darling, so it goes

My own birthday had passed without any sort of affair, though that was entirely my own doing. It just hadn't felt right to celebrate the year that I had lived beyond Tommy and Ruth and the rest of them. I wasn't even sure how many people in the city even knew when it was, save for those that might have seen my administrative files.

But I knew I couldn't let the same happen for Marius. He brought too much joy into my life – and into the lives of so many others – for the day to not be acknowledged, be celebrated. I hadn't known what to do until I realised that he wasn't the sort of person that demanded much, and that was part of the reason why I loved him. He could live simply. We both could.

So I made dinner and wrapped a selection of my favourite books up for him in bright red paper, tying it with a gold-colored bow. Most of the gifts I'd bought before had been from the Sales, it felt strange to have the whole city to search through. But I wanted to share what I loved of literature with him.

I made tea instead of buying wine, straightening the dress of my skirt when he returned from work. "Happy birthday," I said, kissing his cheek.

I noticed her shock of red hair, first. I'm not sure I'd ever seen anything quite like it. My own was a dull blonde, cropped around my ears since I'd left the Cottages and started to have little time for myself. I remembered when I'd first seen her, how she'd been mourning the loss of someone who'd disappeared from the city without word or warning. I still struggle to come to terms with that. But, then again, the way Ruth and Tommy left was almost as unremarkable. To the rest of the world, at least. To me, well, it still ached.

I'd just left the grocery store with my arms carrying paper bags filled with the essentials. Bread and milk and tea and fruit. Though it was more than I'd spent in my bedsit back in England, I still didn't spend all that much time in my apartment in Darrow. I mostly ate at cafés, from the cafeteria in the hospital, so I didn't need that much. It was entirely inconsequential, what I was doing, but my mood and my mouth lifted at the sight of somebody familiar. "Helen?"

 I don't know why my first instinct was to go to Faye. Maybe because she was the first person that had been there for me in Darrow, no matter much we might have disagreed. I knew she wasn't going to hold my hand. That wasn't what I needed. I just needed someone to talk to, to give the situation the weight that it deserved, and it wasn't fair to put all of that on a boy just because he looked like somebody I onced loved. Someone, I suppose, I still did.

I didn't call. Maybe I should have. I knew my manners, after all. But Faye had given me her address for emergencies, and while I still don't know if this counted, I figured the worst she could do was turn me away. I just didn't want time to think it through before I went, I guess. I had thought enough that day, and I was tired. 

Faye lived near the beach. Ocean View, I think the apartments were called. I was a little envious of that, but sometimes the sea brought strange pangs of longing back to me. Reminded me of how we'd run down the pier with the wind whipping at our sides, how we'd visited that wreckage and we'd all been so much more broken than we'd ever been. How the ship hadn't been the only hollow thing that sat atop that beach. I lingered for a while on the edge of the apartment building, looking out at the ocean, breathing in the salt air. It was cold enough that it almost stung, and yet so invigorating. 

I had to pull myself out of the moment. One of those moments so like just before I'd arrived in Darrow, when I'd really let myself cry over Tommy for the first time. I probably could have stood there for hours, but I had a purpose. I needed to remind myself of that sometimes. And though I had more time than I ever had before, I intended not to let it waste. So I made the short walk to Faye's apartment, #3, and knocked on her door. 

I turned twenty-nine in Darrow.

I’d gone many years without really acknowledging my own birthday, which probably sounds a little sad but in reality I was just too busy. I'd always made an effort to bring my donors a card or a cake, if they were eating, and making a bit of a fuss. My own usually passed without recognition, though, unless a nurse happened to note it on my ID badge in my travels, and I can’t say I really minded. If anything, they were just reminders of how much time had slipped away, and how little I had left.

They weren't much fun to celebrate on my own, anyway.

Something about my twenty-ninth struck me differently. I hadn't even noticed, really, until somebody asked me the date, and even then it didn't quite hit me until moments after the words had left my mouth. January 5th. It was funny, I suppose, how I felt. I knew birthdays were meant to be joyous, celebrated with balloons and music and sugary foods, and yet I felt so sad. More than that, I felt guilty.

( cut for length )

 One of my favourite things about Darrow was its bookstore. Of course, I'd read plenty before, back at Hailsham and in the Cottages and to the donors I was caring for but I'd never had quite so much time to do it on my own towards the end. It seemed back home (it still feels strange to call it that, Hailsham was the only home I am certain of) I was always in between places, trying to care for the minds and bodies of others instead of my own.

But between the volunteering and general errands, I had a lot of time. I'd read a lot of books. Books I'd never heard of, too. It made me wonder if I'd somehow been sheltered by the program, if for some reason there were things that they didn't want us to read, or watch (or think, or feel.) On that particular day, though, I'd found something I was assured was a classic and headed back to my apartment to read. It was a little too cold to read in the park much to my disappointment, but I had the makings of hot chocolate in my kitchen and figured that was almost just as good. I really did enjoy the cooler weather, just not so much when it prohibited me from getting fresh air.

I should have been paying attention but I was so wrapped in the blurb on the back of the book - To Kill A Mockingbird it was called - that I didn't even notice the figure until I bumped into them. "I'm so sorry," I said, before I'd even taken in their expression.