The Weight of a Thousand Feathers
Page 23
‘You know these guys?’
‘Just a bit,’ I say. ‘Mum was a huge fan.’
In that beat I whip out a giant grey cloud and kill the conviviality. But I don’t mean to. Harriet’s face falls.
‘I’m so sorry, Bobby. I am,’ she says.
‘Don’t be, Harriet. Time to look forward, eh?’
‘You coping with everything?’
‘As best I can. Just adjusting to new routines, isn’t it?’
‘Suppose.’
‘Getting into a different flow, different patterns of life.’
‘Yeah.’
One day she’ll be standing in my shoes, they all will, obviously without lugging this secret boulder around, but they’ll certainly know what sorrow in the sack of the stomach feels like. Empathy, indeed.
Where is he?
I’m dying to ask the question, I am.
Where?
‘Well, I never thought I’d say this,’ Harriet adds. ‘But this place might be good for you.’
‘What, here?’
‘Yes, here. Why not?’
I scan the crescent. Cal and Tom are in deep chat: Tom looks confused. Erin and Clare are phone fawning: they’re blossoming into each other, striking up lasting friendship. Roddy is trying to set up a type of noticeboard: he’s whistling. It all seems oddly familiar and comforting.
WHERE IS HE?
‘But you’ve always hated it,’ I say.
Harriet leans into me.
‘Can I tell you something, Bobby?’
‘Sure.’
‘I only pretend to hate it,’ she whispers.
‘That’s OK. I won’t tell a soul,’ I whisper in return. ‘It’s nice to see everyone again, actually.’
‘Really?’ She screws up her face, grins.
Probably best just to spit it out, Bobby.
‘But where’s –’
‘Hey, did you hear about Lou?’ she says.
‘No. Something happen?’
‘We don’t really know. He blew in one night and spouted something about leaving.’
‘He didn’t like the meetings, I don’t think,’ I say.
‘No, not the meetings – he was leaving.’
‘Like, leaving leaving?’
‘Exactly.’
‘To where?’
‘America, I think.’
‘He said that?’
‘Yeah, just walked in, blabbered something about how he didn’t belong here and that he was going back to America. Then he left.’ Harriet shrugs her shoulders. ‘Best place for him, if you ask me. He was fucking bonkers that one.’
I don’t disagree or ask any other questions. Don’t want my feelings to be known. I’m grateful there’ll be no explanation or confrontation. Gratitude tinged with sadness. Just a tiny tinge.
‘Yeah, probably best place for him,’ I say.
‘Pin the tail on the donkey!’ Roddy howls. ‘Who’s heard of that before?’ Zero hands go up. ‘Right, this is a variation of that …’
Choral groans.
It’s good to be back.
#12 … complete
I get further away,
but I still see you
I don’t want to feel again,
but I’ll touch you forever
I yearn for that time,
but you darkened it
I yearn,
do you?
New Dreams
‘Don’t hurt me, Bobby. Please don’t hurt me.’
He says this over and over again, not every night, but it’s getting close to it. I allow him to wake up. Wipe sweat from his brow. I need to be there when he opens his eyes. He has to understand that the person he sees would never hurt him.
‘It’s me – Bobby. I’m not going to hurt you, Dan.’
Hurt you?
Hurt HIM?
These words set me alight. Whenever I hear them I almost buckle in a combined wave of agony and grief. Every time. The very notion that Danny would be scared of me never once crossed my mind.
I maintain distance between us.
‘I’ll never hurt you,’ I say.
‘Promise?’ Danny says, half dazed.
‘I promise you. It’s me. I’d never do anything to hurt you. Come, sit up a bit.’
He shifts upright, still looking scared and exhausted. A new routine for me, short-lived, I hope.
‘Hey, buddy,’ I say. ‘I’m here.’
I detect a semi-smile on Danny’s face. Not a hundred per cent sure though.
He groans. It’s torture trying to appear undefeated all the time.
‘If you want me to leave, Dan, that’s all right too,’ I say. ‘It’s all good.’
‘Don’t know,’ he mutters.
‘If you think that might be best.’
He lets out a whimper.
‘But I’d really like to stay, I really would. We could have one of our chats. Remember how we used to chat? I’d really like that, would you?’
He picks up a spare pillow and sinks his face deep into it, crushing all those feathers. This is the intimate version of grief: it attacks every sense you have. When you’re not hearing it you’re seeing it; when you’re not seeing it you’re feeling it. And on it twists. It becomes your new worst friend, always there, always prodding to remind you of its presence; you know, just in case you have the gall to momentarily forget.
‘But if you decide I should go back to my room, Dan, I want you to know how much I love you. You’re my little brother. I’ll always love you.’
He dunks his head in the pillow. It’s funny: he looks like he’s a giant marshmallow head.
It’s not funny.
‘I’m very proud of you, Dan. I know Mum would be as well. You’re doing brilliantly,’ I say, trying to coax him out of the feathers. ‘I’m so happy we have each other.’
His body dances with sadness.
‘You mean the world to me, Dan.’
He tightens the pillow around his head. I watch. His crying is distressing, makes me feel so helpless, weakened because I can’t do anything to soothe him; I’ve no words. It’s like being punched repeatedly in the lungs; it’s excruciating to witness. My own body begins to judder and spasm. I didn’t rock this hard at Mum’s funeral. The liquid that pours from my eyes, nose and mouth flows on to the duvet. Nothing tempers it.
‘Don’t cry, Bobby,’ Danny says.
‘Yeah, sorry, mate. It’s just, you know.’
‘I do know. I’m sorry too.’
‘Hey, don’t you be sorry. You’ve no reason to be sorry,’ I say.
Danny launches the pillow off the bed. His face is bloated, as is mine. We’re like a couple of crash victims.
‘Were you serious?’ he asks.
‘About what?’
‘About Mum being proud of me?’
I compose myself, clear my miserable throat.
‘Dan, she’d be so proud of you, proud of us both.’
‘Really?’
‘Totally.’
‘I miss her so much, Bobby.’
‘Me too.’
‘I didn’t think it would be this hard.’
‘You can still hear her. You have the voice message she made for you, don’t you?’
‘I listen to it all the time.’
‘That’s good. You should always listen when you’re feeling sad. It’ll help,’ I say. ‘Does it help?’
‘Not now, but maybe tomorrow it will.’
‘I think we just need to try harder, Dan.’
‘How?’
‘Get out the house more, talk about our feelings, do things together …’
‘With Bel too?’
‘Yeah, Bel can always do things with us.’
‘Bobby?’
‘What?’
‘Can I come to your Friday takeaway night tomorrow, instead of playing computer games?’
‘Junk Food Friday, you mean?’
‘Crap name, but yes. Can I?’
‘I’d be disappointed if
you didn’t.’
‘Great,’ he says.
‘I’ll give Bel a call.’
‘I’ll get up.’
I look around his room: place needs a paint job, a complete makeover. I’ll do it in the summer holidays, give the entire house new energy. Flash thought: maybe I’ll move my stuff into Mum’s old room. It’s bigger. I’m bigger. Plus it’s rammed with laughter and happy memories. I’ll just paint over the others that linger.
‘See you downstairs, Dan,’ I say.
‘Bobby?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Can we search for Mum’s heart one day?’
‘Sure we can.’
‘I’d like to listen to her beating.’
‘That’s a good idea, mate.’
‘And, Bobby?’
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s all going to be all right, I think.’
‘I know it is, Dan. I know it is.’
Press Play
When we get back from the cinema he corners me. His look could crack your bones, deadly serious. Shuffles through his pockets.
‘Bobby, Mum wanted me to give this to you.’ He holds out his hand.
‘What?’
‘She said to give it to you when you were feeling better.’
‘What is it? A phone?’
‘And I think you are feeling better now, so here, take it.’ He hands me the phone. ‘She said you’ll know what to do.’
Danny leaves me alone.
Course I know what to do.
I wait until I’m in my room, her old room. In my bed – her old bed. I rest my head on the pillow (new one), plug in my earphones, scroll to recordings and press play. Close my eyes and wait for her to arrive.
‘Hi, Bobby. It’s your mother here. Remember I told you that you weren’t adopted? Well …’
About the Author
Brian Conaghan was born and raised in the Scottish town of Coatbridge but now lives in Dublin. He has a Master of Letters in Creative Writing from the University of Glasgow. For many years Brian worked as a teacher and taught in Scotland, Italy and Ireland. His novel When Mr Dog Bites was shortlisted for the 2015 Carnegie Medal, The Bombs That Brought Us Together won the 2016 Costa Children’s Book Award and We Come Apart, a verse novel co-authored with Carnegie Medal winner Sarah Crossan, published in 2017 to critical acclaim.
@BrianConaghan
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First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
This electronic edition published in March 2018
Text copyright © Brian Conaghan, 2018
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ISBN: HB: 978-1-4088-7153-9; Export PB 978-1-4088-8912-1; eBook: 978-1-4088-7155-3
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