The Weight of a Thousand Feathers

by Brian Conaghan

  ‘Eh?’ he shouts back. ‘Louder!’

  ‘THANKS FOR THIS.’

  ‘NOT A PROBLEM, HAPPY TO HELP.’

  As he speeds up my grip intensifies.

  ‘CHEERS,’ I shout.

  ‘RIDIN’ A BUS IS SUCH A PAIN IN THE ASS. THIS IS MUCH QUICKER.’

  ‘IT’S GREAT,’ I bellow. ‘It’s so great.’

  Lou’s body shelters my face from the wind. I smell him. Same deodorant as the one I use, convinced of it. He seems quiet today, which makes for some pretty awkward silences.

  ‘HOW’S YOUR MUM, LOU?’ I shout.

  ‘EH?’

  ‘YOUR MUM, HOW’S SHE DOING?’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘YOUR MUM, IS SHE –’

  ‘WHAT? CAN’T HEAR, DUDE.’

  ‘NOTHING. IT’S OK.’

  At traffic lights, Lou leans into me.

  ‘You say something?’

  ‘Just asking how your mum was doing. Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Mom’s Mom, nothing changes. You know that, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You comfortable?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m totally cool.’

  Totally cool. Really, Bobby? Really?

  ‘HOLD ON TO ME, I’M GONNA PUSH IT OUT A BIT.’

  I stiffen my grip; my hands creep around to his stomach. He twists the throttle towards him. We bullet along the road. Neon lights shoot past. The Vespa sounds as if it could leave the ground at any minute, ET style. I’m wedged between exhilaration and shitting it.

  ‘THIS ROCKS, RIGHT?’ Lou shouts.

  ‘TOTALLY ROCKS,’ I screech.

  First and last time I’ll use that phrase … for obvious reasons.

  Harriet flicks us the finger when we ride past her near the entrance. Erin waves, as does Clare. Cal gives us some sort of military salute. We pull up. I get off. Lou kicks the Vespa on to its stand.

  ‘God, I need to get myself one of those things, Lou,’ I say.

  ‘Pretty damn good, eh?’

  ‘Thanks again.’

  ‘Pleasure.’

  But the pleasure’s mine: it bursts out of my pores. I think it’s the first time that someone has picked me up from my front door. Gone out their way to do that. And you only do that for people who are nice, right? For people who’ve made an impression on you, right?

  ‘No, I really appreciate it.’

  ‘I’ll take you home afterwards.’

  ‘You don’t have to, I can get –’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  ‘Don’t you have to get back as soon as though?’

  ‘As you know, this thing flies when it needs to. I get home in plenty of time.’

  Right-handed, Lou ruffles his hair; left-handed, he sorts it. I fix my own locks into life. His hair is cascading and com-pliant, while mine sits like a weary Brillo pad after scouring burned pots. He slaps his gloves inside the helmet and we make our way to the entrance door.

  ‘I wonder what we’ll be doing tonight?’ I say.

  ‘Probably sharin’ tips on how to feed through a straw.’

  Wow!

  I can’t make a joke like that, can’t belittle my mum with that type of off-the-cuff remark. No bother to Lou though; I’m beginning to think he enjoys the outsider role, having that freedom to speak his mind. Maybe it’s the Yankee blood in his veins.

  ‘Check you two out,’ Harriet says as we walk through the door. ‘You look like Dumb and Dumber on that thing.’

  I puff a laugh.

  ‘Go fuck yourself, Harriet,’ Lou says.

  I shrug her a meek apology. She smirks, shakes her head.

  ‘Charming as always, Lou,’ she says, walking away from us.

  ‘Know what, Bobby?’ Lou says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I like Harriet, there’s no shit about her.’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ I say.

  ‘And …’ He shoulder-nudges me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think she may have the hots for you.’

  ‘Don’t talk crap,’ I belt at him, as if insulted. He’s definitely stirring shit.

  ‘I know these things, Bobby, trust me. She does.’

  If his love radar was so sharp, he’d have known this conversation is wasted on me.

  ‘Rubbish,’ I say.

  I don’t want girls having the hots for me. I don’t ever want to have that it’s-not-you-it’s-me conversation, which in this case is true. Lou doesn’t need to know any of that though. And I don’t need the volley of his inklings.

  My problem.

  My problem entirely.

  Sleep

  My brain’s screaming: Please sleep, I beg you! Sometimes I flick on my computer, plug in my earphones so as not to wake Danny. Danny being woken without reason is another headache altogether. I’ve an ear plugged in and the other exposed in case Mum needs me. It’s never anything forbidden I look at online. I fire Lou’s name into Google, and Harriet’s. Try Facebook, Instagram. Find nothing to excite me.

  Occasionally I play dead, listening to the darkness: a peace that only occurs in the calm of night. The thoughts that swirl through the mind at that time tickle and torture in equal measure. It’s exhausting.

  It’s Mum who keeps me awake, I know it is. She glides between the walls and floats beneath the floorboards. Her spirit is ever present. I hear every grunt and groan, every whimper. Suddenly I’m up, eyes wide, ears pricked, ready to spring into action.

  The snoring is the worst, not because she sounds like an overweight builder after a skinful of booze. See, the actual snoring I can deal with: bizarrely, that’s the comforting part. It’s when it stops abruptly that I am riddled with panic. I can easily nod off to the rhythm of Mum’s snoring: my bedtime story, my hot milk. So I’m constantly checking on her, making sure she’s comfortable, that she’s not going anywhere.

  Too often I find myself watching Mum sleep, following the laborious piston action of her stomach. And I pray. Well, not as such, but I do think if there’s a God up there, why does he allocate certain people this existence? The chosen few. Where does he bugger off to when disease raps? How does he decide who lives to a ripe old age and who doesn’t? Why does he let people die slowly, devastated by pain? Why does this God rob my family’s potential? This damn God is no friend of mine. And, as far as being my saviour, don’t make me vomit! Maybe that’s why you never hear his name uttered at any of the Poztive meetings. I guess we all feel abandoned by him. Might not even be a him.

  I stand over her bed pretending she’s normal, that our little family is normal. I blank out the fact that her speech is regressing; becoming progressively more slurred by the day, with words that sound like gargled water. I visualise her walking without my help, or without those bloody sticks. And when we’re harping on about the future, I know it’s all bullshit, all pretence. Lou’s discussion with Roddy plays in my head: his pessimism and dour outlook rebooted my brain. You see, Mum’s getting gradually worse while we all jam our heads in the sand and stay mute. Mine jammed the deepest. I do all the intimate stuff; I stroke her bones, I know how her muscles work and I see the intense sadness and humiliation in her eyes because her seventeen-year-old child has to wipe her arse and wash her most private areas. And all I want to do is tell her that she should feel no shame, but for some reason I choose not to. I do the tasks impassively, as if she were a mannequin, a non-human. And that fucking shame is all mine.

  The urge to slide into bed beside her and snuggle up tight is always a powerful one. To role reverse all the cuddling and cradling she gave us when we were toddlers. When I’m standing at Mum’s bedside in the quiet of night, the desire to pull her into my arms is so overwhelming that it envelops my entire body, like being grief-wrapped in cling film. And I don’t know how to navigate: I’m rudderless, directionless.

  Now I think of my mother in that room, lying contorted, eyes planted on specific ceiling points. I can’t imagine where her mind travels to. I hope it’s to somewhere magical.
r />   Dining Out

  Danny decided the venue for our family celebration – not my birthday – because he needs to be familiar with places. If we’d gone to some starched-tablecloth job Danny’s brain would have careered out of control. Mum wouldn’t have wanted to be exposed to that either.

  ‘I don’t want to put people off their dessert, Bobby,’ she says before we go.

  ‘What you on about?’

  ‘Would you like to be next to someone like me?’

  ‘I only care about the people at my table, Mum.’

  ‘People stare.’

  ‘Let them stare.’

  ‘People comment.’

  ‘So let them comment.’

  ‘I don’t want to be that person, Bobby.’

  ‘What person?’

  ‘The person who affects others’ ability to enjoy themselves, who stops laughter, who silences the world around them.’

  ‘Let them be silent. Prejudice deserves to be silenced,’ I say, allowing my voice to demonstrate a level of anger that makes Mum raise a brow.

  She pauses, subtly nods her head. I can tell she’s supressing a smile.

  ‘Is this the part where I should say how proud I am of you?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Think it is. However, you’ve yet to make me a small fortune, so I’ll put that phrase on the long finger until I see some hard cash.’

  And so we’re all off on the bus to Danny’s preferred eatery.

  ‘I want a Happy Meal,’ he says when we get there.

  ‘They’re for kids, Dan,’ Mum says.

  ‘I want the toy.’

  Mum gives me a knowing look. She hasn’t the gut for the tussle.

  ‘Just get him one if that’s what he wants.’

  ‘And you, madam,’ I say. ‘What can I get for you?’

  ‘Can I see the menu, please?’

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve run out, madam.’

  ‘It’s written on the wall, Mum,’ Danny says. ‘All the burgers and stuff are up on wall.’

  ‘Thanks, Dan,’ Mum says. ‘I’ll have … I’ll have … a Filet-O-Fish.’

  ‘Excellent choice, and would madam like chips with that?’

  ‘They’re called fries in here, Bobby.’

  ‘Fries would be great.’

  ‘Drink for madam?’

  ‘Any McWine?’

  ‘I’m afraid we only have McWater, McTea, McCoffee and an array of McSugar drinks.’

  ‘It’s just Coke, Sprite and Fanta. They don’t say the “Mc” bit before the drinks,’ Danny says. ‘It’s like you’ve never been here in your life before.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Be back in a minute.’

  ‘Get ketchup, Bobby. Loads of it. Tons of it.’

  Danny’s delighted with the little magnifying glass and activity map his Happy Meal provides. He holds up a chicken nugget in front of the glass. Then looks at magnified ketchup, magnified napkins, magnified fingernails and just about anything else that’s on our table. Mum nibbles away without committing herself to actual biting, chewing and swallowing. She shuffles uncomfortably in her seat, trying to hide facial contortions. I know the signs: pins and needles, numbness, sore muscles, gravel throat. I’ve seen it all before.

  In a flash, everything changes.

  ‘Mum, can I get a McFlurry after this?’ Danny asks.

  Mum’s sitting with us, but she isn’t with us. She isn’t here.

  ‘Sure you can, buddy,’ I say.

  ‘This place is ace. Do you think so, Bobby?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s great.’

  ‘You think so, Mum?’ Danny asks.

  But she is somewhere else, somewhere darker. I keep her snugly in my vision.

  ‘She loves it, Dan,’ I say.

  ‘We should come here with Bel. She’d love it too,’ he says.

  ‘No doubt.’

  Mum pecks at the bun, like a crow in the snow. Suddenly I don’t want my double cheeseburger; every morsel feels like a brick is being dropped into my stomach.

  ‘Finished!’ Danny says through a mouthful of chips. ‘Can I get my dessert now, Mum?’

  She looks at him, lips dry, says nothing.

  ‘Why don’t you go and ask for it, Dan?’ I say.

  ‘What, wait in the queue?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘On my own?’

  ‘We’ll be here watching. You’ll be fine.’

  ‘Can I, Mum?’

  Mum gives Danny an affirmative grin. I reach into my pocket, pull out what I have and hand Danny some money.

  ‘It’s fine, go. We’ll be here,’ I say.

  ‘Cool.’ Danny slides out of the seat, full of life.

  I reach across the table and hold Mum’s hand. Cold. Her eyes don’t deviate from her tray.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘My legs, Bobby.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I couldn’t control it.’

  ‘Control what?’

  ‘I couldn’t feel anything.’

  ‘Mum, you’re scaring me. What is it?’

  ‘I’d no idea it was happening, son. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Know what was happening?’

  ‘Everything below.’

  ‘Mum, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Look under the table.’

  Not exactly a puddle, just a few drops on the floor, but her jeans are sopping. Her thighs sodden. I disgrace myself because I allow anger and annoyance to momentarily brush over me. While under that table I close my eyes, grit my teeth and hope that it will all disappear, just for a few hours at least. Why us? Why our family? Why not any of those sitting around us? Those who stare? Why do they get to enjoy normal things? Why the fuck does it have to be my mum? Our mum?

  I return my head and look at my mother through glazed eyes.

  ‘I couldn’t feel it happening, Bobby. I’d no control.’

  ‘It’s OK, Mum. It’s fine.’

  ‘I’m so humiliated.’

  ‘Mum,’ I say, squeezing her hand and furtively looking to see if anyone has noticed the scene. I hate myself for doing this. ‘We’ll get you cleaned up in the toilet.’

  ‘In fucking McDonald’s? I’m done with this, all of it.’

  ‘Please don’t cry, Mum, please. You’ll set me off.’

  All I want to do is hold her tight.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bobby.’

  ‘You’ve done nothing to be sorry for.’

  ‘I can’t get up. I can’t move.’

  ‘I’ll help you, don’t worry. I’ll always help you. So will Dan. We’re your sons. We’ll do anything for you. Please don’t worry.’

  ‘I’m so scared.’

  And Mum’s tears become heavier. The sound alerts sneaky scans. I badly want to launch a McSomething in their direction. Her tears jolt me too; I’m not used to seeing this level of emotional frailty in her. She needs us to be strong, to be her granite.

  ‘Hey, come on. I’m here for you, Mum.’

  Danny bounds back to the table, dessert held aloft, smiling wildly. However, one glimpse at our faces and the McFlurry slumps, his beaming face dims.

  ‘What happened?’ he says. ‘Mum? Bobby? What happened?’

  ‘It’s nothing, Dan. Mum just spilled some water on herself.’

  Danny holds out his dessert as an offering.

  ‘You can have my McFlurry, Mum. If you want.’

  ‘Thanks, sweetheart, but you have it.’ She can hardly get the words out.

  ‘Don’t cry, Mum,’ Danny says.

  ‘She’s just sad about all that water, mate,’ I say.

  ‘I hate it when I spill water or juice or milk. It makes me want to pee myself,’ he says.

  Mum and I snort out a throaty laugh, both glad this one-man battering ram of diffusion is here. God, we’re so glad he’s here.

  ‘We should do the drive-thru next time,’ Danny says.

  ‘We don’t have a car,’ I say.

  And that’s that.

  Another day i
n our lives: anger » frustration » peace » laughter.

  Balance restored.

  Stars at Night

  That night I toss and turn, shove the covers down to my waist, pull them up again. Roll left side, right side, on to my stomach. Finally settle, arms behind head, staring at my ceiling. I know every crack and stain on it by now. Still has the remnants of glow-in-the-dark stars from when I was a kid. Their glow power was always a bit shit.

  The sound of the vrooming Vespa reverberates around my head, engine kick-starting my thoughts.

  It’s noisy, Lou, I say to him.

  That’s its tune, he says. It’s a beautiful symphony.

  And I imagine us riding through the streets, me perched on the back, giddy and unnerved; him at the helm, commanding and calming. I picture hugging him like he’s an oak tree as he throttles us away. Far away.

  I get to run my hands through his hair when he removes his helmet. Flick a wayward strand from his eyes, tuck a clump behind his ear. He doesn’t protest. He relents.

  Thanks, Bobby, he says.

  I’m good with hair. I do Mum’s all the time, I say.

  Did he wink?

  I should have Mum on my mind; I should be considering her needs, worrying about what seems more inevitable than ever, but I can’t. I can’t stop seeing the both of us on that Vespa. Vintage.

  I roll over, again. Those old glow-in-the-dark stars blink drowsy sparkles down at me. And there he is again. Brash, uncouth. Sitting on this slightly menacing Vespa, but I’m drawn to it, to him.

  Hop on, he says.

  Sure?

  More than anything.

  Eyes open or closed, I see us whizzing past. The poetry is tangible.

  #3 … complete

  vibrations

  drum my hamstrings

  inside

  butterflies sting

  going nowhere

  on full throttle

  going nowhere

  somewhere

  never to return

  here

  Music

  And I think it could be a beautiful symphony. I really do.

  Mum’s Present

  I follow the yellow flow of my piss as it splashes against the tin urinal and think about Mum’s busted bladder. She has zero control; betrayal can just happen any time. Since last week’s McDonald’s trip, the times I take her to the toilet have practically doubled; fear does that.