What kills me most is my inability to remember much of that journey when she drove me to the Jellicoe Road. And I want to. I want to remember the look in her eyes when she realised that she had to let go of the person who was her closest link to Webb. Did she look at me and tell me she loved me? Or did she not speak at all because the words would slice her throat, leaving her to bleed to death all the way back? While I sit in the foyer of St. Vincent’s hospital, waiting for the receptionist to finish on the phone, I think of everything I have always wanted to say to my mother and how in the past twenty-four hours all of it has changed. “You ready?” Griggs asks, coming back from ringing Santangelo. I shake my head. “How about I go up and ask?” I look at him, trying to manage a smile. “What are you thinking?” he asks. I’ve been piecing together tiny details about him as well. That he always asks that question because he has to see a counsellor every week at home and that’s what his counsellor asks him.
