No Goodbye

by Marita Conlon-McKenna

‘Mum, when are you coming back?’ I plead.

  ‘I’m not sure yet, Lucy. There are so many things to sort out first.’

  Greg grabs the phone. I run out to the hall, and shout up the stairs to Conor and Grace. ‘Come down quickly! Mum is on the phone from London.’

  They’re in the middle of playing some game. Grace comes flying down the stairs so fast she almost falls. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘On the phone.’

  ‘Will we see her tomorrow?’

  I avoid telling her. ‘Hurry up, Grace. Mum wants to talk to you. Conor! Conor! Come on down, quick!’

  No sound. I race up the stairs as fast as I can. Conor is staring out his bedroom window.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me? Mum is on the phone from London. She wants to talk to you.’

  He doesn’t budge. ‘Well, I don’t want to talk to her.’

  His face is trying to be hard, but from the pain in his eyes, I know he’s too hurt to talk to her. He picks up a transformer and begins to play with it, locking me out too.

  By the time I get back downstairs, Grace is standing on the kitchen chair and singing a song she’s learnt in school, as if Mum were here in the kitchen with her. Gabbling on and on.

  Dad is waiting for his turn. He’s real nervous. I suppose he doesn’t know what to say. ‘Where’s Conor?’ he demands.

  I tell him.

  ‘Bye, bye, Mummy! I love you too, Mummy … kiss, kiss!’ Grace’s blue eyes are shining when Dad finally takes the phone from her.

  ‘Vanessa.’ He coughs and sounds hesitant. ‘They’re all okay. No! Conor won’t talk to you. Well … I’m trying … I’m doing my best.’

  Greg and I are dying to stay and listen, but Dad gestures to us to get out of the kitchen.

  We sit at the bottom of the stairs in the hall. The old grandfather clock that Mum’s aunt left her when she died ticks away in the silence of our long, narrow hall. Mum told me she used to hide in it when she was a small girl – her secret place in her Aunt Louise’s old seaside house.

  Dad’s voice is getting louder. I can’t believe it. They’re having a row! Now! After all …

  ‘Totally irresponsible … Self-centred! … I will not call it a day!’

  These words are not the words we’d hoped to hear.

  Suddenly Dad stops talking and slams down the phone. He swears, then pulls open the door. Maybe he knew we’d be waiting here. He climbs in between Greg and me, pulling Grace onto his lap.

  ‘Is it bad?’ I ask, half-afraid. He won’t answer. ‘Are you really going to split up?’ I persist. I must know.

  Dad puts his arms around the three of us. ‘I don’t know, Lucy. Honestly, I just don’t know. Your mother says this is a trial separation. She wants to see how we get on without each other. It’s funny how some people can’t live together, and yet they can’t live apart either. Maybe Vanessa and I are like that!’

  ‘But that means you are going to separate!’ I say. I’m angry now.

  ‘No, young lady! Hold your horses! No one is going to push me into anything that quick – anyway, this is between your Mum and me.’

  ‘No it isn’t, Dad,’ says Greg. ‘This affects us all. We must know what’s happening. We’re not babies any more!’

  ‘We’re a family and we want to stay together,’ I say.

  ‘Come on! Give your old Dad a hug,’ he begs us.

  We all pounce on him, and let him know that we do care. Grace squeezes him so tightly, she nearly strangles him.

  Conor is up on the landing. He looks down at us all, then he just turns and runs back into his bedroom and bangs the door.

  The Second Week

  Daddy’s Girl

  LUCY – Monday

  It has been raining almost all day, and I got soaking wet on my way home from school. My hair is like rats’ tails and my nose is all red at the tip because I’m getting a cold.

  I’ve washed and peeled a big bag of potatoes and bits of their muddy skins are still clinging to the sink and taps. Now they’re boiling away. Mince meat is frying in the pan, with some chopped-up onions. I’m not mad about onions so there’s only about half the amount Mum would use. The tomato sauce will give it a good flavour. The raindrops slide down the kitchen window which is all steamed up.

  ‘Hi, Luce. What are you doing?’ Dad’s home early.

  ‘I’m getting the dinner, Dad. We can’t live on frozen pizza and chips forever you know!’

  ‘Hmmmm! This tastes good,’ he says, dipping his finger in the mince mixture.

  ‘Some is for tonight, and the rest we can freeze for later.’

  He looks at the freezer packs that I’ve left on the table.

  ‘You are a very organised young lady,’ he compliments me, making me blush. ‘But you know, Lucy, you don’t have to do all this. I appreciate it, we all do, but honestly, pet, no one is expecting you to take over from your Mum.’

  The potatoes are well cooked and need draining. The saucepan is so hot and heavy, I can just about lift it, but the steamy liquid gushes out at me as I try to strain it into the sink.

  ‘Here, let me do that!’ Dad fusses over me, almost scalding himself in the process.

  The sink needs cleaning and so does the cooker – there’s so much to be done. I can’t help tears coming into my eyes.

  ‘Are you okay, pet?’ Dad asks, slipping his arm round my shoulder. ‘I know it’s really hard for you, Luce …’

  ‘Oh, Dad! It’s just that I miss Mum so much …’

  ‘Of course you do, pet. And you’re doing too much – trying to cook, mind Grace, get us all organised. We’ll just have to find some other way.’

  ‘It’s not just that … I miss Mum the whole time. I keep thinking about her. I’ve no one to talk to. Mum is my very best friend.’

  ‘Mine too!’ he mumbles.

  It’s funny, but I hadn’t thought about that. Sometimes, when things were going well, Mum and Dad would sit up half the night chatting. About films they had seen. Their old schooldays. Politics and what they would do if they were members of the government. Places they would visit when they had enough money. Poor old Dad!

  ‘You must be dead lonely too, Dad.’

  He doesn’t answer me.

  ‘When you and Mum got married … you really loved each other then, didn’t you? Why did it change?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know, Lucy. Your Mum and I still love each other in our own way, but as you get older and busier things change, unfortunately not always for the better,’ he confides.

  ‘Was it because of us?’

  ‘Lucy!’ His voice is hurt. ‘Never, ever think that! Having the four of you was the best thing your Mum and I ever did. We may have messed up other things, but the four of you …’

  ‘But, Dad, if you and Mum still care about one another, why are you always fighting and hurting each other? Why do you stop talking to her sometimes?’

  Dad doesn’t know what to say. ‘I have no answer, Lucy,’ he stutters finally. ‘I guess that’s our problem, the reason Vanessa is in London and I’m here.’ He won’t tell me any more.

  The meat is simmering in the brownish-red gravy. It’ll dry out soon.

  ‘Dad, I’d better start putting the dinner out.’

  ‘Listen, Lucy! You’re a great girl! If we pull together we’ll get through this.’

  The table needs setting, and I’m counting out the knives and forks, and listening to Dad at the same time. He kisses the top of my head.

  ‘Is the dinner ready yet?’ shouts Conor, running in, ‘I’m starving!’

  It seems to me that some people in this family have to pull a lot harder than others!

  Promises

  CONOR – Monday

  Dad comes in from work and just sits down waiting for Lucy to put the dinner out on the table. He is reading a book, and never even bothers to glance up or say anything to me!

  ‘Thanks, Dad!’

  That gets his attention.

  ‘Thanks for what, Conor?’
/>
  ‘Thanks for nothing! For forgetting to collect me from school today and take me to the dentist.’

  He shifts uneasily in his chair. ‘The dentist?’

  ‘Yeah! You know I had to go to Mr Gibson at twelve o’clock today and you forgot about it!’

  ‘I had an important meeting, son, and it just slipped my mind.’

  ‘It’s not fair, the way anything to do with me just doesn’t matter!’

  ‘I wasn’t able–’

  ‘I’m left standing like a right dork waiting for you for half-an-hour at the main door, with all the others passing by me, and in the end the headmaster sent me back to class because he didn’t believe I was meant to be going to the dentist!’

  ‘Look, Conor! I’m really sorry. I’ll phone the school tomorrow, and I’ll re-book the dental appointment.’

  ‘You always forget things to do with us. There is a board up there.’ I jam my fingers on our kitchen pinboard, and the calendar beside it. ‘Mum wrote up all our important days and times and appointments on it. Why don’t you just look at it!’

  Dad gets up and peers at all the dates and school lists. He begins to unpin them and lifts the calendar off its hook. I think for a moment that he’s going to tear them up and throw them in the bin. Lucy is standing with an armful of plates, watching him.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I demand.

  ‘I’m going to take them into the office and photocopy the whole damned lot of them, then I’ll have my own set,’ he says, and turning to look at me, he adds, ‘and I promise I won’t forget you or let you down again, Conor.’

  For some strange reason I believe he means it and will keep his promise.

  The Monster

  GRACE – Tuesday Night

  My room is dark, dark, dark.

  There is a monster. I know he’s here again. The monster pricks up his big furry ears to listen to me. His huge white and green eyes are watching me.

  I pull my rabbit close up beside me. I hope that the monster prefers rabbits.

  Mummy! My Mummy will come and open the wardrobe door and tell him Go away, and Get lost. She will search under my quilt and behind the curtains. She will put on my light and frighten him away, and then stay with me.

  My Mummy will come. I want her now.

  Mummeeee!

  I am so hot and scratchy.

  Mummeee! I want my Mummeee!

  Someone is standing in the doorway.

  It’s only my Daddy!

  Night Duty

  GREG – Tuesday Night

  ‘Dad, I think you’d better get the doctor!’

  This is crazy. It’s four-thirty in the morning, and my eyes are bleary. We’ve been awake half the night, and Grace just keeps on and on crying. Lucy took her temperature and it’s high. She’s hot and flushed and confused. She keeps crying for Mum, and flings her dolls and teddy and the white rabbit on the floor. Her hair and face are all sweaty.

  ‘Come on, Gracey, Daddy’s here,’ he keeps saying to her.

  She lands him a mighty kick in the stomach. ‘I want my Mummy! I want my Mummy!’ she screams.

  Lucy is frantic downstairs, searching the bookshelf in the kitchen for the Family First Aid book.

  ‘Gracey, will I tell you a story?’ I plead. Anything to pacify her and get her to calm down.

  She swivels her wild, dilated eyes to look at me, and I see the hot, raging face of a stranger staring at me.

  Dad runs into the bathroom and gets a wet facecloth to try to cool her down.

  ‘Now, Grace, this will help you!’ Dad does his best to make his voice soft and confident and cajoling like Mum’s. But she won’t be fooled.

  ‘NO! Go away! It’s cold and wet! No!’ she pants, as the cool flannel touches her hot, pink skin. Undeterred, Dad keeps on. Up one arm, then the other arm. I go to the bathroom and get another facecloth. He manages to sit her up a bit. She’s burning up.

  Lucy has found the book, and brings a long cool drink upstairs for Grace. Dad hoists her up more in the bed.

  ‘Come on, darling, take a drink for Daddy.’

  ‘Is it medicine?’ she asks suspiciously.

  ‘NO!’ we all reassure her.

  Bit by bit, she sips the long glass of blackcurrant drink, forgetting that Dad is still sponging her down. Her eyes look drowsy and heavy, and she gives a huge shuddery, shaky kind of yawn.

  ‘Off to bed, you two! You have school in the morning. I’ll stay with her,’ whispers Dad.

  Lucy and I could drop, we’re both so exhausted.

  That selfish sod Conor is fast asleep, tossing and turning and mumbling to himself, like he always does. I am so tired, I feel I’ll never get to sleep tonight at all.

  Dad’s voice is gentle outside in the girls’ bedroom. He’s singing Grace a song. It’s funny, he’s not the singing type usually, yet now in the stillness of the night his rough and out-of-tune voice is comforting.

  ‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,

  You make me happy when skies are grey.’

  I know that song so well. Hundreds of times when I was tiny it was sung to me. He used to sing to me often then. It’s been so long since he did that. Sinking down into the pillows, I pull my stripy quilt up to my chin and join in those oh-so-familiar words:

  ‘You’ll never know, Greg, how much I love you,

  Please don’t take my sunshine away.’

  Spots!

  LUCY – Wednesday

  Our kitchen looks like a bomb hit it. The tiles are so dirty that my shoes keep sticking to them. Maybe if I don’t get too much homework tonight, I might give the floor a wash.

  Dad looks like a zombie. His hair is dirty and standing on end. He has lost the belt of his dressing-gown and it keeps opening; even his pyjamas are all crumpled. He’s moving slowly and stiffly this morning.

  ‘My back is killing me,’ he groans.

  No wonder! Poor Dad. He slept the rest of last night on the edge of Grace’s bed. He woke me up with all his snoring. Luckily, Grace is still asleep.

  ‘Greg, what are you doing today?’ Dad begins, as he helps himself to some cereal. Greg is annoyed with him. He’s in his uniform and ready to leave for school.

  ‘Sorry! But I can’t help you, Dad. We’ve a real important chemistry practical today – and I’m busy for the rest of the week.’ Greg pulls on his jacket, fixes his dark straight hair and scoots out the back door, leaving Dad fuming.

  I feel sorry for Dad. He’s had a tough night. He’s really done his best. Some fathers rant and rave and scream and swear when they’re angry or in a temper. But Dad does none of those things. A hard, pulsing silence fills our kitchen. Conor is munching on a slice of cold toast, ignoring everything as usual.

  ‘Dad! Grace won’t be able to go to school today–’ I begin.

  ‘Thank you, Nurse Lucy, for your very obvious diagnosis of the problem,’ he barks.

  ‘Maybe Gran could come over …’ I suggest, but before I can say any more we notice the flushed, tousled figure standing in the doorway.

  Grace is still half-asleep. Her tattered white rabbit dangles from one hand, and with the other she pulls up her pyjama top. ‘Daddy! Look at my spots!’

  Dad and Conor and I stare at her. Vivid reddish-pink blotchy spots cover her stomach and neck and shoulders. There are more on her face, and I can see from her bare feet that the rash goes all the way down to her toes.

  ‘I’m all spotty and scratchy!’ she wails, her voice all wobbly, ‘and I feel sick.’

  The book on childhood illnesses is still upstairs from last night and I run up to our room to get it. I flick through, looking for something about rashes and spots.

  Dad is busy on the phone when I get down again. ‘Look, Gordon, I have a bit of a problem. No, it’s not that I’ll be delayed or late.’

  I point to the colour pictures in the medical book.

  Dad is trying to read and talk at the same time. His eyes widen. ‘Listen, Gordon, I’m sorry, but the likelihood is that I’m g
oing to have to take some time off …’

  Conor and I will be dead late for school, and get into more trouble. ‘Dad, we’ve got to go,’ I mouth to him and shove Conor towards the door. Grace’s lip is starting to wobble, a sure sign that any minute now she’ll start to cry again. I grab my schoolbag and the two of us manage to escape. Dad is going to have to survive on his own.

  * * *

  These days when you get in from school you never know exactly who’s going to be there. So coming in and finding Dad at home is such a relief.

  ‘Go easy, Lucy! Go easy! Quiet!’ he whispers anxiously. ‘It’s taken me an hour to get her to sleep.’

  ‘I’ll do my homework, Dad,’ I say, ‘and get the dinner then.’

  ‘No, Luce. You’re doing too much. You look tired. Anyway, it’s about time I had a go at cooking something. You never know, I might be good at it! They say men make the best cooks!’ he jokes.

  Grace, looking like a baby, lies stretched out on the couch, fast asleep.

  ‘The doctor was here,’ he tells me.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Chickenpox and an ear infection, so no school for nearly ten days. Gran won’t be able to come over in case she gets shingles, and Deirdre says she won’t be able to mind Grace in case her own baby catches it too. So the only thing I could do was take some time off work.’

  ‘I’m glad, Dad!’

  ‘Glad?’ he looks questioningly at me.

  ‘What I mean is, it’ll be nice to have someone, I mean you, at home when we get in. The house won’t seem so empty.’

  Dad couldn’t begin to understand what the last week has been like. I miss coming in and having Mum to talk to. When Gran is here it’s okay, but one day we went to Deirdre’s and just watched TV until it was time to go home. It was boring. It’ll be different with Dad, but …

  ‘Lucy! Are you listening to me? How does your Mum make that chicken pie we all like?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s probably in her special recipe book,’ I say, ‘the one where she writes down recipes from the radio and TV and magazines.’ I find it stuffed between the paperbacks and Grace’s books.