The Weight of a Thousand Feathers

by Brian Conaghan

  ‘I don’t …’

  ‘Come on, Bobby. Just for a few minutes?’ he says. If there’s a facial expression between sincerity and eagerness, Lou has it down to a fine art. I feel as though I’m being backed into a corner.

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Follow me.’

  On the landing outside Mum’s room I hear Danny talking to someone through his headphones. ‘Cameron, release the hostages and meet me in the square … NO, numbsack, hostages three and four. I repeat, hostages three and four. Do it now! Now, before we’re all toast.’

  ‘Sounds like some serious computer shit your bro’s into,’ Lou says.

  ‘Well, you know gamers, they live in a weird parallel universe.’

  ‘They want to put some chill in their asses, that’s what they want to do,’ he says.

  I move towards Mum’s door.

  ‘She’s in here,’ I say. ‘Try to stay quiet.’ I scold myself for suggesting Lou remain quiet. What an idiot.

  ‘As a mouse, dude.’

  The ten-watt bulb gives me enough light to do what I need to do, be it sorting out entertainment or something medical. Depending on my mood, Mum looks either peaceful, bloated or lifeless. Right now she looks gentle and placid. I offer no words of comfort since Lou’s hovering, but I say them in my head: You look amazing when you’re sleeping, Mum. I just want to tell you that. Always beautiful.

  ‘She reminds me exactly of what my mom was like,’ Lou says impassively.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Completely gone.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Lou.’

  ‘Ain’t nothin’ there,’ he adds, which I ignore. I don’t know, I thought he’d be saddened to see her in this state, but he isn’t. Where’s the compassion?

  ‘I need to change her fluid bag,’ I say.

  ‘What’s this shit?’ Lou says, referring to the music I’d looped for her. I created a playlist of songs, thinking the tunes might help the seconds and minutes pass.

  ‘This “shit” is Jesus and Mary Chain, and it’s definitely not shit,’ I say.

  ‘You do know she can’t hear it,’ he says.

  ‘How do you know she can’t hear it?’ I snap.

  ‘You think she can?’ he fires back.

  ‘Have you got experience of being in her position, Lou? How do you know she can’t hear it?’

  ‘All I’m sayin’, dude, is that if you’re gonna play some tunes, maybe you should consider an upbeat selection, that’s all.’

  ‘These are the songs she liked.’

  ‘Point exactly.’

  ‘What point?’

  ‘Liked. Past tense.’

  If my bones were violent I’d swing round and smack two rapid off his eye socket, smash my knee against his balls. Was this Lou’s idea of support? Where was his compassion and kindness? You’d have thought witnessing this scene would have brought everything about his own mum flooding back. I expected tears not bloody taunts.

  ‘Look, I need to get this bag changed. You go back down and make up two drinks,’ I say through gritted teeth.

  ‘Gotcha. I’m on it.’

  ‘Large ones,’ I say, catching him before he leaves the room. ‘You’ll find ice in the freezer.’

  ‘Really? In the freezer?’

  Then he’s off.

  I pick up the scissors from the side table, snip off the top of the new bag of fluid and replace the old. After that’s done I stand looking at her for about half a Jesus and Mary Chain song, don’t ask which one.

  ‘Night, Mum,’ I whisper, giving her three kisses, one on the forehead and one on each cheek. ‘In case you’re wondering, that was Lou. He’s the one from the carers’ group. The one who got us the you-know-what. He’s OK most of the time, when he’s not being a complete dick.’ I rest my cheek on hers for ten seconds or so and mouth ‘Love you’ into her ear. It’s weird but I want to squash myself right into her, for us to morph into one.

  I know it’s probably just some sort of emotional illusion, but while we’re touching skin I’m sure she moves her mouth and utters, ‘Love you too.’ I’m sure of it.

  I’ve one leg out of the door when a voice in my head tells me to return. I find myself thumbing through the playlist until I come to a different selection, a more ‘upbeat’ group of songs. I hate myself for allowing Lou to influence me.

  I’ve never drunk Jack Daniel’s before, but coming from Mum’s room I decide that tonight’s the night I’m going to introduce myself to it, sink it like a champion. Lou’s waiting for me, two tall glasses in hand. Type of peace offering? A whisky-soaked olive branch.

  ‘Here, dude,’ he says, handing me the drink. ‘Sorry for being an asshole up there.’ I keep my silence, choosing instead to hear him out. ‘It just brought everything back to me, that’s all. I didn’t know what to say or how to act, so I did what I do best.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Shoot straight into asshole mode.’

  ‘Guess that’s your default setting then?’

  ‘Seems to be,’ he says sincerely. ‘Thousand apologies.’

  ‘Forget it,’ I say, holding my glass out to his. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Salute.’

  We chink.

  It tastes syrupy, burns my throat, not totally pleasant but not utter rank either. My body’s unsure if it likes it. Whatever.

  I know a repeat of the Borders residential is loitering, so there’s purpose to the amount I guzzle down. I drink with vigour, aiming to defeat my nerves before something happens.

  My phone buzzes against my thigh. I have to look at the message three or four times before it sinks in. That’s what four double Jack Daniel’s will do to someone’s intellectual capacity. Not to be recommended.

  Im such a beeeatch. U dnt deserve me … or other way round. Speak 2mor?

  I can’t help wishing that beeeatch was sitting here with me now.

  A cert I’m going to spew my ring if I swallow any more.

  ‘Hey, you sure you’ve drunk hard liquor before, Bobby?’ Lou says.

  ‘Loads of times,’ I say.

  Truth: only cheap lager and cider have passed these lips before. And I’ve never particularly enjoyed either. The tipsy and giggly stage I don’t mind, but I can’t deal with morning headaches and metallic mouth.

  ‘No need to chug it, dude,’ he says.

  ‘I like it, it’s sweet,’ I lie.

  After sculling more Jack Daniel’s it’s as if I’ve entered another zone. I’m not me any more: I’ve no control over who I am or what I’m doing. Feels weird, as though I’m having one of those out-of-body experiences. Staring at myself slouched on the chair chatting to Lou, my mind revisits the past few weeks: how I’ve increased my booze intake, puffed joints and strived to piss school away. I don’t want to be a waster. I don’t want to be a mangled drunk. I’m so detached from my body with these thoughts, yet all the while I’m still in deep conversation with Lou. Maybe my brain functions that way. You know, I’m able to do things simultaneously.

  ‘Remember what happened, Bobby?’ Lou says.

  My face burns with the blush.

  I slug more booze.

  Definitely heating up.

  ‘Course I remember, Lou. God, how could I –’

  ‘No, not that shit,’ he says. And I could’ve chucked the glass at his head. A nine-stitches forehead job. ‘The stuff we spoke about the last time I came here?’ Lou raises his eyes.

  Does he wink?

  ‘You know what I’m on about, Bobby … the stuff?’

  ‘About your mum?’ I ask.

  ‘No, your mom.’

  ‘Erm … yeah, I remember.’

  Lou sinks his drink, wipes his mouth. Sits forward and locks me in. Signs of the booze apparent: eyes raw, certain words slurred.

  ‘It’s a tough decision for you, Bobby.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Your mom’s fightin’ spirit must be shot.’

  ‘I guess that’s what her type of MS does,’ I say.

 
‘But you’re also lucky.’

  I snort. We drink.

  ‘Yeah, dead lucky, Lou.’

  ‘No, hear me out.’

  ‘All ears,’ I say, tipping my glass to him.

  ‘You get to have the conversation with her, absolve yourself from guilt because it’s not entirely somethin’ of your doin’. You’re just the water carrier. Doin’ someone a favour, deliverin’ them to the well.’

  He is drunk.

  ‘See, Bobby, when I released my mom I’d no time to plan or prepare – it was a now or never choice I had to make. And I guess that’s what saved me.’

  ‘What? Doing it without planning it?’

  ‘Yeah. I wasn’t consumed by all that fear and guilt shit that thinkin’ about it too much does to you.’

  ‘All I do is think – my brain’s laughing at me now.’

  We drain our drinks and pour more … like we need them.

  ‘Know what I think, Bobby?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Now is the right time to do it,’ he says.

  My heart sneezes.

  ‘Now, like now?’ I say.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Now, tonight?’

  ‘If we don’t do it tonight we’ll never do it, Bobby.’

  I’m bladdered drunk.

  Unsure if my nodding head is agreement or involuntary.

  The other me, the guy watching everything unfold, is saying: What’s this ‘we’ crap? I don’t remember a ‘we’ in this house.

  Lou is trying to appear unaffected by the alcohol. He’s all sense and ideas, the self-appointed leader.

  ‘The conditions are perfect, dude,’ he says, as if talking about skydiving or fucking fly fishing.

  One voice tells me Lou’s trying to be helpful and supportive, yet another suggests he sounds scarily excited, lusty at the possibility, as if he’s getting a perverse buzz out of this. He’s done it before, hasn’t he? He knows what it feels like. I’m unnerved.

  ‘This is our time, Bobby.’

  ‘We’ to ‘our’.

  ‘You think so?’ I say.

  ‘Think? No, I don’t think, dude. I know.’

  He finishes the final drops of his drink, rises to his feet. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s go have another look.’

  He’s on the move before I can remonstrate. I stagger to my feet and follow him upstairs. Two three-legged donkeys climbing stairs. No noise from Danny. No doubt he’s gunned and exploded himself to dreamland.

  In Mum’s room Lou stops dead. Tilts his ear to the music.

  ‘These beats are more like it,’ he says. ‘She’ll be happier listenin’ to this.’

  ‘I changed it earlier.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that other shit was musical terrorism, if you ask me.’ He moves towards her bed. ‘She looks finished.’

  He leans down to examine her. My mum. My glorious mother. While I have the ability to breathe she’ll never be finished.

  ‘How old you say she was again?’ he asks.

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘She looks about eighty.’

  ‘You should go back downstairs, Lou,’ I say. ‘I’ll make sure she’s comfortable for the night.’

  ‘Downstairs? Fuck you talkin’ about, dude?’

  ‘Just until I’m sure she’s settled for the night.’

  ‘Dude,’ Lou says forcefully. ‘We should do it now.’

  ‘Lou!’

  ‘It’s time, Bobby. This is what she wants.’

  We’re standing by her head. How I get so close is an absolute blur, total time lapse. Lou’s down low, ear to mouth, checking her breathing.

  ‘She won’t feel a thing, Bobby,’ he says, without removing his eyes from Mum’s face. ‘She won’t be able to prepare herself, so it’s perfect. She’ll have no fear.’

  He reaches behind Mum’s head and gently caresses out one of her pillows.

  ‘Here.’ He thrusts the pillow towards me, into my stomach. ‘Promise you, Bobby, she won’t have a clue. Promise.’

  ‘Lou …’

  ‘What you’re doing is called mercy. Liberation.’

  ‘Lou …’

  ‘You’re a goddam freedom fighter, Bobby.’

  I’m drink-dazed, booze-fuelled. Paralysed. My speech is alien to my ears. I’m not Bobby Seed. I’m an automaton. Is this the ethics Lou spoke about? Through the fuzz in my head I want to ask him if it’s the right thing to do, because from where I’m standing it sure as fuck doesn’t feel like anyone is gaining their freedom. Will it bring freedom, Lou? Will it? Where is all the love and kindness? This feels like cruel coercion.

  ‘Could we change the music first?’ I ask.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She can’t go without one of her favourite songs playing.’

  ‘Go for it, dude.’

  I search for The Jesus and Mary Chain’s Darklands, begin to cry as soon as the sound kicks in. Like, really sob. I know that song backwards.

  ‘I know how you’re feeling, Bobby. I know.’ Lou strokes my face. ‘Go ahead, free her now. Free her now.’

  ‘I don’t …’

  ‘I know it’s hard, Bobby. It’s so hard.’

  ‘Lou, it’s my mum. I can’t. I don’t have the strength.’

  ‘This is the time to be strong, Bobby.’ He kisses my cheek, holding his lips tightly on my wet skin. ‘Your mom needs you to be strong now.’ He breathes into my ear. ‘She needs to feel your strength.’

  ‘I’m so scared.’

  ‘We’re all scared. Everyone is.’

  He thumbs tears away from my face.

  ‘Will you help me, Lou?’

  ‘I’m here for you, Bobby.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I ain’t going anywhere.’

  I grip the pillow tight against my stomach, so tight my body tries to demolish itself; I step towards my mother. Everything smears. I heave. Think about vomiting. I see her face. She is perfect – at peace. I can’t do it. I can’t. I bury my head deep into the pillow, not to muffle my scream, but to catch any vomit if I puke. She wanted to record a goodbye message for Danny. She hasn’t done it yet. Let her do it. Give her those last few words.

  ‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘I can’t. I can’t do it.’

  Lou steps in, takes the pillow from me. I’ve stopped it. It’s all over. He cradles the pillow too. We hold each other’s eyes. I wipe more tears away.

  ‘Don’t worry, Bobby. I can help you. I’m willin’ to do it for you. I’ll help your mom find her freedom.’ He enters my space; I smell his boozy breath. His lips stroke mine, tongue roaming tenderly. It’s the gentlest kiss I’ve ever had. Intoxicating almost. I keep my eyes closed for the longest of times, touch my lips with two fingers afterwards.

  When I open my eyes, Lou’s hunched over Mum, full weight of his body pressing on the pillow. I stand rooted for seconds, trying to process it. I can’t see her face. Only her limp hands. Lou’s body quaking with the force. Her face completely concealed. Mum’s face. I am powerless. Feet nailed to the ground. My eyes nippy, blurry. Focus fuzzy. The other me is watching it all unfold: he can’t see Mum’s face either.

  Over there, the other me says.

  Over there, Bobby.

  WHERE?

  On the table.

  I look at the table. Their shiny little blades glint my way. Their sparkle compels me to pick them up. I just can’t see her face. Know I might not see it again. I panic. Lou’s body stops vibrating. Has he done it?

  Not yet, Bobby. Just wait before you pounce.

  Total terror. Total fear.

  His body relaxes.

  Has he done it yet?

  Ask him.

  ‘Lou, what have you done?’ I say. He doesn’t hear me. Ignores me?

  He examines his deed.

  Picks up the pillow again, squeezes it hard as if it’s betrayed him.

  SHE’S STILL ALIVE.

  I can’t allow him to finish off the job. He’s an expert. But it was me she asked. Is it too late to int
ervene? I’m her carer; I’m the person she wants to do this. I need him to stop. It needs to be me. Do something! Be her carer, Bobby.

  Panic, fear, yes. But it’s rage that scoops me up. Rage hits like a double-barrelled blast. I grip the shiny metal. Knuckles ghost white.

  Now, Bobby. Now!

  Shiny metal scissors in my hand.

  Frenzied. I run. Lunge.

  Charge with bison strength. I drag Lou off her, shove him against the wall and thrust the scissors towards his throat. Indent his skin. I want to rip the muscle. Chop his apple. Hear this piggy squeal. See him fight for breath. I want to hear the floor thud when he drops like a sandbag from the rafters. Scud!

  ‘What the fuck, dude!’

  ‘Get fucking off her!’ I scream.

  ‘Bobby …’ he mutters. His eyes full of fear.

  ‘Don’t you ever fucking touch her again.’ I press harder on the scissors. ‘OK?’

  ‘OK. OK. Easy. Take it easy.’

  ‘Now get the fuck out of my house.’

  ‘Bobby …’

  ‘Get out or I swear I’ll plunge these into your fucking neck,’ I spit at him.

  ‘Dude.’

  ‘Go, and stay the fuck away from me and my family.’

  It’s a moment of drunken clarity. But it’s not me, it’s not Bobby Seed. And suddenly I’m alone with white noise ringing in my ears until I hear the front door crash shut.

  I lie down beside Mum, check her breathing. Shallow, but still there. I take her arms and wrap them around my neck.

  ‘I love you so much, Mum,’ I whisper.

  I know you do, son.

  ‘I miss you more than you know.’

  And me, my darling. I miss you both.

  ‘Goodnight, Mum,’ I breeze into her ear.

  Afterwards I sit in the hall and polish off the remaining Jack Daniel’s.

  A peaceful moment.

  The Last of the Normal Things

  I wake on the warm carpet. Slept in the hallway. Must have. It hits me straight away. My head is thunderous. Fully hungover, half panicked. There’s no space for peace: the events play out as soon as my eyes focus on the ceiling; flashbacks in speedy montage absorb me. My very own ceiling cinema.

  I need water. I roll on to my knees and crawl to the bathroom, grasp on to the toilet bowl as if driving a porcelain bus. A violent torrent of puke exits that almost takes my jawbone with it. Brown and pungent. Snot and old tears plunge inside the bowl too.