The Art of Letting Go (The Uni Files) (35 page)

Summer Term

8th April

It’s here, the beginning of the last term of the academic year. I’m not sure how it has come around so quick. Oh, okay I am, but I am trying very hard not to think about my track record of stropping, sulking, stalking, and drinking.

After lectures, I tell Ben and Meredith that I have things I need to do. I actually want to go and study. It would be nice if, just once, I could study without Meredith obsessing over my brother, or the fabulous home we are going to have and the parties we are going to throw. Or what wedding dress she may or may not wear in two years when they get married, happily fucking forever after, not that I’m bitter.

It would also be nice to study for once without Ben somehow talking me into taking my clothes off. See? I am growing as a person.

I’m all for naked study, but it is probably best not to do it in the library.

I want to look at the sources for the group project. Since I came up with the idea, it has grown inside my imagination and become something that I feel very strongly about.

What is loss?

How do you let go?

What does it mean to admit your sorrow and regret?

How do you live with the memory of what was and is no longer?

These are the thoughts on my mind as I climb the bloody stairs all the way to the history books.

Luckily I find the most extraordinary source. My god, I actually feel like a university student right now!! I find it impossible to read it without being moved to tears.

This is real life, real loss and real sorrow. It makes my heart ache with the enormity of it all.

The source is a soldier’s thoughts on the Menin Gate in Ypres. The Menin Gate Memorial Hall of Memory records 56,000 ‘missing’ of the British Empire who fell from October 1914 to August 1917.

Fifty-six thousand soldiers, who lost their lives in one town, in less than three years? How can you possibly compute that sort of loss? The record I have found is heartbreakingly touching. The author has to consider why the memorial is there. Surely no one will ever forget what happened in that town.

He writes that he wonders who will march through the gate now that their numbers are dwindling. He believes that the names are well graven on the arch for there will come a time when nobody remembers the names of those who gave their lives.

Can you let loss go? No. You immortalise it in any way you can, so that you will never forget. Even when you are no longer there to remember, the testament to your loss will stand forever more.

The other source I have found is entirely different and this is why I know I am onto a winner topic. It considers the comparison of the drastic loss of a nation with that of the private loss of parents who have lost their children through war. Kathe Kollowitz’ statue in Roggevelde Military Cemetery, Vlasdlo, depicts a mother and father kneeling in grief at the loss of their son during the war. The husband kneels, arms folded over his chest, remorse set in stone on his face. The wife is kneeling forward, and forever in mourning for the son that she blessed to go to war but who never came back.

Is it possible to move on from that? How do you give your blessing and let your child leave you in a futile pursuit, to have them never to return to you again? Should you let go? Can you ever let go of your guilt afterwards? Can you learn the art of letting go?

This has been a thoroughly depressing trip to the library. By the time I have made it back to the dorm, I am choked to the max, with a tight chest that's unable to lift the weight of loss that grips me. It’s not personal to me but I can feel it like the cut of a knife.

When I walk inside I give my notes to Ben who is sitting in the lounge talking to Jayne and Beth. I then go to my own bedroom where I sit in the dark for what feels like an age.

Later.

Ben comes in to find me in the end.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, I am.”

I am now.

“I love the stuff you’ve found,” he says. “It’s very thought provoking.” He leans against me so we are touching all along our side.

“Thank you.”

“What’s wrong, Lilah?”

I sit there and think about it. “I can’t imagine how you deal with that sort of loss. I don’t understand how to let go of something that you love that much without it killing you on the inside.”

He sits there for a while and we watch the lengthening shadows spread across the room.

“I don't know either,” he says at last.

Then he reaches for my hand and we head back to our room.

9th April

“Who the fuck is Miranda?” I ask, my green-eyed monster back with a vengeance.

“Our rep in the States.”

“Why is she texting you?”

“Why are you asking? And why are you looking at my phone?”

“I am not looking at your phone. It’s right there by my leg and it flashed clear as day.”

“Seriously, Lilah. Are you jealous?” His tone is incredulous.

“What, that some strange woman is texting you? Who I’ve never heard of before? Yes, I fucking am.”

Cue major stomp off out the front door.

Damn it. What am I supposed to do now? It is a Tuesday and it's only five in the afternoon.

7.00 p.m.

I love wine.

I love my Brother.

8:45 p.m.

“We need a BBQ.” I state mainly to the table.

“What, now?”

“No, you fool, for our new home.”

The room is spinning really badly and I think I may be sick.

“It’s April, and we don’t actually own it yet, Lilah.”

I blow a raspberry at these inconvenient facts. “When will we?”

“Four more weeks, according to Tracy, the world’s most useless solicitor.”

“Good. I’m going to paint my room purple.”

“Purple is for the sexually repressed, Lilah, which you are not.”

“Not now, but I will be.”

“Do you think you should go home?”

“Don’t want to. You can’t make me.”

9.15 p.m.

Ooh, shexy man coming towards me. I hope he doesn’t notice that I am slurring and looking through one eye. Sexy, shmexy.

“Are you ready to come home yet?”

“Oh, itchs youse.”

“Why are you looking through one eye?” He turns to the debris on the table. “Oh, that’s why.”

“Shwat, exacry aresh youse implysing?”

“Come on, Lilah, let’s go.”

“Shcant shmake shme.”

“You think so?”

“Yesh.”

“Sounds like a challenge.”

Cue Fireman lift. And a round of applause from the pub, fed up listening to a drunken old lush rambling with her head on a table.

10th April

8.30 a.m.

“I am sorry.”

“I know you are.”

“No, really. I am very sorry, but I need to be sick.”

8.40 a.m.

“Please don’t ever walk out on me like that again.”

“I won’t.”

“Lilah.” Ben holds my chin so I have to look at him. “You can ask me anything and I will always tell you the truth.”

I meet his gaze even though my brain is attempting to escape out of my right eyeball.

“I know, Ben. It’s just I have this very bad visual image of you being surrounded by tall, skinny, blond girls dressed in black underwear.”

He laughs as he pulls me in. “You are crazy.”

“I know. I’m missing lectures today.”

“I know.”

13th April

It’s Jayne’s birthday.

Jayne has been largely absent of late due to her embarking on some crazy love affair with a guy from the football team. I have only met him a couple of times, and I’m not entirely sure if he may not be a bit of a twat. I have not told her this, though. He strikes me as being a player, which is funny considering that a few months ago I thought that Ben was a player, too.

Anyway, Jayne is trailing this guy all over campus, which is rather amusing to watch. Meredith and I frequently get emergency calls like "Quick! Meet me outside the bar. He’s just gone inside. We can make it look like a coincidence," or "Guy’s! He’s on the third floor of the library. Meet me in the stairwell!" Meredith and I have started calling lots to see which one of us goes to rescue her.

Tonight we are going out to celebrate her birthday. Thankfully, we are not trailing the football team, but instead watching Sound Box play. This is good, I think, apart from the fact that I am worried about a couple of developments.

This is the first time I have seen the band since the whole America debacle and the subsequent row and Ben has told me (in his gentle don’t-scare-the-kitten voice) that their rep from the States is going to be there. Miranda.

Now this should not bother me since I know he loves me and he knows I love him. We are as set as cement.

However, let’s be honest: I am prone to crazy-green-eyed monster behaviour and I am trying very hard not to think about the fact that in two short months the love of my life will be leaving me to live in another country with this woman called Miranda.

No. It’s okay. I am a confident, attractive woman with a boyfriend who worships the ground I walk on. I do not need to be worried.

The Gig

Or I really bloody do.

Guess what?
Miranda
(pronounced Mihraandah) is six foot, blond, skinny, and I can clearly see her black frickin’ bra through her white shirt. Bloody ho.

So far she has said with a sexy slow southern drawl, “Wow, Lilah, how lucky are you to have such a talented boyfriend?”

“Mmm, that’s me, lucky, lucky, lucky.”

“He really is quite a catch. Girls love the guitar thing. Hope you are keeping him sweet.”

I hesitate for a moment unsure if I have heard her correctly.
What? As opposed to sour?

“Well, I try.”

“Those girls were going wild for him out there.”

“Really?”
I bet they bloody were.

“Oh, yes, Ben definitely got a lot of positive feedback.”

What is positive feedback?

I need a cigarette before I turn green and explode out of my clothes, but the band has only just started playing so I cannot escape quite yet. I decide to be a grown-up and move away from the annoying skinny American.

I stand and watch Sound Box play. They are so good and their new material really is amazing. The general pace of their new stuff is much slower than their usual fare. Ben’s told me he has not been writing much over the last few months, but standing here listening to the new tracks, I believe he may have been keeping a few things to himself. Sneaky.

“Did Ben tell you about the great night we had at the hotel before he left?”

Oh God, she is back.

“Uh, no, he didn’t.”
We have been far too busy having crazy reunion sex. Get lost, you skinny bitch.

“Oh, it was such a blast! There was a Jacuzzi, but none of us had any swim wear packed . . .”

Oh, God. This I do not need to hear. “Excuse me. I need the bathroom.”

I head towards the door and the spring fresh air outside where I can stand and smoke for a few minutes of peace.

Jacuzzi?

My peace does not last long.

“Lilah? Ben is looking for you from the stage. You better come in.” Meredith informs me poking her head out the door.

Shit.

I walk back in, not really wanting to look at him.

Ben is talking into the microphone.

Knicker explosion again.

Ping.

“Recently I had some time to do some thinking, and I came to realise one thing. This song is for Lilah.”

Instead of singing a Sound Box song, Ben takes his Gibson to the centre of the stage and proceeds to sing an acoustic stripped back version of U2’s "With or Without You."

Why does he do this to me? How does he always know the right way or the right things to say to make everything so much better? Better than they would be without him.

By the time he is finished I am on the verge of swallowing my own tongue as I try and beat down the lump in my throat. He finishes and gives me a small bow, which I return. Before he even turns back to the others I have legged it to the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” asks Meredith, peering under the toilet door.

“Dude, I could be having a crap!”

“Well you’re not, you're just crying.”

“Go away, Meredith. Sorry, I just want to be alone.”

“Open the door.”

“No.”

“Open the door before I go and get Ben or Tristan.”

I open the door.

“What is the matter? That was ridiculously romantic!” she asks, kneeling on the floor in front of me.

“I know.”

“So? What?”

“I don’t know. How I am going to cope when he is gone?"

“Lilah, you are crazy.”

“You’ll help me, won’t you?” I am dribbling snot everywhere.

“Lilah, you are my best friend. I will always help you.”

I raise my head to face her. “Thank you.”

I give her a hug. “Don’t tell him I was upset.”

She looks at me like I am mentally challenged. “Lil, I think he is going to know.”

I stand up and go to the mirror. Shit! I look like I’ve been in a fight and lost. I splash my face a few times and head out.

Holding my chin up high, I head back out to the bar. Ben is there with a pint in his hand. He really is sublimely hot standing there in black jeans and T-shirt, skin glowing pale in the dim light. The blues find me instantly. Then he is across the bar in a flash.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, bending down to meet my eyes.

“Nothing, Ben. It’s all good.”

Miranda is tripping up to us in her ten-inch heels, like she bloody needs them. “Oh Ben, I was telling her about that night with the Jacuzzi. Wasn’t it such a blast?”

He looks at her like she is nuts, which I think she might be. His hand slides down and links through mine.

“It’s not what you think,” he whispers.

I just give a small shake of my head.

“Ben, I’m going to go for some air. Give me a couple of minutes, hey?” I say as I walk towards the door.