How We Remember

by J. M. Monaco

  Then I knock over my cane and lose my balance for a second; the sound of the object hitting the marble floor and rolling down the three steps sends a piercing echo throughout the place. Beth moves in quickly to take hold of it. My crying continues to interrupt my speech, which I try to remember to look at every now and then so I can get across the key points, but eventually the tears obscure my vision so much that I can’t continue. Now all I’m doing is sobbing at the pedestal, first quietly in a dignified, contained way while the entire church is silent, waiting patiently for me to finish, then it’s erupting out of my control. The sobbing grows into an echoing wail, so that I can no longer speak.

  Beth rises to the pedestal and comes to my rescue, waiting for me to wind up. I manage to rein myself in for long enough to invite everyone to the buffet down the road where we can remember the wonderful, saintly Theresa O’Brien.

  When I arrive at the restaurant I open the trunk and begin gathering up the flowers to take inside while keeping a look out for Beth and Jean. Dave approaches while Dad and Uncle Joe talk to one of their aunts. I sense that people are checking me out, so I turn to him with a look that says, Please be sympathetic for your over-emotional, suffering, limping little sister. Please be a big brother who can make everything better. Please take some pity on me. Yes, this is my unapologetic objective.

  He stops, lights a cigarette and says, ‘Hey, Jo, you OK? You want to try one of my Zolofts? It really helps panic attacks. Why don’t you give it a try?’

  Hesitation. Take a breath. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  He insists. ‘Hey, you know, there’s nothing wrong with admitting you need some help when things are tough. Come on, try one?’ He glances around us like he’s doing a drug deal.

  The conversation reaches a quick end when Beth and Jean step in to help take the photographs inside. There are some convivial exchanges between the three of them, with Jean offering her condolences. Amy’s looking shy again.

  ‘She may live up north in New Hampshire, but she’s always here, right next to me.’ Dave tells Jean, holding his fist next to his heart. ‘And it’s time I saw that granddaughter of mine. When you bringing her down?’

  ‘Next time, Dad. Next time.’ Amy may live in New Hampshire now but she hasn’t escaped her Bostonian whine. For the most part Amy sticks by Nicole’s side, a little too close in my opinion, and they are among the first people to leave later.

  After setting up the photo display inside, Dave and I meet more of the staff from my mother’s hospital who are drawn to comment on the pictures with recollections; young and older doctors, nurses whose names I remember her mentioning. Several nurses who were part of her gang and who visited the hospice remind us how special Terry was, a one-of-a-kind nurse who was always on the patients’ side.

  ‘And teacher, too. She was a great mentor for the nurses who were just starting. They really looked up to her,’ her friend Maureen says. ‘Although I can tell you there were a few times when nice teacher Terry lost it with some of those students who were slacking off. No way Terry was going to put up with their shit. Nope. She was good, Terry. Always set a good premise.’

  Dave and I smile, nodding in agreement. My father sits at a distance with his brother and cousins having a beer.

  Our mother, the admirable, respected, hard-working nurse. I know this side of Terry well, as does my brother. I’m filled with a sense of pride that her colleagues regarded her so highly, and also in acknowledging what she managed to accomplish out of what little she started with. And yet I’m still stuck with that silent and selfish yearning, with that wish that there would have been just a bit more of my mother left for my brother and me in those years when she was so hungry for her success, when she was so desperate for something better than what was on offer. There’s no way around it, this cyclical motion in which I am trapped. It doesn’t matter how much therapy I’ve had, I still end up in this same place. I can only feel some relief now, after the fate of my failed pregnancies, that I will never have to endure my child’s unrealistic expectations of me. They want all of you, children do, every last expelled breath, no matter how weak it is, and even after you’ve sacrificed yourself in an effort to ensure their happiness in the world, they’ll still demand more. Is that all you got? Well, it wasn’t my fault I was born, that was your doing. Could I have done any better than Terry, especially given her circumstances? Maybe she was, after all, a saint.

  ‘It’s a hard job, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to make the same mistakes our parents made,’ my cousin Angela says. Her father, Uncle Phil, on the other side of the table, who suffered a stroke at the age of sixty after years of heavy smoking and drinking, suffers enough hearing loss that the comment goes unnoticed. We share a knowing laugh and I remember those summer days of our early childhood spent on Revere Beach with our mothers and brothers, each of us lathered in baby oil roasting in the sun, throwing ourselves into crashing, polluted waves, roaming the arcades, sneaking cigarettes and alcohol, living up the expectations our young bodies set out for us. Angie and I were a pair in those days, close in age and spirit, but when the junior and high-school years started, other friends’ attentions took over and our lives separated. Before I leave the table I remind her to quit smoking.

  They’re lining up now, all these hospital people, to pass on their condolences, some quite important types; men wearing expensive suits and ties, women with tailored dresses, skirts and jackets. No jeans in this crowd. I step aside for a minute to take a break and refill my coffee.

  When I return to the throng of mourners I find Uncle Ron standing in front of me. It’s a shock: I’d almost forgotten that he was here, like a ghost whom I’d imagined had faded. My shoes have a low enough heel to keep me rooted to the carpet, but even so, I hover over him. With a boldness that surprises me he takes a firm grasp of my left hand, the one that’s holding my cane, and locks it in his.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he says, his voice emitting a rasping whimper. He is probably in his eighties now and close to the end like the others. But here I am, fifteen again, a stupid girl handing myself over.

  I say without thinking, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ I realise how ridiculous this sounds since it’s been at least four years since my aunt died.

  He continues holding my hand, squinting at me, unblinking.

  I want to pull away, but I don’t.

  Then Uncle Ron leans forward and I realise he has something he wants to share. ‘Can we finally put everything behind us now? After all this time?’ he almost whispers.

  For some seconds there is a sense that my soul is being lifted out of my body and when it reaches full height at the ceiling it’s looking down, pressing me to hold on to any last shred of sanity I might have left.

  My loss. My losses. Does he know or even care how much I lost, what my mother lost, because of him? I think I know what he did to me, but what about her? He stole her goodwill, her trust, the sisterly relationship she once had with Peggy. Sorry for your loss, my ass.

  What am I supposed to do now, sit down with him and have a laugh about the good times when I was a kid ?

  A slow ache that’s begun to feel too familiar starts to move up from the gut to my throat.

  Not far from where we are standing I spot all his sons; Billy at the table, now with his brother Matt who has brought his two young ones with him. The youngest brother Chris, that once sweet Chrissie, who doesn’t look quite so sweet now, is sitting on the other side of the table talking to Dave. Billy casts a sombre look in our direction. What does he know? I’m the nasty one who stopped coming around, the one who ruined everything. His mother Peggy could have continued to enjoy her bowling nights if it wasn’t for me. Everyone would have been happier. If it wasn’t for me.

  Maybe Dave’s Zoloft isn’t such a bad idea after all. My mouth is open slightly but there are no words. Ron lets go of my hand after a last hard squeeze, which I struggle to interpret, and snails away from me back to his family.


  I stare after him, still feeling the imprint of his hand on mine.

  After coffee I give in to my impulses when no one is looking and find the bar to settle down with a double gin and tonic. The drink hits the spot, nice and strong. I have another double soon after and feel it slide down easier the second time. It feels too good to turn down a third. The tonic, the extra crushed ice and lime, buffer the alcohol enough to fool me into thinking I’m just indulging in a refreshing citrus cooler. In the meantime I meet more of my father’s cousins and others who are refilling and I allow myself to get carried away in an addictive, dizzying laughter. The population outside of this family may think all this daytime drinking is strange – it’s only just past 1pm. By the time I finish knocking back the last one (a fourth?) and positioning myself into a new, comforting place that beats the Zoloft option, guests are starting to leave, abruptly it seems. The party’s over. Time hasn’t stood still for them because of my mother’s death. Business as usual. The land of the living resumes, all back to their Saturday routines, rushing off to kids’ soccer games where it’s all blue jeans and casual athletic wear.

  Dad’s looking flummoxed when settling up with the manager. My mother always sorted out restaurant bills, the right tips, remembered who ordered what, how many alcoholic drinks were drunk. He looks out of his depth and I decide to save the day, but when I move away from the bar stool I know it’s too late for that. My head is light but my body’s heavy enough to feel like it’s going to topple over. A fit of giggling escapes from nowhere. My more than tipsy state brings on a new-found boldness when I spot Ron hovering nearby, his eyes on me again. I lift myself off the stool slowly and sway, cane holding me up, in his direction.

  ‘Hey there, Ron. You’re right. You know, you’re so right.’ In my mind I’m speaking carefully in a low voice. ‘We need to put it all behind us…OK, let’s do that,’ I slur. ‘Does that make you feel better? Huh? Tell me,’ I shout. Surprise, surprise, the crying starts again, causing even more slurring. ‘Because you know… we wouldn’t want you dying an old man feeling bad about things, would we? And, hey, you know what? Maybe I just won’t put everything behind me… Tell me, Ron. Why don’t you tell me, huh? Tell me everything about everything, about what you did. What did you do that day? What did you do to me?’

  ‘Come on, Dad,’ says Billy, moving in with a look that worries me.

  ‘Hey, Billy.’ I grab his arm. ‘Billy, you need to know. You have to know…I didn’t do anything. You know that right? Tell, me, Billy. Tell me you know that. I’m not leaving…I can’t leave before you see that.’

  But he refuses to look at me and shakes me away. Before I know it, after more has been said that I will go on to forget, Beth and Dave are pulling me aside, trying to hold me upright, but next the floor is spinning before I crash. The cane bounces away, too fast to catch. I shout ‘Ouch,’ as I land hard on my knees. ‘Goddamn it.’

  ‘Come on, Jo, time to go. Don’t get upset now, come on,’ Dave says. ‘Can someone get that fucking cane?’ he shouts.

  ‘Hey, don’t be telling me not to get upset and don’t you say anything bad about my cane. I’ll get upset when I wanna get upset. I’m tired of not getting upset. My mother’s dead…and, yeah, I’m…I’m fucking upset…just let me be.’

  Then there’s the faint sound of my father’s voice. ‘Shit. Is she alright? She gonna be OK?’

  Beth and Jean offer to take me back with them but there’s the issue of my mother’s car and I don’t want Beth to be driving all the way back the next day because I’ve lost control. They all agree I’ll drive with Dave to the house only a few minutes away, rest, sober up and collect the car later. The O’Brien men have had more than just a few between them, but somehow, Dave claims, he’s just fine behind the wheel, and in my half-conscious drunken state I want to believe him. Right at this moment in time I’m willing to hand myself over, melt into the cracks of his surface and dissolve until there’s nothing left of me.

  Dave loads all the photos back into his car. Dad drives with Uncle Joe and they meet us back at the house but soon disappear again to visit the local bar, their usual hangout that is a short walk away. Dave holds me steady as we go upstairs to our old bedroom where Uncle Joe has left his bag on my bed.

  I push everything to the floor with a hysterical laugh, fall backwards and I’m off on a trip into la la land.

  Twenty Four

  I’m moving through a doorway into a dark room with nothing but a double bed in the middle. My mother lies in it, her body on its side in her preferred comfortable position, covered in a colourful handmade quilt. Her face, with its cold grey hue, betrays a look of death. Her eyes are closed, her dry, cracked lips open slightly. But then she changes. She’s younger, resembling the beautiful Terry in one of the black and white photos I displayed at the memorial. She’s flawless, like an overexposed image that washes out all the unsightly details. I move in to look closer and suddenly she’s in a coffin, looking back at me with stiff features and a dazed expression. She extends her arm and appeals to me in a soft, broken voice. ‘Don’t, Jo. Don’t go upsetting things.’

  I wake to the sound of Dave’s voice rising from the kitchen where he’s talking on the phone. ‘OK, sweetie, yeah, I’ll get over there in a little bit and we can go then. Sure, sounds great, yeah, OK sweetie, see you soon.’

  I walk down, taking my time, careful not to worsen the thumping ache in my head or the pain in my foot and leg.

  Dave pauses to look at me as I enter. ‘Hey, look at you. You feeling better?’ He sounds genuinely sympathetic.

  ‘Well, OK, I guess.’ I don’t want to have to explain myself, or worse, make small talk. ‘The head hurts. A lot.’ I notice from the clock that a few hours have passed and I catch sight of Uncle Joe, sleeping on the couch, drooling.

  ‘He’s out cold. Dad too. They got back a little while ago. Here, have some coffee.’

  He pours me one and a glass of water, makes me a piece of toast to have with some Advil. He tells me, in a way that is a bit too proud, that he never gets drunk anymore, never suffers from hangovers. ‘I can keep steady because I’ve built up a tolerance. That’s what you need to do, Jo. If you just drink a bit more throughout the week you’ll probably be fine.’

  I’m stumped, trying to make sense of this. My weak, feeble, intolerant body can’t hold its own. I need to drink more and toughen up is my brother’s solution.

  ‘Hey, I know it was the drink talking earlier,’ he says in a tone that’s meant to sound supportive. ‘But all that stuff you were shouting at Ron in the restaurant with everyone around. I don’t know. All that happened a long time ago, Jo.’

  All that happened. I mull over his choices of words, wait before responding. There are too many gaps. The details are fuzzy. What exactly did Ron say before Billy showed up? I remember seeing his mouth open, moving with sounds coming out. Then I remember what it felt like years ago, his wet mouth on mine.

  ‘You’re right, Dave. You don’t know,’ I say, and hesitate. I’m exhausted now. I ask myself if I am ready to tell Dave about what probably happened when I was fifteen, that thing I don’t remember after I let Uncle Ron get me stoned, then drunk. I take a deep breath and am surprised by an unexpected desire to purge. ‘It was worse than you think. What he did.’

  Dave stares at me. ‘ What do you mean? He made a pass at you, right?’

  ‘It was more than that. He took me for a long drive. Got me stoned. At the time I thought it was fun, great, let’s get high. Then he got me drunk on whisky and Coke. But it was more than just booze. I didn’t think about it then, but I didn’t see him mixing those drinks. I think he might have spiked mine with one of Auntie Peggy’s sleeping pills because I passed out soon after. The last thing I remember was him kissing and touching me.’ Although I remain composed, tears are beginning to stream down my face. I don’t wipe them away. My voice begins to shake. ‘Then later…later when I got home I saw I was bleeding.’

  He is quiet for a b
it, scratches his chin, purses his lips. ‘Shit. Are you sure?’

  ‘Am I sure?’

  I see a confused look in his eyes.

  ‘Did you really just ask me that?’ Is his ignorance a reflection of some kind of shock or is he really doubting me? ‘Yes. I’m sure, Dave. That’s what I remember anyway.’

  ‘Jesus.’ He covers his mouth with his hand. ‘Did Ma know?’

  I wait until my voice has recovered a little. ‘I didn’t tell her everything. I told her about him kissing me later that week when I babysat for them. Then Peggy found out and that was enough for her to disown Ma for a while. Then years later Peggy made Ma sign that stupid piece of paper saying I lied. So, yeah, I said he kissed me. That was enough to cause the damage.’

  The kitchen is silent for a minute. The only sound is the ticking of the wall clock and the faint hiss of Uncle Joe’s breathing from the next room.

  ‘You know,’ Dave says, stops, and meets my eyes. ‘I mean, that just sucks. But maybe the best thing to do is drop it, Jo. Auntie Peggy’s dead. Ma’s dead. Ron’s going soon. Who cares now? We can’t change this stuff. You’ll drive yourself crazy trying to do that.’

  He stretches and rubs his stomach, his way of finalising the saga of what Uncle Ron might have done once and for all so I won’t rock the O’Brien boat, even after the mother ship’s been blasted with so many holes it’s been sinking for a long time. But maybe he’s right. If I drop it, I’m letting it go, my hands will be free to hold onto something else. Whatever I do, say, or not say, drunk or sober, won’t change anything. There will be no miracle, no saviour to make things better.

  But that kind of logical thinking doesn’t fix the way I feel right now. And Dave’s expression is like the one he wore years ago when I confronted him about crawling into my bed. Who cares? Dave’s business idea pops into my mind. How would it feel if, for the first time in my life, Dave was indebted to me? If I said to Dave, ‘I will give you half of my share, and in return, you will never ask me for anything again. You might make a success of this restaurant or you might fall flat on your face. Either way, that’s it. Our final deal.’