The Weight of a Thousand Feathers

by Brian Conaghan

  ‘Karmic …’

  ‘If nothin’ else it will soften the inhalin’ process for you.’

  ‘Oh, right!’ I say, as if I’m some old-timer, totally entrenched in the joint-smoking fraternity. ‘Blowback! Yeah, a blowback could work,’ I say.

  ‘OK.’ He raises his chin. ‘Ready?’

  NO!

  ‘Yes. Ready.’

  Lou draws the joint to his lips, sucks like a plughole draining water. This boy has impressive lung capacity. He advances, looks me directly in the eye, lifts his free hand to my face and cups it around my jaw, which opens fully. His mouth comes closer to mine. I squeeze my toes. Tighten my hands. Tense my thighs. Our mouths meet. Well, when I say meet, what I mean is that there can’t be more than three millimetres between us. I feel the heat of his lips. I close my eyes and wait for the surge of smoke to flow from Lou’s mouth to mine. It arrives. Boy, does it arrive.

  ‘Inhale it all in, dude,’ he whispers.

  I do as instructed.

  ‘Come on, don’t let it go to waste, Bobby.’

  My eyes are still closed but the heat emanating from Lou’s lips is making them flicker.

  ‘Want another?’ he asks.

  ‘Go on then,’ I say, seemingly unable to open my eyes.

  And the process begins again.

  When I brave sight once more, Lou’s slumped on his couch. The sheer embodiment of wasted youth. At first I feel nothing except a readjustment to the light.

  ‘That is one fuckin’ profound hit, dude,’ Lou says.

  Then it happens, the dam bursts directly from my toes and rises all the way up to my head. Like a tornado swirling towards me, affecting all balance and ability to focus.

  ‘Shit, Lou,’ I mutter. ‘I need to sit down for a minute.’

  ‘Park it, dude. Park it.’

  I practically slouch myself right on top of him. He doesn’t care. What a state I’ve become: two blowbacks and I’m gubbed. A deflated balloon. A melted candle. Perhaps all this getting mangled lark isn’t my bag after all. Having said that, being stoned for the first time is a rapids ride: a confusing blend of exhilaration and distress. I honestly don’t know whether I should be in fits of giggles or in deep conversation about existentialism, or just zonked out my noodle, staring at the wall.

  Lou has decided on the latter course of action. I skim his living room: typical sort of thing. Couch, two armchairs, coffee table, a few standing plants, a shelf with some books on it and a flat-screen television blinking away in the corner. Very unlike my place, where you’d think squatters had set up home.

  Seems like weeks we’ve been sitting here. Can’t recall any conversation we’ve had. I think we communicate in a series of grunts until it’s time for me to jump ship, which is an ordeal in itself. I slide down Lou’s couch. That, I remember.

  On the bobbling bus ride home – every bit as traumatic as I’d first thought – something rankles. Not a big issue but, still, I can’t get it out of my mind. I don’t know … Maybe it’s the remnants of the hash? So, take my house, for instance: inside there are mountains of clothes piled everywhere and prescriptions of varying kinds line up in the kitchen alongside manky plates and glasses. I do get around to cleaning the mess as often as I can. Basically, what I’m saying is that there’s evidence that a sick person is living in my house. But take Lou’s place: it’s remarkably different, which is no big deal in the grand scheme of things, right? Perhaps it would only take someone in my position to notice the unnatural state of order: the pristine living room, the gleaming kitchen, no empty packs of prescription drugs on view. There’s nothing to suggest Lou’s home is where illness and disability reside. I find it hard to imagine that he’s holding the place together, that he’s responsible for the impeccable state of the place, especially given that I left him a sagging mess on the couch.

  Either Lou is a clean freak or someone must come in: it’s the only explanation.

  Stubborn Stones

  I am dead late.

  When I get back, my resident home help, Bel, is waiting, arms folded and face scorched. I’m half expecting her toe to be tapping. I know it’s all for theatre. Bel would much rather be here than at her own place, being provocateur as opposed to the provoked. I’m predicting her to say that she’s crashing here. Her dad doesn’t give a shit.

  ‘All right?’ I say.

  ‘You’re cutting it fine,’ she says.

  I try to stop myself from laughing, I really do. I grit my molars, tense my face, clench my bum together. No use: I explode right in front of her.

  ‘OMG, I can’t believe this,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re stoned out your box, Bobby Seed.’

  ‘Please don’t say OMG. You know I hate that, Bel.’

  ‘I thought you were only going to pick the stuff up?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Looks like you swallowed it.’

  My body hurls me into ruptured fits of laughter.

  ‘You better sit down,’ Bel says.

  I try to plant myself on the couch, but collapse on to it instead. It isn’t the smoke, it’s the hilarity … of nothing.

  ‘Jesus, Bobby. Get a pure grip.’

  I sit up, semi-composed.

  ‘I’m fine. I’m fine.’

  ‘You look wired to the stars. How much did you smoke?’

  ‘Just a few puffs.’

  ‘A few puffs? God, you’re such a lightweight.’

  My laughter turns into a light trickle of chuckles. Thing is, I’m not that affected by the joint; it’s all but worn off, I think. I guess I’m happy(ish) about having been a free-spirited teenager for a few hours. Being Bobby, without thinking about who’s eaten what or how to juggle cleaning duties with schoolwork. Sitting on a bus, going to a mate’s house, smoking a joint and talking shit seems utterly invigorating. Normal.

  ‘How’s Mum been?’ I ask.

  ‘Fine, gave her some soup in bed, put the telly on for her, all good.’

  ‘Did she seem better?’

  ‘Just the same.’

  ‘How’s her new hairdo?’

  ‘She’s loving it.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘She looks amazing with it, better than Sinéad O’Connor.’

  ‘And Danny?’

  ‘Xbox champion’s in his room.’

  ‘He do his homework?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘He can be a little bastard at times.’

  ‘It’s tough for him, Bobby.’

  ‘Tough for us all, Bel.’

  ‘I know it is,’ she says.

  ‘I mean …’ I say, but the words won’t come out. It’s as if I’ve swallowed a stone. A stubborn bastard of a stone that won’t budge, just sitting blocking up my throat. And I strive to gulp that stone down.

  ‘Hey, Bobby.’ Bel comes and sits beside me. ‘Why are you crying?’

  I shake my head.

  She pulls me tight towards her. Bel is strong. I can feel the top of her boob near my head, but I don’t mind. I’m happy to rest and be taken care of. And, honestly, I’m not stoned. I’m not. I’m sad.

  ‘Don’t, Bobby. Don’t,’ she says, stroking my hair. ‘Everything’s going to be OK.’

  ‘It’s not, Bel. It’s not.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘You can’t say that, Bobby. You can’t. You’ve got to be strong for Danny, for your mum.’

  ‘And who’s strong for me?’

  ‘I’m here for you, Bobby. I’ll always be here for you. Do you think I’ll ever let you go?’ I don’t look up. But I know Bel’s body is wobbling like mine.

  ‘Thanks, Bel. I love you too.’

  Obviously, I don’t mean that kind of love. Bel knows that, right? She knows it, doesn’t she?

  ‘I know you do, Bobby.’

  ‘I just want to be normal, be like everyone else. Be boring.’

  ‘You’ll never be like anyone else, Bob
by Seed. I mean, just look at who your mum is.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I sniff.

  ‘She’s going to be OK. She is, you’ll see.’

  ‘You’ve seen her, Bel. You’ve seen how bad she’s getting.’

  ‘That’s just relapse, isn’t it? That’s what you’ve told me.’

  ‘It’s worse, more sinister.’

  ‘What?’ Bel releases me. We face each other. ‘Sinister how?’

  I puff out my cheeks, look up to the gods. What for, I do not know.

  ‘She’s now got something called secondary progressive MS.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘She’s fucked, is basically what it means.’

  ‘Don’t, Bobby. Tell me what it means?’

  ‘Worse case?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’ll probably lose her sight, she’ll have lesions on her brain –’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Like tumours.’

  ‘Fuck!’

  Bel falls forward and puts her hands on her head. She turns to me.

  ‘Aw, Bobby, I’m …’

  ‘I know, Bel. I know.’

  ‘Does Dan know?’

  ‘No, and he’s not going to at this stage, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ she says.

  Just Passing

  I wake with a hash hangover: feels like someone’s playing basketball with my head. Utter skull-pummelling stuff. Maybe it’s post-crying brain. I peek in on Mum. All I see are her tiny hair prickles poking out of the covers. The compulsion to rub them is great. I exit.

  Danny’s lying with two hands above his head as if he’s been shot.

  Bang!

  I hear the sound from outside.

  When I go downstairs Bel’s already bolted, spare covers neatly folded on the arm of the couch. She could’ve at least made us breakfast. I rummage the medicine cupboard for paracetamol. Yes, we have an entire cupboard.

  Bang!

  Stutter!

  Spit!

  I look out the window.

  Shit.

  Spit!

  Here?

  Now?

  At this time?

  Lou’s vintage Vespa sounds as though it needs a paracetamol too. He removes his helmet as he saunters up our path. My action is frantic. I’m flushed. I run to open the door before he reaches it.

  ‘Lou, what are you …’

  ‘Hey, Bobby. I was out meetin’ some dude about some shit and thought I’d check to see if you got home OK.’

  ‘Yeah, I mean, yeah. I got home fine … but …’

  ‘I was pretty out of it last night myself, so I was a bit worried, you know?’

  ‘Strong apples, eh?’ I say.

  He laughs.

  I ooze cool. Or maybe not.

  ‘You want to come in?’ I ask.

  ‘No, I better boost. Get back home, duties and shit like that, you know?’

  ‘Only too well.’

  ‘Just wanna to make sure you were OK,’ he says. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘I’m fine, honestly.’

  In the conversation gap Lou tilts his head up at the house, to Mum’s bedroom window.

  ‘Your mom, she doin’ well?’

  ‘You really interested?’

  ‘Sure, why not?’ he says, without taking his eyes away from the window. His head falls. ‘She’s the reason you do what you do, why you’re stuck in here most nights. So, yeah, I’m interested.’ There’s lightness in his tone, which I’ve rarely heard before. ‘She doin’ OK, Bobby?’

  ‘Good days. Bad days.’

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘Doesn’t get easier,’ I say.

  Lou reaches out, rests a hand on my shoulder. Is it my eyes? Are they still emotional red? I’m pretty sure I haven’t given anything away.

  ‘If you ever need any help, Bobby, just holler.’

  ‘Thanks, Lou, will do.’

  Him help me? Doesn’t he have enough worries of his own? Ferrying me to and from Poztive meetings is ample help. Maybe that’s the type of thing he means. Or keeping me stocked up in … apples.

  ‘It’s cold, Lou. Sure you don’t want –’

  ‘I’m good, I’m good. Need to split,’ he says.

  ‘Well, thanks for popping round.’

  When he’s midway down the path he turns.

  ‘I mean it, dude. Anything you need.’

  ‘Cheers, Lou.’

  I’m pretty sure he winks.

  I close the door and breathe again.

  #6 … complete

  dude, do you feel my voice?

  do you hear me holler?

  will you help me, dear dude,

  rise up and flutter?

  The Great Outdoors

  ‘Why can’t they have Xbox camps or something funner?’ Danny says.

  ‘An outdoor pursuits camp will be fun,’ I say.

  ‘I’m not Bear Grylls, Bobby,’ he whines. ‘And I don’t want to pursue anyone either.’

  It’s hard not to agree.

  ‘You’ll love it,’ I say.

  ‘Bet I won’t.’

  ‘Bet you will.’

  ‘Bet you a punch in the face I don’t.’

  ‘Just put the rest of the stuff in the bag. The bus’ll be here soon.’

  Danny fires the clothes I’ve neatly folded into the holdall. Tuts after every item chucked in.

  ‘Remember to call me when you get there, OK?’ I say.

  ‘Unless I get murdered in a field.’

  ‘By who? A cow?’

  ‘Cows kill people, Bobby, don’t you know that?’

  ‘Erm …’

  ‘Cows are evil.’

  ‘Thanks, Dan. I’ll bear that in mind next time I see you guzzling milk.’

  He zips the bag and hurls it on to the floor, sits on the bed; his face forms into a magnificent sulk. Topped off with huffs and sagging shoulders.

  ‘What is it now?’

  ‘I’ll miss Mum’s birthday as well,’ he says.

  ‘We can have a little celebration when you get back,’ I say, joining him on the bed. ‘It’s no big deal – really, it’s not.’

  ‘Says you.’

  ‘Look, when you get to Mum’s age birthdays are a pain in the arse, the saddest day of the year. Trust me, Dan, there’ll be no celebration.’

  ‘What are you going to do this weekend?’

  ‘Schoolwork – I’ve loads.’

  ‘Think I’d rather do schoolwork too.’

  ‘Now, Danny, we both know that’s not true.’

  ‘It’s not not true. Just don’t want to be rolling on the ground. I hate muck.’

  ‘Come on, it’s nearly time.’ I stand up.

  ‘I can’t climb trees, everyone will laugh at me.’

  ‘Phone me every day. Twice a day if you want.’

  ‘God, that would make my days worse.’

  ‘Aw, cheers, mate.’

  Danny launches himself off the bed, rattles me full pelt in the belly. His superhero hug, apparently.

  ‘Going to miss you, Bobby,’ he says.

  ‘It’s only two nights.’

  ‘Still going to miss you.’

  ‘I’ll miss you too.’

  ‘Better.’

  ‘Now go kiss Mum and tell her you’ll see her soon.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Tell her you’ll be fine and not to worry. Tell her you’re becoming a man now.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘And tell her to enjoy her birthday.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  Bed and Breakfast Club

  ‘You lot have Richard Linklater, but in my day we had John Hughes,’ Mum said a few days back. ‘His movies were life-changing.’

  If this birthday night is to be a success then some John Hughes films better be on the menu. Bel downloaded them for me. She also put Grease on the USB in case Mum got a second wind.

  I’m sceptical as to whether Mum’s up for a celebration. The last time she was downstairs was when Bel butchere
d her hair. Her tongue still throws fire though, which is always a good sign. But I think (I know) staring at four walls from the vantage point of her bed is soul sinking.

  When I produce the joints, her eyes fizz, her mouth gapes. Huge grin, haven’t seen it on her for ages; I’d almost forgotten what she looked like with it. Bobby done good, methinks!

  It takes four feather pillows to completely prop her up.

  ‘Where did you get it, Bobby?’ she asks, without taking her eyes off the contents of my hand. I’d already told her where, but she doesn’t need to know that right now.

  ‘Mum, come on, you know I can’t reveal my sources,’ I say.

  ‘Just tell me you didn’t get it from some hardened criminal who now sees you as his bitch.’

  ‘Mum, relax, it’s fine,’ I say.

  I shuffle beside her so we’re in the same position.

  ‘So, how do you want to do this?’ I sound nervous and inexperienced. ‘Will we spark up before the film? Or …’

  Mum sniggers.

  It’s good to hear laughter. I enjoy it.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I ask after a bit.

  ‘You, with all your clichéd stoner language. “Spark up” – hilarious.’

  ‘Well, help me out. It’s not as though I’ve done this before,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe put on The Breakfast Club then light the bloody thing and hold it to my lips.’ Mum takes a deep breath, replacing what she’s lost. ‘How’s that for starters?’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Just prop me up a little further, will you?’

  I place my arms around her waist and heave her up in the bed: heaviest rag doll you could ever imagine. Given that her entire lower half has literally no function, I know I’ll have to go through the same routine about a dozen times throughout The Breakfast Club. It’s her birthday after all. I click on the film, dim the lights.

  I suck hard on the butt to ignite the thing fully, spluttering when the smoke wafts into my lungs. Mum finds this funny. Almost instantly I sense my body and mind sweeping away somewhere. Four drags later and this novice stoner is totally zoobified.

  I can’t take my eyes off the film. Don’t ask me if it’s any good or not. Who knows? Just a series of unrelated images.

  ‘Are you going to pass that thing, Bobby?’ Mum says.

  I hear her but involuntarily tune out.

  ‘Bobby! BOBBY!’