“Thanks.” I watched her go inside then I turned back to Neil. “It sounded important.”
“Your idea of important and Valerie’s idea of important—”
“Don’t.” I held up a hand to stop him. “If you don’t want to talk to her, I will. But she really helped me out when you were trainspotting it up yesterday.”
“Fair enough,” he grumbled. I wasn’t sure if he genuinely didn’t want t
o see Valerie—he was still touchy on the subject following my admission of the fight she and I’d had before Emma’s wedding—or if he was trying to protect my feelings. It wasn’t time for that, though; Valerie seemed really upset over something.
When we went back inside, Neil found his brothers and a few assorted cousins I’d already met chatting beside the thoughtfully provided whiskey. I drifted off to find Emma and spotted her lingering near the crudités.
“How are you doing?” I asked, glancing down at her swollen ankles.
“I am avoiding my husband,” she said, casting a wary glance around the crowded sitting room. “There’s concern, and then there’s blatant overprotective worry. I feel like I’m in prison.”
“In prison, they don’t give a shit about your health, though,” I reminded her. “I watch Orange Is The New Black. I know things.”
She snorted. “Can Larry just die or fall into a hole or something?”
I laughed. “But, seriously, are you doing okay?”
“I’m fine. A bit sad, but really, it’s a relief. She wasn’t herself anymore.” Emma looked down at the glass in her hand. “In a way, it was a bit like she died when she had that stroke.”
“I’m so sorry.” My own grandfather had suffered a minor stroke that had paralyzed a part of his face; it hadn’t done anything to his mind, the way it had to Rose. It made me even more grateful that he’d been able to spend his days in some version of coherence.
“I can’t believe how unexpected this was.” Emma wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. “I’m sorry, these damned hormones.”
“Yeah,” I said sympathetically. “Or your grandmother just died, and you’re grieving.”
She laughed through her tears. “Shut up, Sophie, you’re not helping.”
We stayed until the last guests left then the family retired to the drawing room, where I listened to Neil and his siblings reminisce about their mother with affection and sadness. There were so many stories: the time Rose had slipped in manure at a polo match, and Prince Philip had made an off-color remark about it. Family trips to the seaside. Funny phrases Rose had used through their childhood. All the comedy and tragedy of a life well lived.
For as different as Neil’s family was from mine, they grieved in the same style, clinging to the good memories of their mother. These were the anecdotes they would revisit whenever their grief returned. Though memories could never replace a silly pet name or the feeling of a mother’s hand stroking their fevered brow, at least they had them to comfort themselves as they grieved. How many funeral dinners had my family spent exactly the same way? Death was the great equalizer in more ways than one.
Neil excused himself, and when he didn’t return after what seemed like a long time, I left to follow him. He wasn’t on the first floor, so I crept upstairs, hoping Fiona wouldn’t view my wandering her home as a gross invasion of her privacy.
At the top of the stairs on the second floor, I found an open door and soft light spilling out. I stepped inside. Neil sat on the edge of a bed made up with a lovely floral bedspread. An oxygen bottle stood in the corner, a delicate porcelain bell on the nightstand.
Neil’s posture was a picture of total defeat, his shoulders slumped, his back bowed. He looked up when I knocked on the half-opened door, and his eyes were red and tired.
“Hey, baby.” I went to his side and sat with him on his mother’s bed. I took his hand.
“I think we should go,” he said, and followed it with a deep breath that would put a stop to his crying. Neil was a master at holding back emotion. He viewed it with a sense of pride and duty to his country of origin. “It’s getting a bit late, and if Valerie is coming to speak with us—”
“She can talk to us tomorrow,” I assured him. “I’ll call her. Maybe we’ll do breakfast.”
He smiled gratefully. “Thank you. I know it’s difficult for you to get along with her—”
“Don’t worry about that, right now.” I rubbed his back. “Let’s go to the house and just relax. There’s a wonderful hot tub I’ve been missing.”
“We have one at home you never use,” he pointed out, and there he was again, my usual Neil. Maybe the funeral had given him more closure than he’d expected. Not that I wasn’t anticipating further breakdowns in the coming weeks. Grief always seemed hardest when you noticed life going on without the person you lost.
“I could use a drink,” he said finally, looking to me as though asking permission. “But I don’t want to worry you.”
“I think a few drinks are okay, as long as you’re not using them to swallow handfuls of pills.” I paused. “Unless that’s enabling?”
“It probably is,” he conceded. “But I’ll take it.”