No Way to Say Goodbye - Anna McPartlin [118]
“… it’s for the best,” Mary said sadly. Then she said, while watching Tin and Mossy attempt a two-hand reel through her kitchen window, “I received a copy of Mia Johnson’s third album today.”
“Sam?” Penny asked.
“No, Mia.” Mary smiled. “She sent a card.”
“Such a nice woman. I still feel like such an arsehole,” Penny mumbled. “What did she say?”
“She said that Sam was well and asked how I’d managed to get him into therapy. Apparently it was something she could never do. She said he was happy and healthy.”
“What did happen between you two?” Penny asked.
“Nothing,” Mary said, with a smile. “Nothing at all.”
“OK, you don’t have to tell me – tonight.” A moment or two passed. “So, what’s the album like?”
“It’s good. I especially like the track Sam wrote.”
“He wrote a song for Mia?”
“He wrote the music. Mia wrote the lyrics. She’s a very intuitive woman,” Mary said.
“Did she mention me?” Penny asked, laughing, and Mary joined in.
Epilogue
It was a cold morning in New York City. Sam stood in the centre of the room taking a long look at the white walls and white-painted wooden floor. It reminded him of rehab and the man he used to be, if only for a moment. This room was much bigger than the one he had emerged from three years previously.
Mia pushed him from behind. “Come on or we’ll be late.”
“I still don’t know what we’re doing here.”
“You’re so impatient,” she said, looking at the other people milling around. She pointed to a room off the one in which they were standing, which contained plants and a table of white and red wine. “Do you want a drink before we go in?” she asked.
“No, I want to go home. Don’t you have a husband to do this stuff with?”
“He’s in the studio.”
“Oh, yeah? Who with?”
“Does it matter?” she asked, pushing him towards the door.
“OK, what about you? Shouldn’t you be resting?”
“I’m pregnant, not ill. Come on!” She took him by the hand. “You’ll like it.”
Sam stood in the middle of another white room. Black-and-white photos lined the walls. Mia pulled him to take a closer look. They were all gravesides or memorials, each instilled with a sadness that seemed familiar. He couldn’t explain it – you had to see the photos to be able to understand. He was lost in a photo of a young girl cleaning a broken headstone. She looked East European; she wore a scarf over her head and couldn’t have been more than ten. The headstone listed four names and their deaths were all dated for the same day. He wondered who they were and what they were to her. Was it her family or had she even known them? Maybe it was a summer job, but that didn’t explain the girl’s sadness.
Mia pulled him along. He passed a photo of an empty goal with flowers intertwining the net and an empty bench in memory of a woman called Emily.
“What do you think of this one?” she asked, stopping in front of another. “‘We love you, Mr Monkels’,” he read. “There’s only one Mr Monkels.”
“Yes, there is, or sadly was – the photo testifies that he’s no longer with us,” Mary said, from behind him.
He turned. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“I was going to phone, but it’s been so long.”
“I was going to write. I just didn’t know what to say.”
“You’re both as bad as each other,” Mia told them. “It’s a good thing I like to read the arts section.”
They were staring into each other’s eyes.
“I’m going home,” Mia said. “My feet are killing me.”
Mary and Sam said goodbye to her, then turned to one another. It had been a long time and yet no time at all.
“I have one photo I think you’ll like,” Mary said, and he followed where she led. She stood in front of a picture of a tree. Light streamed down from the sky above and rain poured down the bark, running into and past the carving.
“LB – Lena Breslin! You found it! I can’t believe you found it!”
“It took a while,” she smiled, “but I had some time after you left.”
“It’s a beautiful exhibition,” he said, gesticulating at the photos of ghosts that lined the walls.
“Yeah, well, what else would you expect from Mary of the Sorrows?” She grinned.
“I’m guessing you haven’t been that for