The End is Where We Begin

me. I work with teenagers and he’s probably one of the most stable, together—”
“I don’t mean that’s he’s screwed up necessarily, just the whole situation.”
“There are loads of kids out there growing up without one of their parents. Life’s no fairy tale, is it?”
“But you know what the tragic thing is? He may be right. It may not even register with her that it’s his birthday.”
“Of course it does. It has to. She’s still a mother, even if she’s not capable of being there—”
“Not capable?”
“Yeah, not capable, as in not emotionally able to—”
“Give a crap?”
“Connect.”
“Connect?” I laugh. “Jesus, that’s a generous analysis.”
“Yeah, maybe. Well, I’ve come to see things differently over the last few years. We can’t all be who we want to be, can we? However hard we try.”
“I think she might have missed the trying bit,” I mumbled.
We fell silent for a while.
“I guess it was all tied up, wasn’t it?” said Michael, eventually. “What happened that night. You and Libby. The way that ended. I can see why one thought leads into another right now.”
I nodded. “Sometimes it feels like that one night defined the rest of my life.”
Michael sighed, placed his feet back up on the dashboard. “Then you need to stop letting it define you. Find a way to step out from its shadow.”
I looked at him, raised an eyebrow, shrugged to show I had no idea how to go about that. He shrugged back. We smiled, a silent agreement that this conversation was over, that we’d hit a dead end.
“I’ll tell you something I do know,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“I’m never driving to fricking IKEA again on a Saturday afternoon.”
He laughed heartily. “Well, there you go, my friend,” he said, reaching over and slapping my thigh hard, “at least you reached one conclusion on this journey.”
And so here I am. Putting my plan into action. My plan to get closure on the past. I thought, for a time, that I’d be with Libby for the rest of my life, a dream built when we were young and life was simple, and when wanting something seemed enough to make it happen. Now the prospect of even walking a few metres in her direction seems too daunting.
But then I remember pacing the floorboards in the middle of the night, lying awake in the early hours, thinking of all the things I wish I’d said and done. I remember the feeling of tightness in my chest, the breath that just won’t come.
I don’t want to carry these things with me anymore. Libby, Max, Tom… All the relationships, so important to me once upon a time, they all need to be resolved so that new relationships can grow in their place, unfettered by the chains of the past. Jeopardise, that’s what Michael says I do. Jeopardise my relationships, my chances at happiness. He’s right, and I don’t want to be that person anymore.
I put my head down and walk quickly along the towpath, determined to shut out all the questioning voices, all the doubts.
And before I know it, I’m there.
Paintings are propped against the walls and hung on the railings of the bridge, all of them depicting canal scenes: brightly coloured river boats, locks, bridges, water, reeds, wildfowl, kingfishers. Just at a glance I know the first ones aren’t Libby’s. They’re nothing like the paintings on her website, nothing like her. I don’t know a thing about art, but these look like classic oil paintings: heavy, intense, dramatic. That was never Libby. Her paintings were always light, airy, slightly removed from reality. She wasn’t concerned with showing what was actually there. She said that was what photographs were for. She wanted to interpret, present a different way of seeing things. That was Libby all over. Reality was nothing but a hindrance, nothing that she couldn’t think beyond. She never saw the limitations of things, including me. The paintings on her website still carry her same stamp, but, of course, they’re better these days, far more skilled but just as quirky.
I wander further along, hearing the voices of bystanders.
I love the colours on that one…
That reminds me of that place we went on holiday… Bathampton, was it?
More paintings. No, this time photographs. Sunlight reflecting off a blue canal, the tiny, shimmering particles captured up close. The intricate detail of a brightly painted narrowboat mirrored in the water. The open gates of a lock, the power of the water captured in full force, tumbling down, shimmering in the winter light. I like these ones. They show canals at their best; places where holidaymakers can make pleasantly slow, relaxing journeys. Places where nothing bad ever happens.
And then the photographs give way to more paintings; subtle tones, blocks of light, undefined edges, angles that don’t seem quite right. Libby’s work.
My stomach tightens and I can barely turn my head for fear of staring straight at her. But slowly I start to look around me, scanning the faces for one I might recognise.
Maybe I’m missing her. Could she have changed that much? Dyed her hair? Put on weight? If only she’d put a photo of herself on her website.
But then I spot her. She’s coming down the steps from the bridge, two polystyrene cups in her hands, concentrating. My heart jumps with the shock of it, adrenaline suddenly pumping through my system. She looks so much older. A grown woman, and yet so familiar. The same brown hair, only shorter, just past her shoulders now instead of halfway down her back. And those dark eyes that I remember. I spent hours of my life gazing into those eyes.
A man in a beanie hat and glasses gets up from a fold-up stool and takes a cup from Libby’s hand. They both laugh about something she says, and he briefly places his arm around her, gives her a little squeeze. Is that her husband? I’ve always imagined she’d be married by now. It was what she guiltily craved, deep down. A bit of security