See Me Not

by Janelle Harris

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed. I lost my mother two years ago, and I still have days when I break down every now and again.’

  ‘Oh, I’m really sorry to hear that,’ I say, gaining some control over my emotions.

  ‘Thank you. It does get easier. I promise.’

  I smile and scrunch my nose. ‘Yeah. I hope so.’

  ‘So,’ Bradly says, pulling his neck and shoulders up to sit very straight.

  I know the small talk is over, and it’s time to get down to business. I’m relieved.

  ‘As I mentioned in my letter, Danny has named you as a beneficiary of his estate.’

  ‘Okay,’ I reply, dragging my free hand around my face in an attempt to wipe away the streaks my tears have no doubt made in my makeup.

  ‘Unfortunately, there will be some death duties to be paid, but we can help you with all that.’

  ‘Okay,’ I repeat, becoming confused. Death duties on what? An ornament?

  ‘The most recent evaluation on Danny’s house is almost five years old, so it may not reflect the current market value …’ Bradly continues.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt, but what exactly are you saying here?’ I slide to the edge of the chair and sit poker straight as if that will help me hear better. ‘Has Danny left his house to me or something?’ I chew on the words, embarrassed that I’ve just said something so outlandish out loud.

  ‘Yes. Amongst other assets. Danny has left his estate to be divided equally between you and his grandson, Marley.’

  ‘Danny has a grandchild?’ My shock must be evident in my squeaky pitch because Bradly’s whole face narrows as if his ears hurt.

  ‘Yes. Did you not know?’

  I shake my head vigorously. ‘I didn’t even know Danny had children, never mind grandchildren.’

  ‘Danny was estranged from his wife, Marley’s grandmother,’ Bradly explains. ‘I don’t think Danny had much family contact after they split.’

  ‘Oh.’ I slouch. ‘That’s so sad. Danny never mentioned a wife or children. He never mentioned Marley either.’

  ‘Perhaps it was an emotional topic for him,’ Bradly defends Danny admirably.

  I shared emotional stuff with Danny, I think, feeling cheated.

  I shake my head. ‘I didn’t see a little boy at Danny’s funeral. Or a wife. Surely, she can’t hate Danny so much she wouldn’t come to his funeral. What about Marley’s parents? There was no family there. I checked.’

  ‘It’s a more intricate situation than usual,’ Bradly explains. ‘Marley was adopted outside the state as an infant, so there are a lot of legalities to be chased. Unfortunately, Emma, I really can’t divulge any more than that, but don’t worry, none of these complications will affect you.’

  It’s affecting me now, I think, pining for the years Danny missed with his grandson. It must have broken his heart. No wonder he couldn’t cope with his loneliness anymore.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Emma. I know what I’m doing, I promise.’ Bradly sighs. ‘As executor of the will, Mullins and Company can go ahead with the sale of the property. Looking for Marley will not cause a problem for you in any way, and it won’t delay or complicate the sale. The proceeds will then be divided evenly between you both, and as I said, I can help you with taxes and any other concerns. But I’ll keep in touch in the meantime.’

  I’m at a loss for words. I hope Bradly doesn’t ask me how I’m feeling because I would have no idea what to say.

  ‘I know this is a lot to take in,’ he says as if the expression on my face speaks for me. ‘But I do this all the time. It sounds more complex than it actually is.’

  ‘Okay.’ I barely manage to part my lips and force the word out.

  ‘As I mentioned earlier, we don’t have recent value for the house. I’m sure you have an idea of what it’s worth, but the first thing we’ll do is get an estate agent out there to give us a current market expectation. I’ll contact you, of course, with the details as soon as we have them, and we’ll push for the absolute best price.’

  I blink a lot, but I don’t speak. I don’t want to admit I have no idea what Danny’s house is worth. I’ve never been in it. I don’t even know where it is. But confessing any of that out loud would sound rather weird, considering the circumstances.

  Bradly ruffles through some pages on his desk and flashes a toothy grin as he fishes out a piece of paper with some messy handwriting on it.

  ‘Ah, here it is,’ he says triumphantly. ‘Most recent valuation, dated four years and eight months ago, was one point two million. It’s probably worth a little more now that the market is recovering.’

  ‘One point two million euros?’ I choke. ‘Holy crap, what’s Danny selling? A castle?’

  Bradly laughs. ‘Not quite. But houses in Rathmines do tend to fetch a fair price. It’s a good-sized three-bedroomed terrace. It should sell very quickly.’

  I sip on some of my cooled coffee and try to hide my complete disbelief.

  ‘Look, Emma. I imagine today has been quite hard for you. Losing Danny is one thing, but suddenly finding out you’re set to inherit a large sum of money is possibly rather shocking. I completely understand. But there is something else I must explain. Something Danny requested.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, bracing myself for another surprise.

  ‘Danny has attached a condition to your share of the house.’

  My head bobs as I hang on every word.

  ‘Danny wants you to visit a Dr Philip Brady at St. Catherine’s Hospital.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ I snort. My grip on the plastic cup in my hand tightens, forcing the coffee right up to the rim.

  Bradly grimaces awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry, Emma. Danny was adamant. He’s stipulated that unless you attend a consultation, you don’t get a penny. Of course, the choice of whether to make an appointment is yours, but attendance is a condition of receiving the inheritance.’

  My eyes glass over as I toss my head over my shoulder and stare at the door. I hope I can hold my tears back until I make it out of Bradly’s office at least. I feel hideously exposed. I imagine Bradly must have checked out Dr Brady. He wouldn’t even need to Google it; everyone knows St. Catherine’s is a mental health hospital. Full of crazies and weirdos, people joke. I can feel Bradly watching me, but my tears are sweeping across my eyes and blurring my vision, so I can’t tell what expression he wears. He probably feels sorry for me. Most people do. Or scared. I get that a lot too. As if I might lose my mind at any second and slit his throat like a scene from some dodgy B-list horror movie.

  I trusted Danny. I told him stuff I could never tell anyone else. I can’t believe he would betray me so easily. How could he tell a perfect stranger that I’m mad? Every happy conversation in Danny’s station hut, every cup of tea shared, every giggle, every memory—Danny’s betrayal has now tarnished them. I feel physically ill. The couple of mouthfuls of coffee that I sipped make their way back up from my stomach and sting the back of my throat like acid. I have to get out of here.

  I stand up, shaking, and clumsily make my way towards the door.

  ‘Emma,’ Bradly calls as I reach for the handle. ‘Please just think about it. I can tell Danny did his best to look after you while he was alive. Maybe this is the only way he knew how to look after you now that he’s gone.’

  ‘If he really wanted to look after me, he’d still be here,’ I hiss, pulling the door open.

  I don’t look back.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  EMMA

  I don’t know where to go or who to turn to. My instinct is to call David, but I still haven’t had a chance to think about what all those emails on his computer mean. He promised me complete honesty, but he’s been sneaking around behind my back more than ever. I can’t call him. Not now.

  I can’t even call Kim. Chances are she’s in cahoots. She’s so loved up with Andy, there’s no way he’s been emailing David and not told Kim about it. I understand Andy’s loyalty to his new girlfriend, I even think it�
��s admirable, but I don’t understand why Kim wouldn’t tell me. I can’t fathom why everyone I thought I knew was suddenly like strangers to me.

  I can’t call Liz; I don’t think I got around to putting her numbers in my new SIM. Dammit. Besides, Liz is a gossip, and I know my meltdown would filter back to Richard. I definitely don’t need the principal worrying that one of his teachers is insane. Christ, if the parents got word, it would be an absolute frenzy.

  There’s no way I’m calling my mother. She’d have a heart attack if she sees me this low, and my sister would relish the drama.

  God, I really am alone. Now, I truly understand how Danny felt. I don’t want his money. I don’t even want an apology for telling Bradly Mullins that I’m bonkers. I just want him back. I want to sit and have tea. I want my friend. I need my friend. Panic grips me, and I scan the street for a shop with a window display with an accommodating low sill where I can sit. I find a high street store with a sign on the window.

  No homeless.

  Gardi will be called.

  I sit. I breathe. And I worry that a store employee will come out and warn me to move along. I don’t stay long. The eyes of the passers-by burn into me. Every glance my way is a judgmental scrape against my soul. I scramble to my feet and wander the streets with a steady, fast past. I don’t know where I’m going, but I march as if I’m in a hurry to an exact destination.

  An hour later, I find myself leaning over Danny’s grave. The roses I laid at the start of the week have shrivelled and died. They look miserable and depressing as their previously bright red petals have aged and turned a grungy brown as if they’re attempting to match the colour of the clay beneath them. Two new graves are beside Danny’s now. They’re laden with flowers and wreaths, and they’ve been marked out officially with pretty varnished timber, creating a box around their little patch of earth. Danny’s grave is not so aesthetically precise. It’s taken on the haphazard shape of a rectangle with one side longer than the other as the clay settles. If it wasn’t for the timber cross with his name on it, marking the top, the grave could easily go unnoticed. Some weeds have started to grow in the middle, and I suspect within a few months, it’ll be covered in grass unless it’s properly cared for. I crouch on my hunkers and pull up a stubborn, spiky green weed. The roots drag some clay with them, and I brush the dirt off my knees where it falls. It’s as I cast the weed to one side that I notice her. I freeze. I can tell she hasn’t seen me because she doesn’t run away this time.

  She has her damn hood up still, but some strands of blond hair blow out around the sides of her hidden face. Her hair colour is a new clue about her, and it’s oddly exciting. Her head is bowed toward the ground, so I can stare without her noticing. She stands with one foot in front of the other, as if she’s poised and ready to run if she needs to. And I know if she sees me, that’s exactly what she’ll do. And I also know I’ll run after her.

  She’s wearing the same faded pink Converse runners that she wore in the church at Danny’s funeral. Except now, they’re mucky from walking through the wet grass. Her ripped jeans are the same ones she wore in the church too. And her hoodie is the same burnt orange one as always. She only has one outfit, I realise, and I wonder if she’s homeless. Maybe she sleeps at the train station. That’s probably how Danny got to know her. I know Danny used to leave the station hut door slightly ajar at night, especially in the winter, so anyone who needed shelter from the elements could step inside. Poor girl. She’s lost Danny and probably lost somewhere to sleep now too.

  Even though I can’t see her face, I know she’s sad. Her rounded shoulders and slouched body give that away. I’m walking around with the same pose. I suspect she’ll look up at any moment and notice me, and a nervous excitement bubbles inside my tummy.

  But I’m wrong. She walks deeper into the graveyard and further away from me. She stops under a large tree and crouches next to the headstone beneath the bowing branches. I brush my knees again as I stand up and shake my head at the brownish, grey stain the damp muck has created on my jeans.

  It begins to rain. Heavily. The icy drops trickle down my face and soak me within seconds, but I don’t mind. The rain is noisy. Huge drops pound the ground masking the sound of my footsteps as I make my way over to the girl in the hood. I stop just meters away from her. She’s sobbing so loudly I can hear her over the rain. She bends lower until her knees press against the granite surround of a single grave. She reaches out and traces letters across the white pebbles covering the grave. I wonder what she’s writing. Her hands are young, and her beautifully manicured nails defy my theory that she’s homeless. I can’t figure this girl out. I dare to take a few steps closer as the rain eases, but I lose my footing and wobble off the grass and onto the stony path. She jerks upright and spins around. I stare. She cups her face with her hands, and all I can make out are two dark eyes burning into me. I can’t even tell their colour. This girl really doesn’t want anyone to know who she is.

  ‘Hi,’ I blurt the word coming out of me before I realise it.

  She turns her back to me and walks away. I walk after her.

  ‘Wait, please,’ I shout.

  She stops. I wasn’t expecting that, and I freeze.

  ‘Umm.’ I cough. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

  She stands still, her back facing me. Her rounded shoulders tell me so much.

  ‘I’m Emma,’ I stutter. ‘Eh, I was a friend of Danny’s.’

  Nothing. She gives me nothing. She just stands like a statue.

  ‘I, uh … er … did you know him? I think I saw you at his funeral.’

  She nods. It’s so subtle I’m not sure if she’s just cold or if she’s answering my question.

  ‘Umm, are you family?’ I say, daring to take a step forward.

  The stillness of the graveyard amplifies the crunch of the rough ground under my shoes now that the rain has stopped as suddenly as it began. I glance at my feet as I feel cold water drain into my shoe. I look up to catch her running away. I just stand and watch until she disappears behind a maze of headstones.

  I exhale sharply, making myself lightheaded. I’ve a dull ache in the pit of my tummy, and I realise I’ve needed to pee for well over a couple of hours. I wanted to tidy Danny’s grave up a little, pull up the rest of the weeds, and take away the dead roses, but I’ll come back later. I cast a quick glance at the grave beside me, my curiosity begging my bladder to hold out a little longer. The branches of the tree hang so low I have to duck under to read the headstone.

  Burke

  William

  Died 16th May 2011 aged 29

  Loved, missed, remembered.

  Beloved son, husband, and father.

  I stand up suddenly, and my shoulders collide roughly with the thick branch of the tree that I’d forgotten was hanging above me. The pound knocks the wind out of me, and I stand, quivering, my mouth gaping wide as I gulp huge mouthfuls of air, desperate to refill my lungs and ease the pain. My whole upper back burns, and I’m grateful for my thick coat that at least absorbed some of the impact. The pain is intense, and it’s difficult to process any other thoughts. But I concentrate on deep, even breaths, and finally, I feel like I can walk.

  I hurry my way out of the graveyard, a little less careful than usual not to step on any graves. There’s a pub across the road from the main graveyard gates. I can use the bathroom there. The pain in my back, the ache in my stomach, and the familiar name on the headstone attack my senses, and I’m so overwhelmed my legs almost forgot what they’re supposed to be doing. I stumble awkwardly over loose rubble and almost trip on the edge of a damaged grave surround. Instead of slowing down to watch my footing, though, I speed up because the graveyard gate is in view.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  EMMA

  I stop outside the main door of the old-fashioned pub. I don’t want to go inside. Not on my own. But I’m so close to wetting myself that I have no choice. I drop my head until my chin is close to my chest and pull the
door open. I squint, adjusting to how dim it is, and the smells of beer and body odour slap my face like an invisible hand. It’s mid-afternoon on a weekday, so it’s no surprise the pub is almost empty. I try to find the sign for the toilets without fully raising my head. I spot them quickly at the extreme back. I have to walk past the bar to reach them. I can feel the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand as I march forward. I don’t make eye contact with the barman, but I know he watches me.

  I relax when the bathroom door swings closed behind me, and I’m alone. I take a long time washing my hands when I finish. With the urgency of needing to pee gone, the dread of walking back through the bar has free rein to consume my mind now. The smell of alcohol finds me even in here. My mouth salivates thinking about a glass of chilled, white wine. Or a bottle. I’d love nothing more than to walk up to the bar and order, but I won’t. Of course, I won’t. I’m alone. The barman might ask questions. Like how I am, or why I’m drinking alone in the middle of the day. Or worse, he might say nothing and just study me, judging me. My pulse quickens just thinking about it. I close my eyes and imagine the brightness of outside. It’ll only take me seconds to walk from the bathroom, through the bar, and back onto the road, but the longer I wait, and the more I think about it, the path to the outside grows to infinity in my mind.

  I assume my regular position of my head dropped and my shoulders rounded as I charge out of the bathroom and powerwalk across the bar. The place is even quieter than before. The two old men who had been nursing a couple of pints while sitting slouched over the bar are gone now. Their absence leaves me even more exposed as the barman once again watches me as he polishes a beer glass. I exhale roughly as I grab the chrome handle of the heavy, mahogany main door and pull it back. Despite the thick, grey, cloudy sky, winter sunlight accosts my eyes immediately.

  ‘Emma, oh my God, Emma Lyons. Is that you?’

  I spin around, my hand still firmly gripping the door handle and my shoulder objects to the jerky movement with an audible pop. Ouch. I squint as I stare into the dullness.