Cruising the Heavens
Why had he left it so long? It had been over a year. Over a year of berating himself and putting it off.
He climbed the familiar steep hill towards home. It always seemed steeper the longer he had been away. At least there was no snow or ice to make the sidewalk slippery. The last time he had been here, there had been ice and he had seen one of his mother’s old friends, Joan, almost fall as she walked back towards the car that had brought her. Her daughter had caught her just in time. That had been the day of the funeral.
The second funeral. He had gone in the car to collect his mother for the first. Now, as he turned the corner and opened the gate, he remembered how frail she had looked as she peered from the window. She had been ready and waiting, as she always was. But this time, the thick coat and fur hat had seemed outlandishly large upon her tiny frame, as if she were a child dressing up. “I’m ready,” she had said from behind the cloth mask. He had nodded, aware that his own disposable mask meant that much of the communication that day would be with the eyes. They were not supposed to touch. It was the height of the first wave, and social distancing was new. And brutal.
His mother had sobbed on the telephone. “They won’t let me visit. They won’t let me come to the hospital. They say it’s too dangerous.” Each phrase had escaped from her mouth like a stifled sob. “Your father is alone.” He had almost been able to imagine her head turning from side to side in an angry denial of this outrage. “All alone.”
He had been the calm one, explaining why the rules were needed. Dad would not have wanted her to take the risk, he had said. He had then rung the hospital to see if there were any exceptions. He had listened as a nurse explained that his father was on oxygen and in a special unit for patients with the new virus. Only the team taking care of him was allowed in. Given his mother’s age, it was extremely dangerous for her to come near, and he should concentrate on making sure that she was protected. She must be shielded. It was the first time, he had heard the term used.
He had called his mother’s neighbour, Joan, and she had promised to make sure that there was food delivered. “I will check on her every day,” she promised. She had kept her word. When the hospital had phoned him to tell him his father had died, he had called Joan first to check if she was home. He wanted her advice. The new rules meant that he should not drive up to break the news in person. He would have to tell his mother over the phone. Would Joan be there to check that she was okay?
He could barely remember the conversation. His mother had been surprisingly calm and quickly switched to practicalities. How soon could they have a funeral? Don’t worry about that, he had said, I will take care of everything. And he had. The undertaker had helped him with the new restrictions and warned him that only the immediate family would be admitted to the church and that social distancing would mean that it was best if people rode in separate cars and if possible, they should not hug.
His mother had sat on one side of the funeral limousine and he, on the other. She had sat six feet away from him during the short service and they had waited for the coffin to be taken out of church before they returned to the car. They had not spoken until they reached the graveside. Only when the minister had finished the final prayer and invited his mother to throw the first handful of soil into the grave had he reached across to her. “Are you okay, mother?” he had said, “do you want me to help you?” She had turned towards him then. “Take me home” was all she had said.
That evening he had driven away. Joan had promised to check on his mother in the morning and he had promised to phone as soon as he got back to his house. His mother had answered his call. She was okay, she said, just tired. He was not to worry.
She had lasted a month. Then Joan had called to say she was very worried because when she had visited, his mother had been coughing continuously. She had phoned an ambulance. By the time it came, his mother was unconscious and was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. He never learned how she had caught the virus.
He had reached the door now after pushing his way past the overgrown shrubs. Another sign that he should not have put off coming. He unlocked the door and pushed it open. A small pile of post had accumulated on the rug inside. He closed the door and carried it into the kitchen, allowing it to tumble onto the table.
The damp dusty smell of the house rebuked him. His parents had been tidy, fastidious people. They had trained him to keep things in order. Compared to his schoolmates, he had always been neat and even his student flat had never looked like a student lived there. The counters were clean and empty; the washing up done and the bed made. Clothes were in drawers or on hangers in the wardrobe. He looked at the cobwebs in the corners of the kitchen. What would Mother say? he wondered.
He didn’t really know where to begin, but he knew upstairs in the loft was a collection of suitcases. He got the stepladder and brought them down and began filling them with his parents’ clothes. The local charity shops would be glad of them. Perhaps he might keep some of his father’s ties. Everything else was too small for him.
He found the envelope at the back of a drawer in the bedroom. Over fifty years old judging by the postmark. After a brief hesitation, he had taken out the letter and begun to read. A love letter to his mother. Not especially inspired. It spoke of the way the sun sparkled in her eyes and how the world looked better when reflected in her gaze. One day, the writer promised, they would go for a cruise to distant lands and they would see the world’s wonders made more marvellous by their love. It was from his father so there was no romantic secret to startle him. He put the letter in his jacket pocket and came downstairs. So that was why they were always teasing each other about the cruise, he thought to himself. His father would smile and say “Maybe next year.”
He made himself a cup of tea, remembering too late that it would have to be black because there was no milk in the fridge. Despite being a year older, the tea bag had held. He drew out a chair and sat at the table.
Sipping the tea, he opened the nearest envelope. He spluttered with disbelief. “I am delighted to inform you that you have won first prize in our charity lottery,” he read. “Details of the cruise are enclosed along with the steps we have taken to ensure that we are COVID-19 secure.”
He felt the tears and was irritated by them. Who are you crying for? he asked himself. He smiled ruefully. This prize, the letter explained, is non-transferable. Screw you, he jeered silently, Mum and Dad can cruise as often as they like now. He opened the next item in the pile.
