The Weight of a Thousand Feathers

by Brian Conaghan

  ‘Bobby,’ Danny says from behind me. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Danny, go back to bed, buddy,’ I manage to mutter.

  ‘It’s getting-up time,’ he says.

  Next thing I know he’s crouching down beside me.

  ‘I’m OK, Dan.’

  But I’m not. My body’s convulsing.

  ‘Bobby, what is it? What is it, Bobby? Why you being sick?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re not fine. Why are you crying?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘I’m scared, Bobby.’

  ‘Don’t be, I’ll be fine in a minute.’

  Danny reaches around my waist and hugs me tight.

  ‘Please don’t be ill, Bobby. I don’t want you to.’

  Then he begins.

  I take his body on top of mine, shaking, wailing.

  ‘Please be OK, Bobby.’

  ‘I’m just feeling a bit sick, Dan. It’s nothing serious, mate. Honestly.’

  ‘Will I make you some cereal? Rice Krispies?’

  ‘Yeah, that sounds good.’

  ‘That’ll definitely make you feel good again.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He’s a weighty lump, but I don’t tell him to get off. I don’t want to get aggressive or frighten him. I need him to go downstairs, away from the carnage that is Mum’s room and any remnants of struggle.

  ‘Cereal works every time I’m feeling shitty,’ he says. ‘Are you feeling shitty about Mum?’

  ‘Always, Dan.’

  His arms compress my bones. God love him, he thinks he’s comforting me, but his human-snake routine only encourages the aching in my bones.

  ‘You can release me now, mate. I’m good. Need to wash.’

  He unleashes me. We both sit against the wall in the toilet.

  ‘Bobby?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Can you tell me something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What did Mum mean when she said, “Tell him, Bobby, tell your brother”? Remember she said that?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You told me something that was a lie …’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When you said everything would be OK soon.’

  ‘It wasn’t a lie, Danny.’

  It was the only thing I could think of telling him when Mum put me on the spot; in my heart it wasn’t a lie, I truly believe that everything will be OK. I need to believe it.

  ‘I knew it was a lie because you didn’t look me in the eye. You just stared at Mum, then the duvet, and you didn’t look at me at all. That’s how I knew it was a lie, but I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to get on Mum’s goat. I wanted to stay mature for everyone. But I want to know, Bobby. I want to know what she meant. I’m mature as anything. I’m not stupid, not any more.’

  ‘I know you’re not stupid. Nobody said you were.’

  ‘And I can prove to you I’m not.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because I think I know what Mum wanted you to tell me.’

  ‘Oh, you do, do you?’

  ‘More than a hundred per cent.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘And I can read. I can read really well, Bobby.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘I’ve read about this stuff on the internet, that’s all.’

  ‘Danny, my head feels like it’s been in a skiing accident. You’re not making much sense.’

  ‘When you have a person close to you, someone you really love who’s ill, it’s all over the internet.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘What you should do with people like that.’

  ‘Danny, I need water quick, so please speak English.’

  ‘The internet says these people make their own decisions when to die.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yeah, they don’t wait until the pain’s poker painful. No, they say when it’s going to happen and sometimes how. It’s called … it’s called …’

  ‘I know what it’s called, mate.’

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’ve misjudged my brother, thinking he’d crumble if I even gave him a sniff of what Mum wanted me to do. I feared I’d lose the two of them with one thrust of a cushion and that Danny would be taken from me. I lied about the severity of Mum’s illness and what she’d asked me to do because I didn’t know if I had the strength to care for the emotional needs of a fourteen-year-old; even though, I suppose, that’s what I do now. I certainly know I don’t have the strength to be without him.

  I rest a hand on his knee.

  ‘Mum wants you to stop all her pains that way, doesn’t she, Bobby?’ I cover my face with my free hand. ‘Doesn’t she?’

  My mind fizzes back into the room. I can’t remember if I pierced Lou’s skin. I wonder if I’ll see him again. What did he do wrong exactly? Oh yeah, he tried to take my mother’s last waking breath, that’s all. NOT HIS JOB. A mother listens to her child’s first breath, sees their eyes open for the first time; naturally we repay that debt by being present for our mothers’ last breath, be with them when their eyes close for the final time. That’s the way it goes. It just does.

  ‘Doesn’t she, Bobby?’ Dan says again.

  ‘She does, yeah.’

  ‘And if you don’t, she’s going to die anyway, but in a more horrible way, isn’t she?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Because she has the right to die, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Dan, where …’

  ‘It says so on the internet. I don’t just use it for playing games.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘I’ve read all about it, Bobby. There’s tons of stuff online.’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that,’ I say.

  ‘But Mum shouldn’t be in a hospital with tubes and strangers – she should be with us. We can’t put her with the strangers.’

  ‘I agree.’

  Danny pulls himself up, glances down the toilet, grimaces and flushes.

  ‘So, when will we do it, Bobby?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘What the internet says. When will we do it?’

  ‘What do you mean, we?’

  ‘She’s my mum as well. I love her too. She loves me loads. Just the same as you. We need to do it before they take her to hospital.’

  ‘Dan …’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Listen, mate, I understand it’s mega important, but can we talk about it later, when I’ve cleaned myself up?’

  Danny’s jaw sags in disappointment, but he can see by my greyness that I’m in no state to continue.

  ‘Roger that,’ he says.

  I stretch out my hand so he can yank me up.

  ‘Thanks, Dan,’ I say, and I really mean it.

  ‘Maybe we can have cereal together. Sit on the couch and watch TV. It’s Saturday. Saturday TV is always good.’

  ‘Good idea. You go on down. I’ll be with you after I’ve had a quick wash.’

  My head is still on fire from the Jack Daniel’s as I watch him bypass Mum’s room and bound downstairs. I need to check in on her, praying she’s zero recollection of being near suffocated to death last night.

  Last night!

  My brain’s a melting candle.

  *

  I can’t contemplate putting anything near my mouth. Danny’s on his second bowl of cereal, slurping and crunching his way through Saturday morning television. The sound amplifies and batters my skull.

  ‘We can’t tell anyone, Dan.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘No, Dan. I need you to understand this. This is more than important.’

  ‘I know, Bobby. We can’t tell anyone.’

  ‘No matter where you are in life or who you’re with or if you think you’re being safe. No one ever knows. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘This is ours and ours alone, Dan. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Our s
afe secret, got it?’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘No, Danny. Look at me. Look at me. Have … you … got … it?’

  ‘Yes … I … do.’

  ‘So, tell me again, who knows?’

  ‘You and me …’

  ‘And that’s it! If anyone ever finds out, they’ll separate us, you understand?’

  ‘Roger ten four.’

  ‘If we tell them Mum asked us to do it, I doubt they’ll believe us.’

  ‘It’s just you and me, Bobby.’

  ‘Exactly. And you’re going to be strong afterwards, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Because this is what Mum wants, always remember that, Dan. We’re doing this for Mum. Our mum.’

  ‘To make her pain go away.’

  ‘And we’re going to be there for each other, right?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Good man, Danny.’

  ‘Good man yourself, Bobby.’

  Failed Poet

  I know it’s a Sunday night but I wouldn’t mind one of Mrs Sneddon’s little chats. It would be nice to feel her fingers tapping on my knee with the words ‘love’, ‘sweetheart’ and ‘darling’ bolstering me. Or Bel, just to chew the shit, chat, talk clothes, tunes, nonsense. Maybe she could’ve helped if I’d confided in her. Another regret to add to the glut. When the dust settles I’ll make it up to her.

  Bel, I’ve something to tell you blah blah blah.

  Bel, I need you blah blah blah.

  Bel, you’re the only one who blah blah blah.

  When this is over it’s going to be time to yank thy head right out of thine arse. Knuckle down, study for my exams. Apply for university courses. Pursue some dreams. Complete that bloody poetry topic in English. How I love that course. I get lost in the words, devour whatever I can, pour my soul into it.

  I’m used to Mum’s rusty breathing; her chest is the sound of an internal brawl. Lips soft again after some balm application, her skin a moonlit lake. Her voice is slow and gruff, worse than ever. Thankfully she has no memory of Lou’s action: the drugs do work. Lou swims around my mind with the rest of the madness living there.

  I’m calm.

  She’s calm.

  ‘We’re going to do it together, Mum. Dan’s going to help. We spoke about it yesterday,’ I tell her.

  ‘I want to do it now,’ Mum mumbles.

  It feels like my blood goes into hyperdrive, surging through my veins. Adrenalin rushes happen so rapidly that the brain fails to process the body’s shock: the flick of a switch, the flash of a lighter, that’s how quick we’re talking. As soon as Mum says, ‘I want to do it now,’ I’m practically convulsing.

  ‘No, wait. Mum, we haven’t …’

  ‘That’s not what I mean, take the stuffing out your bra.’ If sandpaper could talk it would sound like my mother. It’s as though she’s got a sixty-a-day smoking habit. I puff out my cheeks, dodged-a-bullet fashion. ‘Do you have your phone?’ she asks. The space between the words are lengthy and measured, like her vocal cords have been replaced by some old crone’s.

  ‘Yeah, I got my phone.’ I take it out of my pocket.

  ‘I want to record the message for Danny now, that’s what I mean.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Can your phone do that?’ she asks.

  I do that teenage facial scoff thing that empowers us against the middle-aged and over: Can my phone do that? Ha!

  ‘No one likes an arsehole, Bobby.’

  ‘Yeah, my phone can record,’ I say. ‘You want me to hold it up to your mouth? Or will I leave you alone?’

  ‘No, you stay.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I want you to let him hear it when I’m gone, maybe when he needs to remember me or just needs to hear my voice.’

  ‘That’s a lovely idea, Mum.’

  ‘Keep it safe.’

  ‘I’ll drop it into my cloud.’

  ‘Well, I might see it up there myself.’

  I feed her some fluids then hold the phone up to her mouth.

  ‘Ready?’ I say. She nods.

  I press record.

  She begins to speak:

  ‘Danny, this is your mum … No, no, start again.’

  I press stop.

  She nods. I touch record.

  Go!

  ‘Danny, I want you to know that ever since you came out of me … Oh, Jesus, no,’ she says. ‘Did you record that?’

  ‘Every bit. Very inspiring indeed.’

  ‘Right, let’s go again,’ she says, closing her eyes. I put my thumb on the red record button. There’s nothing for the first ten seconds.

  Then:

  ‘Danny, when you’re feeling like the world’s against you and you’re hating everyone in it, I want you to think of me. See me smiling at you, hear me say the words “I love you, Daniel” over and over again. That’s because I do. I love you more than anything on this earth.

  ‘When you feel scared because there’s things you can’t do, listen to that voice in your head. It’ll be me, your mum, telling you how utterly brilliant and gifted you are. And it’s true, you’re such an amazing person, Daniel Seed.

  ‘Some days you’ll be feeling all alone and isolated. When that happens I want you to look over your shoulder – you’ll see your mum standing there. I’ll be waiting with open arms, Danny. You’ll need a hug. And so will I. Many nights the pain will be so bad that you’ll be crying into your pillow. Well, think of me as that pillow, son. Your beautiful tears will fall on to me and I’ll squeeze you as tightly as possible. We can fall asleep together. Deal?

  ‘One day, Danny, you’ll meet someone special and you’ll fall in love with each other. I’ll be with you every step – in front, behind and beside you, the proudest and happiest mum ever. No day will end that you’re without me. Let our hearts always connect to each other. Deal?

  ‘Danny, show them the exceptional man I know you are, and the remarkable man you’re going to become. Show them all how you glisten and let the world see how you shine. Speak soon, my brightest diamond. Speak soon, my angel.’

  I let the recording roll until I’m sure she’s finished.

  Nod.

  Stop.

  Return phone to pocket.

  I take out a used hanky. I pick up the book that’s been sitting there and fiddle it around in my hands. Turning. Turning. Turning.

  This is my time with her. Danny will have his too.

  ‘Look after each other, son,’ she says, reaching out her hand. I take it. She still hasn’t reopened her eyes.

  ‘We will, Mum. Promise.’

  ‘Bobby?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t tell me when you’re going to do it, just do it. I don’t need to be prepared. It’s better this way, for everyone.’

  ‘OK,’ I spurt out.

  ‘Can you read those poems again,’ she says, indicating towards the book in my hand. ‘You read so beautifully.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘For an illiterate.’

  Here’s a woman about to close her umbrella and she’s still cracking jokes, still wanting her voice to have significance. All she wants is to see her child smile.

  ‘Go on, Bobby. Read it again.’

  And I do, I read again. And again.

  I read Plath, Pound, Parker.

  I read her Heaney, Hughes – Langston and Ted.

  Bob Hicok, Bob Hass, Bob Seed.

  WAIT. WHO?

  Lately she likes me to sit with her, poetry book in hand, a collection of the greats. Occasionally she’s sleeping, drugged or off somewhere else. My mission never wavers: I want to transport her.

  I read.

  ‘Who wrote that one?’ she says.

  ‘Some guy called Ezra Pound.’

  ‘I liked it.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s good.’

  ‘And that first one?’

  ‘Dorothy Parker.’

  ‘She’s funny. Read me her again.’

  It doesn’t r
eally matter who’s written what. It’s simply the words, images, stories and anecdotes that she craves. Nothing wrong, nothing right, nothing to dissect. But above everything it’s simply the sound of my voice that’s enough. I could be reading anything, back of a cereal box, anything. It’s all about the security of the voice, nothing else matters.

  ‘Who wrote that one?’ she asks.

  ‘Allen Ginsberg, he’s called,’ though I’m tempted to tell her the truth, reveal the poet’s real name.

  ‘Not too bad. You’re good at reading him.’

  Fact: I’m mortified to tell her the truth. No way can I let her know that the poet is none other than her very own son. Of course, we all know that Bobby Seed is no poet. Bobby Seed is only a schoolboy doing his schoolboy assignment for his schoolboy poetry course. Most definitely Bobby Seed is no poet, that’s undeniable.

  ‘Read me it again,’ she says.

  ‘Erm …’

  ‘One last time. Please.’

  I take a sip of her water, clear my throat and open my mouth.

  ‘What’s it called again?’

  ‘“Sail Through”,’ I say.

  Her eyes open, lips sprawl across her face.

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Here goes. Ready?’

  ‘As ready as I’m ever going to get, Bobby.’

  I clear my throat and begin:

  Soon you will locate your light

  and it’ll be time for others to find their delight in you

  be it gods or darkness

  a new flame shall ignite the skies

  and down here we will be your force

  I’ll follow cracks on the ceiling

  he’ll watch dust dance in the rays

  I’ll eat without hunger

  he’ll sing without pleasure

  I’ll wash in the afternoon

  he’ll blink at the glinting TV

  I’ll speak to myself

  he’ll yak to the skies

  I’ll buy only essentials

  he’ll wear wrinkled clothes

  we’ll both dream of the silence of another …

  and keep dreaming

  we’ll both cry

  so locate your light

  greet the gods

  thrill the spirits

  and see us

  as we sail through.

  I look at Mum for some validation or mouthed applause. She’s asleep. The day has defeated her. Aw well, next time maybe, with a new poem. Romantic. Weighty. Better.