Grief's Relief

The motorway sprawled out in front of the car in a whooping arc of bountiful choice. The 'A' roads branching off could lead anywhere – only Scotland, in this direction, since I faced northwards – but any of the cars dashing past me could be an explorer out on their first European road trip, or a serious businessman headed for Ipswich for a serious business meeting. I imagined I was perhaps destined for Glasgow to hide out in Waterstones with adventures encompassing me. I relaxed into my seat and began to mould my mouth contentedly to the words of the music in the car.

But the daydream I had carefully stacked and arranged into a perfect model of a Glasgow shopping trip was prodded by a simple yank to the left of the steering wheel and was suddenly crumbling as we took the turn-off towards Coatbridge from the M74. I couldn't ignore where we're going any more … unless I imagined Dad had been possessed by Greater Demon Lilith and was dragging me to Coatbridge for no reason on this Earth. Okay, perhaps not. Perhaps I would just have to face the real explanation for this unwelcome voyage into Coatbridge's depths.

It had been a week since Gran had died – and I still hadn't cried. It's not as if my gran was unpleasant at all. She raised three children on her own for a long time, until my Aunt Anne essentially asked my (step) grandpa to marry my gran. Grandpa loved her. My mum loved her. I have a whole list of memories from cousins that I prepared for at the funeral service – mine was her and Grandpa dancing in the caravan while I was having breakfast. That makes me happy, fond – but it doesn't make me cry.

They say everyone has different ways of grieving – apparently mine was for the sadness to tunnel down deep into a burrow in my heart, where even I couldn't spot it. I'd like to say I didn't grieve properly because I felt responsible for supporting my mum but it's probably far more accurate that I desperately needed my mum to lean on me so that I wouldn't have to face the responsibility of grieving.

To be fair, my mum did need support. I worried about her – but I was supposed to, wasn't I? I did it well, too. The duty of consoling her – pretending I was her tiny little girl whom she could hold and cuddle – was a sense of purpose to the misaligned feelings bopping around inside me.

The familiar route of almost tram-like dependability was also stolen from me as we made yet another turn into the depths of Coatbridge … or Airdrie, whichever really. I was lost either way. It's unnerving to be the only one in a car with no inclination of your whereabouts – my parents are both from Coatbridge – but I was more than unnerved today. I was unhinged by the fact that everyone seemed to have their places: Mum cried, Dad comforted her. Was I expected to do both? Surely you'd have thought I could compensate for my apparent robotic lack of emotion by being a handrail for my mum but no. Every time I was alone with either of them, they'd ask how I was doing. I still don't know what the optimum reply would have been but 'I'm fine' was certainly not the right path.

Dad cast Mum a concerned glance which I barely noticed because I was still singing along to 'Year 3000' – which was a deliberate attempt not to notice anything – but I caught the tail end of it, as he returned his eyes to the road. My reaction was neither what I'd expected nor hoped for. Dad's sympathy was going to destroy me by releasing the 'burden' I felt I must hold in comforting my mum and he'd ask me again how I'm doing and I'd be able to answer and I'd have nothing left to cower behind. Tears would doubtless continue to escape me and I'd have no way to explain why.

Then the funeral director's came into view and all hope of two for one book offers were decimated. I had no escape. Today was the viewing of my gran's body, the day before the funeral. The brick block with simple stained glass in its doors and puddles collecting in its gravelly car park could have been a police station, a shop, even a house. The only thing it housed was death. Yes, if fair grounds have houses of mirrors, then this was the house of death.

The desperation I felt as I hunched my shoulders to face the mundane September breeze was probably akin to that of an Arctic adventurer down to their last mile from the Pole. I had to cry. That was how I could cheer Mum up, by sharing her sorrow, by being at least a little human! The trepidation as I stepped shakingly into the heated, tiled corridors that led in every direction to dead bodies was greater in its severity than the sum of every swimming competition I've ever partaken in. I thought of whatever I could to make me cry. Trivial things, mostly fictional. But maybe they'd do the trick. George Weasley has to live without Fred Weasley for the rest of his life. Matt Smith is leaving Doctor Who. I know, these things shouldn't have ignited much more than indifference in me but I could actually feel myself swallow nervously when I remembered Rue's death in 'The Hunger Games'.

A man with white hair and a sympathetic gaze rose from his tea at a desk in the room to my left and ushered us into the room straight ahead. The wallpaper was a sort of cream-pink, a calm colour, I guess. There was a tremendously large cross bolted to the wall above a high wooden block, which appeared to be on wheels. It was on this block that Gran lay with her eyes closed, her mouth artfully sculpted into a wistful smile. The horizontal bars of the cross seemed to hold the shapes of arms reaching out to someone. They really had done a terrific job on the aesthetics of the place.

Come on, that really is sad, I thought, they're so good at this because there's always been death and always will be death. Even if I couldn't summon something for Gran, then maybe I could have a quick existential crisis, question my life's worth. That was sure to get me going. But wait – the smile. That smile was bitter-sweet.

I peered forward, knowing full well that my normal cause for an outpouring of stinging drops of emotion was extreme irony, or tragedy. Something beautiful, sometimes, or something important. Not normally sad. I could see the smile on Gran's face, which she'd never have a reason for or the ability to do again. That was sad, wasn't it?

Apparently so. Relief was the wrong emotion to feel on seeing Gran's limp, lifeless body, only a prosthetic cast of who she once was but, despite my relief being in fact caused by the grief which I scrabbled so desperately to cling to, it still oozed out of me to the point where the Queen's Corgis could have probably used the stench of it to track me all the way from London. The tears were signalling that they'd finally made it, finally ready to march down my cheeks and prove that I felt grief – because I did, honestly, I do. The salty jewels released and I had to catch my breath in my throat before it could escape as a sigh of relief.