Suzy Suzy

by William Wall

  He looked blank. I could see he wasn’t exactly following my argument. And then I realised that I wasn’t following it either.

  I said, Are you thinking of driving into the sea? Because if you are you can forget about me coming along. Like I just won’t be there. That sea is cold. Take a look at it some time.

  She’s going to hang me out to dry.

  Dad what’s happening? I don’t know what’s happening.

  He shrugged again. Nothing.

  He got up and went into his bedroom. After maybe twenty seconds in there he closed the door. Then I heard his bed creaking. I knocked on the door. There was no answer so I went in. He was lying on the flat of his back with the duvet pulled up to his chin. Like it wasn’t even a cold day. There was a fresh blister-pack on the bedside table with one blister punched out. There was a sour smell, like bad breath. He didn’t look at me.

  So this is not about the Revenue? This is about Mam, right, Dad? This is about making her pay?

  He closed his eyes.

  For fuck’s sake, I said, I legit hate this place. What are we doing here?

  He never even told me legit was not a word. He had his eyes closed and he never opened them once. For the first time ever I noticed that he had really long lashes, like a girl’s.

  I hate you, I said.

  I went out of the room again. I slammed the door behind me but it didn’t slam because it doesn’t fit the frame properly. It just sort whooshed and closed and then drifted open a bit. I sat down at the kitchen table and tried to think. He obviously never thought about my phone. I could just call my mam and tell her where we were and what was going on. Except there’s no signal. My phone is showing No Service, the understatement of the century so far.

  And then I thought he’s not that stupid, he knows I have a phone. I’m meant to call Mam and tell her. He wants me to tell her.

  I texted Holly, My dad is gone into hibernation.

  Holly: Like seriously does he have enough nuts?

  Me: He’s not a squirrel.

  Holly: I no.

  50

  And then I thought, He’s depressed, classic symptoms, won’t talk, won’t get out of bed, abusing pills. It’s A CRY FOR HELP. We got all that in Health Ed. We saw a video. It was about a guy drawing on a big sheet of wood. It was crap. Signs To Look Out For. Is Your Friend Depressed Or Suicidal? How To Help. The advice was always Contact Somebody. There was a list of people you could contact: a priest, a doctor, a teacher, a guidance counsellor. We had no guidance counsellors any more, they were abolished after The Crash. You were supposed to get your advice from the telly or Google. The only person I could think of was Peter. And he wasn’t on the list.

  51

  So Peter made me tea again. He had some nice chocolate biscuits. He had a sweet tooth for the bikkies, he said, sure it could be worse. I asked him about his books. They were two kinds, he said: books in Irish and westerns. I could see he was reading one called Kill Dusty Fog. He said the western was dead as a doornail, you could not buy one now, the last one he bought was one called Brokeback Mountain, somebody told him it was about cowboys, but it was useless, it was written by a woman of course, and women could not do westerns whatever else they could do, so he just read the old ones over and over again, the funny thing was he could never recall the endings until he got to the end, but he had a good idea who would live and who would die, that’s the important thing, there’s nothing worse than the hero dying, it’s very hard altogether, but if you knew it was going to happen you could be prepared for it, then it wasn’t so bad. And what about the Irish books? They were his mother’s, she was a school teacher back in Bolus, it was the old National School, she was a native Irish speaker and he grew up with it himself, his favourite book of all was Dánta Ghrádha collected by Thomas F. O’Rahilly with a foreword by Robin Flower, they were all in the old Irish of course, you’d have to work hard to understand that kind of thing, but what else would he be doing? and it was interesting to see how those old people managed the courting business, it was very intricate altogether and they had beautiful words like rún and searc, we don’t have at all in the English the like of it, it was not like nowadays when you could go on the internet and buy a wife from Latvia, he knew a man who bought his from there, if you could believe it, and it worked out well enough too, although she was thirty years his junior, he left her a fine house and a Ford Focus, it was a B&B now, the Latvians are hard workers, in his father’s time there was matchmaking of course, and in a way that was the internet for them, you would put out word that you were wanting a wife and a wife would be found and if the two of you agreed well enough that was the match made, it was better than the lonesomeness anyway, and his own mother used to say even if you had an old dog around the house you’d get fond of him after a while, which was not a bad saying for it worked both ways, the man for the woman and the woman for the man, the women were masters of the house anyway, so it was more important for the man to get on with the woman or he would get thin gruel morning, noon and night, a bitter woman in the house was the worst thing of all, even a bitter man wasn’t as bad for he was out of the house from the dawn with work to do, but a bitter woman soured everything, they had their ways, of course, and the man could go rambling at night-time, he would go card-playing or dancing from house to house, a man with a good voice was always welcome for they were mighty people for songs, if you could sing and you knew a share of songs there would always be a welcome, and if there was a welcome there would be drink, many a man was turned into a raving alcoholic by night-rambling, even men that started out sober young fellows, by the end of it they would be a pity.

  Are you married, Peter?

  Never married, he said, never worried, never wed, never fed.

  52

  I’d say Peter could talk for Ireland. All I had to do was drink my tea and eat my biscuits. But it was idk OK. He was OK. While he talked I looked at things. He had a picture over the fireplace that must have been his mother. She looked like a nice woman. She was standing beside a door that was like the door of a school. She was smiling. He had a painting on another wall of birds flying over mud. He had a bookshelf. There was an antique kind of sideboard thing with willow-pattern plates. There was a big round basket full of turf.

  When the tea was finished he made another pot and more biscuits came out, different ones but still chocolate. It was maybe after an hour that he said to me, What ails you, child? What has you down today?

  And then I didn’t know what to say. I was trying to think where to start. I looked in on my dad before I left and he was thrown on the bed snoring. Thunder and lightning wouldn’t wake him.

  I don’t know, I said. Like if my dad is not well?

  Why didn’t you say so from the get go? Does he need a doctor?

  I don’t know, I said, I think maybe it’s like depression. I don’t know. Maybe.

  He was just going to drink his tea. He had the cup to his lips. He stopped doing it. Very slowly he put the cup back on the saucer. He said something in Irish. My Irish is crap really. It’s not bad for reading but I’m crap at listening tests.

  Then he goes: Has he the darkness on him?

  That took me by surprise. It was so beautiful. I didn’t know there was a beautiful way of saying it like everybody just says depression or mood.

  I said I didn’t know, that he was just sleeping all the time, that he took sleeping pills.

  The poor man. Did he only take the prescribed dosage though?

  I said I didn’t know what my dad was doing. I didn’t know what was going on. I thought he was running away from my mother because they were going to split up, that he tricked me into coming too, also that he was maybe running away from debts, that I was worried about him, and I was worried about my family, and my brother was in trouble too. I was worried that maybe he wanted to kill himself too or something idk. Maybe. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what else I said. He listened to me.

  Then he said, My daddy
was locked up, in the asylum beyond. He was cracked from whiskey.

  I didn’t know what to say. I was looking at the cover of Kill Dusty Fog. I was wondering if cowboys ever got depressed. You never heard about it. Maybe they hadn’t the time.

  Peter said, He would be gone for a week or more, drinking wherever he could get drink. He would take cattle to the fair of Kenmare and not come back until he drank the money. He was a terror for it. Then he’d be recovering for a few weeks and then he’d start again. What he died of was cirrhosis of the liver and he died in the asylum. Only for my mother’s wages we would be destitute altogether. He died roaring. If anyone had it coming he had.

  Don’t say that, I said. It’s too sad. He was your daddy.

  I was thinking that if my dad went bankrupt there would only be my mother’s salary. That my dad would die if he couldn’t make money because money was all he ever thought about. It was his one and only skill. It was his secret baby.

  I’m not saying that your father is going the same way.

  He’s not. He hardly drinks at all.

  He nodded. He was watching me. He had small quick eyes but they were bright enough. He was a very tall man but he was shy. Now when he was watching me he was doing it sideways, out of the corners of his eyes.

  We had a bit of a farm back in the valley there, he said, and my daddy drank it. He drank the farm and he drank the house and when he was locked up roaring and shouting for seeing things my mother packed up and moved down here to the seaside. She got a job teaching because her husband was in the asylum and the priest took pity on her. It was a shame in those days to have someone in the madhouse. People said she drove him mad, would you believe that? They always say that sort of thing. They have to blame someone. But he did it himself. When he was sober he was a nice man. He used to play pitch and toss with me.

  I said that my friend’s daddy made a splint out of matchsticks for a robin with a broken leg and afterwards the robin used to come inside their house during cold weather. Peter said the leg probably troubled the robin and the cold made it worse. His own knee troubled him when it was wet.

  Would you come up and look at my dad? Like I don’t know if he’s safe to leave alone.

  I will. I’ll drive you back up. Finish your tea and we’ll go.

  I said I couldn’t drink any more.

  So he drove me up and we went into the bedroom and looked at him. And he never woke up even though there was a strange man standing at the foot of his bed. Peter brought a smell of turf smoke with him. And he said my dad was bad all right, that kind of sleep was unnatural, and I should get a doctor in the morning if he’s not better. But I knew I couldn’t do that. If I called a doctor he might be reported. Or they might send him into the asylum if they still had asylums idk. I promised Peter I would call a doctor first thing and he went home. And by then it was dark. It gets dark early in February even though we were as far west as you could go without falling into the sea. The sun sets behind the mountain so there’s a shadow over us from early. My book was finished and I had nothing to read. I should have borrowed something from Peter. I started googling stuff and I got sad because googling depression is bad. So I watched YouTube videos instead even though it would eat up my credit. I saw Zombie Make Up Tips. It was brilliant. How to do your face like a zombie with basically household ingredients every kitchen should have. Like I’m talking about gelatine and porridge and jam. I cooked some lamb chops and peas and I boiled potatoes, but I had to eat it all myself because my dad said he didn’t want anything. He was getting thin and I was getting fat.

  53

  And that was the hardest night ever. There was a wet gale blowing with hailstones. It was like someone slinging gravel at the windows. And the doors rattled and the wind got in everywhere and it was seriously cold. You could hear the gale grumbling and growling in the stove. Every time there was a gust something else caught fire in there.

  I was so lonely. I missed Holly and Serena and I missed my brother. I kept going over and over everything. What I wanted most of all was to cut but I didn’t bring my razors. I forgot them leaving the house. I thought about the carving knife but it was too blunt. There was a bread knife with a serrated edge but I thought that would make shit of my leg. I didn’t want to bleed to death while my dad was asleep. Once I dropped my pants and put my ass against the stove to burn it but it was just hot, it wasn’t hot enough to hurt. So what I did instead was I burned myself with three matches. It was bad. And every time I moved, my jeans rubbed the blisters.

  I was just in bed when I heard him coming out of his room downstairs. I heard him peeing. Then I heard a crash. I went down. He hadn’t turned on any lights. I turned on the bathroom light. He was sitting up with his back against the wall of the shower. He looked totally out of it. I wondered what he was taking. He looked like my brother Tony after he had been smoking weed. I don’t think my dad was into weed. He wasn’t cut or anything but there was a broken glass and two toothbrushes on the floor. There was a slight smell of mouthwash.

  Are you OK, Dad?

  He just looked at me for a minute. Then he said, I never realised it was so much.

  What, Dad?

  He shook his head. No matter what she says, it wasn’t like this from the start.

  Dad, you’re not making any sense. What are you talking about?

  He started to cry. I never thought I would see my dad cry. It was horrible. Then he pulled out about a metre of toilet paper and tore it off and bundled it up and wiped his eyes and blew his nose. He didn’t look at me. He was looking down at something on the stone floor. There was a dead woodlouse there that I killed yesterday. I’m scared of woodlice. Now it looked like a dead decepticon. I don’t think he was looking at that.

  Dad?

  I wish my heart finished the job.

  First I wasn’t sure I heard right. Then I didn’t know what to say. It’s not a child’s job to stop their father wanting to die. Where would I learn that? I tried to think what they told us. Let your friend talk. Seek help from someone you trust. Jesus wept twice. Who even lives out here in this crappy wilderness?

  Dad, talk to me.

  Now he looked up at me. I smell burning, he said.

  There’s nothing burning, Dad.

  He shrugged. I don’t think he could see me properly. He was looking at me like I was hollow.

  This country, he said, is never going to last. Will I tell you why, Suzy? Because the odds are always stacked against the little man. Anyone who wants to do anything. The country is full of wasters and scroungers. I’m supposed to pay so they can live like fucking kings. They want to take my money and throw it down their gullets out of pint glasses. The money I earned the hard way? Well, I’ll tell you something for nothing, they’re not going to get me. Oh no, they’re not going to fucking get me.

  He got up from the floor.

  Dad, I should get a doctor.

  He walked past me and out and carefully closed the bathroom door behind him. I opened it again and I was just in time to see him closing his bedroom door. What just happened? Did my dad actually talk to me? Whatever he said, I didn’t understand it. Maybe people in my family are talking all the time but I just don’t have whatever you need to get it? I heard him getting into the bed. The frame creaks. Then silence. If I waited long enough, if I didn’t freeze to death standing there, I would hear him snoring. I waited a while and then I went back into the bathroom and picked up the broken glass. It was the mouthwash. I cleaned the toothbrushes in case there were glass bits. I went to bed. I was shaking.

  Like in English we’re always supposed to Watch Out For The Turning Point. It’s a big deal. But mostly in real life you’ve already turned. Nobody remembers when there was a signpost or just a crossroads or even any other way. Or even if. And it’s just everything is different but also the same in a weird way. Like I wanted to be a doctor when I was in Third Year and I went to this lecture by a guy whose job it was to inject cancer cells into mice. He was saying how y
ou could tag the cells with dye so the tumours would be easy to find. And halfway through the lecture I realised that I already didn’t want to be a doctor and that I didn’t want to be one for a long time before I came. I couldn’t work out when it started. I didn’t want to see slides of coloured mouse cancers. I hate mice tbh. But I wouldn’t vote to give them cancer if there was a referendum on cancer for mice. Like, I’m. Just. Not. Going. There.

  I got out early. I told my teacher I was feeling sick.

  But that night was a Turning Point. And I knew it even before I fell asleep. I texted Holly. I think my dad is gonna kill himself. She didn’t reply. She was probably asleep. I texted again later. I don’t know what to do I’m scared. It was probably one a.m. By two the rain was over and the wind was going down. I dozed off and woke some time later and the wind was gone. I could hear the sea falling on the rocks. I could hear my dad snoring. So I knew he wasn’t dead. I fell asleep again.

  Next morning I texted my mam. I said where we were and that Dad was depressed and living on sleeping tablets. I said I was worried that he might do something. And my mam texted back: Is that what he told you to say? I said: He didn’t tell me to say anything he doesn’t know I have my phone he’s asleep all the time we have no money its 11 miles to the shop theres only an old guy who sells turf. I didn’t care if it was a lie. I just wanted it to stop.

  54

  So my mam stayed three days. I don’t know why. Every day she hated the place more and I loved it more which was funny because I started out the other way round. Maybe I loved it because she hated it. Now I didn’t want to ever go home. I even got to love the noise of the sea. Like you had to think, it spent a billion years trying to tear the land down and never gave up. Bit by bit it’s chipping it away. In the end the sea will win.

  I used to walk down to Peter’s house every morning after breakfast just to get out of their way. We’d have tea and biscuits and he’d tell me stories. Sometimes you could believe his stories while he was telling them and sometimes you could not. But I liked listening to him.