The Life and Afterlife of Charlie Brackwood (The Brackwood Series Book 1) (3 page)

I nodded silently.

"Oh, and Charlie?" she said as she turned to leave. "Prepare yourself to find it difficult. Remember that they are grieving.  The first few days are hard to watch."

I held her gaze.

"Thank you," I said.

"I'm always here if you need me," she said kindly, and I felt thankful that she was with me.

In the distance I could see a hill covered with dense forest and undergrowth.  It looked quiet and peaceful there and so I headed in that direction with the idea that it would be a suitable place from which to check in on the ones I'd left behind.

As I walked in the blazing sun I took in my new surroundings.  There was no doubt, the place was beautiful and there was definitely a sense of magic in the air.  Spread before me were fields of lush green grass that contained a species of elk I didn't recognise.  There was a herd of fifty or so, grazing serenely on the lush green grass, their stubby tails flicking happily.  Eagles swooped low over their heads. Their magnificent wingspan made them look large and forbidding next to the gentle deer.

I stopped to watch them for a while and imagined Lucy's reaction to the scene before me.  Nature was her passion and I knew she would have loved to be observing what I was fortunate enough to see at that moment.

I decided that this spot, with its tranquil atmosphere and colourful blanket of poppies, was as good a place to be as any when it came to eavesdropping on my nearest and dearest.  My thoughts turned to Lucy, but as much as I missed her smiling face and easy nature I couldn't bring myself to see the pain and suffering I had caused her.

So I thought instead about the woman who had given me life, the kind soul who had raised me, scolding me only when necessary.  I needed to see her kind eyes.  My mother was a strong woman and someone I drew strength from in every aspect of my life.  She was my rock, my teacher, my adviser, my confidant and my biggest fan.  She scolded fairly but forgave easily, and had an extremely impressive knack for extracting the truth from her only child.  Our relationship was just what a mother and son relationship should be, full of fairness, merriment and love.

A voice entered my subconscious mind.  A voice I'd known all my life, a voice that had soothed me and scolded me as a child, a voice that gave me great comfort in this time of uncertainty.  However, as I concentrated on the familiar voice with its soft Yorkshire accent it was impossible not to hear the change in its tone and I became concerned for my mother’s welfare.  Her voice was tinged with profound sadness.

As though a thick fog had lifted, an image of my mother became crystal clear in front of me and it was almost as if I were seeing her image projected into the blue, cloudless sky of this intangible world.  She was in a room surrounded by splashes of dusky pink, creamy white, vivid red and cheerful yellow. She looked rather like a figure in an Impressionist painting.  A sweet smell entered my nostrils and I realised I was experiencing what she was experiencing.  I had gained sight, smell and vision that made me feel as though I were there with her.  Still a part of her world.  The smell was overwhelming and I realised that there was not one object responsible for the overpowering fragrance but that it was the end product of a mixture of fragrances all amalgamating to produce a sickly-sweet scent.  At first I thought the odour quite pleasant until my befuddled mind realised where my mother was.

She was in the local florist’s. It was the same shop I’d visited many times so I could surprise Lucy with a bunch of her favourite flowers: sweet peas.  I had to order them in as they weren't a flower in popular demand.  I would always tease her about her taste in flowers and how, in true Lucy style, she had to pick the most awkward type to obtain.  I could smell them now, the sweet aroma filling our entire house from just one small bunch.

"He liked peonies, yellow ones," I heard my mother say in a strangled voice that made my heart ache with guilt. "They were his favourites."

I have to admit, I have rather feminine taste in flowers but there is a reason why peonies are my favourites.  Gran, with whom I’d been reunited just hours earlier, grew all kinds of different varieties and colours of them in her garden.  The pretty flowers had always reminded me of summer days I spent with my favourite grandparents.  The sight of my Gran kneeling down in the grass, trowel in hand, weeding around the impressive flower heads that were so precious to her, was a favourite image from my younger days.  She would often pick me the best, most perfect flower of them all and it was always a yellow one.  She would say her yellow peonies always produced a better crop than the rest.  Hence my favourite flower.

I saw sympathy in the eyes of the florist, and the sudden realisation that my dear mother was picking out my funeral flowers hit me hard.

I watched her as she stared into space; I wished I knew what she was thinking. The expression on her face was one of devastation and despair.

I had made a mistake that last night on earth. I cursed myself now for drinking too much and walking all that way in the dark just to look at the church, no matter how romantic it had seemed at the time.  In my carelessness I had hurt my mother and I would never forgive myself for that.

"We will deliver them to the church on Wednesday," the florist told her softly

"Yes, of course," said Mum, shaken out of her thoughts

"I'm very sorry for your loss, Mrs Brackwood."

"Thank you," she said, attempting a smile, forever courteous, forever gracious.  That was my mother.

She was a kind and non-judgemental sort, who was well respected in the village by old and young alike.  She was a retired nurse who often volunteered as a carer for the older members of the community.  She would drive them to church on Sundays knowing that attending the service was very important to them.  She would look after their pets, take their dogs for walks, feed their cats.  She even enjoyed weeding their gardens for them and cutting the grass.  Because she was a volunteer she didn't get paid for this type of work.  She did it because she was a good person who cared for others’ welfare above her own.  She hated any kind of racism or prejudice and had many arguments with the locals over their closed-mindedness.  Unlike others in our village, she accepted all religions, all backgrounds and all ages, and treated everyone the same.  She once told me that as a nurse it was important to see people as individuals.  Her patients’ welfare was the only thing that was important to her, not their class or colour.

Some of her accepting and kind nature was passed on to me, but I would never have a heart as true or as kind as hers, though I tried my hardest to show as much kindness to others as she did.

During my high school years popularity was never important to me, I saw the popular kids as shallow and cruel.  I always went out of my way to befriend the outcasts, the ones who were cast aside and ignored by the bigger groups.  I decided to take charge of who I allowed to be my friend, and that didn't include anyone who bullied or belittled other people just to make themselves feel bigger and more important.

This was how my friendship with Russ began.  I first met my dear friend in the boys’ toilets in primary school, bloodied and bruised.  A group of the older, more popular boys had backed him into a corner there and pounded him with their fists, for no other reason than that he didn't fit in.  Of course, I wasn't the type to stand on the sidelines and ignore the suffering of others and I'm not particularly proud of what I did to that particular group of boys, but let’s just say that Russ had no trouble with them ever again.  And I had found a great friend who, unknown to me at that age, I would later choose to be my best man at a wedding that was destined never to be held.

Russ and I experienced everything together, from our first time climbing a tree to our first day at Scouts.  Russ was naturally competitive and would strive to be the best and outdo others in almost anything.  He had pushy parents who had an overwhelming need for him to do well.  I always assumed this was where his competitive nature came from, but mostly it just gave him an overwhelming need to rebel.

In the early days he strove for perfection, constantly craving his parents’ acceptance and praise.  However, as the years passed without so much as a 'well done' from them for all his efforts, he realised that it didn't matter what he did, he was never going to be considered worthy of their attention or their love. So he decided to rebel, to cease his constant quest to elicit any form of recognition from them.  And, I have to admit, once this decision was reached, Russ did seem to be more free, more content. The constant stress of trying to please people who refused to be pleased had been lifted from him.  Of course, contrary to the last, they adored me and thought I was a wonderful, well turned out young man.  Unfortunately, this made the rift between Russ and his parents even wider. 

My memories of days spent with him are filled with happiness and camaraderie, but of course not all our time together was like that.  A storm was brewing, one big enough to break even the strong bond between us; one that would cause two best friends to hate one another for a while, with an intensity neither of us had ever felt before.

Russ, Lucy and I had all known each other since primary school.  Our parents were friends so we spent a good deal of our younger lives at each other’s houses.  We once built a treehouse together that we used to spy on people, pretending that each person we saw approaching us had some deep, dark secret and trying to guess what it was.  Lucy was very much the tomboy back then.  All dirty knees and wild hair, she didn't play with dolls or care about makeup.  She was one of the boys, and if you tried to tell her otherwise she would kick you on the shin.  Later I loved to remind her of those days and she would mostly roll her eyes at me... then kick me on the shin.  I guess she hadn't changed much after all.

We would have stone skimming competitions by the river and out of the three of us she was always the best at it.  Russ and I would scratch our heads and watch her technique for hours and still couldn't fathom how she did it.  She was also the best goalie our junior team ever had.  She was a tiny thing too, with pale skin and a mass of mahogany curls.  She was focused and determined, tenacious even as a child, and she drew me and Russ in like bees around a honey pot.  There was something about her combined innocence and stubbornness that was fascinating to us.

Feeling melancholy once again, I pushed these thoughts aside and watched as my mother drove home, her face drawn, eyes dull.  She was a strong woman, but I could tell she wasn't sleeping or eating properly.  In the short time I'd been gone she had lost weight, her collarbones visibly protruded through her skin where they never had before.  I watched her park the car and walk into the house I had grown up in, where my father was waiting.

"Why didn't you tell me you were going to the florist’s?" he asked gently.

"It was something I needed to do alone," she replied.

My father walked towards her, concern in his eyes. My mother looked at him with a helpless expression on her face.  She was tired and the weight of the sadness I had caused was weighing her down.  Anyone could see she felt shattered and weak, my death was ripping her apart.  My father wrapped her in his arms and began to rock her gently.  He stared into space for a while and slowly his eyes glazed over and shone with fresh tears. Then he said something that made me wish I were there, holding them both tightly.

"We are all devastated by this, my dearest, but for as long as you need me, I will be here to wake you up every morning, to prop you up throughout the day and to put you to bed at night.  I will be here through the thick of it and I will be watching over you, just like Charlie is right now."

“He was our only child. The other…” she sobbed.

“Shhh,” my father cut her off, and pulled her closer to him.

My dear dad was a good man and I knew he'd watch out for her, but seeing their grief playing out in front of my eyes was causing me immense regret.   I wanted to scream out to them, to embrace them and let them know I was OK, that I had passed on and would see them both again one day.  I detested the barrier between my world and theirs, it made me feel helpless and alone.  Just another thorn in Heaven's glistening crown.

I couldn't watch any more, I decided I wanted to see the goofy face of my best friend instead.  A friend who had made it his lifelong mission to make me laugh until my eyes filled with tears and my breathing became sharp and desperate.  A friend who loved me even after I left a wide hole in his heart, even after my betrayal.  I concentrated on Russ's easy grin and relaxed posture, his messy hair and stubbly chin.

A hazy image appeared and I heard his usually jovial voice.  Russ was a joker, he had a sarcastic comment for everything, and he had Lucy and me in stitches on a regular basis.  His sense of humour and ability to turn any situation into a joke is his most attractive quality. Women in particular are drawn to him, like old folks are drawn to bingo.

It was clear that Russ was not his usual fun-loving self today.  His face was pale, he had dark circles under his eyes and was constantly running his hands through his thick, light brown hair, a sure sign he was feeling tense.  He was talking to someone and I detected a slight annoyance in his tone, which was unusual for him. He’s usually so calm and level-headed. That was the main reason I wanted to see him.  'Keep your head, whilst everyone around you is losing theirs' could be Russ's mantra, and it was a quality I’d often admired in him.