The Weight of a Thousand Feathers

by Brian Conaghan

  A barrage of ‘Yes’es and ‘Got it!’s fly back at him.

  ‘Be cool now, Bobby. OK?’ Lou says.

  ‘Just fall back,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve got you.’

  He falls.

  I’m so close that I just ping him back on to his soles.

  I step backwards and repeat. Easy.

  Another step back and I feel more weight as Lou falls. My hands reach to his chest, buffering the impact of his body. We’re certainly not of similar build. Lou has muscles, actual muscles – muscles certain women, and men, would go gaga over.

  ‘Now do you trust me, Lou?’ I ask.

  ‘You’re all I got, Bobby.’

  We change positions. Suddenly I feel aware of my puny body, lacking definition or quality. A child’s body. Lou catches me as if he’s holding a baby at bay, throws me around like a boxer on the ropes. He enjoys it. So do I.

  In the next activity one person sits on a chair while the other has to remove them from it without touching or threatening them.

  ‘It’s an exercise in quick-thinking psychology and verbal gymnastics,’ Roddy says. I’m glad we get to keep the same pairings.

  I sit first.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ Lou says.

  ‘No touching, Lou,’ I remind him.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Ready.’ I glue my eyes shut.

  I sense him circling me. Set to pounce. Weaving something. He leans in to me. I taste his breathing, feel the heat of it on my lobe.

  ‘Bobby, if you don’t get your ass off that chair I’m gonna put something in your mouth.’

  I almost fall off the bloody chair.

  ‘Really? That’s what you’re saying? You do know how inappropriate that sounds, don’t you?’ I say.

  ‘Holy shit! You best get your ass off it and go tell Rod that I’m not playin’ fair then.’

  I cackle.

  We both do.

  ‘I’m serious, dude, you better get off that damn chair.’

  Throughout the chair exercise we giggle like a couple of teens. But I suppose that’s what we are, after all.

  Now, if you’d have told me that I’d be playing infantile drama games with a group of strangers in a chilly hall I’d have run a mile, but, actually, I’m having a blast. That evening I experience something I haven’t had for such a long time: fun. And some voices I wouldn’t mind hearing again. It’s liberating to have an hour or so free of Mum and Danny – which, if I think about it too much, is a full-on guilt fest.

  When goodbyes are being doled out afterwards, my heart clouds over. My body recalibrates itself. The carefree switch in my head flicks to OFF. I think about whether Danny has done his homework, if Mum minded being ‘watched’ by Bel for a while after the carer/nurse bolted, if her medicine has been administered and if her tunes were the right ones. I wonder if the house is a kip.

  All I want to do is lie on my bed, tuck my arms behind my head, look at the cracks in the Artex and think, just think. But I guess that’s a luxury not afforded to me.

  On the walk to the bus stop the wind attacks my face and I morph into care mode again.

  Ryan Gosling Goes to Bingo

  Danny’s deep into some Netflix series when I get home. Bel’s flaked out on the couch, glued to her phone. Babysitter from hell material. Both ignore me.

  ‘I’m back,’ I say.

  Silence.

  ‘Anything happen while I was gone?’

  The say nothing.

  ‘Erm … hello.’

  ‘Shhh, Bobby,’ Danny says. ‘I’m trying to watch Horrid Henry.’

  ‘And I’m trying to read my Twitter feed, so button it,’ Bel says.

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘All good?’

  ‘No probs,’ Bel says.

  ‘Mum OK, Dan?’

  ‘Think so, she’s up in bed.’

  I stand in the middle of the living room, arms wide. Expecting more.

  ‘That’s it?’ I say.

  Bel removes her face from her phone.

  ‘Oh, sorry, honey. Hard day at the office? Your dinner’s in the oven. Here. Let me get your slippers.’

  ‘Hilarious, Bel.’

  ‘Shhh, you two. I’m honestly trying to watch this.’

  ‘Pause it for a sec, Danny.’

  ‘God’s sake.’ He presses the pause button. ‘I can’t do anything in this house.’

  ‘Just tell me what’s been going on,’ I say.

  Bel and Danny share a glance.

  ‘Like what?’ Danny says.

  ‘Yeah, like what?’ Bel adds.

  ‘Don’t know. Anything interesting happen? How was the carer who came? Anything to report about Mum?’

  ‘Bobby, you haven’t been to Ibiza for two weeks,’ Bel says. ‘You’ve been out gallivanting with a bunch of saddos, talking shit for an hour. Nothing went wrong.’

  ‘So, no one missed me then?’

  They look at each other again as if in cahoots about something.

  ‘What did you have for dinner, Dan?’ I ask.

  ‘Pizza.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘One was in the freezer,’ Bel says. ‘Popped it in the oven, ten-minute job. Easy. He loves pizza, don’t you, Dan?’

  ‘Pizza’s magic.’

  ‘Did you do the dishes?’ I ask.

  ‘You weren’t here,’ Danny says. ‘I was waiting on you.’

  ‘For what? To do them for you?’

  ‘Keep your bra on, Bobby,’ says Bel. ‘I was just about to do them before you came in. Couple more tweets to post first.’

  ‘Fine, what about the carer sent by the Poztive organisation?’ I ask.

  ‘He was up with Mum. Then wasn’t up with Mum. Then went home just before you came back,’ Danny says.

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ Bel says. ‘But enough about our extravagant evening. Tell us how you got on.’

  I inhale, about to enlighten them. Bel starts:

  ‘Was it shit? I bet it was. Was it full of pure deadbeats and fat girls? Bet it was. Did you want to slit your throat with a rusty nail? I would’ve. Was anyone crying? Hope you weren’t in floods, Bobby. Were you? Did you turn into a spacecadick?’

  ‘It was OK, actually,’ I say.

  ‘Really?’ Bel says.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ she says.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Honestly, I’m not.’

  ‘I can tell when you’re lying, Bobby Seed. It was a total nightmare, I can tell.’

  ‘Wrong.’

  ‘Well, whatever. I still don’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s true. It was good.’

  ‘OK, don’t wet yourself with joy,’ she says.

  ‘Bobby?’

  ‘Yes, Dan.’

  ‘Can I go with you next time?’

  ‘Erm … I think it’s only for carers … for people over sixteen. Afraid you’re too young, buddy.’

  ‘Ugh, it’s craptastic being my age. We get nothing exciting to do.’

  ‘Is Mum still awake?’ I ask.

  ‘Not sure,’ Danny says.

  ‘Haven’t heard anything,’ Bel says.

  ‘I’m going to check on her. Why don’t you get the dishes done, Danny?’

  ‘But I’m watching Netflix. It’s not fair, I never –’

  ‘It’s OK, Dan, I’ll sort them out,’ Bel says. ‘Unpause and go Netflix yourself into brain-freeze oblivion.’

  I give Bel the thumbs up and mouth a ‘Thanks’.

  *

  I peek my head around the bedroom door. Mum’s lying on her side, semi-asleep. The pills do that. I wipe away frothy drool that’s running down the side of her mouth.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Bobby.’

  ‘Well, don’t get too excited.’

  ‘No, it’s just that I was expecting Ryan Gosling.’

  ‘He decided to go to the bingo instead,’ I say.

  ‘Fool.’

  �
��Something about a better class of woman there.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he doesn’t know what he’s missing here.’

  ‘I’ll say.’

  ‘Anyway, enough about me and Gosling. How was it, son?’

  ‘It was fine.’

  ‘Did you want to strangle yourself?’

  ‘Have you turned into Bel all of a sudden?’

  ‘She steals all my best lines, even from my bed I’m a cultural influence. What can I say?’

  ‘Maybe say … nothing.’

  ‘Well, tell me. Did you go into strangulation mode?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘It was better than I expected though,’ I say.

  ‘Did you have to stand up and tell them all about your sick mother, and how she completes you?’

  ‘Oh, shut up, will you.’

  ‘I mean, look at me, how could I not?’

  When she grins her eyes sparkle: two misty blue diamonds illuminating the room.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I had a lot of fun.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘I think I actually enjoyed it.’

  She reaches up, strokes my face, an energy-sapping manoeuvre.

  ‘I’m so glad, son. You deserve to have fun. You deserve it all.’

  ‘The people were nice, Mum.’

  ‘I’m very proud of you, you know that?’

  ‘You’re getting sentimental in your old age,’ I say.

  ‘It’s the drugs, they make me feel drunk occasionally, so I haven’t a clue what I’m saying half the time.’

  ‘I bet you don’t. Anyway, how was the carer they sent?’

  ‘Oh, he was gorgeous. Looked like Jim Morrison pre-fat days.’

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘What, you don’t believe me?’

  ‘Finding it hard to.’

  ‘Rumbled.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He was a little plump. Smelled like a woman. Soft hands,’ she says.

  ‘He give you any dinner?’

  ‘I wasn’t hungry.’

  ‘Mum, you have to …’

  ‘It’s hard to swallow today.’

  ‘Any dizzy spells?’

  ‘As in, I was tripping?’

  ‘I’m still your child, remember.’

  ‘We all have our burdens.’

  ‘Right, want me to help you up, come down to see Danny and Bel?’

  ‘I’m going to sleep, I think. I’m exhausted, Bobby.’

  ‘Need the toilet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Water?’

  ‘Got some.’

  ‘OK, better go. Ryan is waiting at the bingo for me,’ I say.

  I straighten the covers, spar with the pillows, part hair away from her eyes and kiss her forehead.

  ‘Night, Mum.’

  ‘See you in the morning.’

  I wait until her eyes are closed, watch her nose take in air, follow the rise and fall of her stomach. I make to go.

  ‘Bobby?’ she croaks.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’m glad you liked the meeting, son.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I think you should keep going.’

  ‘Think so too.’

  Teens Get Acquainted

  The next time we meet we’re invited to talk about how we see our future, jobwise. Apparently that’s what you ask when you engage sixteen and seventeen-year-olds in conversation. Talk about lack of imagination.

  ‘I’m inching towards forensic physician,’ Cal says. Not sure what this is exactly, but it has Cal’s prints all over it.

  ‘I’d really like to be a nurse,’ Erin says.

  Lots of earnest head movements.

  And then it’s my turn. A change of tack badly required, I think.

  ‘I’d really like to be a ceramic plate designer,’ I say.

  Confused looks quickly mutate into tacit understandings. Harriet clocks on first: she declares her want to be a horse whisperer.

  Check me out, Mr Trend Setter.

  ‘And I want to be a fortune cookie writer,’ says Clare.

  ‘I want to be a model,’ Tom says, although I’m not sure he’s at the piss-take.

  It’s mad but Roddy actually believes it all.

  I can tell that Lou is getting agitated with Roddy’s fake curiosity in our futures. He sits stewing like a wasp on a windowpane: puffing passive-aggressively. That’s the thing with being a young carer: we’re stressed, anxious, tired, seeking compassion and YOUNG. For example, I get away with being a sulky pain in the balls because it’s problematic for people to challenge my behaviour. I get away with being, well, a teenager.

  After someone mentions chocolate consultant in a sentence, Lou mutters, ‘Come on, Rod, give us a break here.’ Roddy pretends he hasn’t heard … sure he hasn’t! I catch Lou’s eye. He gives me a little nod, kind of makes me blush; in fact, my face is flaming up.

  I feel remorseful for trivialising the exercise, so I stick my hand in the air. I tell the group I don’t actually know what I want to do, but they’re having none of it. They want me to keep the joke going, to provide them with laugh material; they need a bone.

  ‘But if I must – I mean, if someone had a gun pointed at my temple and I had to choose something – then I hope one day to find a cure for what my mum has,’ I say.

  Welcome to Bobby Seed’s Balloon Deflating Class! I think Erin’s going to break down. Cal and Tom stare at their laces. Clare tugs at her nails. Lou thumbs his appreciation. Thanks to me, resident fun-sucker, most of us now feel ashamed for undermining the exercise. And this fun-sucker just mic-dropped everyone back down to earth with a clattering boom. I want to shout: My fault entirely – hands up – one hundred thousand sorrys. However, my attempt at taking it seriously is also a grand lie because there will be no cure for Mum’s illness. Why waste a life searching for something that doesn’t exist, eh?

  Not wanting to alienate myself further, I decide on a different approach.

  ‘But if I couldn’t do that, I’d like to be some kind of writer,’ I say. ‘Poet or something.’ I sense the scud of humiliation sweep over me. Why did I mention the P-word?

  And we’re back in the game!

  ‘You write?’ Lou asks.

  ‘Badly,’ I say.

  ‘You write poems?’ Clare asks.

  ‘Really badly,’ I say.

  And Lou? Why hasn’t he told anyone what he wants to do?

  ‘And what about you, Lou?’ Roddy finally asks him.

  I’m genuinely interested in what Lou has to offer, especially since he’s so disparaging towards the exercise. I prick up my ears. Lou leans back. His chest swells in his denim jacket, fully buttoned. I try not to stare, hard not to.

  ‘It’s a futile question, dude,’ he says.

  ‘How so?’ Roddy says.

  ‘Well, for one, I don’t wanna confine myself, do I? I mean, who wants to be doin’ the same thing for eternity? Not me, that’s who.’

  The group is pin-drop quiet.

  ‘A lifetime of work is self-imposed imprisonment,’ Lou says. ‘What it is, is psychological torture.’

  I want to offer my backing because in many ways I like his way of thinking; he has a point, even though he’s being a bit of a killjoy about it. Rich coming from me.

  ‘You really believe that’s the case, Lou?’ Roddy says.

  ‘Look, man,’ Lou says, scanning the rest of us in the room, ‘for people in our situation, thinking about the future ain’t quite as appealing as it is for other folk.’

  ‘You think?’ Roddy says.

  ‘We equate the future with fear. It’s not something for us to get too excited about, Rod …’

  ‘It’s Roddy.’

  ‘Yeah. Our future symbolises the inevitable, and that inevitability, well, that means grief, pain, heartache or whatever.’

  ‘That’s a bleak outlook, Lou,’ Roddy adds. ‘If you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘Blea
k is right. You said it, dude. You said it.’

  There’s no laughter behind hands, no sly looks or sniggers. I find myself agreeing with Roddy. I want many things in life but a bleak future isn’t one of them. Don’t get me wrong; if that’s your bag, go for it. Reach for them bleak old stars up there, just don’t drag me along for the ride. Count me out. Me? I’m hoping for a brighter beat. My outlook needs to be filled with bright colours. It has to be. Bright colours only.

  *

  When Roddy wraps it up for the night, everyone scarpers as if the last class in school had finished. Hoards bolting for the freedom gates. I guess we all need to relieve whoever’s doing the caring duties. But Bel doesn’t need me to rush home. Sure, her and Danny are probably creating their own graphic novel or shooting the shit out of legitimate targets on one of Danny’s Xbox games. Basically, I can stroll. Look in a bookshop window. People watch. Not think about Mum.

  I go for a piss and leave the building. Inhale air into my lungs. Function halls smell of varnish and disinfectant, so it’s good to breathe again.

  As my chest expands I hear a vroom sound from the back of the building, assume it’s Roddy vrooming off to drink his nightly glass of wine on a tattered settee, ready to unwind after his daily toil of helping the hopeless. Good job well done and all that.

  The bike, a cool-looking scooter, shoots past before I have a chance to wave a goodbye; it then circles and comes to a halt in front of me. Up pops the visor and out gleams these eyes.

  ‘Hey, Bobby,’ Lou says.

  ‘Lou!’ I say, hoping to sound confident.

  ‘I gotta spare helmet if you wanna ride somewhere?’

  My heart trots. I am flustered by Lou’s offer, unsure if he’s being friendly or simply posturing. It’s hard to tell.

  ‘Erm … well … erm … like …’

  ‘Come on. Jump on. Beats ridin’ the bus, right?’

  ‘Do you have a licence for that?’ I say, wishing the words hadn’t left my mouth.

  ‘What do you mean, do I have a licence? I’m seventeen, for Chrissake,’ Lou says, as if he’s just landed here from an American teen flick. Ever since I heard his voice I’ve kind of envied it: his accent propels him from the humdrum.

  ‘Oh, you’re seventeen. I thought …’

  ‘Dude, you wanna ride or not?’

  ‘Erm, I suppose so.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, rushing down a few steps towards the bike. ‘That’d be great.’