It was Mitch who booked her flight, packed her bags, and drove her to the airport. He arranged for Sabrina to collect her at Heathrow and promised to call every day. He organised a flight attendant to accompany her on the plane, and the kindly woman ensured that Rosanna ate and drank, and that she was comfortable. The attendant had never seen a woman so distraught – she did not once close her eyes.
Rosanna could not remember anything about the flight, landing or the car ride. She sobbed the whole way, her head on Sabrina’s shoulder, soaking her jacket. A doctor was waiting at the house. He prescribed something to help her sleep and Mrs Allen tucked her up in her old bed. Sabrina didn’t move from the armchair in the bedroom until she was sure her friend was sound asleep.
“When can I see Will? I want to see my son,” Rosanna said the moment she woke. Mrs Allen was placing a cup of tea on the bedside table.
“It’s already been arranged. I’ll drive you to the undertaker’s this afternoon. They’ve been waiting for additional instructions, songs, prayers, poems, anything you want to say, and a choice of clothes,” said Sabrina, who was back in the armchair. “Mrs Allen will help you with the clothes and I can sort out anything else you want.”
“I want him to be buried. I can’t bear the thought of his little body being cremated.”
“We can discuss all that with the funeral director. Drink your tea, have a shower, and then try to eat some breakfast. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
Sabrina followed Mrs Allen out of the bedroom. Rosanna wriggled up from the duvet and leaned back into the pillows. The tea was hot and sweet. She stared through the half-drawn curtains at a misty morning melting in the sun. Will should have been there, rushing into her room in his blue pyjamas, shaking his snow globe and telling boyish jokes in his old teacher’s voice.