional crutch. Things were already so complicated between us as it was. When I went to him, I wanted him to be sure I was coming to him for the right reasons.
So I got off the bus and I strode to Cole’s apartment.
As soon as he opened his door I walked into his arms and burst out crying. Thankfully, his dodgy flatmate was out, so I could tell Cole about Jarrod in private. He left me briefly to make me a cup of tea and when he returned he pulled me into his side and held me close.
“I was standing there in front of the kids,” I whispered, “telling them that they had to learn too soon how fragile life is and that they should learn from it and really live life. I felt like such a hypocrite, telling them to live life when I’m so scared of living that I pushed Marco away.”
“What is it you’re afraid of, Hannah? Him hurting you?”
“Yes. But I don’t want to be anymore. Once I get through this, I’m going to go to him.”
“Hannah, he loves you. You should go to him now, let him help you deal with this.”
“I can’t.” I shook my head stubbornly. “I can deal with this alone. I’ll go to him afterward, so it’s clear why I’m coming to him. Plus, I have to talk to him about something that could mean he doesn’t want to be with me.”
Cole frowned. “What could that possibly be?”
“The fact that I can’t have kids.”
“Since when?”
“I don’t want them, Cole. After what happened. I almost died. I can’t put the people I love through that again.”
“Who says you will? There’s a risk?”
I shrugged, feeling stupid but no less absolute in my fear. “There’s always a risk of another ectopic pregnancy, but, no, the doctor said I could go on to have a healthy pregnancy.”
“Okay, so… you don’t want them? Or you’re afraid?”
I shrugged.
“Do you want kids, Hannah?” He insisted on an answer.
I pinched my lips together and nodded.
“Then one day… you’ll be brave enough.” And he seemed so sure I couldn’t help but hope he was right.
Cole wasn’t the only one who attempted to get me to call Marco to tell him about Jarrod. Ellie did too. As much as my family was there for me through the hard time of losing a student, they didn’t seem to understand that I could handle it on my own.
Thursday morning came all too quickly. I dressed in a conservative black pencil dress I sometimes wore to school and borrowed Ellie’s long black wool coat. Jarrod’s mother had decided to hold the funeral at Jarrod’s gravesite instead of inside the church. When I arrived, my knees almost buckled at the sight of his mum. I didn’t know if I’d ever witnessed such devastation.
Harvey
, Jarrod’s little brother, clung to his mother’s side, his eyes wide and haunted.
My tears started to flow freely as I found a place in the crowd of mourners near the front. I recognized some faces of his classmates – Thomas and Staci were both there with their parents. After the minister spoke, Jarrod’s coffin was lowered into the grave.
Jarrod’s mother threw a rose in. A girl I didn’t recognize stepped forward and threw another in. She was followed by Staci, and then an older woman, who hugged Jarrod’s mum tightly immediately afterward.
During this, I stepped forward, the paper in my hand biting into my skin. Gently I threw the paper into the grave. On it were words I’d borrowed from Shakespeare.