On the night before Cal died, I saw him outside with the bird. He ran a finger all the way down its chest and it didn’t move.
He headed off to the beach, and there was something about his shadow on the lawn; about the way the bird flew above him, an avian moon. The blues and the purples in the night seemed to be swamping him, and when I look back now, I can see that even the light was warning me about what was coming. I think it was a sign. I think that we got so many signs and we ignored them because we didn’t believe in them.
I wonder if the future sends us hints to get us ready, so that the grief doesn’t kill us when it comes.
Rachel
Dear Rachel
I believe in a lot of things that you don’t – you know I’m superstitious.
But I don’t believe that the future gives us signs. I think that we look back and read the past with the present in our eyes. I think that’s what you’re doing. Maybe you need to look forward, and start reading the future.
Henry
the future isn’t here yet
I text Rachel after dinner tonight, to make sure she’s okay. The letters we exchanged this afternoon felt important. I’d call her, like I did in the old days, but she’s explained that the warehouse has no walls and Rose works long hours, so when she’s home, she needs her sleep.
Me: What are you doing?
Rachel: Finishing Cloud Atlas. I liked it. I don’t think I completely understood it.
Me: I don’t think you’re alone.
Rachel: I think it was a novel, though. I think the stories are interconnected. The characters all had that same birthmark and someone’s written a note in my copy about the transmigration of the soul – whoever wrote the note thinks the birthmark means the book is about soul transmigration. Do you believe that souls can transmigrate?
Me: What is transmigration exactly?
Rachel: The passing of a soul, after death, into another body.
Me: I don’t know if I believe in it. Do you?
Rachel: No. But it’s a beautiful idea.
Me: You’re always so certain about things. I wonder how it would feel, to be so certain.
Rachel: You’re certain about Amy. You’re certain that selling the bookstore is right.
Me: I’m certain it’s the most profitable decision.
Instead of texting me back, Rachel calls. She starts in on what she wants to say without even saying a hello. ‘This is important, Henry,’ she says. ‘Very important. I want you to imagine, really imagine, that Howling Books is gone. Are you imagining?’
‘I’m imagining.’
‘Good. Now, I want you to imagine that you go to work, every morning, to a normal nine-to-five job. Imagine there’s no Frederick or Frieda. No George, no Martin, no Michael, no books, no me.’
‘Okay.’
‘What exactly are you imagining?’ she asks.
‘I’m sitting at a desk, typing.’
‘What are you typing?’
‘A letter to you.’
‘In this job, you can’t write letters to me. This job doesn’t allow for writing in your spare time, or dreaming, or reading. You don’t really have spare time anymore. At least not unguarded spare time,’ she says, and I hear her shifting her feet around, sliding them through the sheets.
‘Now,’ she continues. ‘Imagine that you’re earning a decent wage. Imagine that Amy is waiting for you at home when you arrive. You live in a flat. You sleep in a regular bed. You have limited space for books.’
I stop imagining. ‘I know all this, Rachel. I know life won’t be great without the shop, but I also know the shop won’t be around forever. I can’t fight the future.’
‘The future isn’t here yet,’ she says, and refers me to my last letter.
Rachel
the soft push and pull of the sea
It’s been a strange week. My dreams of Cal have been exchanged for dreams of Henry. I don’t think I’m imagining that he watches me at the shop. Every time I look over, I can feel that his eyes have been on me and I’ve missed it by a second. Every day I wait for Amy to walk in and end his looks. Every day she doesn’t arrive.
Henry’s been distracting himself from thoughts of her by talking and writing to me. I decided that wasn’t a bad idea, so on Tuesday I found myself texting Joel, and asking how he was doing, to distract myself from Henry.
I’m okay, he replied. I’m better now that I’ve heard from you.
I felt bad for using him, although I wasn’t entirely sure that’s what I was doing. I do miss him. The missing started up this week, after the kiss with Henry. I miss being with someone who loves me.
It makes no sense, but when I read Joel’s texts, I could feel the waves in them. I knew he was on the beach looking at the water as he wrote, and for the first time since I arrived in the city, I was desperate for the ocean’s rhythm.
I’ve wanted it before since Cal died. It’s why I sat near it every night, why Mum did too, I think. Pulled towards it by Cal, and kept away from it by him too. I could imagine myself walking in tonight, though. I could feel my feet at the edge, toes lapping up the salt and the cold.
I called Mum after texting Joel. I wanted to tell her that I missed the sound of the waves. After I said the words I expected her to cry, or to sound hurt or angry. Guarded at the very least. But she held out the phone to the water and I held it to my ear like a shell.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked, after a while.
‘Yes and no,’ I said. ‘You?’
‘Yes and no,’ she said.
‘When will it be yes?’ I asked, but there was no answer to that, so she held out the phone again and together we listened, to the soft push and pull of the sea.
When Henry texts me tonight, I almost don’t answer. It’s dangerous, talking to him, because it makes me want to talk more and more. I turn off the phone and then turn it back on. I look at the text for a while, and then eventually I give in and reply.
I text that I’ve finished Cloud Atlas. I tell him that I think all the stories are interconnected. I keep staring at the cover, at those pages rising to the sky, and wondering about transmigration of the soul. I don’t want to wonder about things like that alone.
I stop texting and call him when he sounds uncertain about the bookstore, because I know he’ll regret selling. I want to convince him of that without actually telling him. All I do in the end is make him angry. He can’t change the future, he says, and I think of him and Amy and how much I want him. ‘The future isn’t set,’ I say, and I hope that he will believe it. I can hear that he doesn’t. I think ahead to the time when he’s with Amy and the bookstore is gone. I can’t picture where I am.
‘Henry,’ I say before I hang up. ‘I want a do-over.’
‘A what?’
‘A do-over,’ I say again. ‘On 14 February, this Sunday night, I want another last night of the world. This time I want to spend it with you. I want you to promise me that whatever happens with Amy, you won’t ditch me for her. The end of the world will be at six in the morning on 15 February. Before then I want to hear Lola and Hiroko play their last song. I want to watch the sunrise.’