During my first and second year at University, I undertook creative pathway modules that entailed credits in screenwriting and creative writing. The seminars were such fun; the activities the lecturers would come up with to engage our imaginations assisted massively in my writing process.
In second year, I wrote and submitted the following story. I wouldn’t call it my best work but I love the character Jack (as did my lecturer, in fact). Reading it back two years later, I cringe a little at my repetition of 'said' and my character descriptions. I'm not a fan of the therapy session nor the ending, although I do find the latter heartwarming. Initially, the therapy session consisted of the therapist revealing details of their own childhood in an attempt to comfort Mary. Two years on, I know that therapists tend to stay clear of expressing their own issues. At least, the good ones do.
I’m very lucky in that I have yet to experience true grief – I’m 22 years old and all four of my grandparents are alive. Attempting to jump into the shoes of someone so consumed by this sorrow was a challenge I don’t believe I fulfilled, nonetheless, I obtained a first for my short story as well as the analytical piece I wrote alongside it.
This story has never had a title other than 'Creative Writing assignment' with my student number tagged on the end. So I stole a title from the Grey's Anatomy season 6 premiere.
Good Mourning
Wednesdays were the longest day of the week.
Yes, they are in the middle of the week, two days away from the weekend. It didn’t take away the fact that the week was taking its time. Mary stirred her hazelnut latte, her brow creased in concentration. A steaming hot chocolate sat beside her, topped with soft cream and marshmallows. A headache began to pound its way in her temple, a result of the tight braids she had twisted forcefully at the back of her head. She rubbed her forehead and glanced at her watch.
5.23 PM.
He is three minutes late, she thought crossly, her hands grasping the cup despite the radiating heat. I told him to make it for twenty-past.
The clock was ticking. Customers bustled in and out of the shop in high spirits despite the tipping storm outside, gorging on cookies and cakes and pastries. Mary had always loved the rain. The doom and gloom it symbolised always reflected how she felt, especially on a Wednesday. Jack was more light-hearted; their mother had always said he was sunshine wearing shoes. He’d always been her favourite, she reflected. It didn’t matter that her grades were better and that her job as an auditor earned far more than whatever her brother was doing. He was the apple of her eye.
The man himself arrived seven minutes late, discombobulated as always. His eyes glistened mischievously and he brushed his hand through his soaked bangs, giving his twin a crooked smile.
“You’re seven minutes late.”
“Oh, give over.”
He sat down opposite his sister, who reluctantly pushed the hot chocolate his way. Jack beamed.
“You got me a hot chocolate?”
Mary grunted.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” said Jack, not sounding too sorry at all and taking a swing from the mug. “I was leaving my flat and noticed how grey the sky looked. Thought I should get my jacket.”
“You’re not wearing a jacket.”
Jack slapped his thigh. “My bad.”
“I’ve been here for half an hour.”
Jack spluttered nonsensically. “Well, it’s not really my fault that you show up early to everything, is it?”
“Not everything.”
Jack’s face dropped in the puppy-like way he was known for, the ease washing off his features.
“Sis. Don’t say things like that.”
“It’s the truth though.”
Jack winced at the raise in her voice. “She wouldn’t have wanted you to think like that,” he said.
“Mum would have wanted me there when it happened.”
“She wouldn’t have wanted you to beat yourself up about it now.”
“I can’t help it though,” Mary shrieked. Customers sat in their sofas and armchairs looked up curiously. ‘You don’t know how hard it’s been. If I’d just been an hour quicker…”
She cut off. Tears were trailing down her cheeks. Jack looked unsettled but unsurprised. He reached into his jeans pocket to bring out a tissue but she shook her head, wiping her face with her sleeve.
“She died thinking I hated her.”
Jack shook his head. “She didn’t, Mary. She understood that you needed your space. She knew you were on your way back.”
“I wasn’t fast enough.”
“Doesn’t matter. She understood.”
Mary raised the mug to her lips and gulped. The coffee burned her throat, and more tears protruded from her eyes. Jack gazed at his sister in sympathy.
“I…I keep waiting for her to come back. I keep thinking she’s going to walk through the door again and she doesn’t. She doesn’t come back.” Mary’s voice cracked. Jack took the opportunity to reach across the oak table and take her hand, his fingers caressing his sister’s calloused palm. She gently squeezed his hand back.
“I’m sorry I was a bitch.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I can’t promise it will be the last.”
“It’s okay. And really, I’m sorry I was late. I know how you feel about timekeeping these days. Should’ve known better.”
The twins smiled at each other. Jack took out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and placed it on the table.
“Funeral arrangements,” he said sheepishly, pink blots of embarrassment blooming in his cheeks.
“Why is it crumpled up?”
“I thought it was a bill.”
Mary snorted. Jack sighed in relief.
Their mother had died on a Wednesday. Jack had been in between shows, convincing his mother that living with her was so he could look after her and not because his theatre job was earning him next to nothing. Mary had flown the nest years before, purchasing a property on the other side of town. It was a reasonable distance away, but not so far that she could not see her brother when she wanted.
The day they had found out their mother wouldn’t make the next Christmas had been a bleak one. Mary hadn’t been on speaking terms with her mother for a couple of months. There was no spat, no thrown hands. No disagreement, no door slamming. Mary had made it abundantly clear that she needed time and space to process her, at that point, new career. Jack had called his sister to deliver the news, fumbling over his words but assuring her that everything would be fine and that he would take care of everything.
He broke into her home the next afternoon, muscling his way through the door after it got stuck on the frame. He had been concerned by Mary’s recent behaviour, correctly analysing the radio silences and emotional withdrawals for one of the stronger bouts, his worry intensifying by her apathetic reaction to their mother’s terminal diagnosis. He entered the kitchen to find his twin sitting on the cold floor, milk spilt across the marble tiles. His snort woke her up from her stupor.
“Are you kidding me?” Jack giggled.
“How did you get in here?”
When Jack’s chuckles erupted into laughter as she stood.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re crying over spilt milk.”
“I am not.”
“You are. Your mascara isn’t waterproof.”
Mary rubbed her face. “You broke into my house.”
“Because you didn’t answer the door. You hadn’t even locked it.” Jack’s face had dropped in the famous way he was known for. “What’s going on?”
“What’s going on, is that mum found out she was going to die for good yesterday and she didn’t even bother telling her daughter it was going to happen. She made you do it instead.”
“So, you went over to her house and made a scene?” Jack said quietly. Mary stared at him, aghast.
“You can’t carry on like this,” he continued. He placed his hands on his sisters’ shoulders. “I think it’s time.”
Time to try therapy, he had said. That bumbling brother of hers who couldn’t keep a job to save his life had arranged the weekly sessions. He told his sister that he knew a friend of a friend, to which Mary told him there was no way that he knew a friend of a friend and that there was no way she was attending. And yet, there she sat in the office two weeks later, her fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest. She gazed at the posters plastered on the walls, reminders that apparently, she was ‘not alone’ and that ‘help was always around the corner’. She had long ago convinced herself of otherwise.
“Do you have any family members that you can talk to?”
Mary narrowed her eyes. “My brother. He’s the reason I’m here.”
“Do you find yourself unable to talk to him?”
“No. It’s just hard for him to understand.”
“Understand what, exactly?”
“Why me and mum don’t get on.”
Venting to someone outside of the family about her family had been strange for Mary at first. She’d find herself skipping the parts of the stories that still pained her, refusing to believe that someone, certifiable or not, had the psyche to comprehend why the quips and taunts her mother had made about her weight and grades and manner in her youth still hurt. How they, as well as the blatant favouritism their mother displayed between the siblings, continued into her adolescence. How she couldn’t be bitter over Jack never being at the receiving end of the insults because he was so nice and if she had been their mother, she’d favourite him too. It wasn’t long before Dr. Zinman had sussed her out.
“I suppose you feel second-best to your brother. Even though you’re very much ahead of him.”
Mary looked up in surprise.
“It’s not unusual or uncommon. You’re not the first,” said Dr. Zinman,
Mary sighed. “Jack’s great. He’s the best. He’s living with our mother at the moment because she’s unwell.”
“Unwell?”
“Terminally,” Mary spat out, her eyebrows raising in surprise at the bitterness of her tone. She took a deep breath. “She has leukaemia.”
“When did you find out?”
“Jack was with her when she found out. He took her home and rang me because he knew she wouldn’t tell me herself. So, I went over to the house the next morning and I-” she trailed off. Her body was shaking uncontrollably, red roses of embarrassment blooming into her cheeks. Dr. Zinman eyed her, and after a quick scribble at her clipboard, she took off her glasses.
“I think that’s enough for today.”
Mary nodded and stood. “Thanks for this,” she said, avoiding eye contact as she thrust her bag over her shoulder.
“One more thing.” Dr. Zinman said, her voice firm. “You need to forgive your mother for dying.”
Mary paused and glared at the therapist. “What?” she spluttered.
“You need to forgive your mother for dying. It won’t happen overnight, so you should start as early as possible”.
“I can’t forgive her for something that isn’t her fault,” Mary said, bewildered.
“You can and you need to.”
Mary turned and left.
The funeral was to take place on Friday the 13th. Upon hearing this, Mary glared at her brother, appalled.
“Don’t you think that’s bad luck?”
“We’ve already had bad luck, Mary.”
Mary couldn’t conceal her grin. “Do you reckon we should invite Dad?”
The twins snickered, Jack going as far as to slap his hand across his thigh. The pair were sat in Mary’s kitchen, Mary taking occasional sips at the black coffee in her mug whilst her brother took frequent gulps from his hot chocolate. Childhood photographs of the pair framed in stainless silver hung on the surrounding walls, one particular picture almost a copy of the current scene. Granted, Mary’s hair was no longer that curly and Jack was no longer the shorter of the pair, but they were sat together at the dining table.
“I was thinking I’d sing at the funeral,” Jack said suddenly. He raked a hand through his hair and used the other to make a nonsensical gesture. “If you’re okay with it?”
Mary wasn’t surprised at Jack’s confession; it was as though he’d been singing to himself more often than usual around her in an attempt to drop a hint. She was more surprised at the time it took for him to ask. Her brother was the more extroverted of the duo, never afraid to say what he was feeling, especially to Mary. He had been making most of the arrangements on his own, knowing his sister was still processing and had kept a level head throughout. But he was also an actor, a performer. Mary started to wonder if Jack’s happy-go-lucky attitude was a ruse, a strategy to give her something less to worry about.
“What song?”
“La Vie En Rose.”
Mary smiled. “Only if you sing it in French.”
“Oh, give over,” Jack said, his features washing over in relief. “You sure you’d be okay with it?”
“Yeah. She loved that song. With guitar or not?”
“With. It needs to be stripped down, relaxed. Like she used to play it. My guitar is in the living room, I can show you?”
Mary nodded as her brother exited the room. She racked her brain as she tried to remember the last time her sibling had sung for her. Granted, he sung all the time. But it had been a while since he’d sung to her, with his guitar. The same guitar that had been in the living room for the past four weeks.
“When was the last time you played guitar?” Mary called asked as her brother re-entered the room.
Without looking up, her brother said, “opening night.”
The night that should have taken Jack’s ‘career’ to the next level. He’d been cast as the lead in a production about an aspiring musician. It was during half time of the show that he’d received the call. He fled the premises, leaving his understudy to take over for the duration of the performance. The show was poorly received, in part due to the abrupt and unexpected change of the lead. Jack had yet to return to the theatre, fearing he’d be disgraced.
He took the awkward silence that had ensued as a sign to begin, but when he began his chords, Mary noticed an envelope protruding from his pocket. She reached over and snatched it to her brother’s surprise.
“Is there a woman you have yet to tell me about?”
Jack was frowning until his eyes widened in realisation. “No, course not. Mary, I think- “
“This has my name on it.”
Jack bit his lip in dismay. “It’s from mom. She gave it to me to give to you when she realised you weren’t going to make it back on time.”
“And you’ve been carrying it with you in your pocket?” she screeched.
“I was planning on giving it to you today.”
“Why not the day she died?”
“Too soon.” Jack shrugged.
“What about that day in the café?”
“Again, too soon. You were so upset that day –”
“Can you blame me?” Mary was furious at this point, a chill running down her spine. “Do you know how shit it is knowing if I’d just been two minutes faster, I could have said goodbye? Do you know how shit it is knowing she died thinking –”
“She understood, Mary. She knew that you needed your space.” Jack reached over and took the envelope gently from his sisters’ hand, holding it in front of her. “Do you want to open now with me?”
“No,” she said icily, snatching the sealed paper from him and thrusting it into a draw.
“How about we go for a walk?” Jack was desperate at this point, his eyes pleading.
“You can. I’m not leaving this house.”
“How about –”
“No, Jack. No. I want to be on my own.” She pointed to the door, turning her head away. “I think its time for you to leave.”
A defeated Jack left, his guitar in tow.
Lilies had always been their mothers favourite flowers. She had come close to naming Mary after the funeral bloom, deciding it a better middle name instead. Jack mocked his sister about it for years after he found out.
“No wonder you’re so doom and gloom,” he would cackle.
Mary was wearing lace on the day, her dress a skater in obvious black. She toyed with different ideas as to how to wear her hair, deciding against a messy bun because of the housekeeping statement it made. She decided to let her locks down, curling the more straightened-out ends with her fingers. As she preened herself in the mirror, Jack’s reflection came into view.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
She whipped around, throwing her arms around his shoulders.
“I’m sorry, again.” she whispered.
He hugged her back. “I’m sorry, too.”
The ceremony was everything their mother would have wanted. At first, Mary was impressed that her brother had the emotional capacity to understand how important it was that those family photos were in the slideshow and that the eulogy made a small reference to their good-for-nothing father who she defended to the very end. Jack had even taken the time to purchase jam jars filled with multicoloured fairy lights, remembering how their mother had been a creative person. Then Mary remembered that, of course, Jack would know about the pictures and the eulogy and the jam jars and the song because he had spent those final hours, months really, by their mother’s side. He’d taken the time to ask, ensured a plan was in place before she even died.
Jack sang after his eulogy, his voice a soothing grace, unbothered and untroubled as the melody filled the room. Mary remembered what she had thought that afternoon in the kitchen, deducting that the calmative sounds her brother made were a result of bottled up pain and sorrow. Her heart ached for Jack, how his pleasant persona had left him so alone that he was forced to set up his own mother’s funeral with no assistance. How she had been so dismissive of his attempts to care for her.
Mary reached into the pocket of her dress, taking out the crumpled envelope she had hastily taken with her that morning. She opened it and took out the letter, her mother’s handwriting sprawled and almost offensive to the delicacy she had put into her paintings in her younger years. Apologies and pleads for forgiveness were written across the page, an understanding between the pair finally made after so many years. A bond, a relationship despite her mother’s absence. And an appeal for her to watch out for her, as she now knew, not so extroverted brother.
Mary looked up at her brother and smiled. He smiled back. Maybe it was her turn to do some looking after.
I imagine Jack and Mary's relationship as children to be a slightly less dramatic version of this pair.
I hope you've had a good week. Sending love and hugs your way, wherever you are xxx
Credit for the cover photo here.