She talked to Doug about it. “I wish I had the chance to live long enough to get senile like Gran,” he said.
“Maybe I’ll have another heart attack before I get that bad,” Trish said, optimistically. “Getting old is a terrible thing.”
“It’s better than the alternative,” Doug said, grinning.
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re lucky to miss it. They say those the gods love die young.”
“It’s just that there’s so much I would have wanted to do. I always thought there was time to have kids later, time to write the serious music I wanted to write, time to see the parts of the world I haven’t seen. Most of what I have seen has been touring, you know how it is, everywhere seems the same. Japan, Paris, I always said I’d go back when I had more time. Now I never will. And all the songs I meant to write. All the songs I did write, the ones I sweated blood over, and what will I be remembered for? That little bit of nonsense about George and Sophie getting married on the moon that I wrote in five minutes in the back of a taxi.”
“That’s a wonderful song, and it was a wonderful thing you did for your brother. Don’t undervalue it because it came easily.”
George and Sophie and the twins visited. Rhodri and Bronwen were four now. They loved the ducks on the pond. Sophie and Trish took them for a walk up Hampsfell while George and Doug had a long conversation. From Hampsfell it was possible to see all the way to the Lake District, where Trish had been so often with the children when they were younger and then with David. She could also see far out over the bay below them. Up there she could almost get enough air.
All the food at the hospice was vegetarian and macrobiotic. Trish, who rarely ate meat anyway, enjoyed it. “I wonder how far we’d have to go to get a burger?” Doug asked one day when he was very weak.
“Carnforth?” Trish wondered aloud. “There’s certainly nothing in the village. Do you want to try?”
“I was joking, but actually yes, I’d love to. Let’s do it. One last crazy expedition!”
They got into Trish’s car—a sober and fairly new Fiesta, not the Beetle Doug had bought her long before. Doug could hardly keep himself upright in the passenger seat. He wound down the window. “It’s great to feel the speed,” he said, though they were barely going at thirty on the winding road. They went south to Ulverston, where they found a Burger King. Trish ate onion rings. “I hope you know these are terrible for my heart,” she said.
Doug could only manage half his burger. “That was delicious,” he said. “All that ketchup and mustard, not to mention dead cow. I expect I’ve set myself back several cycles on the wheel of resurrection with that.”
“Do you believe in that?” Trish asked.
“Not even a bit. I picked this place because it was near and they’d give me privacy.”
Doug slumped asleep on the drive back and Trish had to call for help to get him into bed. The next day he winked at her as he ate his seed porridge for breakfast. “Thanks for indulging me yesterday, Mum. Thanks for being here.”
Trish blinked away tears. “I’m glad I can be here. I’m glad there’s something I can do for you.”
*
Doug died in November. Trish was at his side. He was asleep, breathing with difficulty, and then his breathing just stopped. The nurse went over and opened a window. “So his soul can leave,” she said.
“Is that a Buddhist belief?” Trish asked.
“It’s an Irish one,” the nurse said.
“This is the third death I’ve watched. First my mother, then my ex-husband, and now my son.”
“It never gets easier,” the nurse said.
All the papers had been signed and all the arrangements made, except for the death certificate. Trish walked out into the dawn and wished she still believed in God. The sea was still lapping on the shore, the last stars were vanishing as the sky brightened. But the sky was empty of comfort. There was no loving God waiting, no heaven where Doug could find happiness. Just the cold contingent universe where things happened for random reasons nobody could understand. Nevertheless, while she was torn apart with grief for Doug she also felt at peace. His struggle was over. There was no more pain. And she had been with him and helped him. She had seen his whole life, from his birth to his death. “Everyone is born,” she said to the empty sky. “Everyone dies.”
It was cold comfort as time went on and she began to understand what missing him meant.
Doug’s funeral was held in Lancaster cathedral, which was packed for the occasion. There were pop stars and punk stars and actors, friends of Doug’s and reporters and fans. The family sat alone at the front, packing into two pews. Trish tried to sit still. There were musical tributes and people talking about how Doug would be remembered. George talked about what the song had meant to him. Afterwards, the body was quietly cremated. Trish sprinkled the ashes on the roses with her mother and Mark. “Put me here too,” she said to Helen.
“Mum! Morbid!” Helen said.