A Summer to Remember. Victoria Cooke
For my nanna, Lillian.
For your sense of humour, strength and determination.
xxx
2010
The black and white chequered floor whizzes past. Like a psychedelic trip, it isn’t real. I know that I’m running. I can’t feel my limbs moving, just the vague sensation of the air resistance caused by the motion. I’m on autopilot, and the only thing tying me to the reality of where I am, is the pungent smell of disinfectant that’s been with me at every turn.
I stop abruptly, almost colliding with a person dressed head-to-toe in baggy green scrubs. My heart pounds in my chest. I look down at my hand, the knuckles white, still clutching my phone from when I got the call. It can only have been twenty minutes ago. It’s hard to tell because it feels like a lifetime has passed. The surgeon seems to understand that I can’t speak; his features are barely displaced, neutral, but there’s something lurking in his earthy eyes. Sympathy? ‘Mrs Butterfield?’ he asks. I nod, my mouth like Velcro, my brain too disengaged to speak.
‘Mrs Butterfield, I’m sorry. We did everything we could.’
Did?
You can’t have.
The blood pumping in my ears is deafening. Barbed wire is wrenched from the pit of my stomach, right up through my oesophagus. I’ve never felt pain like it. My legs give way, unable to bear the weight of the surgeon’s words and my knees crash to the floor.
I’m vaguely aware of a low, drawn-out wail. It’s me. The surgeon crouches down and looks me directly in the eyes. The warmth of his chestnut-brown gaze anchors me, and I’m able to gather tendrils of composure. I take a breath.
‘Mrs Butterfield, is there anyone we can call for you?’
I shake my head. I only have one person, and now he’s dead.
2018
‘Eurgh.’ I slam the pearlescent invite down by the kettle. ‘Plus one,’ I say in a mocking tone. Coco cocks her head to the side like she’s trying to understand me, and I cup her fluffy face.
‘I know, I don’t get it either.’ My cat’s emerald eyes are still intent on me so, glad of an audience, I carry on.
‘Why Bridget has to assume I need someone by my side is beyond me. As if I’m not capable of going to a wedding without a plus one. It’s not nineteen blooming twenty. I don’t need a chaperone. Perhaps I’ll take you, Coco. That’ll teach her.’ I tickle her under her chin and she stretches out lazily. I’m only half joking.
As I pour my first coffee of the day, my phone rings. ‘Someone’s ears are burning,’ I say on answering.
‘Really?’ Bridget also ignores the need for pleasantries.
‘I got your wedding invite,’ I say dryly.
‘Well, don’t sound too enthusiastic about the happiest day of your best friend’s life,’ she retorts.
‘Aren’t we a bit old for best friends?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
I rub my temples with my thumb and forefinger. ‘I’m sorry, Bridge. I just, well … I’d specifically told you I didn’t need a plus one.’
‘It’s just a formality, Sam. Don’t be so sensitive. I just wanted you to know the option is there if you did want to bring someone.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ I say, before feeling a little guilty. ‘It just seems so old-fashioned, like, the lil lady needs a gentleman to escort her.’ I put on my best ‘Southern Belle’ accent, and Bridget giggles.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘It wasn’t meant to offend you.’
‘I did warn you,’ I scold. ‘Look, I’m not on the lookout for a man, nor am I resigned to being alone – I’m happy with it. People need to stop assuming I need someone. I got the bloody cat everyone thought I should get, okay!’
‘I know, I’m sorry. Everyone else will be coupled up, so I just thought if you wanted to bring a friend, then you could, that’s all.’
‘All of my friends