Lifesaving for Beginners

by Ciara Geraghty

  When I finish the third lap of Luigi’s Mansion, I say, ‘How old are you?’

  Ed says, ‘Thirty-four.’

  I don’t think Ed is thirty-four because that’s middle-aged.

  We look at the results and then Ed presses Start again. He says, ‘How old are you?’

  I say, ‘I’m nine but I’ll be ten really soon.’

  Ed says, ‘What’s your mam going to buy you?’

  I say, ‘WATCH OUT!’ because Bowser is about to overtake him.

  Ed moves his whole body when he’s playing. Like he’s right inside the game. That would be cool. To be right inside the game.

  After a while, I say, ‘I go to lifesaving class. Back in Brighton, I mean.’

  Ed says, ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s like swimming only you get to rescue people who are drowning. And you get to do CPR on them.’

  ‘What’s CPR?’

  ‘It’s like the kiss of life.’

  Ed laughs. I think it’s because I said ‘kiss’. Damo laughs too, when I say that. He says it would be legend to do CPR on a girl but he’d never do it to a boy. I say, ‘What about if a boy was drowning?’ but Damo just says, ‘Tough nuts.’

  Ed says, ‘I go to swimming classes too. Kat brings me. I’m great at swimming. I came second last time.’

  ‘Is Kat your sister?’

  ‘Yeah. She’s brilliant. She brings me swimming and loads of other places too.’

  ‘Why’d you call her Kat?’

  ‘Because that’s her name.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Kat is Faith’s mother.’

  ‘Her birth mother.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  The walls of the den are covered in framed photographs. Ed is in most of them.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I point to a picture of Ed, holding up a medal. He’s standing between a man and a woman beside a swimming pool. The woman looks like Faith, except she’s old. She’s got the same black hair and the same green eyes and the same white skin. She’s smiling like Faith used to. She’s got her arms round Ed.

  Ed says, ‘That’s Kat and me and Thomas. I only came third that time. I had a cold.’

  ‘Is Thomas Kat’s husband?’

  Ed says. ‘He’s Kat’s friend. Except they’re not friends anymore. They had a fight. I’d say they’ll make up soon. That’s what me and Sophie do, when we fight.’

  ‘Who’s Sophie?’ Faith calls me ‘Twenty Questions’ sometimes but I don’t think Ed minds. He points to a photograph of a girl wearing tiny round glasses and a tracksuit. She is holding a medal in her hands but I can’t see if it’s gold, silver or bronze because the photograph is in black and white. Ed says, ‘She’s my girlfriend,’ but I don’t ask if he French-kisses her, like Damo would.

  Ed says, ‘She’s got Down’s Syndrome too.’

  I say, ‘What’s Down’s Syndrome?’

  Ed says, ‘I’m not sure.’

  The grandfather says, ‘Boys, come down for something to eat.’

  I’m starving. We forgot to have lunch, me and Faith. Well, I had an apple and cinnamon muffin with icing on the top but that doesn’t count.

  The table is like a table in a restaurant. It’s really long so you keep having to ask people to pass this and pass that. There are napkins that are not kitchen roll. And there’s a glass beside my plate. A proper glass, that will break if I drop it.

  Faith is sitting across from Leonard and his wife, whose name is Janet. I know because she said, ‘Call me Janet,’ when I arrived.

  The grandfather says, ‘And what genre of music does your band play, Faith?’

  ‘Well, I suppose you could call it garage rock.’

  ‘Oh. Is that a bit like rock and roll?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  Ed sits down and looks at his plate. ‘I don’t like fish.’

  The grandfather says, ‘It’s good for your heart.’

  Janet turns to Faith. ‘Do you write your own songs?’

  Faith nods. ‘Some of them.’

  Janet picks up her knife and fork. ‘I write too.’

  The grandfather says, ‘Ah, yes, so does Kat, as a matter of fact. She’s a technical writer, you know. For a company in Cork.’

  Faith says, ‘A technical writer?’ like she’s never heard of it, which is good because I’ve never heard of it either.

  Janet cuts a green bean in four even pieces and spears one of the pieces with her fork. ‘Yes, well, we’re not entirely sure what that means, exactly, but it’s something to do with instruction manuals for appliances. Dishwashers and tumble-dryers. That sort of thing.’

  The grandfather gets up. ‘I’ll try her again quickly. Before we eat.’ He leaves the room.

  I don’t like fish either, unless you count fish fingers. Mam always said they were more finger than fish.

  Janet looks sort of like a ballerina. She’s got a bun and she’s dead skinny for a granny. I don’t have any grannies but I’ve seen other people’s grannies and they’re usually pretty fat, no offence.

  You never see fat ballerinas on the telly. They’re like matchstick people that kids draw. A line for their bodies. Janet is like that. She’s quiet too. Even when she talks, she’s quiet.

  She says, ‘So, er, Milo. What class are you in?’

  ‘Year five,’ and I get ready to tell her what my favourite subject is (science) and who my best friend is (Damo), except I won’t say ‘Damo’, I’ll say ‘Damien Sullivan’. That’s usually the kind of stuff adults want to know.

  But she doesn’t ask me any of that. She takes a drink of water. The bones in her neck stick out when she swallows. I know I’m not supposed to stare but it’s hard sometimes.

  The grandfather comes back. Sits down. Janet asks Ed to say Grace and he says, ‘GRACE!’ and roars laughing, and so do I because it’s pretty funny when you think about it. Faith gives me daggers and Janet says, ‘EDWARD!’ and then everybody starts eating their dinner and nobody says anything for a while.

  Then, the grandfather says, ‘I’ve left another message for Kat. I’d say she’s . . .’ He looks at his watch. ‘Well, she should be home by now but she could have been delayed. The traffic . . . it can be bad at this time of the day. Anytime of the day, really.’

  I think he’s talking to Faith. She puts her knife and fork on her plate the way people do when they’ve finished eating, except I don’t think she’s eaten anything yet. I’m nearly finished. The fish isn’t all that bad.

  He pours wine into Faith’s glass. She shakes her head and says, ‘No, thank you.’

  He stops pouring. Puts the bottle down. He says, ‘Are you all right, my dear?’

  Faith nods her head.

  He says, ‘Look, I know this isn’t easy but when Kat gets here . . .’

  Faith says, ‘She’s not coming. I know she’s not coming. She didn’t make contact with me before. Why should she bother now?’

  I don’t know the answers to any of those questions so I don’t say anything. I don’t think anybody else knows either. It’s pretty quiet round the table.

  Faith says, ‘If my . . . my adoptive mother hadn’t died, I would never have known. About Kat. Katherine. Whatever you call her. I would never have known. Would I?’

  Then she changes her mind about the wine because she picks up the bottle and pours it into her glass. Right up to the top. She takes a big, long drink out of it. When she puts her glass back on the table, she has wine stains at the top of her mouth, like fangs.

  The grandfather picks up his napkin. Wipes his mouth, even though there are no wine fangs at the top of his. He says, ‘I . . . I don’t know, Faith. I’m sorry. I can’t speak for Kat. But I know that she will regret not coming here today. She’s just . . .’ He looks at his wife but she keeps chewing and chewing and chewing and not looking back at him. I’ve never seen anyone chew as much as she does. I really haven’t.

  The grandfather looks at Faith again. ‘She just needs a bit o
f time, that’s all. It’s been a bit of a shock for her, I suppose.’

  Faith says, ‘It’s been a bit of a shock for me too.’ Her voice sounds funny. High and tight. I cross my fingers and toes. I know Faith wouldn’t want to cry. Especially not in front of strangers.

  Leonard says, ‘Of course, of course, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry.’

  No one says anything. There’s just silence. Even Janet has stopped chewing. Ed has finished his dinner and has left the table. I don’t know where he’s gone. I want to finish my dinner so I can leave the table too but I don’t want to make any noise. That’s how quiet everything is. Even my breathing sounds loud.

  After a while, Faith looks up. She looks at Janet. She says, ‘Why don’t you say something?’ Her voice is mostly back to normal. I keep my fingers crossed, though. Just in case.

  Janet takes a long time to answer. Finally, she says, ‘That’s the thing, Faith. We’ve never really said anything. Afterwards, I mean. Katherine was fifteen years old. She was just a girl. Things were different then. I thought . . .’ She nods at the grandfather. ‘We all thought . . . it was for the best.’

  The grandfather puts his hand on top of Janet’s.

  Janet says, ‘It takes Katherine a good while to come round to things. Even when she was a child. It took her ages to get over starting school. Mrs Higginbotham said she cried every morning for a year and a half. And after that, well, I suppose she just got used to it.’

  I want to know who Mrs Higginbotham is, but I don’t ask.

  That’s when Ed bursts into the room. Janet looks up and says, ‘You have parsley sauce on your chin, Edward.’

  My napkin is folded on the table beside me so I pick it up and shake it out and use it to wipe round my mouth. I don’t think I have parsley sauce on my chin but you can never be sure.

  Ed wipes his chin with his hand. His face is really red, like he’s done something embarrassing, which he hasn’t, as far as I can tell. He keeps on walking until he reaches Faith. He says, ‘I got you a present.’ He takes a squashed blue box out of his pocket and he puts it on the table. He says, ‘You’re not supposed to open it yet,’ but he doesn’t say when you are supposed to open it.

  Faith looks at the box and says, ‘Why did you get me a present?’ instead of just saying, ‘Thank you,’ like you’re supposed to.

  Ed says, ‘Because I’m your uncle. I’m your Uncle Ed.’

  And then Faith remembers and she says, ‘Thank you.’ Her voice is so quiet it’s nearly a whisper but I think Ed hears her because he smiles and Faith smiles back and, for a moment, everything feels dead nice.

  I can’t help thinking about dessert. It looks like the kind of house where there might be dessert. And I don’t mean just biscuits or Mars bars. I mean proper dessert. Like pavlova. I love pavlova. Mam said it was because she ate buckets of it when I was in her belly, waiting to be born.

  Leonard looks at me just then and there’s a chance that he could be a mind-reader because he says, ‘Dessert!’ Just like that.

  Faith says, ‘No, we should go.’

  Leonard says, ‘Stay a little longer, Faith. I’m sure Milo would like some dessert.’ He looks at me and smiles. He has one of those smiles that end up all over his face. ‘Wouldn’t you, lad?’

  I say, ‘Is it pavlova?’ Faith catches my eye and glares at me, which means that I’m not supposed to ask that question. It’s hard to remember everything.

  Ed shouts, ‘Vienetta!’ and he runs into the kitchen and comes back with a gigantic box of Vienetta that hasn’t even been opened yet. It’s not as good as pavlova but it’s still pretty good because it’s chocolate and ice cream, all mixed up together.

  Ed gets a bit shy when he talks to Faith. He says, ‘Would you like some?’ in a dead polite voice.

  Faith says, ‘No, thank you,’ but then Ed looks really disappointed so Faith says, ‘Actually, I will have a slice. Just a small one, please,’ and that makes Ed smile again. I don’t know why. I’d be happier if no one else had any. Then there’d be more for me.

  I’m much quicker eating dessert than dinner. When I’m finished, I want to lick my plate, but you’re not supposed to when you’re in someone else’s house. I wipe the ice cream off the plate with my finger when no one is looking.

  Faith says, ‘No, thank you,’ to coffee and tea. She catches my eye. I go and get our coats.

  The grandfather says, ‘I could drive you over to Kat’s apartment? It’s not far. You’d have time. Before your flight.’

  Faith says, ‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ just like Mam told us to do. Janet nods her head. She’s the only one who hasn’t finished her dessert. I wonder if she’s going to be able to eat it all. She doesn’t look like someone with a huge amount of room in her stomach. Faith moves towards the door.

  Ed says, ‘Can’t Milo stay? Just for a little bit? We haven’t finished the game and he’s still got one life left.’

  Janet says, ‘Say goodbye, Edward.’

  The grandfather picks up his car keys and Faith says, ‘We don’t need a lift, but thanks all the same.’ He puts his car keys back on the table. He doesn’t even argue. It’s like he already knows that there’s no point arguing with Faith.

  I say, ‘See ya, Ed.’

  Ed says, ‘See ya, Milo,’ and he gives me a gigantic hug that nearly squashes me flat. I can’t move my arms. After a really long time, he lets me go and holds up his palm for a high-five. We high-five.

  The grandfather shakes my hand. That’s twice in one day. Nobody has shaken my hand since the day in the church. Loads of people shook my hand that day. My hand hurt, with all the shaking.

  Janet talks to me like I’m an adult or something. She says, ‘It was lovely to meet you, Milo.’

  In the hall, there’s a photograph of Kat and Ed standing in front of a pond. Ed is about my age in the photo, I reckon. Kat has her arms on his shoulders, as if she’s worried he might fall in.

  Faith sees the photo too. She says, ‘Do you have any other children?’

  Janet shakes her head. ‘No. Just Katherine and Edward.’

  Faith says, ‘Well, thanks again.’ She holds out her hand so that Leonard can shake it, which is weird because he’s her granddad when you think about it. Still, he shakes her hand as if he’s not her granddad. As if he’s just an old man she happened to meet one day.

  He says, ‘It was so lovely to meet you, Faith. To finally meet you.’

  Janet says, ‘Yes. It was.’

  Leonard says, ‘I’ll give Kat your phone number. I’m sure she will . . .’ Janet puts her hand on his arm and he stops talking, right in the middle of his sentence.

  She turns to Faith and she says, so quietly I can barely hear her, ‘I’m so sorry, Faith.’

  Faith nods, and I slip my hand inside hers, only because she looks like she could do with warming up. And it’s true: her hand is freezing. I hold it as we walk out through the door and down the eight steps to the driveway. It’d be nice to jump them. I bet it would feel almost like flying, jumping from the top of those steps.

  When we get to the end of the driveway, I turn round. Janet and the grandfather are still at the door and they wave so I wave back, but Faith doesn’t turn round. She just keeps on walking.

  May 1987

  The nurse says, ‘Bend your knees . . . that’s it . . . Shuffle your feet up. Right up, towards your bottom . . . that’s right . . . As far up as you can . . . OK, now let your knees fall apart . . . that’s right. Good girl.’

  The nurse’s head disappears between my legs. I feel something cold.

  ‘Relax, relax now, like a good girl.’ When she stands up, she peels a pair of latex gloves off her hands. I see blood on the fingers.

  She says, ‘All done,’ like the woman in Arnott’s when she’s fitting me for a new school tunic. ‘That episiotomy is healing nicely.’

  I don’t know what an episiotomy is. I don’t care. The nurse walks around the cubicle, pulling the curtain behind h
er until I’m in plain view again. I pull the sheet up to my chin.

  She says, ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine.’

  She writes something on a piece of paper stuck to a clipboard. ‘Let me know if you want to talk to someone. There are people here you can talk to.’

  ‘When can I go home?’

  ‘The doctor will talk to you later.’

  Three days.

  That’s how long I have to stay.

  Three days.

  Nobody comes. Nobody except Mum and Dad.

  I say, ‘Where’s Ed?’

  Mum says, ‘He can’t come. He won’t understand.’

  Dad says, ‘You’ll see him when you get home, love.’

  I say, ‘When can I go home?’

  Three days.

  That’s how long I have to stay.

  Three days.

  I’m in a room on my own. It smells funny. Like dinner. It smells like dinner. I don’t go out of the room, because when you go out of the room all you can hear are babies crying. It’s like all the babies in the world are here. In this hospital. And they’re all crying. Every single one of them.

  I don’t know where my clothes are. There’s a wardrobe but it’s empty. I’m wearing a nightdress that’s not mine. It’s too big for me. I don’t know where it came from. It’s not Mum’s either. It would swim on her too.

  I think about Ed. And Minnie.

  Ed will wonder where I am. He cries when I’m not there. He cries like a baby, even though he’s ten. He’s too old for that kind of crying.

  Minnie will say I’m lucky. Because I don’t have to do the Inter. Cert. But I’d prefer to be doing the exams. Maths. I’d prefer to be doing the maths exam in the Inter., which is really saying something. Everyone knows I’m thick at maths and I’d fail the exam if I did it. I’d prefer that. What’s the big deal anyway? It just means you get to do Lower Level for your Leaving Cert. and that’s fine by me. Lower Level maths. It’s no skin off my nose.

  The nurse says, ‘Have you been to the toilet yet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I mean, have you moved your bowels?’

  My face is so hot, it’s scorching. I shake my head. The nurse draws the curtains around the bed, pulls a clean pair of gloves on.