would be called in Britain, running between the backs of the cottages. Until I’d first come to Naviras I’d been a bit sniffy about people who went back to the same place on holiday every year. I’d always gone to far-flung places with my parents as a girl, never the same place twice, really, not until I came to Naviras.
I’ve reached the end of the Travessa. To my left the walls surrounding Casa Amanhã, the house obscured by the trees as usual. On the other side of the street just empty space where the old churchyard should be, the place where Lottie had been buried and Luis was remembered. No church with its low triangular roof and square minaret, no gravestones, they’re missing. Of course they’re missing; how could there be graveyards after death? They’re for the living, if anyone. I only ever went in there once, and that was once too often.
Reflecting on the absence of the churchyard makes me realise and accept something once and for all; I’m not going to see my mother here. If she’s anywhere, and presumably like me she must be somewhere, it’s not going to be here. And that’s because Lottie’s here. She and my mother could never be in the same place at the same time, it would violate the natural order of things.
Casa Amanhã
By the time I turned 31 I’d become increasingly despairing. The hole my Mum’s death had excavated twelve years before still hadn’t been filled in. Of course nothing could because it was shaped like her. I venerated her, of course, forgot her bolshiness and snobbery and embossed her kindness. After she died I threw myself into law school, topping the class in my final year.
Mum’s absence cut off certain parts in my brain, I think, often when trying to enjoy myself I’d think about the last time I’d seen her alive. On the phone to the bank that morning, annoyed as she disputed some charge they’d imposed.
What do you mean, bear with me? No, I’m not going on hold again, I want to speak to the supervisor.
I was late getting back to London for college, mouthed to her silently that I had to run for the train. She just waved across the kitchen at me, air kissing me goodbye with the phone still pressed to her ear. If you don’t put me through to someone in charge, I shall close my account forthwith. She died in her sleep that night, blood in her brain got into the wrong place.
Most people get warnings about these things, a timetable to prepare emotions by. Without one the grief turns into a boomerang; you throw it away as hard as you can, but still it circles back and hits you on the back of the head when you’re not prepared for it. Each time you throw it away again it just takes a little bit longer to come back with amazing precision, returning for an attack as I graduated and nearly broke down in tears during the ceremony. My father watching from the balcony with a random woman sitting next to him, some other student’s mother or aunt; certainly not a new love interest. That I would’ve welcomed, wouldn’t have begrudged my father another chance at happiness for a second.
I didn’t realise at the time that I wasn’t thinking clearly, wasn’t making choices in my own best interests. I should’ve gone straight into Bar exams after law school but instead went into a firm. Mum had left me quite a bit of money; sometimes it felt like that was all I had left of her. Becoming a solicitor was the more obvious and immediate way to earn money so I went straight into work. It took me a couple of years to realise I’d gone down the wrong path, by which point the consensus was I’d left it too late to switch.
I was earning good money that I didn’t particularly need – Mum had come from a well-off family, Dad th rew himself into his work after her death. I didn’t enjoy the lack of autonomy, wanted to pick and choose cases, maybe take on a few pro bono without having to ask anyone’s permission. By the time I hit my late twenties I realised I was wading through
I’ve reached the end of the Travessa. To my left the walls surrounding Casa Amanhã, the house obscured by the trees as usual. On the other side of the street just empty space where the old churchyard should be, the place where Lottie had been buried and Luis was remembered. No church with its low triangular roof and square minaret, no gravestones, they’re missing. Of course they’re missing; how could there be graveyards after death? They’re for the living, if anyone. I only ever went in there once, and that was once too often.
Reflecting on the absence of the churchyard makes me realise and accept something once and for all; I’m not going to see my mother here. If she’s anywhere, and presumably like me she must be somewhere, it’s not going to be here. And that’s because Lottie’s here. She and my mother could never be in the same place at the same time, it would violate the natural order of things.
Casa Amanhã
By the time I turned 31 I’d become increasingly despairing. The hole my Mum’s death had excavated twelve years before still hadn’t been filled in. Of course nothing could because it was shaped like her. I venerated her, of course, forgot her bolshiness and snobbery and embossed her kindness. After she died I threw myself into law school, topping the class in my final year.
Mum’s absence cut off certain parts in my brain, I think, often when trying to enjoy myself I’d think about the last time I’d seen her alive. On the phone to the bank that morning, annoyed as she disputed some charge they’d imposed.
What do you mean, bear with me? No, I’m not going on hold again, I want to speak to the supervisor.
I was late getting back to London for college, mouthed to her silently that I had to run for the train. She just waved across the kitchen at me, air kissing me goodbye with the phone still pressed to her ear. If you don’t put me through to someone in charge, I shall close my account forthwith. She died in her sleep that night, blood in her brain got into the wrong place.
Most people get warnings about these things, a timetable to prepare emotions by. Without one the grief turns into a boomerang; you throw it away as hard as you can, but still it circles back and hits you on the back of the head when you’re not prepared for it. Each time you throw it away again it just takes a little bit longer to come back with amazing precision, returning for an attack as I graduated and nearly broke down in tears during the ceremony. My father watching from the balcony with a random woman sitting next to him, some other student’s mother or aunt; certainly not a new love interest. That I would’ve welcomed, wouldn’t have begrudged my father another chance at happiness for a second.
I didn’t realise at the time that I wasn’t thinking clearly, wasn’t making choices in my own best interests. I should’ve gone straight into Bar exams after law school but instead went into a firm. Mum had left me quite a bit of money; sometimes it felt like that was all I had left of her. Becoming a solicitor was the more obvious and immediate way to earn money so I went straight into work. It took me a couple of years to realise I’d gone down the wrong path, by which point the consensus was I’d left it too late to switch.
I was earning good money that I didn’t particularly need – Mum had come from a well-off family, Dad th rew himself into his work after her death. I didn’t enjoy the lack of autonomy, wanted to pick and choose cases, maybe take on a few pro bono without having to ask anyone’s permission. By the time I hit my late twenties I realised I was wading through