Love

by Roddy Doyle

  —Of what?

  —There you go, he said. —She was assuming –. What it was. She was includin’ me. The things she was talkin’ about – the houses, the places, family. The children. I was there too, as far as she was concerned.

  —Did you say anythin’?

  —No, he said. —No, I didn’t. Because.

  —What?

  —I’m thinkin’ – sorry. I’m tryin’ to express it. How’s your da gettin’ on, d’you think?

  —It’s even again – is it? The breathin’.

  —Not even, no. He’s breathin’ like he has a tiny chest. A bird’s chest – lungs.

  —But it’s regular.

  —It is, he said. —Fairly regular, yeah.

  —Go on.

  —Fine, he said. —Okay. I don’t feel like I’ve been drinkin’ all night. Do you?

  —No, I said. —I don’t. Not now.

  —What’s that, d’you think? The shock?

  —Maybe.

  —It sobers you up or somethin’, he said.

  —Adrenaline.

  —D’you think?

  —I don’t know, I said. —It wouldn’t surprise me.

  —Nothin’ would surprise me any more, Davy, he said. —Fuckin’ nothin’. So – right. You asked me if I said anythin’ to Jess. About me not actually bein’ around in the things she was talkin’ about. And I didn’t. I didn’t say anythin’. Because – this sounds mad. But I don’t care. She seemed – she was happier when I was there with her.

  —In the stories.

  —Yeah, he said. —An’ so was I.

  —Happy?

  —Yeah, he said. —I think so, yeah. I went along with it, you know.

  —With the flow.

  —That’s it. I went with the flow. Her flow – so to speak. I let it happen.

  —You indulged her.

  —No, he said. —No.

  —Sorry.

  —No – you’re grand.

  —Give us an example, I said. —A story.

  —Well –.

  —Nothin’ private, if you don’t want.

  —No, no, you’re grand. I know what you mean. A holiday.

  —Where?

  —France.

  —And you were there?

  —Accordin’ to her. Yeah, I seemed to be.

  —But you weren’t.

  —No, he said. —But – like. It didn’t matter. When I saw the impact it was havin’ on her.

  —Joe?

  —Wha’?

  —Is she ill?

  —No, he said. —No. She’s not. She’s – lonely would be part of it. Alone. Unappreciated, under-appreciated, somethin’ like that. Unfocused.

  —Okay.

  —An’ sad, he said. —Definitely that. Not sick, though. I don’t think. Or if she is – fuck it.

  —Okay.

  —It doesn’t matter. We’re all fuckin’ mad.

  —True.

  —Somehow or other. Am I right?

  —Probably, I said. —Where in France?

  —The Dordogne.

  —Was it nice?

  —Lovely, he said. —Fuckin’ fabulous.

  —I didn’t mean to belittle her there, I said. —Or you.

  —No, no – I know, he said. —The funny thing is, though. I was there.

  —With Trish?

  —No, he said. —Like – actually – I’ve never been in tha’ part of France. But it doesn’t matter. I was there with Jess.

  —And her kids?

  He sat up. He shrugged. He looked at my father.

  —It doesn’t matter, he said.

  —Does it not?

  —And there are the things I definitely do remember.

  —There’s a balance?

  —No, he said. —But kind of. Remember tha’ party? In her house. D’you remember it?

  —Yes, I said. —I do. The beer in the bath.

  —That’s right, he said. —I’d forgotten tha’ detail. You remember it better than I do.

  —Her little brother guardin’ it, I said. —It must have been her brother.

  —That’s right, he said. —Yeah. A prick, by the way.

  —Is he?

  —God, yeah. Grew up into a right little cunt. But anyway, she was playin’ the cello. In the kitchen.

  —Yeah.

  —Amazin’, he said. —Jesus. Mesmerisin’.

  I thought he was waiting for me to agree with him.

  —Yeah, I said.

  I stared at my father.

  —And later, he said. —After she’d finished playin’. I plucked up the courage. I got talkin’ to her. Couldn’t believe myself. Tha’ was the night I got off with her. D’you remember, Davy?

  I was looking at my father. I looked at Joe – I made myself look at Joe. He was looking at my father.

  —Yeah, I said. —I remember that night.

  It was Jess’s engagement party, the little brother had told us. She was going to marry a chap called Gavin.

  —I remember it well, I said.

  I smiled.

  —So, like, said Joe. —There are some things I can definitely account for. And others –.

  I looked at him again. He was still looking at my father.

  —It’s one o’ the big advantages o’ getting’ older, he said. —Probably the only fuckin’ advantage. If you live long enough, you can add to it, make it up. You can even believe you lived it. Things you make up bleed into things tha’ definitely happened. Like describin’ an event, an actual occasion. You add to it, you take things out. You forget exact details. I don’t think it’s dishonest.

  —No.

  —It’s human. I’d say.

  —Yeah, I said. —I think you’re probably right.

  —I think so too.

  —So, I said. —You were in that part of France. The Dordogne.

  —Yeah.

  —With Jess.

  —Yeah, he said. —Exactly.

  —Exactly?

  —Yeah.

  —Literally?

  He shrugged. He made himself smile.

  —I don’t know what to say.

  —Okay, I said. —Is it not hurtful?

  —To Trish?

  —Is it not?

  —The details aren’t, I don’t think, he said. —To be honest, I don’t know. But.

  —What?

  —With Jess, he said. —I don’t care if it’s true or not. I mean, factual.

  —Okay.

  —I remember some things, not others. Like everyone.

  —Okay.

  —Now I’m kind o’ rememberin’ things that I shouldn’t be able to remember, he said. —It’s subtle.

  —Is it?

  —I think so.

  —Okay.

  —It’s the best thing, though, Davy, he said. —Makin’ her happy. It makes me feel – I don’t know. Powerful.

  —Really?

  —I think so, yeah, he said. —And good.

  —Okay.

  We stopped talking for a while. We looked at my father. Joe stood up. He stretched. His hands went to the ceiling, his shirt came out of his jeans.

  —I’ll go get those Lucozades, he said. —Did we pass a toilet on our way in?

  —Yeah, I said. —Go back past the teddy bears.

  —Gotcha.

  He took change from his pocket and looked at it on his palm.

  —I think I’ve enough, he said.

  —You sure?

  —I’ve loads here. Back in a bit.

  —Grand.

  I looked at him as he opened the door. He looked back as he left and smiled. He shut the door, slowly.

  I looked at my father. I got up and leaned in, close to his face. The skin was blue, and tight against his skull. It was like his hair had vanish
ed. It was there but faded, diminished; strands of it danced in the breeze coming in from the open window behind me. I put my hand on his head. I listened. To his breathing. I’d been falling asleep every night on the bench below the window; falling asleep, fitfully and unwillingly, to a different rhythm. This was feebler, but more urgent.

  —Alright, Dad?

  This is no kind of a life. It was the one occasion, the only time he’d conceded that he wasn’t well and that he was never going to be well. I’d spent the months pretending I was just visiting. I’d put him to bed. I’d helped him sit on the side of the bed. I’d given him his last pill of the day, a sleeping tablet. Then I’d helped him lie back and lifted his feet and legs and straightened him, centred him, in the bed. Every movement had hurt him, no matter how slow. I’d covered him with the duvet. I’d lifted the rail so he wouldn’t roll out. I’d leaned over the rail and kissed his forehead. I’d slowly closed the door. It was a hospital bed and it was downstairs, in the front room. The kitchen light was on, down the hall. I’d close the door until he’d tell me to stop. He had the three inches of light he wanted. He’d become afraid of the dark, afraid he wouldn’t be coming back out of it.

  We didn’t speak about it. We didn’t speak about him, me, the two of us, Faye. I fed him his pills, anxious – afraid – that I was giving him the wrong ones, too many of the right ones, unwilling, unable, to trust my own competence. I was poisoning the man. I was killing the man.

  We chatted but we didn’t talk. He told me about the time he met my mother. It was a story I’d heard before.

  —I was drunk, I’m afraid.

  —You?

  —Yes.

  —You were never drunk.

  —I used to be young, David.

  It was at a dance, a tennis club hop, and she told him to go away and come back the following Saturday.

  —Do you believe in an afterlife, Dad?

  He didn’t answer. He told me he’d love a boiled egg. He ate the first spoonful and none of the soldiers.

  I heard the door. I looked, and saw Joe slip back in. He shut the door.

  —Here you go.

  He held out a bottle, over the bed. It looked like a torch, or a stunted sword.

  —Thanks, Joe, I said.

  I stood, stretched, and sat back down.

  —I never asked you, said Joe. —What is it?

  —What d’you mean?

  —Your father, he said.

  —Oh, I said. —The cancer, d’you mean?

  —Yeah. Which one is it?

  —A selection of them, Joe, I said. —He’s fuckin’ riddled.

  —Ah, no.

  —Yep.

  —Ah, God love him. What started it – which was the first? Do you know?

  —I was told, I said. —I have it all written down. But.

  My head was filling again.

  —I’m fuckin’ hopeless.

  —Stop.

  I opened the bottle, twisted the lid and listened to the short hiss. I drank carefully. I was afraid the stuff would rush out at me, or I wouldn’t be able to swallow it. But it was good, it was cold.

  —It was his GP phoned me, I said. —He was surprised I hadn’t been in touch. That Dad hadn’t told me.

  —He didn’t tell you?

  —No. He didn’t. But I should’ve known – I did fuckin’ know. The last time I came over to see him. He could hardly walk. I found him leanin’ against the radiator. I rang the bell, you know – the front door. I always did it. Before I put my key in the door and went in. So he wouldn’t be surprised to find someone else in the house. And – Jesus. There he was. In the hall. Holdin’ onto the radiator. Fuck knows how long he’d been there. He said he’d been comin’ to answer the door but I don’t think he was. I had to help him back to the kitchen. Fuck –.

  —What?

  —And I went home.

  —What d’you mean?

  —I stayed a night and went home. He told me he was fine, just a bit stiff. And I decided to believe him. He didn’t get up to see me out to the door. I decided it wasn’t important. Significant. My father’s manners, Joe – d’you remember?

  —Always very polite.

  —Yes.

  —Gentle.

  —Yeah.

  —He always spoke to me like I was an adult.

  —Yes, I said. —And he’d have brought you to the door when you were leavin’ – I don’t know if you remember that. If he’d known you were goin’, I mean.

  —I know.

  —Not that he was tryin’ to get rid of you.

  —No, I know.

  —But anyway, he didn’t stand up when I was leavin’ for the airport and I decided that it didn’t really matter.

  —You’re bein’ hard on yourself, Davy.

  —I shouldn’t have left.

  —You have a family.

  —I should have kept at him – to tell me what was wrong.

  Joe opened his Lucozade. He lifted it to his mouth. I heard him gulp.

  —It’s fuckin’ sweet, this stuff.

  —It works.

  —Whatever that means.

  —I’m exhausted, Joe.

  —You must be.

  —Fuckin’ exhausted.

  —It’s nearly over, he said.

  We were both looking at my father, both listening to him.

  —Yeah, I said. —I’m not sure.

  —You don’t think he’s goin’ to go tonight?

  —No, I said. —I mean, I do. But –. It doesn’t mean I’ll sleep or feel better or – I don’t know – clearer. When I wake up. I’m so fuckin’ tired.

  —You have to be.

  —I don’t phone Faye. I hardly ever phone her. I can’t think of the words – things to say. I dread it – the decisions. How to say things. It’s not just the sleep. Fuckin’ hell, Joe, he’d wake me up half an hour after takin’ the fuckin’ sleepin’ pill. I was wonderin’ if he was hiding them under his tongue – like Jack Nicholson.

  —In One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

  —Yeah, I said. —He could hardly talk but he was able to shout – like, screech. He still wakes me, even though he’s been like this for four days now – asleep. Unconscious. I still hear him.

  —That’ll stop.

  —Then I won’t hear him at all.

  I sat up straight. I wiped my eyes.

  —Sorry, I said.

  —You’re grand.

  —Self-pity.

  —For fuck sake, Davy. Your father’s dyin’ in front of you. Take it easy.

  We both heard the door. We turned, to see who it was.

  Maeve seemed to fill the door and frame. There was a younger nurse behind her; she was pushing a trolley. Maeve smiled as she moved to the top of the bed. Joe had to stand, make room. He shifted his chair – the legs squealed on the floor.

  —Sorry.

  I laughed – two short barks; they burst out through the water. Joe laughed back. It was a school moment and I was sixteen, for a second. For a great, floating second.

  —He’s very comfortable, said Maeve.

  —Thanks.

  —He’s exactly the way you’d want him, she said.

  —I’m not sure about that, Maeve, I said.

  Joe laughed again. So did Maeve. So did the other nurse.

  —You know what I mean, said Maeve.

  —I do.

  —We’ll turn him now, she said. —You can wait in the room beyond. We’ll only be a few minutes.

  I felt like I hadn’t walked in months.

  —How long? I asked her at the door.

  —It’ll be soon, she said.

  —Okay. Thanks.

  We stood outside.

  —Let’s get some air, said Joe.

  —No, I said. —We’d better not. They’ll need to know where we are.


  —Right, yeah – okay. How long are we here, by the way?

  I took out my phone and looked at the clock.

  —Less than an hour, I said.

  —Jesus, said Joe. —I feel like I live here.

  —I do live here, I said.

  —That’ll stop.

  —Yeah.

  —What’s the food like?

  —Not bad, I said. —It’s alright. An’ there’s a café across the way, at the Hilltop. They do a good soup an’ sandwich.

  —Tha’ right?

  —And the coffee’s very good.

  —That’s good, he said. —To have it near.

  —Yeah.

  We needed my father. We needed him there before we’d start talking properly again. It already seemed like a long time since we’d been in the room. We stood outside while they turned him in the bed, gently, professionally; we waited while they cleaned him. There were voices, further up the corridor and around a corner – up where my father had been until he’d stopped waking up. People talked quietly, someone laughed.

  The door opened. The younger nurse wheeled out the trolley; she smiled at us. Maeve had stayed in the room. Joe got to the door before me but he stopped, and stepped back.

  —After you, he said.

  He was eager too.

  I walked in.

  It was different – my father was different. He was facing the window now, the same shape, reversed, like the negative of a photograph. But his face was different. His mouth was open wider, in a silent howl. I couldn’t hear his breath.

  —Is he alive?

  —Yes, she said. —But he’s nearly there.

  —Okay. Thanks.

  —It’ll be soon.

  —Thank you.

  She left. She shut the door. I sat in the same chair. He was facing me now. The mouth, the howl: he wouldn’t accept it was happening. I leaned in, put my hand on his head. I took it away and searched for his hand, just under the sheet. It was dry, and tiny. Not cold.

  —Alright, Dad? I said, again.

  The mouth – the pain. The end.

  —I can’t hear him, said Joe; he whispered. —Can you?

  —No, I said. —I’m not sure.

  I stood and put my head, my ear, closer to my father.

  —I can, I said. —I think.

  I sat again. I had to – I felt dizzy. I stayed still, shut my eyes. Took in breath, let it go. He’d die while my eyes were closed. I opened them. The mouth was there, staring at me.

  —I wish –.

  —What? said Joe.

  —I wish I’d spent more time with him.