‘So you think I should just feel sorry for her?’
‘No. But I think we should cut her some slack, right now. That’s all.’
Rachel is just so sweet that I soften. ‘You realise you’re a total softie?’
She smiles. ‘Probably.’
‘Look. Like I said, I’ll be civil. Just don’t expect me to be the same as usual. She still did what she did.’
She nods. Then checks her watch. ‘Jesus, we better get back.’
We turn around and pick up the pace. Which wouldn’t be hard.
Then she looks at me. ‘It’ll be OK, Alex. Whatever it is, it’ll be OK.’
But I know David. And I know it’s not OK.
TWENTY | AERONAUTICS
It’s Christmas Eve, and rain is falling instead of snow. We sit in Starbucks, silent, like a couple who’ve had a fight. But there’s been no fight. This is how it’s been between us for over a week: David pretending nothing’s wrong, me pretending to believe him. I fiddle with the marshmallow swizzle stick he insisted on getting for my hot chocolate, which, for a moment, made me feel like he still cared. I watch his profile as he stares out the window. Until I can’t take it anymore. I put down the swizzle stick. It seems ridiculous now.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Get it over with.’
‘What?’ He looks surprised.
‘This. Us. You’ve obviously had enough. So end it. I won’t break.’ I might, though.
Now he looks sad. ‘The last thing I want is for this to be over.’
‘Then what is it? Tell me.’
‘After Christmas, OK? Let’s just have Christmas.’
Oh God, so there really is something. No more pretending. ‘No. Tell me now.’
His lips press together. He looks away.
‘David.’
He turns back. And when I see his face I want to tell him to stop, don’t say it.
‘I’m going away,’ he says quietly. ‘My dad’s lost his job. We’re going back to the States.’
It’s a slap across the face, a punch in the stomach, a bomb going off in Starbucks.
‘He told us that night in the restaurant.’
I can’t believe it.
‘Things are tough in aeronautics,’ he says. ‘There’s more security on the military side –’
‘Stop. Stop talking about aeronautics. God.’ I’m pulling the sleeves of my hoodie down over my hands. I’m trying to think. Outside, shoppers hurry by in the rain, umbrellas bumping off each other, life going on as normal. That’s all I want. Life as normal. I look back at him.
‘Stay,’ I say. ‘There must be a way.’ Then, I have it. It’s so easy! ‘You could board!’ He’d have to change school, but he’d still be here, still in Dublin.
If he looked sad before, he looks flattened now. ‘I can’t leave Bob.’ He says it like he’s considered all the options and ended up with this unarguable fact.
I argue anyway. ‘He could board too!’
‘He’s nine.’
I know that. And I also know that it would be impossible for Bobby without David. Still, I say, ‘But he’ll have Romy over there.’
‘No. Romy’s staying here to finish her Leaving Cert. She’s staying with a friend.’
‘What about you? He can’t take you out in the middle of a school year.’
‘It’s Transition Year. He knows we do nothing.’
‘But you could stay if you found somewhere to, right? You and Bobby could stay?’ They could stay with me. I could convince The Rockstar . . .
‘He wants Bob with him.’
I stare at him. ‘So that’s it? You’re going.’ Nothing I can do, or say.
He nods.
‘When?’
He swallows. ‘Just over two weeks.’
‘Two weeks!’
‘He took a week to tell us. And I took a week to tell you. I’m sorry.’ He reaches for my hand and looks into my eyes like he wants me to really believe what he’s about to say. ‘I’ll come back, Alex. When I’ve finished school, I’ll come back for you.’
More than anything, I want to believe him. But I know about life. And plans. And he should too.
‘You’ll come back?’
‘Yes.’
‘On your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘In two and a half years?’
‘In two and a half years.’
But he’s forgotten something. ‘Who’ll we even be in two and a half years?’ I never thought I’d change. Then I lost my mum. And even dying didn’t take two and a half years. Who says we’ll even be alive?
‘Alex, listen –’
‘No. Because in two and a half years, Bobby’ll still only be eleven. You won’t leave him. Don’t fool yourself. Don’t fool me.’
‘I’m not fooling anyone. I’ve it all worked out. I’m going to build a life for him in San Diego. I’ve it all planned out . . .’
And there’s the problem, right there. After everything he’s been through, he still believes in plans. I turn my face to the wall. I think of Marsha, who planned to stay married and whose relationship couldn’t take the distance. I think of my mum, who planned to stay alive and couldn’t even last a year. I think of him promising I’d never lose him, and here he is, telling me he’s leaving. And yes, he probably really believes we’ll stay in touch, stay as close as ever, but that’s not the way it happens. I’ve had friends leave. They promise to stay in touch. They start off all enthusiastic but the emails get shorter and the gap between them grows. You can tell it’s becoming a chore. The only thing keeping them going is guilt. And, finally, even guilt isn’t enough. So, if he’s going, let him go, quick and fast. Because I can’t lose anybody else bit by bit. I won’t. I take a deep breath and turn back to him.
‘It’s over,’ I say. ‘Let’s just face facts.’ But I’m looking into the face that’s dearest to me in the world and a pain is starting in my chest.
‘No,’ he says, with such conviction that the people next to us glance our way. ‘It’s not over. Because I’m not giving up on you. I’m not giving up on us.’
I look at his features one at a time, trying to memorise each one, because I know what it’s like for a face to become a blur. My throat burns and my eyes sting. I look away to hide tears that insist on coming. But he takes my chin between his finger and thumb and turns my head, so I’m looking into his eyes.
‘Alex. You trust me, don’t you?’
My tears spill over. And I nod. He gets up and comes over to my little piece of couch. He hugs me so tight. But it’s not enough. Because I do trust him. But not life. Which gets in the way. Always. To blow your plans into pieces so small you can’t ever get them back together again, plans you didn’t know you had until they were gone. I pull back. Ignoring tears that are streaming now, I look into those eyes I know so well.
‘It’s over, David.’
‘No.’
‘Please. It’s not going to work. So let’s not put ourselves through it.’
‘It is going to work. We’ll make it work. We just have to be patient. We can do it.’
He is so convinced. So positive. So strong. And that’s when I realise, I love him. I absolutely love him. Every little thing about him. His smile. His eyes. The freckle on his eyelid. The fact that he’s a tub of Mr Zog’s Sex Wax at home. I even love the way he is with Bobby. I love everything that makes him David. And I’m telling him it’s over. I get up and start to walk. Because if I don’t get away right now, I’ll change my mind.
Outside, David catches up. ‘Alex. Don’t do this. Please just trust me. Trust us.’
I wrap my arms around myself. ‘I need to go home now.’ I need to climb into bed, curl up in a ball, with my knees right up to my chest and squeeze.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘But we’ll talk tomorrow, right?’
I nod, but really can’t think about tomorrow.
I feel cold. So cold, I’m shaking. I’m in bed, curled up, back where I was nine months ago. Only worse, because now I feel
guilty for missing him more than my own mother. I close my eyes. I need to sleep, put everything from my mind till tomorrow. But I see his face behind my eyelids, the most beautiful face in the world, the face that will fade from my memory, no matter how impossible that seems now. My throat burns, and I’m off again. Loud, wailing sobs I try to silence. I’m crying for him. I’m crying for Mum. And, stupidly, I’m crying for all those things I’ll lose eventually. Homer. The Rockstar. Rachel. I’m crying so much, I don’t think I’ll ever stop.
TWENTY-ONE | PUDDLE
I’m falling into a puddle. Only it’s not a puddle, because my feet can’t feel the bottom. I’m going down. My boots are filling with dirty brown water. They’re dragging me deeper. Behind me, David’s diving in. But it’s too ate. It’s gone dark. I’ve run out of air. I wake on Christmas Day, gasping. A phone is ringing. It’s mine. Croaking and vibrating on the locker beside me. I watch it until it goes silent again. Then turn over, away from it. Away from everything. Everyone. Homer places his head on the bed, right up to my face. He looks at me with sad chocolate eyes, like he can read my mind. So I turn from him too. All I want is to fall back to sleep. Block everything out. Feel nothing. Ever again. If I’d kept up my guard, kept him out, not listened, not trusted, I’d be OK now. A guy in my class would be going back to the States. That would be it. So I’m shutting down. Turning off. Going back to sleep. If the phone would let me. It’s him, I know. Trying to change my mind. It won’t work. Finally, I get sense and turn off the phone.
Now someone’s knocking on the door. I cover my head with the duvet.
‘Alex?’ It’s The Rockstar. I don’t move.
‘Dinner’s ready.’
I turn in the bed and sigh like I’m asleep.
‘Homer. Come on, better let you out.’ A moment passes. ‘Homer, come on now, good boy.’ Silence. ‘OK, I’ll leave the door open. Come down when you want,’ he says, like he’s talking to a person. Then he’s gone.
Minutes later, another knock. Someone moves over the carpet and slides what I guess must be a tray onto the bedside locker, because I smell food.
‘No, Homer, not for you,’ says Barbara. ‘No.’
At last, she leaves. I get up, take the Coke from the tray and carry everything else out to the landing. Homer follows, looking up at me with great big, you-know-you-love-me eyes.
‘Alright, go on then.’
I put the tray on the floor, wish him Happy Christmas, go back to my room and close the door. I am, finally, on the cusp of sleep when there’s another knock. The door opens, and I feel like screaming.
‘Alex? You awake?’ It’s Marsha.
I make my breaths even and heavy.
‘Brought some sustenance,’ she says. I make my breathing deeper still.
‘Toblerone,’ she says. After a few minutes, I feel her sit at the edge of the bed. ‘Christmas is a bitch, isn’t it, when you’ve lost someone you love?’ She’s thinking about my mum. She’s thinking about her ex-husband. She doesn’t even know about David. And she won’t. It still takes at least five minutes before I finally feel her weight lift from the bed.
‘I’ll just leave it here, then, the Toblerone.’ There’s silence for a moment, then, from the door, she says, ‘I’m not going to say anything as dumb as Happy Christmas, but I hope you’re feeling better soon.’
As soon as I’m sure she’s gone, I get up and lock the door.
On Stephen’s Day, I’m left in peace until noon when The Rockstar bangs on the door. I’d forgotten I’d locked it. If I don’t open it fast, it’ll be a big deal – locked doors always are in this house.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
He hands me the phone. ‘For you. Rachel.’
I put it to my ear and look at him as if to say, ‘You can go now.’
He does.
‘What’s up?’ she asks. ‘Why aren’t you answering your phone?’
I can’t motivate myself to talk. Just walk back to bed and flop onto it.
‘Want to go out?’ she asks.
‘No. Thanks.’
‘How about I come over?’
‘No.’
There’s a pause. ‘Mark told me . . . I’m so sorry, Ali.’
If I talk, I’ll cry. So I don’t.
‘You sure you don’t want company?’
‘Yep.’
Another pause. ‘OK. But if you change your mind, call me. OK? Any time.’
Stupidly, I nod. I hang up, leave the phone out on the landing and go back to bed. For the rest of the day, I see no one. Food’s delivered, and, apart from the Cokes, is taken away untouched. Hours blur together. I don’t know when Marsha comes in, but she catches me coming back from the en suite, so I can’t adopt my usual strategy of faking sleep.
‘Hey,’ she says. ‘I’m glad you’re up. David’s downstairs.’ My heart thuds against my chest. So I harden it. ‘I’m asleep.’
She gives me a look.
‘Please, Marsha. Just tell him I’m asleep.’
She squints at me. ‘You’ve been in bed two days now. This isn’t just about your mum is it? You two have argued, haven’t you?’
‘Marsha, please. Just tell him, OK?’ I get back into bed.
‘OK. Whatever.’ She shrugs and leaves.
Two minutes later, she’s back. Looking a bit too happy.
‘He says he’ll wait in the car till you wake.’
‘I. Won’t. Be. Waking.’
She looks shocked. ‘You can’t have him wait out there forever.’
‘Try me.’ I pull the duvet over my head.
‘Where’s your heart?’
On the floor.
‘Look. He’s sorry – whatever he did – or he wouldn’t be here.’ I hear her moving around and hope she’s leaving. ‘Aw, look at him, down there,’ she says from the window, her voice going all soft, like she’s talking about a puppy. When I don’t respond, she says, ‘You’re a pretty hard nut, aren’t you?’
‘Hard nut’ is exactly what I’m trying for here.
‘OK, well I’m going down to tell him you don’t want to see him.’
I say nothing.
‘I’m not having him wait out there forever.’ Finally, she leaves.
I try not to think of him down there, waiting in his car, listening to her say I don’t want to see him. I try not to think of his face. But I can’t help it. I want to run to the window, tell him I’ll wait, I’ll hope, I’ll believe. And maybe I would if I was this bright, optimistic person, who’d never been let down, who believed in the future, in possibility and happy-ever-afters. But I’m none of the above. So I go back to bed. And try to pretend he’s not there, to pretend he never was.
Then Marsha’s back. ‘He says he’ll wait.’
I groan.
‘Trust me, Alex. This time you will lose him.’
‘Already have.’
He waits for two hours, two of the longest hours in my life, spent talking myself out of rushing down and climbing into his arms. The hardest part is when his car starts up. I have to really fight then. I close my eyes, wrap my arms around my knees and squeeze. And as the sound of the engine fades, the hollowness expands inside me, like spilled water. But I will not cry.
TWENTY-TWO | VITAMIN C
Next morning, my Christmas presents are at the end of my bed, a carefully wrapped bundle at my feet. I get up and walk to the wardrobe. I open the door. Then, one by one, I put the presents away. I go back to bed. Then, I harden my heart, freeze it back up. I am Ice Queen. I am cold. Next day, I delete David McFadden from my life. I remove him from my phone – his number, his texts, the photos we took at the zoo. How happy we looked; how stupid I was. I change my screensaver, from a picture of him massaging my foot to an ice-capped mountain. I delete all our MSNs, emails. On Facebook, he is no longer a friend. One by one, all photos of him go. And when I start to cry, I remind myself, I feel nothing. I feel nothing. I feel nothing. I feel nothing. From my iPhone I delete every track that reminds me of him. Pretty soon,
I’ve none left. Not even Nina Simone. David McFadden no longer exists. He never did.
I shut down all communication. Keep my phone off. Put away my laptop. Hide out in my room. The Rockstar does his duty every so often, and asks if I’m OK. Marsha stops by for one-sided conversations at the edge of my bed. Then, on Day Four, I have a visitor.
Cool air from outside wafts into the room with Rachel. It smells so fresh. And she seems so alive, so alert, hair glossier than ever, eyes more sparkly, skin glowing. And I know it’s because of Mark. Because she’s happy.
‘Hey,’ she says, hanging by the door like she doesn’t want to intrude.
‘I’m kind of tired, Rache,’ I say, hoping she’ll get the message.
‘I can’t believe it, Alex,’ she says, coming in. ‘Everything was going so well.’
Sympathy’s dangerous. So I ice up. ‘Yeah, well, that’s life, right?’
‘I know, but it just seems so unfair.’
I need to stop this. ‘Rachel, I’m not feeling the best.’
‘Is that why you aren’t returning anyone’s calls?’
I close my eyes. ‘I just want to be alone.’
There’s a pause. ‘I get that, Alex. I really do. But you can’t cut everyone off.’
Watch me.
‘You need people.’
Absolutely wrong there.
‘At least talk to David. In nine days he’ll be gone.’
Nine days! The ache inside me spreads. But I can deal with it. I can handle this. Nine days is good. The sooner he goes, the easier it’ll be to forget he was ever here.
‘Just listen to what he has to say. Hear him out.’ My jaw tightens.
‘Don’t give up on what you’ve got. Don’t let it go.’
My teeth are gritted so tight when I say, ‘Rachel, please. I’m tired.’
‘OK, I’m going. But think about it, OK? What you’re walking away from.’
I nod. Just so she’ll go. And finally she does.
Next day, I wake with my head throbbing, my nose running and my eyes stinging. This is what I get for lying to Rachel.
The Butterfly Novels Box Set: Contemporary YA Series (And By The Way; And For Your Information; And Actually) Page 16