‘I’m sorry – I’m just not a fish person,’ she interrupted.
‘I know. It’s okay.’
‘I’ll take care of them. I won’t let you down. I mean, not again.’
‘Thanks. Now I should go,’ he said, backing away.
‘Please don’t,’ she begged, hands clasped.
‘I have to.’
He almost ran from the place, forgetting his boxes. The door slammed and she was alone once more, the last grains of her dignity pooling on the floor. All the while the indifference of the fish taunted her. Bastards. Soon she would be hollow and then she wouldn’t care. Is this what it’s like to want to die?
A couple of days later, George had spent a good part of his Saturday morning on the phone to a number of Italian winemakers. His latest venture was a wine shop in Clontarf and he was determined to supply only the finest vino – sans the middle man – and he was on a charm offensive. During his flitting from here to there he’d become fluent in a number of languages, French and Italian included – languages came easily to him. He’d laugh and tell Harri that talk was cheap in any dialect. He was also good at accents. He could be funny as a Texan or an Italian, a Mexican, an Englishman, a German or a Frenchman. He could do each and every Dublin accent, Cork, Galway, Kerry, Belfast and so on. He understood nuance. He heard it and remembered it. His mum said he could have been an actor, to which he had once retorted that he was gay but not that gay. He was due in Italy on Monday and he thought about taking Harri. He figured she could do with getting away but first he had a dinner to attend.
Gloria had spent most of the day with her daughter. She had arrived at Harri’s early with a basket of food. Harri had let her in after Gloria had spent a few minutes knocking furiously. Her daughter looked terrible. It was clear that she hadn’t eaten: she was drawn and seemed almost vacant.
‘He’ll be back,’ Gloria had said.
‘No, he won’t,’ Harri had replied, blinking in an attempt to relieve tired eyes.
‘He will,’ Gloria had repeated. ‘He’ll be back.’
Harri had ignored her.
‘George is coming for dinner. Won’t you join us?’ Gloria had asked.
‘No.’
‘Please.’
‘I’m drained.’
‘Okay,’ her mother had said.
Now Harri was silent. Her head hurt. She felt so lost and alone, yet craved her mother’s departure. You can’t help me, Mum. I wish I knew what was going on.
‘Last night I dreamed that your father was Mel Gibson – Mad Max Mel.’ Gloria laughed. ‘He was driving a Ford Capri and complaining about the Jaysusing brakes.’
‘Last night I slept for maybe an hour,’ said Harri, ‘and during that hour I dreamed I was lying on cold ground, dying.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it’s just exhaustion, my darling,’ her mother soothed her, somewhat paler than she had been mere seconds before.
Soon after that, Gloria left and drove into the Super-quinn supermarket car park. There she switched off the engine and cried. Five minutes later she emerged, makeup flawless, in time to catch up with Mona, who was heading towards the butcher.
‘Have you time for a coffee?’ Gloria asked.
‘Of course.’ Mona smiled.
Sitting in the coffee shop, Gloria told her friend about her damaged daughter.
‘Of course she’s upset. She should be on honeymoon. Instead she’s alone in a flat with those bearded fish.’
‘Mona!’
‘Well, they may be exotic but they’re bloody ugly.’
‘There’s one in particular that makes my stomach turn,’ Gloria confessed.
‘She’ll get over it,’ Mona said, after a minute or two’s contemplation.
‘I don’t know.’ Gloria sighed. ‘She loves him. If I had lost Duncan I would have died.’
‘She’s not you,’ Mona said kindly.
‘No,’ Gloria agreed. She’s definitely not me.
‘Gloria, worse things happen. I don’t want to sound cold but it’s true. Your Duncan knows all about that.’
‘I’ve never seen her so down.’
‘She’s bound to be.’
‘I think it’s more.’
‘More than the second wedding that never was?’ Mona’s voice carried a hint of sarcasm.
Gloria clammed up. ‘You’re probably right.’
‘Of course I’m right. I’m always right when it comes to other people.’
Gloria managed a smile.
After they had parted, Gloria procured the required shopping to entertain her son. He was home before her, and Duncan arrived soon after. George helped his mother prepare dinner while Duncan read the newspaper. He had called in to see his daughter an hour after her mother had left. He had found her listless. She had taken something to sleep. He carried her to bed and tucked her in, the way he had when she was a child.
‘Dad.’
‘Yes, dear?’
‘Have you ever felt that you were a piece from another jigsaw?’
‘Everything will be fine,’ he said, but his heart was beating wildly.
‘I have this creepy feeling.’
‘Go to sleep,’ he said, fearing to hear any more. ‘Go to sleep now.’
He closed the door and leaned heavily against it. His brother’s words rang in his ears. The truth will out. No matter what, the truth will out.
Duncan was quiet at dinner. Gloria talked about her Mad Max Mel dream, making her son laugh.
‘I find it hard to imagine Mel Gibson saying “Jaysusing”.’
‘As hard as I find it to imagine your dad in a wife-beater and driving a Ford Capri. That, my son, is the beauty of REM.’ Gloria smiled at her son. She was desperate to leave the image of her tattered daughter behind her.
It was only during dessert that George found the necessary courage to tackle his parents on a subject he knew they would do their utmost to avoid.
‘Do you remember when Harri and I were kids?’
‘Of course,’ his mother said. ‘It seems like only yesterday.’
‘Do you remember Harri’s panic attacks?’ He felt it was best not to dick around.
‘Excuse me?’ Duncan said sternly.
‘You had her checked for epilepsy. I remember it. And she always put her hands to her throat as though she was choking – like Mum does when she’s nervous.’
By coincidence, Gloria’s hands were fluttering towards her neck.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Duncan said firmly.
‘So explain it,’ George challenged.
‘I don’t have to explain anything to you,’ Duncan said, standing.
‘Sit down, Duncan.’ Gloria was alarmed by his tone.
He sat as instructed, eyeing his son dangerously.
George was not cowed. ‘Why did you lie to the doctor?’
‘We did not lie,’ Duncan said, his voice hoarse.
‘Why are you lying to me?’
Gloria was suddenly crying. ‘We didn’t want to.’
George looked at his mother. Duncan rested his head in his hands.
‘What the hell?’ said George.
‘We just didn’t want to open a can of worms,’ said Gloria. ‘They ask so many questions – question after question. It gets so hard to keep everything straight.’
Duncan’s eyes darted from his crying wife to his son. He remembered his daughter’s earlier disturbing question and, deep down, he knew that the time for avoidance was past. The truth will out.
‘Dad?’
‘We love you both so much,’ Duncan said, all trace of his anger now gone.
‘I know,’ George said. His insides squirmed.
‘You are my twins,’ Gloria said, pale and shaking. ‘My babies.’
Duncan’s attention was drawn to his wife. ‘Glory?’
‘
I won’t lose her again,’ she said, breathing deeply.
‘I know. I know, my love. You have to calm down now. Okay?’
‘I can’t lose her, Duncan. Oh, God help us!’
George was alarmed at the state his mother was getting herself into. He had grown up being careful around her, warned of her delicacy, but he had never seen her break down before.
The conversation was abandoned. Duncan took his wife upstairs to bed and spent an hour settling her. By the time he returned George was on his third glass of wine.
‘She hasn’t been like that since –’
‘Since when, Dad?’
‘Well, it’s been a long time.’
George had never seen his dad so rattled. It was deeply disquieting. Duncan poured himself a whiskey and sat in his favourite chair by the empty fireplace.
‘Does Mum have some sort of mental condition? Has it been passed on to Harri?’
‘No.’ Duncan shook his head. ‘Well, yes. Your mother has suffered with her nerves in the past but it was as a result of something terrible. She’s been fine all these years. And Harri, well, no, your mother hasn’t passed anything down to her.’
‘Something terrible?’ George pushed.
‘I can’t say.’
‘You can’t not say.’
‘You’re right, but not tonight. Your sister has a right to know what you know so I’m asking you to wait. Give me one week. Give your mother and your sister one week.’
‘I’m going to Italy on Monday.’
‘Cancel it.’
George didn’t argue. ‘Okay,’ he said.
‘Thank you, son.’ Duncan drained his glass and made his way upstairs to his attic office.
George finished his glass of wine and left his childhood home. He stood on the street lined with white blossom trees, waiting for a taxi to pass. He looked back at the house and felt like a stranger to the people inside. What the hell is going on?
Susan left her fourth message that day. ‘Harri, it’s me again. I’m desperate to talk to you. I just want to hear that you’re okay. Please call me. I swear I won’t talk. I won’t say a word. Just phone me, just talk to me. I love you. It’s Susan by the way.’
Susan always identified herself. It was as if a part of her felt she was invisible to those around her, making it necessary to remind the people she cared for who she was. She hung up and sipped some coffee, sitting at her kitchen counter. She was listening to Moby’s album Play.
Beth, her sixteen-year-old daughter, smiled to herself. Bloody Play! There are other albums in the world, Mother. Suddenly she was sitting in front of Susan, clicking her fingers. ‘Where were you?’
Susan sighed and smiled. ‘Far from here.’
‘You heard from Harri?’
‘No.’
‘You okay?’
‘I wish she’d call.’
‘She will, Mum.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘I feel like crying,’ Susan admitted.
‘So cry.’
‘I can’t. I’m too old for that.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘How did you get to be so sensible?’
‘Good parenting.’
‘Smooth. You’re going to ask me for money in the next five minutes, aren’t you?’
‘No, but I might do in the morning.’
‘Beth?’
‘What?’
‘Are we close?’
Beth’s face reddened. ‘Of course.’
Susan pretended not to notice the blush. ‘Good.’
‘Mum, sometimes I worry about you.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I’m not being silly. Sometimes I wish you were happier.’
‘I am happy.’
‘You’re being silly if you think I don’t notice. I notice.’
Susan smiled, her eyes filling. ‘Okay, I stand corrected. I did not raise a fool.’
‘So leave him.’
Susan laughed. ‘It’s not that easy.’
‘It is.’
‘No, Beth, it’s really not.’
‘I love my dad but he’s an arsehole to you and it makes me not like him.’
‘He does his best.’
‘No, Mum, you do your best – he does everyone else.’
‘Beth!’ Shock brought stinging tears to her eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Mum, I shouldn’t have said that.’ She kissed her mother’s forehead. ‘I love you, Mum. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, sweetheart.’
Susan was alone and wide awake in her large and empty marital bed.
It was after midnight when Harri rang. ‘I’m so sorry. I was asleep most of the evening. I just picked up your messages.’
‘I don’t mind. I’m just glad to hear your voice.’
‘Is everything okay with work?’
‘Don’t ask about that. Everything’s fine.’
‘Me too. I’m fine.’
‘Liar.’
‘You’re right. I’m lying.’
‘Tell me what you’re thinking.’
‘Can’t, too fuzzy.’
‘Try.’
‘I’m sure you said you weren’t going to talk and talking includes asking questions.’
‘So we’re both liars.’ Susan laughed, then fell silent, waiting for Harri to speak.
After a moment or two Harri obliged. ‘I think I’m losing my mind. I think I’ve been fighting this meltdown for a really, really long time. I think there’s something eating me from inside out. My head hurts, my body aches, I’m perpetually scared. I’m teetering on the edge, Susan, and any minute now if I let go or if I just give in and allow gravity to take over I think I could disappear.’
Susan sighed and closed her eyes, then opened them and focused. ‘Well, the good news is that you’re not depressive.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Depression runs in my family. You, my friend, are far too self-aware to be clinically depressed. That’s good news, trust me.’
‘So?’ Harri asked.
‘So, whatever is going on, you have control. You can control it.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You can.’
‘Susan.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m still really tired.’
‘So sleep.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll call you tomorrow and you will pick up the phone!’ Susan ordered.
‘Okay.’
‘Okay.’ Susan hung up.
It was close to twenty past twelve and still her husband had not returned from work – no phone call, no explanation, no nothing. Beth was right, it was simple, but she was also wrong. After all, what does a sixteen-year-old know about the world?
30 May 1975 – Friday
Today was the last day of school for eight whole weeks. Wha-hay! I don’t know how to write wha-hay properly but it’s how I feel. Mr Murphy let us out early. Sheila, Dave and I headed for the woods. He’s not so bad, Dave. I mean, he’s still a complete thick but I like him a little more every time I see him. He’s kind, annoying but kind. He tries to be a man and when it doesn’t work he reverts to being a little boy – mostly he’s a little boy. Sheila doesn’t see that. She sees something else. People are funny. Life is funny. Dave smokes so now Sheila smokes. She smells nasty and coughs a lot but she says it’s cool and she likes it. Dave said when he smokes he feels like Steve McQueen. Maybe he does but he sure as hell doesn’t look like him. Sheila asked me to try a smoke but life is hard enough without coughing and smelling nasty and my Charlie is reaching its end. I need to earn money to smell good.
I’m starting my new job on Monday. I’m looking forward to it. Henry said I was a natural with horses las
t Saturday when I went for orientation. I’m not really sure what that means but I do like them. I like their eyes, especially Betsy’s – it’s as though she sees my soul. It sounds weird and maybe it is but she does. I really like her. She’s old. Learners ride Betsy – she’s slow and careful and wise enough to know that really she’s the one in control. Betsy’s kind. She makes me unafraid. She makes me want to ride. Henry said I can if I want to. It’s a perk of the job. A few weeks ago I would have thought bollocks to that but now I’d like to. I’d like to canter with Betsy.
I saw the doctor today. He was walking through town with Father Ryan. They were deep in conversation. I didn’t like to intrude. Father Ryan’s fairly strict and he wouldn’t have appreciated teenage interruption. I wonder what they were talking about. What do they have to say to one another? Maybe someone had died or was dying – or something else, something terrible. Dr Brendan smiled at me, that sad smile of his. I wish I knew what’s wrong. I feel like I know him but I don’t. Sheila is still teasing me about liking him but she hasn’t a clue. The doctor is broken. I know broken. My dad was broken before he died. My mam is broken now and me, well, I’m on the way. I’m not there yet, though.
Mam was crying again last night, not because HE was here but because he wasn’t. I don’t understand her. He was quiet for a while and now he’s gone. I think that’s good. I love that he’s gone but all she can do is cry. He was working and coming home and being normal – well, as normal as he can be. He wasn’t drinking. He wasn’t being loud and Mr Funny or mean and moody. He wasn’t doing much of anything. Mostly he just sat around looking sad. The other night he tried to apologize to me when Mam was asleep and I told him it was fine. He knew I was lying. He put his hand on my shoulder and I flinched. I wanted to punch him in his face. He knew it. He kept saying sorry. Sorry doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t take away the fear. He can be sorry but I can be vigilant. My mam is sad. She doesn’t see or maybe she doesn’t want to see. She married a loser. She married a weirdo. He can be sorry. We can all be sorry. He asked me if I hated him. I said nothing but I suppose I gave him one of those ‘I could kill you’ looks that my mam talks about. He was gone the next day. He hasn’t been home in ten days.
I hope he never comes back.
4. Crabs
It was almost week since Harri had failed to turn up to her wedding. It was four days since she’d ventured further than her own bedroom and two since she’d bothered to shower. Gloria arrived early. She looked as bad as Harri felt.
The Truth Will Out Page 4