How We Remember

by J. M. Monaco

  Although I shed fewer tears that third time around, I caught Jon sobbing quietly on our bed, sitting not far from the bloodstain I had left on the sheet before rushing to the bathroom. It was two-thirty in the morning and he had just returned from the kitchen with some ibuprofen and a hot water bottle. We said nothing for a long time before we talked about calling the hospital at the start of the day to confirm what we knew already.

  ‘Maybe I’m a little relieved, I admit, but…’ Then, still looking down, still crying, he said, ‘I guess it’s hit me now.’ He stopped and drew a deep breath. ‘It’s hit me that we’re never going to…we’re never going to have the chance to see some of ourselves, our resemblances, all that stuff, in our child. It all feels so final.’

  Nineteen

  Returning to the house to rummage through my mother’s belongings feels like a chore, yet one that might offer some relief at the finish. It’s as though my insides have been bunged up for too long and I’m hoping I’ll feel flushed and cleansed afterwards.

  We’ve finally agreed, Dave, my father and I, to meet later and talk about the money before going to the lawyer’s office. Guilt has been drilling away at me, a repetitive and tortuous pecking action, ever since my dinner with Dave. Yes, it was my mother’s decision to arrange things this way, all for Dave’s benefit, and yet my father and I are allowed a large sum to do whatever we want, whenever we want. Who’s to say Jimmy O’Brien won’t do something crazy with his portion? Who’s to say I won’t fall apart after all these years of playing nice? Good girl JoJo goes wild. Loses her marbles. It was only a matter of time.

  But what happens if I remain rational Jo? Do I really have any idea what I’ll do with my share? Stock investments? Payment towards a flat that Jon and I could rent out? It would be so much simpler to do nothing. Dave was probably right when he assumed I’d ‘let it just sit in the bank’.

  If I don’t support Dave on this it might be the end of whatever is left of us, brother, sister, father. If we agree to distribute the money the way Dave wants it will be perceived by Dave as an investment in him, a symbolic gesture. We are willing, this offer would say, to trust you. We are willing to believe you will now go ahead and honour your dead mother by doing the right thing, the thing she would have wanted you to do. She just couldn’t convince herself you were ready, so OK, now you need to prove her wrong. And maybe you can prove something to me, Dave, prove you’re worthy of some of my share. If Dad doesn’t budge, the decision, to share or not to share, is all mine. I’ll be the one calling the shots.

  I get through my mother’s possessions much faster than anticipated. My energy, at least at this point in the early part of the day, feels unlimited, even with the nagging pain in the leg, the spasms that cause it to jerk when I least expect them. But I’ve given up worrying about what others think.

  I fill five large trash bags with her clothes, old and new, a donation for the nearby Salvation Army store. There are a few items of jewellery, none of them worth much in monetary value. She didn’t adorn herself with bracelets or earrings, didn’t wear make-up. There are only two necklaces and a chain with a gold-plated watch she wore in her early nursing years, a graduation gift given to her by her best friend. I clear the old nursing magazines, throw away the disintegrating shoes and other unusable items. Then I begin to spring-clean the place – I’m on a mission to scrub away any residual evidence of my dying mother. I spot fingernail clippings on the carpet and on top of her bedside table.

  Hidden behind her side of the bed against the wall is a small, white plastic cup, which made me wonder why she didn’t just drink out of a glass, although glasses do break after you drop them on a tiled floor when you’re drunk. It is filled with three cigarette butts in mouldy water. She’d found a place to cover the habit of a lifetime that ended up killing her. She knew there was no point in giving them up with the end in sight, but she still tried her best to hide the mucky remnants. She certainly liked keeping her secrets. I find another cup behind the living room couch in the corner, the regular spot where she watched TV. Where the hell was my father all this time? All this time when she was alone. Smoking. Dying.

  During one of my last visits at the hospice I dug a bit and asked her if she had any regrets.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, with a look of confusion.

  ‘Well, you know, have you ever regretted not doing something in your life or did you do something you wish you hadn’t?’

  I kind of knew where I was going with this, but was probably naive in my expectations. But she was near the end so I thought anything might be possible.

  ‘No, not really,’ she said, then looked up and paused. ‘I had David, then you, when I was really young, and maybe if I didn’t I could have been a nurse earlier than I was. That would have helped us with money, that’s for sure.’ She hesitated again, as though she was searching deep down. Here it comes, I thought, her big revelation, what I’ve been waiting for all these years. I never should have let Peggy bully me the way she did. But instead, she said, ‘I might regret not having a cigarette or two, you know, before I go. Don’t tell your father though. Please, don’t tell him.’ She reached for my arm. ‘Do you think you can find me one, Jo? I could really die for one now. Hah, that’s funny, isn’t it? Die for one.’

  Hilarious. My mother finding her new vocation as a comedian on her death-bed.

  After several hours I stagger to the car, my energy now waning, fill the trunk with the bags and head off to the nearest Salvation Army. The second I walk through the door, my nose is hit with that unique odour you get in these places. It’s not coming from the well-groomed elderly man who steps out from the storage room.

  ‘It’s all in the trunk, just out front,’ I say. ‘The car with the blue badge.’ The sprightly old guy is keen to help. I imagine he’s the kind of gentleman in his late seventies who probably practises gentle tai chi and works here three days a week while fitting his hours around other good deeds.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss. No matter how old we are when we lose a parent it’s the hardest thing ever. God bless, God bless you.’

  The God thing again.

  He’s in the business of sorting through the leftover items of dead people’s lives. Someone else will walk in my mother’s shoes. Is this part of what life after death means? How do we make the best use of what the dead have left us? Ma’s investment money was another part of her life after death. What we do with it matters. She would have wanted the three of us to stay together as a family, the new trio. She wouldn’t have thought that her decision about Dave’s money would pull us apart even more. Or maybe she put it out there to test us. Another fucking maze.

  On my way back to the house I take a detour to Whole Foods supermarket, sit down in the café for a drink and soup, then decide to fill my father’s empty but now spotlessly clean fridge. I do this out of a sudden desire to make a difference to the old man’s life, like a little spirit overhead sprinkling magical happiness crystals that will settle and sprout into blades of pure, contagious goodness in my father’s weakened heart. While I’m there I stock up on some basics and additional treats for Beth too, although I put my foot down at organic toilet paper.

  Arriving back at the house, just around thirty minutes before Dad and I are supposed to meet with Dave, I pick up a voice message from Dad, which I must have missed when shopping. He has to cancel, he says, because his driving route got extended.

  I gotta make some more stops in Maine and it’s gonna take a long time. I won’t be back in time. I called your brother. No surprise he ain’t happy, but that’s life.

  Slightly relieved, although I know it’s only a short delay of the inevitable confrontation, I spread my worn body on the couch, close my eyes just for a minute – only a quick minute, I tell myself – after taking a pill for the pain in my leg and eating most of the chocolate-covered raisins.

  I wake up much later to a muffled sound, the echo of a door closing. I struggle to focus my eyes on my watch a
nd discover it’s close to 7.30pm. When I look up I’m startled to see my brother standing over me. Dave hovers, slightly open mouth, eyeing me with a look of genuine concern.

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you like that.’

  ‘Christ. My heart skipped a beat there.’ I rub my eyes, lean over to the side table and put on my glasses. ‘I must have been dead to the world.’

  ‘Well, you were looking a bit dead. It kind of worried me for a minute, like you weren’t breathing.’

  What would happen if I was the one to go? Would Dave miss me at all? How much difference would it make to his life?

  ‘Deep sleep. You got Dad’s message?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I’m guessing he doesn’t want to face me just yet.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, still feeling heavy. ‘He doesn’t usually work late, does he?’

  ‘Who knows what he does. You know what he’s like,’ he laughs, and heads into the kitchen. ‘Anyway, I was in the neighbourhood and thought I’d stop in and pick up the jacket I left here last week. And then I see Ma’s car and here you are all crashed out.’

  From the couch I see Dave open the fridge door, move in closer to survey the contents.

  I shout, ‘I’ve been at it pretty much all day here. Cleaning. Clearing stuff out. Dropped stuff at the Salvation Army then some shopping and thought, oh, I’ll just put my feet up, and before I knew it I was out.’

  Dave says, ‘Looks like someone stocked up at Whole Paycheck. And it sure as hell wasn’t Jimmy O’Brien. Nice one, Jo, but I think you might have wasted your efforts on him.’ He grabs a can of Bud Light, takes a few gulps. ‘What do you say I take you for a drive to the beach? Weather’s nice tonight. They still got Kelly’s there, all done up now. There’s about five of them in the state, but they still do good roast-beef sandwiches and lobster rolls. I don’t know about you but I’m starving.’

  Much of Dave’s Boston accent has softened over the years, but every now and then he exaggerates it for comic effect. And it’s that sudden shrill sound of the hometown when he says ‘stahvin’ that does something to me. It’s inside my being. I see my eager teenage self lining up outside Kelly’s with friends on hot summer nights. I can almost smell the fried seafood.

  ‘Good ol’ Kelly’s. I used to love that place. Well, I had a little bit earlier but I guess I could eat.’

  Dave decides to take a tour first through some of the neighbourhood streets ‘for a little trip down memory lane,’ he says. While some of the area seems unchanged, run-down three-storey houses in need of renovation, others are dressed up with colourful flower beds, newly paved driveways, expensive-looking cars. I look for familiar faces, naively imagining characters from my youth sitting on porches, hanging out at the park or the street corner. They’ll appear just as they did before, without any evidence that four decades have passed. Without any knowledge of the nation’s recessions, the rise of the internet, the global financial bank crisis, climate change. We’re sorry, Jo, that girl who bullied me at school would say, for being so mean. For hating you for no good reason.

  We continue on to another few side roads with Dave pausing here and there to remind me of his childhood antics. Crashing parties, getting drunk at this house, skipping school and smoking dope at that house, over in the corner at the park.

  He drives over to the nicer part of town. ‘I always wanted to live in one of these houses,’ he says when we approach a tree-lined row of big colonial-style homes. ‘Beautiful. Remember we used to call them mansions? They must have at least six bedrooms and a few bathrooms. There were always doctors and lawyers, all those types living around here. We just never would have crossed each other’s paths. They definitely didn’t send their kids to school with the likes of us.’

  He parks up in front of one with a huge surrounding lawn. ‘This was the one me and my friends used to throw rocks at when we skipped school,’ he says. ‘It was a challenge to see if we could throw them high enough up to the top window and one day I got my aim right and broke the glass. We ran off so fast that day, were scared shitless we’d get caught.’ He leans forward, wraps his hands around his face and grunts, ‘Christ, was I a little shit.’

  ‘We all did stupid stuff back then, Dave.’

  ‘Yeah, but now, I think, how would I feel if some little shit broke a window in my nice house that I worked hard for?’

  ‘I know. Kids do stupid things though. And later we regret it.’

  Dave releases a long sigh, and says, ‘We sure do.’

  We get to Kelly’s Roast Beef with its new flashy sign overhead. A digital clock showing the time and current temperature – essential for any respectable beach stop. A set of decent, clean outdoor tables with parasols sit nearby with a large, colourful planter in the centre to add the finishing touch. I lose count of the impressive amount of Kelly’s branded trash cans that surround the area and think, Isn’t this wonderful. Such progress. By now my stomach is grumbling loud and clear.

  We sit and I order fried clams, large onion rings, fries and a chocolate frappe. ‘Whoa. Good appetite,’ Dave says. ‘Think I’ll stick to the roast beef and a Diet Coke.’

  ‘No seafood? Since we’re here at the beach and all that?’

  ‘Haven’t had the beef sandwich for ages. But you’ll enjoy the clams, Jo. And this one’s on me.’

  I have no trouble wolfing it all down while I take in the sounds and urban-beach surrounds, with its airy mixture of washed-up seaweed, rubbish, cigarettes and fast food. I watch young women flirt and get groped by young men where they stand at a nearby parked car. Was I her once? I ask myself. Did I want to be the big-busted white girl with the dip-dyed ends? She’s the one with the empty look in her eyes, gazing at nothing in particular while nestling up to the muscular Haitian guy in the white T-shirt. Every now and then he shouts something in French to his friend across the street who shouts back. Two older couples and a father and young son, both wearing Boston Red Sox baseball caps, observe their exchange.

  Dave shifts uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Let’s get away from this shit. Let’s walk on the beach.’

  We stand to go. As we begin to walk past them, Dave dares to stare into the eyes of the Haitian who glares back, then rebounds in a threatening tone, ‘What you want, man? What you want?’

  Dave stares back with an unflinching hostility that sends a chill through me. ‘I’m good, thanks. I’m good,’ he says, finally.

  ‘That’s fine, you want nothing, you’re good, so move on, man. Move on.’

  ‘Yup. I’m good,’ Dave says, nodding his head, still staring.

  ‘Come on,’ I whisper. We cross the road and walk onto the beach, the Haitian’s eyes following us, Dave’s finally looking elsewhere. ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Nothing at all. Guys like that just like throwing their dicks around. He’s a fucking dealer.’ he says, stopping to light a cigarette. ‘Seen him around town before.’ He kicks the sand hard, once, twice, three times. ‘Fucking gets me.’

  I hesitate, then ask, ‘Did you score drugs from him? How do you know he’s a dealer?’

  ‘Come on, Jo, give me a bit more credit than that. No, I didn’t score drugs. Just seen him, heard him around the bars. They get around, these guys. And they’ll sell all kinds of shit to anyone. High-school kids. Junior-high kids. And they lace it with all kinds of dangerous shit to make it go further. Wasn’t like that in our day. We knew what we were buying.’

  ‘Well, I’m not so sure about that, but best you keep out of his way if you know what’s good for you.’

  Dave walks too fast and I struggle on the soft surface even with the cane. He stops, waits for me. He looks out towards the water, purses his lips, turns to me with a fake smile and says, ‘It’s fucked up.’ He sweeps his hand across his mouth. ‘You’re right. I shouldn’t let guys like that get to me.’

  We don’t walk too far before Dave suggests we sit down on the sand and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to get up again.

  ‘Revere Beach. Not wha
t it used to be, Jo.’ He passes the cigarette in my direction.

  ‘Oh, what the hell,’ I say, and take it. I close my eyes and let the quiet settle through a few puffs and hand it back. The sound of soft waves, along with the smell of damp seaweed that gets stronger with every breeze, offer some hope of a peaceful nostalgia, but it passes. ‘I wouldn’t say it feels that much different, Dave. Except for a much nicer Kelly’s. There was always a lot of noise and trouble around here. Remember all those motorbike gangs. Fast cars, drunk kids up and down the boulevard. Drugs.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. That’s true.’

  ‘And the beach was never really that clean either. Was always a bit trashy.’ I look around and notice cigarette butts in the sand, straws, plastic cups, a broken bottle.

  ‘I was just thinking,’ Dave says, ‘of when we were kids here with Ma and Auntie Josie and our cousins. All those long summer days. We’d even stay late after the sun went down. Eat pizza. Sometimes Auntie Peggy would come on her days off. ‘

  ‘Auntie Peggy. She was nice before all the shit hit the fan.’

  He looks at me, caresses my arm awkwardly and says, ‘Lots of shit happened back then, Jo. But there were good times too.’

  My mother’s diary entry about Uncle Ron comes to mind. I’ve been having some counselling with Wendy the therapist (Ron). This stuff with Peggy and the whole business with that husband of hers and Jo is hard. Dave only found out about Uncle Ron when everyone started talking about me. We might have shared a bedroom when he wasn’t spending time in the hospital or running off somewhere, but we totally lived our own lives. Maybe it’s about time the record was set straight.

  I’m just about to share all of this with Dave before he interrupts with, ‘I’ll tell you though, you can’t beat the beaches in Florida. God, I missed those Fort Lauderdale beaches when I left. Soft white sand. Warm clear water. You could swim, way out and still see right to the bottom. Christ, I miss those days.’