farewell transmission

we'll be gone but not forever

on the morning of alice’s farewell party, i am awake at eight in the morning for the one o’clock coach. i spend the day giddy, unpacking and repacking my backpack - no i don’t need my laptop, yes i need makeup remover - and my fingers tremble when i try to squeeze its huge lobster clasps shut. one of them pinches my thumb, scratching the nail, and i let out a yelp. but i’m okay, i am good and fine and afraid of nothing, because today i am going to see my friends. it is the first time since we became working adults, the first slice of proof that we might be able to power through the distance imposed by the summer migration that led them all homewards.

i tuck a paperback into the front pocket of my backpack. margaret drabble, a day in the life of a smiling woman. short stories; my favourite is one called ‘faithful lovers.’ although i naively intend to pore over it while i listen to hope sandoval on my three-hour journey, i spend the entire time on my phone instead. i search for the perfect autumn playlist that blends dreamy alternative 90s rock with modern alternative country (it’s mj lenderman autumn, after all.) i visit taylor swift’s spotify page and select ‘do not play this artist’. a weight is lifted. the coach gets stuck in traffic and the air-conditioning is on the fritz, so by the time the coach arrives i am fifty-five minutes late and covered in a thin film of sweat, though the members of my welcome party either do not notice or graciously ignore it. they mostly look the same, though tom’s newly-grown beard betrays the illusion. i want to embrace them so hard that i crush them, but i find myself herded out of the coach station in search of the wondrous ‘big aldi,’ and then the moment is gone and my arms are too full of my bags/flowers/bottles of wine (red and white, i couldn’t pick one) to try and get it back.

of course, the house is beautiful, with deep red brick and casement windows and boston ivy curling around the front door - a house like a child’s drawing. we put our bags away, and i’m amazed by the amount of books this family own. piles of them, from floor to ceiling. everywhere i look, books. or dvds. or cds. the iconic black and pink sex and the city box set. my room for the night, in the attic, is furnished with a little green loveseat and a multicoloured striped throw. conveniently, it also comes with a fluffy black cat that chirps at me intermittently. i am tempted to ask alice’s mother if ask if she needs a lodger.

someone makes it their task to unfold all the garden chairs and we sit under the overcast september sky drinking builder’s tea. at first i am too tired to speak, it’s been so long since i spent time in a group that i’ve almost forgotten how to navigate it. so i choose to sit back, letting the many overlapping conversations swirl in the air around me. i begin to understand what people mean when they talk about seeing old friends and feeling as if no time has passed at all.

with some effort, the boys retrieve the huge oak table from the kitchen, and we lay out a feast. more people arrive, one of them carrying a huge tray of spaghetti, the rest carrying various flavours of alcohol. someone sets up a factory line to produce aperol spritzes. there are about twenty of us in the end, though we’re all so animated that the house may as well be holding twice that number. there are some obvious absences, whether they couldn’t make it or weren’t invited, and i begin to understand the nuances of who exactly has always been friends, and who has always just been there. i do not miss the latter as much as i should, which makes me feel cruel.

everything happens at once. the sun sets; i hover on the line between drinking just enough and too much before somersaulting headfirst into drunkenness; and something about alice’s mother reminds me inexplicably of nana kraft. she died on the last day of may and i did not attend her funeral. i hadn’t seen her in years by that point. amongst all this i make it worse for myself, because i’ve never been good at living in the moment. i count out the eighteen hours before i board the bus back home. once i do, i won’t have anything left to look forward to. alice is the centre of this group, the one who brings us all together, and i find it hard to imagine i’ll keep up with the others if she’s not around. i excuse myself to wander around the house’s unfinished basement for a few minutes, seeking tranquillity amongst the maze-like white walls and bare floors.

nobody wanders into the living room while i’m practising breath control, thank god. i hate making a scene. when i get like this i prefer to curl up in a corner somewhere, licking my wounds in silence. the only thing worse than knowing i’m too sensitive is having to explain it to other people. no, really, i’m fine, i promise. once i’ve calmed down, i notice two things: one, that alice has a piano; and two, that the sheet music displayed is for laura palmer’s theme. i decide this is the funniest thing that has ever happened.

when i return to the party i feel like a paper doll being crumpled in the fist of a clumsy toddler. alice sits beside me. she asks me if i’m okay and i unravel.

poor alice. this is her night and i tell her so, tell her that i am ashamed to need her right now. the last thing she needs to be doing is draping her arm around me while i feel sorry for myself. we should be celebrating her newest adventure, the freedom of our early twenties. we shouldn’t waste this time because one day we’ll have real problems - our parents will die and our children will be born and we’ll want nothing more than to turn back the clock. i’m not sure if i say this part out loud.

‘i guess i’m just struggling to adjust to it all. i had this to look forward to for the last few weeks but now i have no idea when i’ll see you again.’

‘don’t be silly,’ she says, ‘you’re my friend.’

a girl i don’t know leans over and offers me a cigarette and i accept, grateful for something to do with my hands.

‘the important thing isn’t that it happens less often now, the important thing is that we still see each other. look how many people showed up, how far they travelled. you spent, what, four hours in total to get here? just to see me? that’s how i know we’ll still be friends, regardless of where we live.’

in the morning, i am the first one to wake up. careful not to disturb devin asleep on the folding bed beside me, i slip downstairs with my book.

the least i can do is help tidy the house, but i don’t know where anything goes, so i sort it all into piles. i dedicate a corner to the assorted bottles that still have life left, that might still belong to someone.

alice’s mother appears. smoothly, almost silently, we dance around each other, pouring leftover beer down the drain, filling the dishwasher, and discarding the empty bottles. we move like this for half an hour or so, until the kitchen looks like a real house again.

‘that’s enough,’ she says suddenly, ‘let’s leave some tidying for the rest of them. coffee?’

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