The Weight of a Thousand Feathers

by Brian Conaghan

  Next time?

  Really?

  The Night of

  Danny’s on the floor, meditation position, glued to Horrid Henry. He’s not really watching. He’s elsewhere. I want to weep for him.

  ‘You OK, Dan?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  I usher him to me. ‘Come here,’ I say, holding my arms out.

  I grip the back of his head: it’s moist. I’ve no words. All I can do is reassure him with my body. We’re like a couple of connected paperclips dangling off one another. Forever linked until rust to rust. I don’t want to let him go.

  ‘I can hear your heart,’ Dan says.

  ‘It’s fast, eh?’

  ‘Like being stuck to a music speaker.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘You nervous, Bobby?’

  ‘Terrified.’

  ‘Me too.’

  He releases himself from my grasp, stands tall again. His face is blotchy.

  ‘Bobby?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I was reading something on the internet …’

  ‘What this time?’

  ‘That some people, after they die, give their heart and lungs and kidneys and kneecaps to people whose heart, lungs, kidneys and kneecaps are crap. Is that true?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s called donating your organs, Dan.’

  ‘Should we give Mum’s organs to someone who’s got crap ones then?’

  ‘You want to do that?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking that if we maybe gave her heart to someone, then we could … we could …’

  ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘We could visit that person and listen to their heart beating, but really it would be like listening to Mum again, because it would be her heart that’s beating.’

  ‘O … K.’

  ‘That way it would be like listening to Mum still. When I think that she’s beating away in someone else’s chest, keeping them alive, it makes me happier inside, Bobby. I’ve done tons of thinking about it.’

  I swallow my saliva. I’m sick to death of crying, living in a body that’s emotionally charged all the time. Oh, to be stoic, calm and poker-faced. I tense my abdomen to halt the gush. God, I even tense my throat. All I manage to say is:

  ‘I think it’s a brilliant idea, mate.’

  Cos it is.

  #10 … complete

  don’t blame jack daniel

  don’t blame lou

  don’t blame mum

  don’t say it was for danny

  don’t speak of such things

  I take full responsibility, mother

  I decided, mother

  I did it, mother

  I did, mum

  me

  mother, see my tears, caress them

  mother, feel my heart, it’s your image

  mother, how could you ask?

  mother, how could I say yes?

  forgive me

  mother, see my future, see it

  Mother Nature, why couldn’t you have acted sooner?

  there is no WE

  I

  hands up, head down, guilty

  I need you to still love me

  mum?

  Funeral

  Ever since Friday I’ve basically been squatting inside my own head, thinking about Lou, a lot. That night: Mum’s room. That night: the Poztive residential. I can’t unhappen them. They smother. God, that night in the Borders! It occupies me, it’s airtight. I’ll share it one day, every last thrilling detail. That’s a promise. But I’ve got to cast Lou aside, leave him in the past, escape his energy.

  So many nights I’ve lain motionless on my bed, imagining Mum’s funeral.

  Who’ll turn up?

  Who’ll not turn up?

  Who’ll carry her coffin?

  Who’ll cry the hardest?

  Whose eyes will be dry?

  Who’ll come out of duty?

  Who’ll come out of want?

  What memorial words will be said?

  Who’ll be honest?

  Who’ll be false?

  Where will it take place?

  Will the sun shine?

  Will it rain?

  What songs will be played?

  Will anyone blame me?

  Will anyone know the truth?

  Not Being Macbeth

  Patsy Cline plays. Not my choice, DJ request. Reminds Mum of being a little girl; her own mother’s favourite apparently. Patsy’s voice has this raw velvet edge to it that was once reminiscent of my mum’s.

  It’s just after midnight. Tuesday morning now. A week to go until I turn eighteen, but who cares? Who remembers? Danny and me are submerged in a crippling fear, but we’re resolute. We sit on her bed. I tap my fingers. He taps his feet. We’re in sync. I think about that scene from Macbeth we read in English class. Act 1, Scene 7: ‘If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.’ Macbeth, riddled with guilt and regret after his murderous spree, became grotesque in his suffering. Suffering, that’s the thing I must put a stop to. I am NO Macbeth.

  Her hair has grown a bit, much better than the neo-fascist look she sported.

  Danny is ashen. We look at each other. I’m first to crack.

  ‘Danny,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah?’ he says.

  ‘Do you want to go there now?’ I indicate where I want him to be. We’ve already discussed how it’s to play out. Danny knows the drill.

  ‘OK.’ He doesn’t move. He just doesn’t move.

  ‘Danny!’

  He dives on me, flings his arms around my neck. I jolt. The bed rocks. Mum bounces. Danny hugs so tight it feels like he’s trying to crush the love right out of me.

  ‘It’s going to be OK, Dan,’ I say.

  ‘I know it is, Bobby.’

  ‘You know I love you, don’t you?’ I tell him.

  ‘I know you love me more than anyone else in the world,’ he says.

  ‘And when this is over I’m going to take care of you.’

  ‘And I’m going to take care of you too,’ he tells me.

  ‘We’ll always look after each other, OK?’

  ‘Promise?’ Danny says.

  ‘With all my heart, Dan.’

  ‘Roger that?’ he says.

  ‘Roger that,’ I say.

  He withdraws and stretches out his hand so I can cement the pact. Our hands meet. I try to breathe slowly; soothe myself a touch. A primal feeling of pure love rises within me. It’s a burning desire to care for and guide my brother. My little brother. He’s no burden, no weight. He’s part me. I’m part him. If our mother could see how everything’s going to pan out for us, she’d nod her approval, post a smile and, likely, make some sarcastic remark.

  You’ve done well, boys.

  Thanks, Mum.

  For a couple of eejits. Seriously, my heart’s bursting with pride.

  You should see a doctor about that.

  I love you more than the distance between us.

  And we love you too, Mum. We love you too.

  I tell Danny again where he needs to be. This time he moves into position. We both do. Mum doesn’t move: she knows. I know she knows. Too busy enjoying Patsy Cline to join in. I look at him.

  ‘Ready, Dan?’

  ‘I’m ready.’

  If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.

  ‘OK then,’ I say.

  ‘Can I kiss her?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course.’

  He leans down and kisses Mum’s mouth. He then whispers something to her. I turn away. She definitely knows.

  ‘Do you not want to kiss her, Bobby?’

  I press my lips to Mum’s. They have warmth in them. I move to her ear and whisper: ‘I’ll speak to you every day, Mum. My story will be yours too. I’ll do everything you’ve wanted me to. Be in peace now. Tonight’s a good night to fly. Love you.’

  Finally I straighten up. Look at m
y little brother. ‘It’s time, Dan,’ I say firmly.

  ‘Bobby …’

  ‘Don’t be scared. Look at me.’

  ‘Is it really time?’

  ‘Look at me, Dan. Do the things we spoke about,’ I tell him. Danny puts his hand over Mum’s nose, closes it. ‘Keep looking at me, Danny.’ I place my hand over my mother’s mouth and hold firm. ‘Danny, keep your eyes on me, don’t look at anything else.’ He’s blurry in my vision, like looking out of a fast car in a downpour. ‘Danny, I’m your brother. You keep your eyes on me. Feel Mum’s suffering piss the fuck off. Take a big breath, buddy. You can feel it all going away.’ Danny’s face is broken. Our hands press harder. ‘I’m here, Dan. It’s me, Bobby. Your brother. Keep looking at me.’

  Our hands rigid.

  ‘Make it be over, Bobby.’

  ‘Keep looking at me. Please, Dan, look at me.’

  #11 … complete

  mum soared away last night

  roared into this place

  full of melody

  while we

  fell

  to

  pieces

  Candy Crush

  The day before the funeral we’re in the living room. Danny’s playing Candy Crush Saga while I consider where we should place Mum’s ashes, wondering if the mantelpiece is too precarious or morose. It might be a bit awkward for visitors. Hi, come in, say hello to Mum. Biscuit?

  The house is dark and gloomy, feels as if it’s in mourning too. The place is spotless though. Gleaming kitchen and full fridge. Danny even did some hoovering.

  When the bell rings, I’m busy focusing on the mantelpiece, visualising our ornamental Mum plonked on top. Danny’s concentration is intense. The door chimes again. I take a breath and climb to my feet.

  ‘I’ll get it, Dan,’ I say.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Why don’t you go up to your room?’

  ‘I want to stay here.’

  ‘What’s up with your room?’

  ‘Nothing. I just want to be here with you, Bobby.’

  I stroke his hair and kiss the top of his head.

  ‘Right, stay here then,’ I say. ‘I’ll make whoever it is vamoose.’

  ‘Think they know what’s happening tomorrow?’

  ‘Who knows.’

  The bell tolls once more.

  Danny labours to his feet.

  ‘If they keep ringing like that they’re going to break it. Who d’you think it is, Bobby?’

  I don’t reply. But I think I know.

  At the door my heart performs GBH on my chest. I put one hand on the wall to steady myself, willing oxygen into my system. Place the other clammy hand on the door handle. For some reason my fist is clenched. I open the door.

  It’s not him.

  I’m wrong.

  Beautifully wrong.

  I didn’t hear any vintage vroom, so why did I think it would be him in the first place? Paranoia. Obsession.

  A dishevelled-looking Bel stands on the step. A sight for puffy eyes. I want to pull her to me, cry into her neck, tell her everything. But I stand in the doorway all nonchalant and dickish.

  ‘Bel!’ The next bit should have been, It’s so good to see you, but she’d have thrown that phrase at my crotch. ‘What are –’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Bobby. I’m so, so sorry.’ And she pounces on me. Her grip is so tight her arms attempt to squeeze fresh blood from my veins.

  ‘It’s fine, Bel. We’re fine.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Bobby,’ she sobs.

  ‘Hey, don’t cry or I’ll take a photo and post it on Instagram.’

  She slaps the back of my head.

  ‘Dick!’

  She wipes her eyes. Her cheeks streak with tears and mascara lines: reminds me of a distressed clown.

  ‘She was peaceful,’ I tell her.

  ‘Is Danny OK? How is he?’

  ‘You know Dan, give him a piece of technology and he’s as happy as a best man in a brothel.’

  ‘We’re still talking about your mum passing away here, aren’t we?’

  ‘Dan’s in there,’ I say, standing aside so she can enter. She remains rooted.

  ‘I’m also sorry for being such a Kardashian lately,’ she says.

  ‘We’ve all had our moments, Bel.’

  ‘I get overprotective at times, or maybe I’m just not a big fan of people with flashy modes of transport and sacks of confidence.’

  ‘Lou, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, your instincts might have been spot on there.’

  ‘Something happen?’

  ‘Tell you another time.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Come in,’ I say, but still she’s rooted.

  ‘I wanted to see you before tomorrow to do the face-to-face thing and apologise in person. So, here I am!’ I let her ramble. ‘But feel free to jump in at any time or I’ll go on about how much you mean to me and how I don’t want to fuck up what’s going to be a lifelong friendship, which, let’s be honest, fills us both with a fear beyond any we’ve ever known.’

  I say nothing, just so happy to see her.

  ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Seed?’

  ‘It’s good to see you, Bel,’ I say. ‘Please, will you come in?’

  ‘I can’t stay,’ she says, pushing past, which means she could be here for hours.

  When we enter the living room Danny runs my way, cowers timidly behind my back. As if it’s the first time he’s laid eyes on Bel.

  ‘Why are you here, Bel?’ he says.

  ‘Hey, Dan,’ Bel says. ‘I just came to see how my favourite guys were doing.’

  Bel gives me the eyes. I shake my head and mouth, ‘It’s just Mum.’

  ‘It’s OK, Dan, she came to speak to me about something.’

  ‘What something?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You said “something”.’

  ‘I meant “nothing”.’

  ‘Wow! This is actually like being in an episode of Horrid Henry,’ Bel says. Danny sniggers. ‘OK, I know when I’m not wanted, Danny Seed. I’m out of here.’

  And just as quickly as she entered, she makes to leave. I don’t stop her.

  ‘Bel, I didn’t mean to be rude,’ Danny says. ‘It’s just that Bobby didn’t tell me you were coming.’

  ‘No sweat, I need to head anyway, promised the old man I’d boil him some rusty nails for dinner. My work’s done here.’

  ‘Rusty nails for dinner,’ Danny imitates.

  ‘I’ll text you later, Bel,’ I say. ‘We can organise something for this Friday. Noodles maybe?’

  ‘Is that junk enough?’ she asks.

  ‘Chinese then?’

  ‘Can’t wait.’

  We frisbee a smile.

  ‘After tomorrow I’ll show you this new game I found online, Bel,’ Danny says. ‘It’s stonking.’

  ‘This day just gets better and better,’ she says.

  ‘See you later,’ Dan says.

  ‘Laters, Brothers Seed.’

  *

  A week after the funeral I return to Poztive. I feel like a virgin all over again: everyone’s eyes cut through me, staring and sussing. Heads twist, faces fix on floors. All the gang back together; all the gang except our lead singer. I knew he wouldn’t be here. He hasn’t got that amount of gall. That’s not to say I hadn’t thought about seeing him again. I’d played out several scenarios:

  1.

  Me: Lou!

  Lou: Nice to see you, Bobby.

  2.

  Me: Lou!

  Lou: Bobby, about that time, let me explain.

  Me: No need, honestly.

  Lou: Kiss me.

  3.

  Lou: Bobby!

  Me: What the fuck are you doing here, Lou? (SMACK!)

  4.

  Lou: Bobby!

  Me: Lou, about that time, let me explain.

  Lou: No need, honestly.

  Me: Kiss me. (SMACK!
)

  The Poztive crescent is getting smaller.

  ‘Hey, Bobby,’ Roddy says. ‘It’s so good of you to join us. Great to see you, really is. We didn’t expect …’

  ‘Good to be here,’ I say.

  ‘I just want to say on behalf of the group –’

  ‘I received your cards. Thanks,’ I say, looking around me. ‘Appreciate it.’

  ‘We want you to know we’re here for you, Bobby,’ Roddy says. Everyone nods in agreement. ‘If ever you want or need to talk about –’

  ‘I’m good at the moment, Roddy, but thanks.’

  ‘OK,’ he says.

  ‘I’m just here for the karaoke anyway,’ I say, and everyone laughs … and keeps laughing. Even Cal, who never laughs, laughs.

  What I can’t tell them is that I’m faking stoicism; my gentle, warm expression is false. My mind’s addicted to thoughts of Mum. I can’t tell them how much I miss even those godawful final days. I miss reading to her, snipping her hair, running the shower over her head and following the soap trickle down her back. I can’t think of anything I don’t miss. I never think, Thank fuck I don’t have to do that any more. It’s surprised me how much I actually grieve for the struggle: all those energy-sapping days and nights. But fundamentally it comes down to one thing: I simply miss my mum. I’d wager she isn’t pining for those humiliation and dependency times. Not a chance she’d crave a return to the days when son number one wiped her down while son number two lived in abject terror at the thought of losing her. Mum’s better now; she’s healed, and me and Danny are satisfied about that. But, hell’s fire, how I miss it all.

  ‘You’re welcome any time,’ Roddy says. ‘Right, I’ll give you guys a five-minute chill thrill and then we can get started.’

  I’d kind of forgotten how bizarre and brilliant Roddy is. I park next to Harriet, who throws me a cosy grin.

  ‘Good to see you, Bobby,’ she says.

  ‘You too,’ I say. ‘Like the T-shirt.’ She looks down at her attire, awkwardly straightens herself out a bit.

  ‘Yeah, well, not everyone’s cuppa, but I like them,’ she says.

  ‘No, I quite like Jesus and Mary Chain myself.’