chapter 8 - looking ahead

I had been dreading Babby’s reaction to leaving but she was surprisingly upbeat, handling it as if it was just a short term goodbye, in contrast to the others who cried buckets, hanging over us with keening moans. Babby tends to be easy with her feelings. I envy that about her sometimes.


Just a bit of daylight left as we drove to the airport, groves of white birches and clusters of dachas dotting the snowy fields. Looks like I’ll have to save the troika ride for another visit. I was looking forward to the long flight so I could think. Just think. But glancing over at Babby, who didn’t look at all sleepy and, instead, ready to talk, I realized it might not be a quiet journey back.

chapter 8 - a kind of ending

When I got back Babby and Auntie Galina were all still at it. Amazing. Can it be Babby has found her match? Actually, it was more a duel of monologues than a dialogue. Her accent has deepened, more Russian, less Danish. The thing I will remember most of this trip is the sound of two old gals in the kitchen talking and singing away before breaking off in a peal of girlie giggling.

Without thinking further I put in the call, even though I could feel my courage waver and my stomach flutter.

“Oh Dad, hi, it’s me. I just wanted to let you know about Babby’s flight times.” My relief was overwhelming. I could just pass on the message to Dad and deal with Mom another time.

“I’ll put your mother on.”

“Wait, I could just tell you… Oh. Hi Mom.”

“Your father said you’re calling about the flights. What’s happened? Has something changed?”

“No, no the flights are the same. Everything’s just fine. I’m just confirming.”

“Oh. Well.”

“You won’t be late will you? Babby will be tired after the long flight and will want to be met right on time.”

“Why do you always make such a fuss about being a few minutes late? It’s not like I can predict traffic.”

“Just - give yourself lots of time and get there early.”

“And pay extra for parking? Do you know how expensive airport parking is? Do you think we are made of money? You never appreciated the value of money.”

“Mom!”

“Yes, yes, all right don’t fuss. We’ll be there on time. How is the old dear?”

“Babby’s fine. I think she has had a really good visit.”

“Of course she has. She hasn’t made a nuisance of herself has she? Not said anything embarrassing?”

“Everyone loves her. But I’m sure she’s looking forward to coming home to see all of you. And her dog, she misses Binky”

“That beast has been nothing but trouble. The cat is completely traumatized. That dog widdles on the carpet, and yesterday it widdled on the sofa. How could anyone miss it? You haven’t changed your mind about coming back with her have you?”

“Mom I have a job to get back to.”

“Oh yes. Of course. We all have to work.”

“Mom, I …. " I swallowed hard and plunged in. "Mom, I do miss you.”

“What?”

“I said I miss you. I do. Really. I’ve learned more about the family on this trip and I feel so far away.”

“You are far away. You live far away.”

“I know. But I can still miss you all.”

“Well then ok, but whose fault is that?”

“Mom, why do you have to be so…?” I stopped, breathed deeply and started again. “Look, why don’t you consider coming to London in the spring? We could go shopping, out to a nightclub, a concert. It would be great to spend time with you. And you’ve never seen my flat.”

“You’re not the only one with a job you know. “

“You could take some time off, I’m sure. You have holiday time banked and you’ve always said there are less funerals in spring. And your understudy could use the opportunity I’m sure.”

“Won’t you have to work?”

“Yes, but I could take a few days off. Or I might even be between jobs then. And there are evenings and weekends. We don’t have to spend every minute together. You could explore London.”

“On my own? Wandering around that great big city alone?”

“No not alone. You don’t have to do anything alone. I could go with you. I’ll take time off. I told you.”

“What would I pack? I have no clothes.”

“You have a black dress. Bring that. No one wears anything but black in London anyway. And we’ll buy you more clothes.”

“I’d have to ask your father. He might think it’s a bit extravagant. Going off to London on a whim. It will look flighty. What would people say about me just going off to London?”

“Mom you’ve never asked Dad about going anywhere before. That’s a cop out. If you don’t want to come just say so.”

“I am not going all that way just to be left on my own in a strange city.”

“For goodness sake, I’m not going to leave you alone. My God Mom what are you afraid of?”

“I’m afraid of ….being….

“What? What is it Mom? Just say it.”

“….invisible.”

Well, I wasn’t expecting her to say that. “Invisible!”

“You’ll spend all your time with your friends and your job and your life. I’ll just be there in a corner, invisible and ignored. Now don’t get huffy, you always ignored me, whenever I was out with you. You always did. You never gave me one jot of attention whenever I was with you. Whenever I took you anywhere you wanted nothing more than to say goodbye and get away from me. I don’t want to come all the way to London and end up being the invisible mother.”

“Mom is that what you think? It’s not like that. It was never like that. Invisible! My goodnss, that's what I wanted to be most of the time myself. You always made such a fuss, always getting me to classes late, always making me so embarrassed. Fixing my clothes, telling me what to say, what everyone will think of you if I do something wrong. Talking too loud. I didn’t want the attention. I hated all the attention. Why did you always try to put so much more attention on me than on the others?”

“Sidney and Sam were different. They were fine, they had each other, they were like each other. But you were mine. I saw me in you. Everyone said so. Didn’t you see it?”

“Me? Like you? I’m nothing like you. You’re beautiful. Ok, I guess we both have brown hair and brown eyes, but I never…. I never thought…. How can you possibly use that as an excuse for being so overbearing? I felt trapped – it was so intense. You never left me alone. ”

Mom was continuing, talking quickly, as if she couldn’t stop herself. “You stayed in your own world, never letting anyone else in. Never letting me in. I tried to get a reaction from you. Something, anything. You never reacted about anything. Never told me what you really thought or felt. Just turned and walked away. You walked away as a child and then when Andrew died and even after. I wanted you to know, but I didn’t want to hurt you. Didn’t want you to think it was my fault. Didn’t want you to go even further inside yourself.”

I answered. “I was always afraid of being told I was wrong, or stupid, or different. I felt like such an outsider. An outsider in my own family.”

“All tied up in knots. And there was no way you would let someone help untangle them.”

“But the more you tried to get me to react the more I retreated.”

“All I wanted was, what is it you kids say these days? Validation. If you just validated my presence I’d have been happy. Well, satisfied anyway.”

“Oh Mom. Don’t. Don’t cry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t know. I just saw you making a fuss of me and I wanted to get away from it. I never knew what to say. I was awkward. Felt awkward. Shy. So I guess I said nothing.”

“And I saw you, my child, the child most like me, the child I needed most, hating to be anywhere near me.”

There was a long pause. I could hear her breathing through a handkerchief and imagined the mascara runs, and my heart hurt. I’d been sitting and now I stood up.

“May is the most beautiful month in England. Come in May. I need to talk to you. I want to ask your advice about something. About a guy. And a new job. And to talk about other things. I want to know everything. I’ll call you as soon as I get back to London and we can start planning. I promise. I’ll call you as soon as I get back. I promise. Bye Mom, bye.”

I was a bit dazed as we finished the last of our packing. My heart felt full. Looking at Babby I wondered if she knew what I now know and decided that even if she does know, it is something between my mother and I to discuss. And I need time to process it all before I talk to Mom.

chapter 8 - the white stuff

The party post-mortem continued this morning, so after everything was tidied up I made my escape to the Izmailovsky market, taking the Metro. If everything in Russia ran like its Metro, this country would take over the world. And deserve it.

At each platform there is a clock indicating when the next train will arrive in increments of seconds. And it does. On the second! The trains are large, clean, fast, and cheap. Stations looks like halls in a beloved art gallery instead of venues of mass transit. Marble floors, chandeliers, sculptures, mosaics, curved ceilings, soft lighting. Never have I been so impressed by a subway in all my life.

I emerged somewhat dazzled, both from the amazingly beautiful travel experience, and because a sheet of white greeted me. Snow! At last! It’s very thin, not nearly enough for a troika, but it’s snow none the less. The teeming market was abundant with Russian handicrafts. I bought a tea glass like the ones I have been using every day, a thin glass set in a decorative metal holder. A wonderful embroidered shawl for Mom and a set of matryoshka nesting dolls depicting famous Russian scientists for Dad. Things for Sidney and Sam and all their progeny, canine and otherwise. I was in danger of getting completely carried away. I realized I hadn’t really seen or talked to any of them in years. Not really. I have stayed alone and disconnected. Distance does that. But I’m beginning to suspect geographical distance isn’t the only culprit. I felt homesick for the first time in, well, maybe forever!

The market sellers were as determined as any in any market anywhere in the world. “Look, very fine. And cheap. Cheap at half the price.” ‘Of course it’s cheap at half the price’, I wanted to say – ‘it’s half the price. What you mean to say is it’s cheap at twice the price.’ But of course I didn’t say anything. I’m beginning to see that really is a problem. How can I expect other people to understand what I think if I don’t say anything? They can’t all be as intuitive as Hamish. Hamish understood me so well.

chapter 8 - partytime

Still no snow. Will I never get my troika ride?

Babby came with me for my walk today. We walked slowly past the Goodwill Games Sport Stadium and a pretty little convent, its gold tiled spires in the now familiar onion shape dazzling in the grey light.

“Thank you dear,” Babby said suddenly.

“Thank you for what?”

”For bringing me here. I know how busy you are, and how tiring it must be to travel with an old lady.”

“Oh Babby, believe me, it has been no trouble. I’ve loved being here with you, meeting your family, finding out more about your history. It’s context for me. I think this was absolutely the right thing for me to do at this time in my life. After all…. ”

“After all, I won’t be here much longer?”

“That was not what I was going to say! I was going to say, after all, I am the one with the least commitment to family or other people, and the one with the most travel experience.” I wanted to say more, about how I treasure her friendship, her enthusiasm, her easy way with showing affection, but I couldn’t make it sound the way I wanted. I can never make it sound the way I want.

After walking in silence awhile Babby turned to me. “Tomorrow you must phone your Mother.”

“Oh yes I suppose I must confirm what flight you’ll be on when we part in London.”

“That’s not quite what I meant dear. I think you need to talk to her about other things. And I know she needs to talk to you. She’s wanted to for a long time now. You are both needing each other. And if you wait until you go back to your home it won’t happen.”

I said nothing but walked head down, kicking bits of gravel, feeling like a child. We returned along the Komsomolsky Prospect passing the enormous insulated pipes that carry Moscow’s water. I took a deep breath before reentering the apartment to help with preparations for our last night. Auntie Galina has pulled out all the stops; tons of food, decorations, even hired entertainment. By 8pm a legion of people had arrived, none of whom Babby knew so I could see this would be an exhausting time for her, despite her protestations of loving it. I made her sit down at every opportunity, and tried to do the same with the pregnant and stressed out Svetlana. Auntie Galina the cyclone wore down even Arkady. He looked wild eyed and concerned every time someone’s glass was even partially low in case Auntie Galina would see it and growl. The only calm ones were Vasily and the dog, who both blissfully slept through it all. Either these people don’t entertain enough or they entertain too much.

After two hours, everyone left and the evening really began.

“So and so didn’t touch my blinis.”

“Do you think so and so liked it better than the last party at so and so's?”

“Did so and so even try the cake?”

“I hope so and so didn’t notice the decorations were the same ones used at the summer party.“

“Our entertainment was ever so much more professional than that pathetic magician at so and so’s party in September.”

“Did you see that dress so and so was wearing? It’s so unfashionable. And unflattering now that she’s gained all that weight.”

“And she needs to colour her hair. She looks fifty.”

“Fifty! She must be fifty-five if a day!”

Etc. etc.

chapter 8 - revelation

My last day in St. Petersburg. Weak sunshine and a cold, blue sky. I can’t bear my own company so joined a tour in the morning. Two earnest students led seven of us, myself, three Swedes, two Germans and a Dutch man. We saw Dostoyevsky’s familiar haunts among city sights; the apartments he lived in and places he wrote about. We passed Lion Bridge and so many canals I lost track, oddly satisfied to keep my map in my pocket and just let someone else lead.

At the end of the tour we piled into a café near St. Isaac’s Cathedral and shared a meal of mushrooms in cream sauce, pelmeni with dill, basil and cucumbers, all washed down with pepper flavoured vodka, which was so hot it made me feel I had steam coming out of my ears, like some cartoon character. Walking back along Nevsky Prospect I passed fur clad matrons, beautiful men that looked like ballet dancers or figure skaters, and disheveled indigents drinking home brewed vodka out of yogurt cups.

A rather in depth discussion with my student guides confirmed the feeling I have that Russia has lost its way a bit. The Cold War had given it a sort of cache, strength and power cloaked in mystery, but now it’s more like the Wizard of Oz, still the same underneath but decloaked. Surface disposition at odds with its inner character. It needs to reinvent itself – no – rediscover itself perhaps. Inflation, haywire budgets, war in Chechnya – new troubles and old still unresolved. For many, the old troubles at least offered some security, enforced servility guaranteed life’s essentials; everyone was impoverished but at least it was everyone. There’s a visible gap now, and it’s widening. ‘Russia is always defeated but never beaten’, an old Russian saying Babby told me. I wonder how often Russia has been defeated from within. The gap between rich and poor is perhaps inevitable in a country going through great change.

At the hostel I packed up my things and took advantage of one more glorious shower before heading out to catch the train back to Moscow. Arkady met me at the station. It’s lovely to be met. I am always returning from my trips to a cold and silent flat. I asked him questions during the ride home, barely getting more than one word answers but satisfied just the same. Back at the flat, all three ladies were just as I’d left them, sitting, playing cards and talking over tea, talking over each other, Svetlana now as lively as Galina, making all the usual family small talk about who has died, who was dying, and who should be killed. Babby was drinking her tea in the Russian way and I wondered if that would last once she got home. I briefly recounted my trip to Auntie Galina’s peppered questions then heard about their upcoming party plans. Auntie Galina has decided that all the decorations will be red because if her sainted husband had still been alive it would have been their 40th wedding anniversary.

That reminded me of last summer, for Mom and Dad’s 40th anniversary, when I hunted out photos of their courting days to enlarge for decorations and found one of the first party they attended together. Acting out their roles even then, Dad in a corner with another serious looking geek and Mom in a crowd whooping it up, glass in hand and arms flung up, overshadowing all the gray ladies, her familiar smile radiant and aggressive even then. A woman who got what she wanted only to find it wasn’t enough. She’s always needed to be noticed, more and more as she has grown older and there are less parties. Maybe that’s why she is consistently late, it’s the only way she has of making others notice.

Later, I told Babby my thoughts and she replied “You know, you are more alike than you realize. No, it’s not about being late. Your mother was just as insecure when she was younger. She didn’t know what she wanted either.”

My surprise was palpable. “What do you mean? I know what I want.”

“No you don’t. You think you do. Your job, career, all your travels, friends. All those men you tell me you are seeing but never tell me anything more about. But are you happy dear? Are you completely happy?”

“Well no not completely. Is anyone completely happy?” I asked glibly.

“Oh my goodness yes. People are completely happy with the most awful lives.”

“Well I am certainly happy enough. “

“Happy enough for what? You’re so guarded, so afraid of being hurt that you never really let anyone in. This friend you saw the other day. How often do you see her? Of course she’s the perfect friend for you, she lives a thousand miles away! You always seem to be looking for something. And getting upset with people because they can’t provide it.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Your mother. You expect her to know what’s in your heart, but you never tell her. She longs to be included in your life. You never ask for her advice.”

“I don’t need to ask. She gives it all the time.”

“Oh but that’s not the same thing at all. She wants to be asked. The others ask her things all the time, but you never do. You’ve no idea. She misses you terribly you know.”

“She does? Mom misses me?” I was genuinely surpirse. Our phone calls were always brusque affairs that she terminated early.

“Oh my yes she is always rereading your letters and postcards. Wondering what you are doing. Afraid to call because you might not want to talk.”

“But she talks enough for both of us. Always telling me what she would do if she was me. What to do, how to do it, who to do it with, what will happen if I do it wrong.”

“Well now, if you don’t ask her how else is she going to tell you?”

“She’s always so much harder on me than the others.”

“She was harder on you because you mean so much to her. It’s her way of avoiding playing favourites. I think you are your own worst enemy dear. Forgive me for saying something so harsh, but if you just accepted some things like you accept others it all might go a little easier for you.”

“Well, I always thought accepting each others’ differences was part of life’s challenge, and also its reward. But I never thought I’d be the one who was close minded.”

“Not closed dear. Just not quite open all the way. Sort of…ajar.”

chapter 8 - a long way from Delphi

We spent all day at the Hermitage Museum. It’s far too big to take everything in on one visit, but we tried. Room after room of treasures. We managed to see a bit of everything, walking quickly and talking constantly. How much more can there be to tell each other? Me talking and her nodding as if she already knew what I was saying. Her lecturing me. Both remembering some long ago connection. Hours and hours. Now our fleeting visit is over, over in a blink. How many years before another? She clasped my hands and looked hard into my face, into my very soul, not letting me squirm away. “Find your happiness and hang onto it. Make it part of your life no matter how hard it is and how miserable it makes you. Or you will regret. And regret is like poison.”

Then, like the oracle she sometimes convinces me she is, she waved herself away in a careening taxi back to the ferry and her chaotic but happy life.

chapter 8 - too many men and not enough either

This morning I went down to the showers located in a stone cellar, hot and steamy. There were only two in the women’s section for this entire building - what a nightmare it must be during high season! Fortunately I was the only one there and so was able to take my time figuring out how to work the archaic plumbing. Once it got going, a large showerhead high above shed hot, strong water gushing straight down onto the crown of my head. I stood there in ecstasy. Without doubt the best shower I’ve ever had anywhere in the world. Maybe I should do a best of list, the best shower, the best bed, the best hike, the best interaction, the best museum - no that one would be too difficult.

Connie’s boat was in, baggage unloaded, and minutes felt like hours until I saw her. Then hugging in a wonderful flood of pure joy. I cried buckets – I am so much more emotional than I used to be, crying at movies and plays, even sporting events. I put it down to a kinder gentler me. Mom says I am just getting old. We got Connie's things loaded into a taxi and to her hotel. I had thought she might stay in the hostel with me, but obviously her trekking days are over.

She had already arranged for soup, a sort of strongonoff and bread as a sort of room picnic, which we ate on the floor talking a mile a minute. I felt like a little girl staying over at a friend’s house and sharing secrets in her bedroom. Everything unleashed. How our lives have changed since we met almost ten years ago! Amazing how close two people who have actually seen each other only three times can be. Meeting kindred spirits while travelling heightens the relationship, as if so much has to be discovered with so little time to spare. I hardly know this woman really, yet I can tell her everything.

She said she wanted to know everything that was happening in my life starting with the most important, so when was the last time I had sex? I told her about the dates I’d had over the last year and she howled with laughter. She's the only one not shocked at my sleeping with a dozen or so men in a dozen or so cities this year. I kept getting their names mixed up but that didn't faze her either. Such a relief - there' no one else who I can talk to about this Laughter subsided to smile as asked me pointedly when was the last time I’d felt truly connected, both physically, emotionally and spiritually to anyone, man or woman, and I paused before telling her about Hamish. For some reason it was easier to tell her how and where I'd slept around than about my last real relationship. She was sympathetic. At first.

“Maybe you need to find someone who is not British. I hear they are terrible at sex.”

“Well, I don’t know about all Brits but that Brit certainly wasn’t lacking.”

“So what’s the problem? Was he ugly?”

What’s with the ugly thing? Why do people find this important?

“No he wasn’t ugly. Not that that would matter. It’s just that, well, it was hard work. You know, he wanted to do things that I didn’t sometimes. And he was messy.”

“All men live like pigs.”

“And he made decisions and wouldn’t tell me.”

“Like what kind of decisions? What sort of things?”

“Like going back to school.”

“So?”

“In Germany.”

“Ah.”

“Exactly.”

“So going to Germany was his way of getting out of the relationship without a confrontation. Men are such cowards!”

“Well, no he didn’t really want to leave the relationship.”

“He had another girlfriend in Germany. Bastard!”

“No, there is no other girlfriend.”

“Then why go to Germany?”

“The course he wanted to do was there. It’s the best place for his kind of training. What he does.”
“Oh. So what - he wasn’t coming back?”

“Oh yes he was. Is. At least he said so.”

“Did he not want you to visit him there? Was he hiding something?”

“No. No, he invited me to come and stay anytime I wanted. He still does.” I felt my argument weakening.

“So he writes to you?”

“He phones. Sometimes.”

“So he still wants you.”

I stammered, “Yes.”

“Ah I know! He wants you to stay in England so that when he comes back you will stay there and never leave. Englishmen never want to leave England anymore. Ok, Scottish men too - they are all the same, cold and pastry in the face. Not pastry? Pasty. Ok, pasty then! They make their woman stay when it suits them, trapped in a country of rules and bad food. They are idiots and bastards!”

“Well, actually Hamish is rather keen to leave Britain. Getting this degree would help him do that. Be more competitive worldwide I mean.”

“He likes to travel. To travel as you do? Carrying everything you own on your back, staying in filthy huts, eating local food no matter how awful it is? That kind of travelling?”

“Well, yes.”

“Ok so now I am confused. Is he a bad boyfriend or what? Were you tired of him?”

“No, I …”. I drifted off a bit. How could I explain? Everything I said sounded weak and unconvincing even to myself. “I just found it hard to deal with someone else. Who had plans of his own.”

“Even if they included you.”

“Um, yes.”

She looked at me in a way that made me feel totally small and pathetic. “It sounds like you are in denial. Inside still too much alone. Set in your ways. Not willing to change. What do you call it? A sponster.”

“I think you mean a spinster.”

“One of those women who have mouths like chicken’s bottoms, and look over their glasses at you if you laugh or have an idea. My god you can’t turn into one of those! I will never speak to you again if you do. From this moment. Our friendship is over. I’m speechless!”

“Oh Connie, don’t be so theatrical.” What is it about me that seems to attract such highly dramatic women friends? And relations? Mom, for instance. Hmm, I may have hit on something there. “Ok I admit I’m not used to being with someone else. Living with someone else. Having to adjust my life to include someone else. Someone with faults.”

“Do you think you can find a man without faults? It’s impossible.” Then she looked at me sharply. “You are not trying to find a replacement for that dead boyfriend of yours are you? Because he is dead. And because he is dead he has no faults. You have forgotten his faults. If you live with such a memory you will always be alone. And you would deserve to be. You will die an old lady with no friends. At least no friends who live in Sweden. I mean me!”

“Please, let’s talk about something else.”

“This is not going away you know. We will talk of this more. Much more.”

“I thought you were speechless.”

“You are making fun of the only friend you have? The person who is going to tell you the truth about yourself? Never mind your apologies! Now I will tell you about my life and you are going to listen to me for a change, to someone who knows how to live, how to really live.“

Despite her tantalizing words I found Connie has settled down, well, at least as settled as Connie will ever get. She lives with a man in Stockholm who has another live-in girlfriend in Helsinki, going between the two, which suits Connie just fine, as it leaves her ‘time off’ to pursue other interests and other men herself. I discovered she now has three children all under four, but won’t allow either children or their fathers to intrude on her self-exploration, enlisting the help of her neighbours and young language students who all act as casual nannies. “A child can be so cloying.”

“Connie – but you have three.”

“Yes. I love them but I can’t stand being with them. Thank God their fathers do.”

“Fathers? Plural? How many?"

"Three. One per child."

"Are they all still around?”

“Oh yes they come by to see their flesh made real, but who can stay with a man after you’ve had a child with him? It changes men.”

Well, at least Connie will not be one of those people who consider marriage and motherhood as interchangeable necessities. Her latest craze is acoustical massage therapy and she is setting up a studio at home. She has decided to write her memoirs “which will be fascinating, but so many people do not want to see them in print. I will have problems with the censors but my story must be told!”

I long to hear more about her children. What would they grow to be like I wonder? She showed me photos and told me about their characters, remarkable for someone who seems to spend absolutely no time with them. Her eyes have a certain light when she talks, a sort of softness and twinkle both at the same time. No matter how disparaging she was of this one’s poor concentration or that one’s lack of artistry, you could tell she was deeply in love with them all. I felt a pang, a longing for a whole mess of children – a noisy, messy, chaotic mess of little bodies to inspire and conspire.

She asked about my own work but when I told her I was considering an offer with the Royal Geographic Society but was worried it might be a little staid, she interrupted me to say “I know, you must take up photography. There’s a lot of money in photography. I know someone who takes photos for magazines who makes over $200,000 American dollars a year and has three homes in three different countries. That would be perfect for you.”

Thankfully I didn’t have to answer as Connie went off on another tangent. Talking about Hamish had brought him even more to my mind. I hae tried so hard to put him away in some dark recess, and thought I'd been successful but now find he springs back fully formed in my memory. He would have loved hearing Connie flit through her life in 200,000 words or less, and would have caught my eye during a few of the more colourful episodes. He always understood exactly what I was thinking. We could get going on a subject, any subject, and talk about it for hours. We seemed to spend all our time talking or laughing. Oh, yes, Hamish’s laugh. It started in his eyes then erupted in a whole river of pleasurable gurglings before he’d shake his head and make a sideways smile, as if the laugh didn’t want to depart his face. Oh I miss that laugh.

Andrew’s laugh is harder to conjure up. Connie’s comment made me wonder whether in fact he and I would actually have anything to say to each other if we were to meet now. I still read his poems, but they don’t seem as amazing as they used to. Is it them or me? Would Hamish and Andrew be even remotely alike? What would they think of each other?

Well, I know Hamish would be accepting. Right from the start, when I was feeling guilty and worried about how I could possibly be with Hamish without thinking about Andrew, Hamish just sort of invited Andrew's ghost into our relationship. He asked to see the photos and hear the stories. At first I had thought I had to choose either one or the other. I didn’t realize it could be all three of us.

And now I don’t have either.