When we took the Uber home from the cemetery this afternoon, I thought of that holiday we had in Lisbon with you and Mum. We were sitting in some terrible pretend Scandinavian coffee place, it was the hottest day of the year, no air conditioning, and Zoe was acting up. You and Mum wanted to go back to the Airbnb for one of your Little Rests, and I offered to get you an Uber – we’d been getting a lot of Ubers for you two, I hadn’t realised Lisbon was so sodding hilly – but you wanted to do it yourself. Clive must have installed the app for you, but now you couldn’t figure out how to use it. I tried to help but that only made you more confused, and Zoe kept prodding my arm because she needed to ask me something RIGHT THAT SECOND, and you just sort of froze. Your stubby finger trembled as it hovered above the screen. There was a drop of moisture on your cheek which I assumed was sweat, but looking back I’m not so sure. In retrospect, that should have been the moment when I realised something was up with your health, but I didn’t because all I wanted was to get you and Mum out of there so I could deal with Zoe and maybe even have a moment to drink my overpriced latte in peace, so I grabbed your phone, saying give me the bloody thing, I’ll do it, and your face fell so hard that I immediately regretted it, but it was already too late.
Sitting in the Uber this afternoon, I wished I could do it again. Wished I could explain patiently how to order the ride, watch as you pressed each button in turn. See the satisfaction in your face as the message appeared, saying the car was on its way.
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