Lincoln,
The power is out here so I’m sitting by an open fire, writing with just candles for light. It’s nice and peaceful, that is until I start to think, to remember. I’m worried about the strain I’m putting my dad under, and although he hides it well; I can see the constant sadness in his eyes. I’ve decided to speak to a therapist and see if I can sort out my speech issue. I know it’s psychological, and for a while I was pleased. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not being able to was a convenient way to avoid that awkwardness. But something has changed now, maybe I’m on that upward path you spoke about, but I want to talk out loud to someone.
I visited the church today, the vicar; I forget his name, sat with me. He was kind to me, and although I’m not remotely religious, I enjoyed his company. Isn’t that a strange thing for me to write? I’m not sure why not being religious and enjoying his company should be connected. Anyway, it was nice to ‘chat’ to him and it made me realise, I actually miss conversation. I’m ready now.
I guess it will also be handy to be able to converse with Miller. I’m expecting the plans soon and there is a bubble of excitement inside me. My instinct is to suppress that excitement; it feels terribly wrong. But I can’t. I want something positive to look forward to now. I’d do anything to have Trey and Hannah on this journey with me, but I’m also proud that I’m doing this myself. Not strictly by myself because I have my dad to advise, but you know what I mean. Should I feel guilty about that? Is it selfish of me?
Selfish is a new emotion for me. I’ve given all of myself to everyone who needed me for so long. I don’t really know how to deal with this. I know you’ll say it’s another stage to conquer and I know that I will. There’s a part of me that wants to see that light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, but there’s a part of me comfortable in the darkness.
I feel like all I do is talk about myself in these letters, but it’s what I needed for a while, so I thank you, Lincoln, for allowing me to do that. I’m not sure I can express how therapeutic it is.
Dani.
I folded the page and rose from the sofa. The fire was dying down and I used the poker to spread the logs a little. It used to cause me anxiety to head to bed leaving the fire alight. I remembered, as a teenager, I’d poured water over it. The smoke caused all the alarms to go off and Dad had come running down the stairs, tripping on his pyjama bottoms. I placed a guard in front of the opening and blew out all but one candle. I picked that up and then headed to bed.
The bedroom had chilled considerably; I wrapped myself in my duvet and blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. The clouds had obscured any light the moon would have given. Although the thunder had moved on, the rain hadn’t lessened, and I listened to the patter of drops against the windowpanes. The noise was soothing and I soon fell into sleep.
I woke to the sound of a radio; I guessed the power had come back on at some point overnight. I could hear Dad singing along downstairs. His terrible voice, completely out of tune, made me smile and reminded me of when Trey and I married. Dad’s voice drowned out the choir we’d paid for when it came time to sing a hymn. I found myself surprised that the memory hadn’t provoked sadness, instead fondness washed over me. Another thought hit me, was I wallowing in my misery a little too much? I lay thinking; how long was too long to continue to cry? I guessed I would always grieve, but as the days wore on, I didn’t cry as much. That confused me. I remembered a woman near where I’d lived; she’d worn black for a whole year when she’d lost her husband. I wasn’t sure Trey would appreciate that. In fact, I remembered a conversation we’d had many years ago. He’d specifically said he didn’t want black at his funeral. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember what I’d worn. The day had been too traumatic and I was grateful for the loss of memory.
I rose and headed for the bathroom. I winced at the cold water that fell from the showerhead and opted for a quick wash instead. The cold water on my face revived me a little. I stared at myself in the mirror. The sadness was still etched in my skin, lines on my forehead had deepened, and my eyes were ringed with dark circles. I dragged a brush through my hair and tied it in a ponytail, not really caring what it looked like.
“Good morning, did you manage to sleep at all? It was a heck of a storm in the end. I think there are some trees down in the lane, and I know half the village is still without power,” Dad said when I entered the kitchen.
“I did.”
I froze. Dad froze. I frowned, had I just spoken? I heard words in my head all the time but I wasn’t sure if they’d left my mouth or not. However, judging by the look on Dad’s face, they must have. I opened my mouth again.
Dad nodded gently, as if in encouragement, but no words came. It seemed that if I tried, it didn’t happen. I shook my head and sighed.
“It’s coming, Dani, that’s all you need to think about. Now, breakfast?”
I saw the disappointment flash across his face even though he’d tried so hard to hide it. I grabbed a pad and flicked through until I came to a clean page.
I know it will. I don’t want any breakfast and I’m going to go for a little walk, my head is fuzzy from sleeping so deep.
It was a lie, and I was sure that he realised that. I wanted to just get outside and scream, or walk off, my frustration. I rushed upstairs and grabbed the letter I’d written to Lincoln. I stuffed it in the envelope and pulled on my boots. I wrapped a scarf around my neck and shrugged into Miller’s jacket. Dad was standing at the bottom of the stairs when I returned. Worry creased his face. I placed my hand on his cheek and smiled. I wanted him to think I was okay.
I walked up the lane and climbed over a small tree that had fallen. I guessed the local farmer would drag it out of the way with his tractor at some point. The local council tended to ignore damage in the lanes, concentrating on the major routes initially. I left the letter in the honesty box and started to make my way back. A noise had me come to a halt. I didn’t want to go back towards the farm. My heart had started to pound in my chest at the thought of meeting whoever was cutting the tree. It had been the sound of a chainsaw I’d heard.
As I rounded the corner, I saw Miller. He had one boot-clad foot rested on the trunk of the tree. He wore a hard hat with a visor that covered his face. I stayed back as he lowered the chainsaw and wood chippings flew up into the air.
“Don’t get too close, Dani,” I heard. I turned to see Mrs. Hampton from the local shop.
I patted the jacket hoping to find a pad. Normally every coat, jean pocket even, contained one. Mrs. Hampton waved her hand as if she understood what I was trying to do and was telling me not to worry.
“It’s okay,” she said, smiling at me. “What a storm, huh? We’re still out of power; I hope they can fix it quick. I’ve got all the fridges running off a generator at the moment. I’m hoping Miller can come and check I’ve got enough fuel when he’s done with that tree.”
Whether he heard us talking or not, I wasn’t sure, but he switched off the chainsaw and straightened. He turned and at the same time raised the visor covering his face.
“Good morning, ladies. Here to help?”
“Here to help? Dani and I are just admiring the view,” Mrs. Hampton said.
I gasped, silently of course. She had to be well into her seventies, but the naughty chuckle that left her lips and the dig from her elbow into my side, had me desperate to laugh out loud.
“Admiring the view? Maybe I should start charging for that,” Miller replied. He gave her a wink. “Instead of standing there admiring the view, Dani, grab that branch for me.”
I held on to the branch he was pointing to, and then looked at him.