Forgetting You

I had another four weeks of wearing the boot, and I had eight physical therapy sessions left during that time that would strengthen my leg and get me walking crutch- and boot-free. As much as I didn’t want to wait until then to get back working, maybe it was what was best for me. I was still fresh out of the hospital, and a few more weeks of taking it easy and adjusting to a regular life again would be good for me.

It would be good for Elliot and my parents too. When I took on a responsibility that would allow me to be left to my own devices all day, with only myself to depend on, it would be an adjustment for them too.

I took my phone from my bag when it pinged. It was Elliot messaging me and asking if I was awake. I suddenly felt like a little kid who’d been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. I wasn’t going to tell him I was out and about in Tulse Hill at my old shop. He would probably have a heart attack out of fear I would suddenly collapse or something. So I played it cool as we sent texts back and forth. I couldn’t text and walk at the same time due to my crutches, so I wrapped my conversation up with Elliot and left the shop.

There were no signs I could see that the place was hiring, and I wasn’t sure if I’d left the shop on good or bad terms with Helen the owner, but I thought I would add it down as one of the shops to check when I eventually applied. It had been a few years since I’d worked there . . . Helen probably wasn’t even the owner any more.

I walked back towards the bus stop, but I felt like skipping. My little adventure was rewarding, thoroughly enjoyable, and had given me a plan for the future and the determination to go with it. Having my drive back and something to look forward to would make the next few weeks more bearable. I had a goal, and I knew that once Elliot could see that I was getting stronger, he’d support me and help me in whatever way he could. My parents too.

I had to walk uphill to get back to the bus stop – in reality it wasn’t much more than a little incline, but my body was beginning to feel the ache that all this movement was causing. I paused and leaned against a wall, just to catch my breath. I frowned as I stared at the scene before me. There were piles of flowers against a partially damaged building wall – so many that the pathway was almost obstructed for pedestrians who were passing by. My heart hurt when I realised that someone had died there. I wondered what had happened, and before I knew it I was in front of the flower pile, to read one of the cards attached to the mountain of bouquets of flowers. Many of the flowers were bloomed pink lilies that were at different stages of dying.

I leaned forward and read the first one I spotted.

Rest easy, angel.

xoxo

Quick, simple and very sweet. I moved my eyes over more cards, but many of them were without the usual plastic sheets to protect them from being exposed to the weather and had been damaged. My eyes found a huge arrangement of pink lilies in the shape of a butterfly in flight – it was beautiful. I carefully lifted it up with one hand, squinted and began reading.

Sleep tight our darling Bailey girl.

Watch over us, and wait for us, beauty.

Love you always,

Da, Ma & Elliot xx

I stared at the card, reading it three times before I slowly lowered the flowers back down to the ground. Bailey girl. Da, Ma and Elliot. I blinked at the coincidence of the girl who had clearly died being called Bailey and having someone close to her – maybe a brother – with the name Elliot. I looked to my right when an older gentleman paused, like me, to peer at the flowers and read a couple of cards. He glanced at me, noticed I was looking at him, and smiled in greeting.

“Very sad.” He nodded to the flower pile. “The poor kid was only starting her life.”

“A child?” I asked, horrified. “The girl who died was only a child?”

I would have been sad for a person’s passing at any age, but there was something about a child losing their life before they had a chance to live it that struck me as truly tragic.

“To me, yes.” He nodded. “To you, not so much.”

I frowned. “She was an adult then?”

“Twenty-one or twenty-two, I think. I speak with her father every so often, he’s an Irishman. He owns McKenna’s pub.”