looked lost.
He sat next to her, thankful for the mats she’d placed on the bench.
At first she didn’t acknowledge him, simply kept her deadened gaze on the starry sky.
After long moments of silence, she opened her mouth. ‘When I was a little girl, my mum told me the stars were our dead ancestors looking down on us.’
‘That’s a nice thing to believe,’ he answered carefully.
‘I want it to be true. I want to believe she’s up there looking over us all.’ She hugged the blanket tighter around herself. ‘You know you asked me why I went into fashion?’
He nodded, a pointless gesture with her eyes still staring upwards.
‘It was because of her. It was a way to spend time with her, just me. She loved us all but so much of her time was spent managing Dad’s depression and trying to limit its impact on me and James that sometimes it was hard to get her to myself. We’d hole ourselves up in her study and design and make our own clothing. I kept trying to talk her into going to my old fashion college as a mature student, but she kept putting it off, saying she would do it one day. And now it’s too late. She’ll never do it. All the dreams she had...all gone.’
‘When did she die?’
‘Three months ago.’
The jolt this information gave him felt like a physical blow.
Three months?
That meant Malcolm Richardson had lost his wife only weeks before the money had gone missing...
He lost his train of thought when he felt her slump beside him, saw her drop forward to wrap her arms around her knees and bury her face.
For too long he stared at her shaking body before placing a hand on her back.
She shuddered. He thought she was going to shrug off his ineffectual attempt at comfort; instead she twisted into him, placing her head on his chest as she sobbed, her tears falling onto his naked skin.
Pascha didn’t think he’d ever felt as inadequate as he did at that moment. All he could do was stroke her hair with the palm of his hand, his guts a tangled knot.
His mind raced, a confusion of thoughts he couldn’t begin to decipher.
Only three months...
‘I miss her so badly.’ Emily spoke in gasps, her breaths warming his stomach. ‘I can’t believe she’s gone. I just want her back.’
What could he say? Nothing.
‘When she was diagnosed we knew she wouldn’t have long but it happened so
quickly
. Seven months. That’s all we had—that’s all
she
had. Seven months. All the time in the world would never have been enough.’
It was as if a floodgate had opened. Emily’s anguish spilled out, unable to be contained.
‘What happened to her?’ he asked quietly, nestling his hand into her hair and cradling her scalp protectively.
It took a few attempts for her to get the words out. ‘She had Progressive Bulbar Palsy.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A form of motor neurone disease. Very aggressive. So cruel....’ Her words tailed away.
‘Is that why you took all that time off work?’ he asked, his stomach clenching. He’d assumed it had all been tied to her father’s recent mental breakdown; he’d had no idea it stretched back so long.
She rocked into him. ‘I had to be there. So little time.’ Emily couldn’t speak any more, her vocal cords choked by her grief.
Since the diagnosis, Emily had worked on autopilot, on the go all the time, never sitting still long enough actually to face what was happening to her mother full-on. It had been the same when she’d died.
She hadn’t cried since the funeral, too worried about her father to grieve for the woman they’d all adored.
‘Let me ask you something.’ Pascha spoke in a gentle tone that soothed her as much as the tender movements of his hand in her hair, massaging her scalp. ‘When your mother died, did she know how much you loved her?’
She tilted her face to look at him. His face was crinkled, his eyes a litany of emotion. She nodded in response, still unable to speak.
‘Then you did have enough time,
milaya moya
.’
He sat next to her, thankful for the mats she’d placed on the bench.
At first she didn’t acknowledge him, simply kept her deadened gaze on the starry sky.
After long moments of silence, she opened her mouth. ‘When I was a little girl, my mum told me the stars were our dead ancestors looking down on us.’
‘That’s a nice thing to believe,’ he answered carefully.
‘I want it to be true. I want to believe she’s up there looking over us all.’ She hugged the blanket tighter around herself. ‘You know you asked me why I went into fashion?’
He nodded, a pointless gesture with her eyes still staring upwards.
‘It was because of her. It was a way to spend time with her, just me. She loved us all but so much of her time was spent managing Dad’s depression and trying to limit its impact on me and James that sometimes it was hard to get her to myself. We’d hole ourselves up in her study and design and make our own clothing. I kept trying to talk her into going to my old fashion college as a mature student, but she kept putting it off, saying she would do it one day. And now it’s too late. She’ll never do it. All the dreams she had...all gone.’
‘When did she die?’
‘Three months ago.’
The jolt this information gave him felt like a physical blow.
Three months?
That meant Malcolm Richardson had lost his wife only weeks before the money had gone missing...
He lost his train of thought when he felt her slump beside him, saw her drop forward to wrap her arms around her knees and bury her face.
For too long he stared at her shaking body before placing a hand on her back.
She shuddered. He thought she was going to shrug off his ineffectual attempt at comfort; instead she twisted into him, placing her head on his chest as she sobbed, her tears falling onto his naked skin.
Pascha didn’t think he’d ever felt as inadequate as he did at that moment. All he could do was stroke her hair with the palm of his hand, his guts a tangled knot.
His mind raced, a confusion of thoughts he couldn’t begin to decipher.
Only three months...
‘I miss her so badly.’ Emily spoke in gasps, her breaths warming his stomach. ‘I can’t believe she’s gone. I just want her back.’
What could he say? Nothing.
‘When she was diagnosed we knew she wouldn’t have long but it happened so
quickly
. Seven months. That’s all we had—that’s all
she
had. Seven months. All the time in the world would never have been enough.’
It was as if a floodgate had opened. Emily’s anguish spilled out, unable to be contained.
‘What happened to her?’ he asked quietly, nestling his hand into her hair and cradling her scalp protectively.
It took a few attempts for her to get the words out. ‘She had Progressive Bulbar Palsy.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A form of motor neurone disease. Very aggressive. So cruel....’ Her words tailed away.
‘Is that why you took all that time off work?’ he asked, his stomach clenching. He’d assumed it had all been tied to her father’s recent mental breakdown; he’d had no idea it stretched back so long.
She rocked into him. ‘I had to be there. So little time.’ Emily couldn’t speak any more, her vocal cords choked by her grief.
Since the diagnosis, Emily had worked on autopilot, on the go all the time, never sitting still long enough actually to face what was happening to her mother full-on. It had been the same when she’d died.
She hadn’t cried since the funeral, too worried about her father to grieve for the woman they’d all adored.
‘Let me ask you something.’ Pascha spoke in a gentle tone that soothed her as much as the tender movements of his hand in her hair, massaging her scalp. ‘When your mother died, did she know how much you loved her?’
She tilted her face to look at him. His face was crinkled, his eyes a litany of emotion. She nodded in response, still unable to speak.
‘Then you did have enough time,
milaya moya
.’
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