“A Place That’s Not on Any Map” by Britta Benson

We meet between here and there, morning and evening, on the dot. Different time zones. Different countries. Umbillical cords stretch. Can be passed on from mother to father, no questions asked, needs must. It is, what it is, you say. Beginnings.

Love has decidedly curious ways of making things work, of connecting loose ends. Where there’s a will, there’s a video call.

I put on my smile. Some days, this works quite convincingly. On others, the grimace stubbornly sits, rock solid, plastered on my face like itchy, finger thick stage make up, meant to be seen from a distance in dim lighting. Up close, I look petrified. I fiddle with the three fully adjustable spot heads of the floor lamp next to my armchair. The artistry of illumination and make belief, my forte. Like you, I’m a story teller out of necessity. I use what I’ve got. Words, bulbs, illusions.

You are a thousand miles away. Not always far enough for our mutual attempt at normal. This is the silly game we play: You try to look brave, and I try not to reflect your fears straight back at you. Modern technology, unforgiving. The camera on my smartphone unfortunately exactly as sharp as yours. We both should have bought a cheaper model. Why did they not tell us in the shop? They must have known it would eventually come to this and that anger, hurt and pain should never be displayed in too many pixels. Please, respect privacy, leave something to the beholder, I want to scream to whom it may concern. But it concerns only us and we won’t listen.

Twice a day, we convene. Club of two. Caretakers of mum’s memories from different points of view. Her naughty laughter, that glint in her eyes, safe in our souls, for the time being, while we discuss the weather, in my case, the rain. You hold your screen against your bedroom window, so I can see the blue sky. It’s mild for October. Then, you tell me about the lunch you had and how the kitchen staff refuse to take note of what you like. The salad, made with mayonnaise. Again. You’re convinced the care home deliberately gives you these dinners to poison you. I say no. They wouldn’t do that.

It’s not in your heart to agree with me. Some things never change.

We weave into our conversations little snippets about the person I remember as mum and you keep calling your wife of fifty six years. There are decades of tiny details, only we know. The good, the bad, the silly. The end. We were there, you held her right hand, and I, the left. Even when we don’t talk about her, which happens surprisingly often, she’s present. Somewhere, between here and there, you and me, in a place that’s not on any map, I often think that we’re still holding mum’s hands, these strong connectors of heartstrings. Is that how family works?

Back in Autumn 2019, we believed that life couldn’t get any worse. How naive we were. Our world has changed beyond recognition. Cancer and death, only a start. Private grief. Shortly after, the pandemic, when dying became public property, breaking news. We’d just got over the first raw shock of bereavement, when you nearly died, too. I got a call, the doctors said you wouldn’t last the night. They still cut you open, rummaged and stitched you back together again. Had to do it twice, for good measure.

Against all odds, you’re here. A version of you, much reduced. ‘Why did they not let me die?’ – your most frequent question now, whenever I tell you about the things that happened back then. You say that you could have gone home. To her. The surgeons didn’t let you, and you’ve never quite forgiven them for this negligence.

I don’t know what to say to you. I don’t know what to say to you that could make things right again.

Instead, I tell you, that you still have a purpose. You play Ludo with the woman next door who just had a bad fall. She needs your company. And the 94-year-old man from the second floor who loves Bingo but can’t read the numbers any more, you fill in the scorecard for him. I tell you that these things matter. That your grandson needs you, too, and that we’ll fly over for Christmas.

I need you. But I can’t tell you that.

I see your face on the screen and know, that you know. I feel guilty for wishing to keep you where you feel you no longer belong. You clearly want to go to that other place, to hold hands that are now cold. I know exactly how this feels. Distance, like time, a very relative concept. Temperamental.

Of course I say none of this.

Whenever you see me, you see mum in me. Sometimes you call me by her name and we both pretend that it didn’t happen. You tut, shake your head when I tell you about future plans. You’re convinced that the world is coming to an end. A sentence later, you say: ‘You’re just like your mother’. I take that as a compliment. Any form of happiness reminds you so much of mum, it hurts. I often don’t mention the good. The new. The me. Instead, I stick to safer topics. The weather. I’m in Scotland, after all.

I have no answers to your questions. We meet between here and there, morning and evening, on the dot. Different time zones, different countries. And I know we’re both still holding hands in a place that’s not on any map. While I feel those hands guide me, I guess, you feel their pull.

It is, what it is, you say. Beginnings. We belong. Here.