Normal People

by Sally Rooney

  She puts her hand back to her nose. Blood is streaming out of her face so fast that she can’t stem it with her fingers. It runs over her mouth and down her chin, she can feel it. She sees it land in heavy drops on the blue carpet fibres below.

  Five Minutes Later

  (JULY 2014)

  In the kitchen he takes a can of beer out of the fridge and sits at the table to open it. After a minute the front door opens and he hears Lorraine’s keys. Hey, he says, loud enough for her to hear. She comes in and closes the kitchen door. On the lino her shoes sound sticky, like the wet sound of lips parting. He notices a fat moth resting on the lampshade overhead, not moving. Lorraine puts her hand softly on the top of his head.

  Is Marianne gone home? says Lorraine.

  Yeah.

  What happened in the match?

  I don’t know, he says. I think it went to penalties.

  Lorraine draws a chair back and sits down beside him. She starts taking the pins out of her hair and laying them out on the table. He takes a mouthful of beer and lets it get warm in his mouth before swallowing. The moth shuffles its wings overhead. The blind above the kitchen sink is pulled up, and he can see the faint black outline of trees against the sky outside.

  And I had a fine time, thanks for asking, says Lorraine.

  Sorry.

  You’re looking a bit dejected. Did something happen?

  He shakes his head. When he saw Yvonne last week she told him he was ‘making progress’. Mental healthcare professionals are always using this hygienic vocabulary, words wiped clean as whiteboards, free of connotation, sexless. She asked about his sense of ‘belonging’. You used to say you felt trapped between two places, she said, not really belonging at home but not fitting in here either. Do you still feel that way? He just shrugged. The medication is doing its chemical work inside his brain now anyway, no matter what he does or says. He gets up and showers every morning, he turns up for work in the library, he doesn’t really fantasise about jumping off a bridge. He takes the medication, life goes on.

  Pins arranged on the table, Lorraine starts teasing her hair out loosely with her fingers.

  Did you hear Isa Gleeson is pregnant? she says.

  I did, yeah.

  Your old friend.

  He picks up the can of beer and weighs it in his hand. Isa was his first girlfriend, his first ex-girlfriend. She used to call the house phone at night after they broke up and Lorraine would answer. From up in his room, under the covers, he would hear Lorraine’s voice saying: I’m sorry, sweetheart, he can’t come to the phone right now. Maybe you can talk to him in school. She had braces when they were going out together, she probably doesn’t have those anymore. Isa, yeah. He was shy around her. She used to do such stupid things to make him jealous, but she would act innocent, as if it wasn’t clear to both of them what she was doing: maybe she really thought he couldn’t see it, or maybe she couldn’t see it herself. He hated that. He just withdrew from her further and further until finally, in a text message, he told her he didn’t want to be her boyfriend anymore. He hasn’t seen her in years now.

  I don’t know why she’s keeping it, he says. Do you think she’s one of these anti-abortion people?

  Oh, is that the only reason women have babies, is it? Because of some backwards political view?

  Well, from what I hear she’s not together with the dad. I don’t know does she even have a job.

  I didn’t have a job when I had you, says Lorraine.

  He stares at the intricate white-and-red typeface on the can of beer, the crest of the ‘B’ looping back and inwards again towards itself.

  And do you not regret it? he says. I know you’re going to try and spare my feelings now, but honestly. Do you not think you could have had a better life if you didn’t have a kid?

  Lorraine turns to stare at him now, her face frozen.

  Oh god, she says. Why? Is Marianne pregnant?

  What? No.

  She laughs, presses a hand to her breastbone. That’s good, she says. Jesus.

  I mean, I assume not, he adds. It wouldn’t have anything to do with me if she was.

  His mother pauses, hand still at her chest, and then says diplomatically: Well, that’s none of my business.

  What does that mean, you think I’m lying? There’s nothing going on there, trust me.

  For a few seconds Lorraine says nothing. He swallows some beer and puts the can down on the table. It is extremely irritating that his mother thinks he and Marianne are together, when the closest they have come in years to actually being together was earlier this evening, and it ended with him crying alone in his room.

  You’re just coming home every weekend to see your beloved mother, then, are you? she says.

  He shrugs. If you don’t want me to come home, I won’t, he says.

  Oh, come on now.

  She gets up to fill the kettle. He watches her idly while she tamps her teabag down into her favourite cup, then he rubs at his eyes again. He feels like he has ruined the life of everyone who has ever even marginally liked him.

  *

  In April, Connell sent one of his short stories, the only really completed one, to Sadie Darcy-O’Shea. She emailed back within an hour:

  Connell it’s incredible! let us publish it please! xxx

  When he read this message his pulse hammered all over his body, loud and hard like a machine. He had to lie down and stare at the white ceiling. Sadie was the editor of the college literary journal. Finally he sat up and wrote back:

  I’m glad you liked it but I don’t think it’s good enough to be published yet, thanks though.

  Instantly Sadie replied:

  PLEASE? XXX

  Connell’s entire body was pounding like a conveyor belt. No one had ever read a word of his work before that moment. It was a wild new landscape of experience. He paced around the room massaging his neck for a while. Then he typed back:

  Ok, how about this, you can publish it under a pseudonym. But you also have to promise you won’t tell anyone who wrote it, even the other people who edit the magazine. Ok?

  Sadie wrote back:

  haha so mysterious, I love it! thank you my darling! my lips are forever sealed xxx

  His story appeared, unedited, in the May issue of the magazine. He found a copy in the Arts Block the morning it was printed and flipped straight to the page where the story appeared, under the pseudonym ‘Conor McCready’. That doesn’t even sound like a real name, he thought. All around him in the Arts Block people were filing into morning lectures, holding coffee and talking. On the first page of the text alone Connell noticed two errors. He had to shut the magazine for a few seconds then and take deep breaths. Students and faculty members continued to walk past, heedless of his turmoil. He reopened the magazine and continued reading. Another error. He wanted to crawl under a plant and burrow into the earth. That was it, the end of the publication ordeal. Because no one knew he had written the story he could not canvass anyone’s reaction, and he never heard from a single soul whether it was considered good or bad. In time he began to believe it had only been published in the first place because Sadie was lacking material for an upcoming deadline. Overall the experience had caused him far more distress than pleasure. Nonetheless he kept two copies of the magazine, one in Dublin and one under his mattress at home.

  *

  How come Marianne went home so early? says Lorraine.

  I don’t know.

  Is that why you’re in a foul mood?

  What’s the implication? he says. I’m pining after her, is that what you’re saying?

  Lorraine opens her hands as if to say she doesn’t know, and then sits back down waiting for the kettle to boil. He’s embarrassed now, which makes him cross. Whatever there is between him and Marianne, nothing good has ever come of it. It has only ever caused confusion and misery for everyone. He can’t help Marianne, no matter what he does. There’s something frightening about her, some huge emptiness in the pit of her bein
g. It’s like waiting for a lift to arrive and when the doors open nothing is there, just the terrible dark emptiness of the elevator shaft, on and on forever. She’s missing some primal instinct, self-defence or self-preservation, which makes other human beings comprehensible. You lean in expecting resistance, and everything just falls away in front of you. Still, he would lie down and die for her at any minute, which is the only thing he knows about himself that makes him feel like a worthwhile person.

  What happened tonight was inevitable. He knows how he could make it sound, to Yvonne, or even to Niall, or some other imagined interlocutor: Marianne is a masochist and Connell is simply too nice of a guy to hit a woman. This, after all, is the literal level on which the incident took place. She asked him to hit her and when he said he didn’t want to, she wanted to stop having sex. So why, despite its factual accuracy, does this feel like a dishonest way of narrating what happened? What is the missing element, the excluded part of the story that explains what upset them both? It has something to do with their history, he knows that. Ever since school he has understood his power over her. How she responds to his look or the touch of his hand. The way her face colours, and she goes still as if awaiting some spoken order. His effortless tyranny over someone who seems, to other people, so invulnerable. He has never been able to reconcile himself to the idea of losing this hold over her, like a key to an empty property, left available for future use. In fact he has cultivated it, and he knows he has.

  What’s left for them, then? There doesn’t seem to be a halfway position anymore. Too much has passed between them for that. So it’s over, and they’re just nothing? What would it even mean, to be nothing to her? He could avoid her, but as soon as he saw her again, even if they only glanced at one another outside a lecture hall, the glance could not contain nothing. He could never really want it to. He has sincerely wanted to die, but he has never sincerely wanted Marianne to forget about him. That’s the only part of himself he wants to protect, the part that exists inside her.

  The kettle comes to the boil. Lorraine sweeps the line of hairpins into the palm of her hand, closes her fist around them and pockets them. She gets up then, fills the cup of tea, adds milk, and puts the bottle back in the fridge. He watches her.

  Okay, she says. Time for bed.

  Alright. Sleep well.

  He hears her touch the handle of the door behind him but it doesn’t open. He turns around and she’s standing there, looking at him.

  I don’t regret it, by the way, she says. Having a baby. It was the best decision I’ve ever made in my life. I love you more than anything and I’m very proud that you’re my son. I hope you know that.

  He looks back at her. Quickly he clears his throat.

  I love you too, he says.

  Goodnight, then.

  She closes the door behind her. He listens to her footsteps up the stairs. After a few minutes have passed he gets up, empties the dregs of his beer down the sink and puts the can quietly in the recycling bin.

  On the table his phone starts ringing. It’s set to vibrate so it starts shimmying around the surface of the table, catching the light. He goes to get it before it falls over the edge, and he sees it’s Marianne calling. He pauses. He looks at the screen. Finally he slides the answer button.

  Hey, he says.

  He can hear her breath hard on the other end of the line. He asks if she’s okay.

  I’m really sorry about this, she says. I feel like an idiot.

  Her voice in the phone sounds clouded, like she has a bad cold, or something in her mouth. Connell swallows and walks over to the kitchen window.

  About earlier? he says. I’ve been thinking about it as well.

  No, it’s not that. It’s really stupid. I just tripped or something and I have a small injury. I’m sorry to bother you about it. It’s nothing. I just don’t know what to do.

  He puts his hand on the sink.

  Where are you? he says.

  I’m at home. It’s not serious, it just hurts, that’s all. I don’t really know why I’m calling. I’m sorry.

  Can I come get you?

  She pauses. In a muffled voice she replies: Yes, please.

  I’m on my way, he says. I’m getting in the car right now, okay?

  Sandwiching the phone between his ear and shoulder, he fishes his left shoe out from under the table and pulls it on.

  This is really nice of you, says Marianne in his ear.

  I’ll see you in a few minutes. I’m leaving right now. Alright? See you soon.

  Outside he gets in the car and starts the engine. The radio comes on and he snaps it off with a flat hand. His breath isn’t right. After only one drink he feels out of it, not alert enough, or too alert, twitchy. The car is too silent but he can’t stand the idea of the radio. His hands feel damp on the steering wheel. Turning left onto Marianne’s street, he can see the light in her bedroom window. He indicates and pulls into the empty driveway. When he shuts the car door behind him, the noise echoes off the stone facade of the house.

  He rings the doorbell, and almost straight away the door opens. Marianne is standing there, her right hand on the door, her left hand covering her face, holding a crumpled tissue. Her eyes are puffy like she’s been crying. Connell notices that her T-shirt, her skirt and part of her left wrist are stained with blood. The proportions of the visual environment around him shudder in and out of focus, like someone has picked up the world and shaken it, hard.

  What happened? he says.

  Footsteps come thumping down the stairs behind her. Connell, as if viewing the scene through some kind of cosmic telescope, sees her brother reach the bottom of the staircase.

  Why have you got blood on you? says Connell.

  I think my nose is broken, she says.

  Who’s that? says Alan behind her. Who’s at the door?

  Do you need to go to hospital? says Connell.

  She shakes her head, she says it doesn’t need emergency attention, she looked it up online. She can go to the doctor tomorrow if it still hurts. Connell nods.

  Was it him? says Connell.

  She nods. Her eyes have a frightened look.

  Get in the car, Connell says.

  She looks at him, not moving her hands. Her face is still covered with the tissue. He shakes the keys.

  Go, he says.

  She takes her hand from the door and opens her palm. He puts the keys into it and, still looking at him, she walks outside.

  Where are you going? says Alan.

  Connell stands just inside the front door now. A coloured haze sweeps over the driveway as he watches Marianne get into the car.

  What’s going on here? says Alan.

  Once she’s safely inside the car, Connell closes over the front door, so that he and Alan are alone together.

  What are you doing? says Alan.

  Connell, his sight even blurrier now, can’t tell whether Alan is angry or frightened.

  I need to talk to you, Connell says.

  His vision is swimming so severely that he notices he has to keep a hand on the door to stay upright.

  I didn’t do anything, says Alan.

  Connell walks towards Alan until Alan is standing with his back against the banister. He seems smaller now, and scared. He calls for his mother, turning his head until his neck strains, but no one appears from up the stairs. Connell’s face is wet with perspiration. Alan’s face is visible only as a pattern of coloured dots.

  If you ever touch Marianne again, I’ll kill you, he says. Okay? That’s all. Say one bad thing to her ever again and I’ll come back here myself and kill you, that’s it.

  It seems to Connell, though he can’t see or hear very well, that Alan is now crying.

  Do you understand me? Connell says. Say yes or no.

  Alan says: Yes.

  Connell turns around, walks out the front door and closes it behind him.

  In the car Marianne is waiting silently, one hand clutched to her face, the other lying limp i
n her lap. Connell sits in the driver’s seat and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. They are sealed into the car’s compact silence together. He looks at her. She’s bent over her lap a little, as if in pain.

  I’m sorry to bother you, she says. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do.

  Don’t say sorry. It’s good you called me. Okay? Look at me for a second. No one is going to hurt you like that again.

  She looks at him above the veil of white tissue, and in a rush he feels his power over her again, the openness in her eyes.

  Everything’s going to be alright, he says. Trust me. I love you, I’m not going to let anything like that happen to you again.

  For a second or two she holds his gaze and then finally she closes her eyes. She sits back in the passenger seat, head against the headrest, hand still clutching the tissue at her face. It seems to him an attitude of extreme weariness, or relief.

  Thank you, she says.

  He starts the car and pulls out of the driveway. His vision has settled, objects have solidified before his eyes again, and he can breathe. Overhead trees wave silvery individual leaves in silence.

  Seven Months Later

  (FEBRUARY 2015)

  In the kitchen Marianne pours hot water on the coffee. The sky is low and woollen out the window, and while the coffee brews she goes and places her forehead on the glass. Gradually the mist of her breath hides the college from view: the trees turn soft, the Old Library a heavy cloud. Students crossing Front Square in winter coats, arms folded, disappear into smudges and then disappear entirely. Marianne is neither admired nor reviled anymore. People have forgotten about her. She’s a normal person now. She walks by and no one looks up. She swims in the college pool, eats in the Dining Hall with damp hair, walks around the cricket pitch in the evening. Dublin is extraordinarily beautiful to her in wet weather, the way grey stone darkens to black, and rain moves over the grass and whispers on slick roof tiles. Raincoats glistening in the undersea colour of street lamps. Rain silver as loose change in the glare of traffic.