Chapter 6 - In the Summer of 2004

It was in the early summer of 2004 when John found himself driving down the M5 into Cornwall. Cornwall was one of the finer parts of Britain he thought. A place copied straight from the pages of Tolkien, where the fields are as vast as they are green, and the people live lives in quiet harmony; away from the fossil-fuelled fingers of pollution and loud city-living.

It was June fourth, the BMW humming along restlessly down a stretch of motorway. Cars rocketed past the BM like smeared colours in a Van-Gogh oil painting. Every now and then, a sound like a jumbo jet taking off would scream past them as the wind-resistant cars overtook.

It was cool, almost chilly, but the sky above was a canvas of pale blue without a single blemish. John looked over at his wife, her mind as seemingly absent as the clouds above.

“You alright babe?” John asked, stroking the narrow meat of her thigh. She was wearing a pair of faded jeans, the denim stitching turning to frost on the knees. Lucy turned, returning to the car from whatever distant plane she had been in, and smiled.

“Hmm, yeah.” She spoke.

Now chewing on it, John considered how ridiculous the question was. His intentions were naively innocent of course, but how could she be alright? It had been three years since Jamie’s death, true, but that hadn’t seemed to dilute the fact this was their first time just together since it happened. This was the first time they had truly spent time—just the two of them, alone. The prospect both frightened and excited John. It was time to heal, to rebuild the marriage that was fragmented back in the summer of 2001.

This two-week break to Cornwall would be just what they needed. Angie was staying with Lucy’s grandparents, giving them plenty of opportunities to rekindle the love lost between them. He did not blame Lucy for her extended grief, quite the opposite. Frankly, he was simply happy she was no longer popping six pills a day. Pills conceived to help you fade away from reality, stop you searching. That was what grief was, the pursuit of something lost, admission to a question that cannot be answered. Where did they go? Will I ever see them again? Lord, O’Lord, O’Lord.

Lucy had taken up a strong faith over the last year and despite John’s skepticism at first, it seemed to be helping his wife. That vicar at the church, the one with the warm brown eyes that appeared like pools of smooth chocolate had helped her. John had even agreed to attend church with Lucy every Sunday, and by now, he had gotten used to her daily praying. John had tried praying himself once, more out of interest than actual belief. He half expected to hear God that night, and while Lucy slept, he knelt at the foot of the bed, too ashamed to do it openly, and heard…nothing. Not a single thing. His prayer felt like a pebble falling gracefully down into the depths of an abyss.

To him, it was as if he was talking to only himself, to the voices in his own head. In some ways, he supposed that was what God was to some people, that voice that speaks up when you do something wrong, something right. Your conscience as some people would prefer to call it.

Around Lucy’s neck, dangling from a silver chain was an equally silver cross. A sign of sacrifice, but what had his son done to warrant such sacrifice? Moreover, to what end. The cross had become a simple addition to the chain-link of things different about his wife now.

John’s main conception was how time had acted differently on her compared to him. Time had worked on her, wore her down, aged her. John, however, had come to a certain harsh understanding early. Time does not run away without you, nor does it stop to allow you to catch your breath. It just carries on as always, eternally drifting beside you. Ultimately, the mind must simply admit what has happened and move on. Jamie was dead, and unlike a video game that might let you go back to a previous save file, events in life are final. No auto-saves or restarts, no takebacks, or reverse cards. Just...Game-over.

That same pain they had both felt back in the summer of 2001 had slowly diminished for John, gently healing the same way an itchy wound might heal over time leaving behind nothing more than a tender scar. For his wife Lucy, the pain continued to bleed out and fester, contaminating all other aspects of her life. Angie could not cross a street without Lucy, Angie could not go out a play without Lucy. At one point, Lucy subjected her daughter to her room like some princess in a Disney movie, and any attempt John made to free his imprisoned daughter was met by the fanatic belief he was trying to get her killed. Back then the world was a place where children were chewed up and dispensed with, back then, John honestly thought he would wake up to find his wife dead, an empty bottle of pills still clutched in a stiffened hand. It was worse back then, not nearly as bad now. John gave Lucy’s much thinner thigh another squeeze, she had lost over twenty pounds, twenty pounds she could hardly afford to lose, to begin with.

After some traffic which resulted in a two-hour delay; seemingly some crash on the M5, they still managed to arrive at their destination at quarter to three; credited mainly to their early departure from home. It was a long drive and John could feel the folded muscle in his legs begin to scream their distress.

The ‘Short Oaks’ lodging camp was just the location where the two of them could relax in solemn peace. It was a small holiday venue, housing a respectable dozen log cabins. The smell of pine and freshly cut timber rode the air like a smelly hitchhiker. As John got out of his car stretching the knots in his legs, he was immediately approached by one of the staff members, his black polo shirt bearing the ‘Short Oak’ insignia. The man wore shorts, revealing thick tree trunk legs that probably matched the trees he inevitably cut here. His smile was that of a man who was genuinely pleased to see outsiders, city folk who had come to take the purge from modern life.

“Good afternoon!” The man said holding out a calloused palm to John. John pumped it, as did Lucy when it was offered, albeit less confidently.

“I take it you have one of our cabins booked?” he went on.

“Yes,” answered John, unfolding the documentation he had printed off at home. The documents had been riding in his back pocket and John had to fold the paper open several times. At last, he handed it over.

“Ahhh, you’re staying in The Beaver.” The man said cheerily. John and Lucy looked at him perplexed. The man looked up catching the puzzled looks on their faces.

“Cabin twelve over there.” He clarified, pointing behind them. They both turned to see a cabin barely visible behind a grove of foliage. Chickens wandered freely around the camp, giving John the feeling that he truly was not in Kansas anymore as the saying goes.

“We gave the cabins names after we made them,” the man went on. “Number twelve we called ‘The Beaver’. I got her all cleaned up and ready for you. You just go ahead and start unpacking your things and I’ll get you guys the key.”

“Cheers,” John said.

John raised the boot of his car, feeling the trapped heat inside hit him like an oven. He took the heavier bags leaving the lighter ones for Lucy who seemed to be smiling now and made his way to cabin twelve. He climbed the wooden steps that were so strongly elevated that he struggled slightly. The cabin looked authentic on the outside but through its double-glazed windows, John saw a television hanging from the wall and a modern kitchen to boot.

Lucy gasped when she saw the outdoor hot tub that had been built, its engine motor humming peacefully as it heated the water within. Foam bubbles rose like some volcanic eruption, filling the surrounding air with the scent of chlorine.

“There you are.” Said the member of staff when he returned, handing Lucy the key to the cabin. “If you need anything be sure to ask. I’m usually about the place working, but you can find the reception at the front there if not.”

“Thanks,” John said.

They entered the cabin which smelled strongly of earth and carpet cleaner. John absorbed it all like a sponge. Inside they discovered a bottle of wine on the table—white wine which neither he nor Lucy liked but the sentiment did its job well enough, along with a welcoming letter to Short Oaks where they wished you a happy stay. Besides the letter sat a ledger that housed the scribbling of all the recent occupants. Inside, the recent stayers wrote how they found their vacation, as well as the stuff they had encountered. Lucy translated these readings with great interest while John unpacked.

“Thank you for the pleasant stay,” Lucy announced reading an entry. “We were visited by 'Tommy' the cat in the morning. Who we shared breakfast with ‘shouldn’t that be whom?’ Lovely place and great staff!”

John listened, absently unpacking the towels he brought into the bathroom. A standalone shower stood adjacent to a wooden bathtub giving John the amusing dilemma that this cabin was trying to be two separate things at once. Modern housing wrapped up in primal packaging.

“I wonder if this cat is still alive John?” he heard Lucy call from the main living room. “This entry is dated August last year?”

“Could be babe. Suppose we’ll find out when I start cooking some bacon in the morning.” John answered. He would need to buy the bacon first, but the website said there was a Morrison’s supermarket twenty minutes out of camp. He would go there to buy some supplies, food, and alcohol. He was not sure whether Lucy would drink on this holiday, drinking was never really her thing, even after the accident when it could have been warranted.

John wagered he would likely find his wife’s head buried in a paperback more often than not, something he was completely fine with that. Whatever place Lucy wanted to visit on this trip, be it one of Cornwall’s beautiful beaches or a place only accessed through the portal of a book John didn’t care, this trip was hers.

They split up that day, John making a solo dash to the Morrison’s while Lucy continued to unpack. John had to resist the urge to buy a pack of cigarettes on his visit, knowing full well; holiday or not, the cancer sticks wouldn’t be welcome in the presence of Lucy. After completing his shop, John returned to ‘The Beaver’ to find Lucy playing with the television on the wall. She heard John enter, momentarily startled by his entry—another one of those additional differences in Lucy now.

“Hey babe, everything okay?” John asked dropping a crate of Heineken on the kitchen work surface.

“John, they have like over a hundred channels on this thing,” Lucy said. John wanted to make a joke about the enormous dish that hung from the cabin like some robotic tick but hesitated, instead he smirked smugly at her.

“Only the best for my girl.”

Lucy sent him one of her bashful smiles, a smile he had not seen in…three years? It was enough to make his face feel like it was on fire. Tears were forming behind his eyes unbeckoned. Lucy was returning bit by bit. John held back the momentary assault of emotion that wanted to display itself on his face, instead, he ducked behind to counter to wipe up a mess that wasn’t there. He didn’t want Lucy to see him like this, see the obvious relief on his face simply at the fact his wife could still muster a smile after all this time.

When he rose, Lucy was there beside him. It was enough to make John jump. She seemed to have almost floated to him, her twenty-pound lighter frame and shoeless feet made her movement match that of a spirit. John looked at his wife and drowned in her blue eyes. He felt her fingers run themselves through his salting hair, a touch so electric from years of absence. A kiss found his lips; so tender John had to close his eyes to feel it. Then Lucy’s arms were around his neck and the two of them swayed, drifting side to side like in some teenage prom event.

John began to cry. Tears rushed full force like the opening of a dam; a dam that had remained out of commission for over three years. In response, John began to feel the hot tears from Lucy dissolve into his shirt, but unlike all the previous times, he was happy his wife was crying. They were letting it out together. They were crying out their pain the same way one might squeeze out the water from a heavy sponge.

A man controls his emotions John believed. He locks them in a box and throws away the key. Lucy had become that key, and after what could have been a minute, maybe an hour. Lucy withdrew, her perfume light blue withdrawing with her. Her face was wet with tears but despite this, she still smiled and looked every bit as beautiful to John.

“I’m sorry John. For being the way I have.” She wiped away a wet streak with the palm of her hand.

“Hey shh, shh,” John said pulling her in again. The comment rocked him, and all the previous resentment he never knew he harbored for Lucy melted away into a fine mist, and blew away. A complete reset. He rested his chin on the top of her head feeling his shirt become wet from her ongoing sobs.

“Everything’s going to be okay babe.” He said, stroking her hair and filling himself with her scent. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Lucy muffled gripping the fabric on his back tightly.

They made love that night. The primal ritual was almost abandoned entirely in the recent three years. Afterward, John lay awake staring at the ceiling, knowing full well his seed would not flourish on the account of Lucy being on the pill. He had seen the pills in her bedside draw when looking for his Rolex. Those pills seemed to look up at him as if caught in the act of doing something naughty. Some of the pills were missing and John remembered that feeling of ultimate sadness at the discovery. She would not present him with anymore children, for they brought an unbroken pain that murdered parents.

Lucy slept in his arm, her chest gently rising and falling in that therapeutic rhythm pleasant to all human-beings lucky enough to experience it. He squeezed her tightly.

“I love you.” He wanted to shout but settled for the whisper. The silent room seemed to listen, a cat wailed outside.