Free Journey to the Centre of Myself by Andie M. Long Page A

Manchester City Centre, not quite the same as the River Spree, but there is a wall mural along the back of the bedhead, a view of New York City. The nearest I’ll get to it, I think. Paris is one thing, but a longer flight, that would be a challenge. For now, I’m a little excited to be getting on a plane again tomorrow. Who’d have thought it? Karen the Jetsetter. I get my toiletries out and put them in the bathroom, freshen up and head out for some food.
    There’s a pizza place nearby and I’m about to order my usual Ham and Pineapple when I stop myself. For goodness sake have something different, Karen. I order one with chorizo, olives and spinach. Not too adventurous, but a step in the right direction. I wash it down with a glass of rosé , which reminds me of my breakfast. Was that only this morning?
    Then I stand in the cold, and wait for the bus that will take me to Chorlton-cum-Hardy and my daughter. I used to laugh at that place name. It’s not been funny to me for a long time now.
    I walk through the gates of the Southern Cemetery and down to the meadow where she lays. It seemed fitting to return her to nature. Here in the meadow, there is no memorial headstone, just a number which I still hate, but I wanted her amongst the butterflies, birds and flowers, with ‘All things bright and beautiful,’ which I had played at her service. The meadow is sodden, plants are broken and dying and the place looks like something from an Alfred Hitchcock movie. It kind of appeals to my nature. I always liked dark stories and vampires. Perhaps she lives on as a beautiful angel or a little butterfly spirit? Nature shows the death and rebirth. I’ve suffered the death, I have to hope she was reborn somewhere else.
    I realise I should return in the Summer, though, to experience Gen’s resting place at its finest.
    Adrian comes to mind as I go into the Remembrance Lodge. He insisted we had the Lodge’s craftsmen create a memorial inscription, so he had something he could view to remember her name. I didn’t understand back then. Why did we need something written in a book? We had thoughts, memories, photographs, but today, as I’m here, I get his point of view. It shouts that she was here, she counted, and she lived amongst others.
    I realise I haven’t wanted to cry. It would be so easy to think of my loss and collapse into a heap, but today hasn’t been about that. It’s been about facing things head on, not running away from everything. In some ways, though you could say I’m running away to Paris, I don’t feel like that’s the case. It’s like I’m going around collecting parts of myself and fitting them all back together.
    I sit in the Remembrance Lodge for some time, remembering fond memories of my baby girl.
     
    Sleep evades me most of the night. Memories surface of how happy Adrian and I were with our baby. Then came my breakdown and his gambling and somehow we got lost along the way. I realise I need to take part-responsibility for what happened. I’ve been so focused on the fact that what happened to me afterwards wasn’t my fault, that I’ve excused myself for everything I did. For the first time, I think our relationship might have a chance. I need more time to think about things. Perhaps Adrian lies because that’s the only way he can survive? Or am I making excuses for him again? Steve would be enraged at my even considering giving him an excuse for his behaviour.
    ‘Urrrrrrggh.’ I turn my pillow to the cool side as I realise I’m letting my brother’s opinion count again. Karen, I tell myself, go stand on your own two feet. Then I sleep.
    I’m back at the airport Friday afternoon. This time, I’m stopped while I’m going through the scanner and frisked, and then, as I go through to the gate, they’re doing spot checks and I have to have my bag and body searched again. Dear God, it must be this new hair, I’ve never had so much attention.
    I buy myself a Top Ten Paris guide from the