Islands in the Stream really is a classic banger. Near the turnoff to Ōhau, Shania Twain’s Still the one came on. ‘‘Still the one I run to, still the one I want for life ...’’ The Yorkshireman started crying. ‘‘Nope, not this,’’ he managed, pushing skip.
‘‘Are you OK?’’ I asked.
Sometimes he weeps without warning. Emotional ghosts from the past suddenly hijacking the present. Grief is a journey - you never know when there will be a sudden bump in the road, when a memory will come rushing in the cracks between now and then.
It’s selfish of me, but dating a widower, the realisation that there will always be someone before you can make you feel a little less than. It’s not like I’m jealous of a ghost, although I am envious of the wonderful marriage they had: the way they loved on their kids, the tight parental unit, the ‘‘us against the world’’ vibe. I never had that raising my daughter, never met a decent guy, until now. But the awful truth is, someone had to lose for me to gain.
I know some people think it’s strange that the Yorkshireman and I talk about his wife as much as we do, remember her quirks - the way she never sliced cheese but sawed off chunks - share pictures of her with the boys when they were little, speak her name all the time. Her name was Louise. She had a smile that lit up a room, loved being a mama and was chest-burstingly proud of her family.
Sometimes the ghosts of her are material things. Louise’s old ski parka, brand new: cancer took her right in the middle of life, so she never had a chance to make much use of it, the label still on. At first, I put her snow clothes in a basket on top of the wardrobe, considered taking them to the op-shop. But what do possessions matter once the person is gone?
A year of rainbows later, I took the basket down and wore the parka snowboarding at Roundhill.
How does it make me feel? The most important people in Louise’s life are in mine now. Her eldest son is coming over from Sydney this week with his girlfriend to stay at my bach at Pūrākaunui. I often feel scared and overwhelmed. I don’t know what my role is in all this.
Since we met, my attitude to the more woo woo of the Yorkshireman’s beliefs has softened from outright derision to an acceptance that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my simple philosophy. Her presence touches me often, this weekend I felt it in the Red Admiral butterfly that fluttered from one side of the garden to the other, landing on each of us to say hello.
I feel ... we watched a remake of Rebecca the other night, the laptop propped on my knee. I’ve always loved that book, the gothic atmosphere, Rebecca haunting Manderly, a malevolent presence. The new Mrs de Winter thinks herself inferior to the oft-mentioned Rebecca, even though, as a wife, Rebecca was a bit of a baggage.
I don’t feel like this about the Yorkshireman’s lovely wife. I know we would have liked each other, had things been different. But if things had been different, I wouldn’t be here. As her boys grow into men, I’m sad she doesn’t get to see that the years and years of driving them to sports practice, cheering them on from the sidelines (and heckling the ref), teaching them to be honest, generous, thoughtful small people, the hours she and he poured into them has paid off in the decent men they are becoming.
All relationships have emotional ghosts, times when the past speaks through us. It’s like catching a reflection in a window when it’s dark outside.
My past means I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop. His makes him worry that anything good might be taken away in a moment, because he knows it can. He knows life is precious, that you have to grab the good stuff, tell people you love them, every night, just before you fall asleep.
