Shackles & Roses

Seven

Tommy and Stella stayed all afternoon and into the evening. We ate the rest of the banana bread. We laughed and talked. And we were just normal. For that, I'm so grateful.

I feel a little guilty for being so happy about something that's not her. For having a good day without her. For feeling grateful I could eat banana bread weight-free. But I guess maybe it wasn't weight-free after all, because I'm just feeling guilty now instead. I guess guilt's never gone, just waiting to come back in with a bite. Just like sadness.

But I refuse to let it get me down and spoil my day. After such an awful couple of weeks, today has been like a breath of fresh air after living in a fog of misery and depression. It stings my lungs when I'm not used to it, but it's not a bad feeling.

As I go to switch off the kitchen light to leave the room, I catch a sight of her cup on the table. I forgot about it, with all of the excitement of the day. And today was definitely exciting. I intertwine my fingers, eyeing the bright polish with a slight glint in my eye. I'm glad I painted them. They, in some weird way, offer some encouragement and comfort.

My fingers are resting lightly on the light switch as I stare at the mug, just able to make out the faint line of lipstick. It fades a little more every day. Sometimes I almost wish she wore a colour more like my nails, rather than nude, so that it would last for a longer. But then I remember that that wouldn't have been very Bailey.

I step back towards the table slowly, sinking into a chair and reaching out a tentative hand for the mug. I draw it to me, placing it in front of me, and eyeing it. It took me a long long time to convince my mother not to put it through the dishwasher. The amount of times I came downstairs to find her about to put it in there. I could never make her understand why I wanted to keep it. But it finally went in recently, and I'm still so glad it did, just for moments like these. I don't think she approves any more than she did before, but she grudgingly accepts the fact that I want it left alone.

I run my finger along the rim, oh-so lightly. I don't want to rub off her mark.

The ceramic is cool against my skin, the lipstick slightly soft. I remember how I took it into the hospital to her, when she went in. She always said that coffee just didn't taste the same out of the mugs they had there. Or soft drinks.

So I took it to her. She was so over the moon, you'd think I'd given her the winning lottery ticket. That was always Bailey though. Her smile always lit up my world. I like to think that mine did the same for her. But everything seemed to make her so happy it was hard to distinguish which things she liked best.

I do sometimes think that these memories are just my brain twisting events to be more beautiful than they are. In some ways, that's worse, because it's more torture to think I'm missing out on more. And on the other side of that, it's better if I'm making it seem better. At least I'm in a dream and can wake up at any point.

Maybe I'll even wake up one of these days, and Bailey will still be here.

Bailey drank everything out of this cup, from coffee and hot chocolate, to orange squash or apple juice, to the rare occasions we had some alcohol. I've never understood why it was so special to her, but I've always treated it accordingly, because I love her, and what's important to her is just the same to me. Especially now.

My finger goes around and around the rim, until I stop, lifting my finger to look at it. A faint mark of her lipstick is on there. I was pressing too hard. I can't make a habit of that. Sighing, I push the mug back to the back of the table, standing and pushing my chair in. It's getting late.

The stairs are dark, and I cling to the banister on the way up. But I refuse to turn on the lights. Too long I allowed myself to give in to demons. I couldn't walk around the house alone, much less in the dark. I'm not going to do that anymore. This is the start of something new.