‘Melissa, what’s wrong?’ Jim asked.
‘It’s Jacob – he’s gone,’ she said, now running down the next aisle. ‘Jacob!’
She hung up the phone and was yelling so loudly the manager came to her assistance. He and another girl called Jane joined the search, calling Jacob’s name, but he wasn’t in the shop. He was gone. Melissa joined Carrie in crying. She sat on the floor and cried and cried and the poor manager did his best to calm her and the girl called Jane ran in and out of the shops next door asking if anyone had seen a little boy called Jacob. Security was summoned.
Melissa was now shaking and Carrie was stunned into silence. ‘He was here and then he was gone,’ Melissa repeated to herself. ‘I was holding his hand but then work called.’ She was crying again. ‘Oh, God, where is he?’ She didn’t think to try to call her husband. Her mind was a blank and fear had engulfed her. She could do nothing but repeat herself and bite her nails. ‘He’s not well,’ she said, a number of times. In her head were images of missing children, later found dead. Oh, my God! Melissa clung to her little girl, praying. Please be okay, son. Please come back.
Twenty long minutes had passed before a security guard called Tim arrived with Jacob. When she saw him Melissa burst into tears, accompanied by loud sobs. Jacob, on seeing his mother near hysterical, did likewise, jarring Carrie sufficiently for her to join in. Once they had all calmed down, approximately ten minutes later, Tim the security guard explained that he had found Jacob in the toilets.
‘I needed to poo,’ Jacob said. ‘It was coming.’
Melissa didn’t scold him for running off. He had tried to get her attention. The child had the runs and she had ignored him in favour of arguing about a stupid bloody presentation. She gathered herself and thanked the shop manager, Jane and Tim, then left the centre with the prescribed medication that the manager had insisted she take for free. At home, when her children were medicated and sleeping, she poured herself a large whiskey and cried again. I just can’t do it any more.
Melissa’s problem was greater than exhaustion and a well-meaning but ultimately unhelpful husband. Her problem was that she was fast becoming a stranger to herself. Once upon a time she had been a dedicated worker and a professional, hailed as a stand-out performer. She had sailed through school, and college was a breeze, and from a very young age she had been destined for the fulfilling career her mother could only have dreamed of. Melissa’s professional life was exciting, challenging and rewarding. It afforded her a large bank balance and the comforts associated with that. She was respected and contented. Life was good.
Then she had had Jacob. And, of course, she had had a plan. She was only six months gone when she’d found the perfect babyminder. She would take the minimum maternity leave and return to work. She had known that at first there would be teething problems, as with any new venture. It was impossible to plan for every eventuality but she felt confident that once a routine was established she could do and have it all. Melissa hadn’t prepared herself for guilt.
She hadn’t known that with motherhood came worry like she’d never known, love that was frankly overwhelming, and the greatest need to be with her baby. The day she returned to work she cried in the toilets for more than an hour. She had thought leaving him would get easier but it didn’t. She had thought she’d fight the urge to call home twenty-five times a day but she couldn’t. She had thought that if she could just switch off the little part of her brain that constantly reminded her of what she was missing everything would return to normal and she would be the single-minded professional she had been before.
It didn’t return to normal and Melissa found herself slightly tortured and very torn. She hadn’t spent years in college and working her way to the top of her profession for nothing. She couldn’t just throw it all away and, looking around her, lots of women were perfectly happy to leave their babies at home while they worked. Mother of four Denise Green had not only said that working was as fulfilling as it had ever been but it was the saviour of her sanity. Melissa was embarrassed by her perceived inadequacy and lived in denial, quashing the urge to renounce her place in the man’s world her sisters before her had fought so valiantly to ensure and return to the kitchen where she yearned to be – baking with her son, playing games, watching him grow, being there, and being his mum.
Eventually she had fallen into a routine and managed her work and home life well. It was only when her perfect babyminder called to tell her that Jacob had clapped or stood or walked or called her ‘Mama’ that her heart threatened to break and those dark thoughts had first emerged. What if I stayed at home? Of course, that was a ridiculous notion. She would have gone insane just like Denise Green had said. She was a professional, not a cookie-cutter. But then Carrie had come along, and with her, double the work and double the heartbreak. Her job was suffering and her kids were suffering and her marriage was suffering and, most of all, she was suffering. She was tired all the time. She was haunted by leaving not one but two children, and the prospect that yet again she would hear of her child’s development from someone else.
Melissa needed a break. Melissa needed to stop. Melissa needed to come clean. Since Jacob was born she had pretended to be someone she used to be but wasn’t any more and the lie had taken its toll.
18 August 1975 – Monday
We went to Brittas Bay and pitched our tent on the grass overlooking miles of white sand dunes. Well, maybe not miles but it seemed like it. The weather was amazing so when we arrived (we biked there, by the way, which nearly killed me) it was heaving with people. Loads of Dubliners down for the day and kids in colourful togs with ice-creams and shovels and old women with big dark-coloured togs and swaddled in towels even though they were complaining about the heat. The sea was full, as far as the eye could see, with people swimming, wading, walking, floating, splashing, jumping – and there were the sounds of seagulls, and mothers calling for their kids, and kids calling for each other, and men playing football off to the side, and the water lapping and swishing, and heat on our backs and on the soles of our feet. The sun glinted on the water and the air weighed on me like a cosy old jumper, and all the while the DJs played what Matthew called sunny songs. I’ll remember my weekend away for ever. Matthew did most of the work. He was a Boy Scout and well used to putting up the two-man tent he had managed to carry on the back of his bike along with the sleeping-bag. He’s very strong and fit and I suppose he has good balance too. It must be from riding Nero. I was half dead and all I’d carried was the radio and our toothbrushes and some knickers and things. The sun was so hot we didn’t need too many clothes. Good thing too because there was no way I could have carried them.
When the beach got quiet, just after eight, we snuggled up together and watched the water. That never gets old. You’d think it would but it doesn’t and I can’t explain why. We ate sandwiches from the shop down the road and drank a few cans of Harp. I still don’t like beer but it does make me laugh – well, Matthew makes me laugh but things definitely sound funnier when I’ve had some beer. There was a man on the beach walking his dog. It was after ten and still bright. The dog was chasing its tail and the man was standing watching and waiting. Eventually the dog got tired of that and jumped up on the man. He gave the dog a hug, the same kind of hug you’d give a person. The dog panted and ran off and the man followed, his dog barking and yelping, high on freedom. He was too far away to see his face but I bet it was a kind one. I bet he’s a really nice person. He probably has a good job – maybe he’s a doctor or a banker – and he’s probably married and he loves his wife and he’s probably got kids who don’t have to lock their doors at night. In fact, they probably don’t even have locks. To say nothing of a great big padlock like Matthew’s put on my door for me – he’s so handy.
So, we watched the sea and Matthew was quiet and kind of far away. And I knew what he was thinking. Two weeks left. In two weeks he’ll be back in boarding-school. We try not
to think about it but it’s hard when every shop is full of back-to-school stuff. We keep agreeing to live in the moment, but how can we live in the moment when we know that soon our life together as we know it will be over? Am I being too dramatic, like Joanie Flynn three doors down who cries at the drop of a hat and pretends to faint when she’s in trouble? It doesn’t feel too dramatic. Matthew says he’s fine about going back but I know he’s not. Last year he was bullied – he only told me that recently. He was embarrassed about it. The school told his dad and his dad had to get involved and he said his dad knowing was worse than the bullying. His dad called him names but the boys were suspended and the bullying stopped. Before, a few people talked to him but no one does now because he’s known as a rat. Stupid fools. They’d rather let bullies run riot than put a stop to them and be called names. I told him as much and he said it was easy for me. Everyone says that but I don’t think it’s easy. I just think I’d rather go down fighting! He laughs at me when I talk like that but I can tell he likes it.
Before this weekend we didn’t go the whole way because we were scared about me getting pregnant and it’s really hard to get protection. Sheila is using the natural method – she says it’s all about the cycle. She talked about fertile days and non-fertile days and egg production, and I just switched off. She got a library book and now she’s an expert. She will definitely make a good nurse. Then the other night in our cosy sleeping-bag it just happened, and I’m scared about being pregnant but I’m glad we did it. It was right. Matthew did it before last year with a girl in Boston so I pretended it wasn’t a big deal but it really was. I felt like – well, actually, I don’t know what I felt like, a grown-up, maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t think I could love him more this week than I did last but I do. Looking into his eyes when he was moving inside me, something clicked. I can’t say what but in that moment I was inspired and everything made sense. It sounds so weird and maybe I’m a spaz but suddenly I found a place in the world. And I don’t mean that I’m his and that’s enough. I mean for the first time the future became clear and not some distant island. I’m going to be a writer. I’m going to put my heart, my soul, my experience, my lack of experience, my dreams, my hopes and my love – most of all my love – down on paper. Some day when I really have something to say I’m going to write because everyone loves a good story.
We’ve been talking more about going to America after the Leaving Cert next year and particularly Kentucky. There are universities in Kentucky and I could go to one. My school work is strong even if I do talk all the time. I could get in – at least, that’s what Matthew says. I could study English and Matthew could work in Keeneland. Last week he asked his dad if he could organize it and his dad said he would, and then he said he doesn’t care if Matthew ever comes back – but that’s because Matthew’s dad is a shit but his friend Ronnie runs Keeneland and he’s a great man. Matthew says he’ll take us both in. He has a big family and his wife Marjorie and all the kids (eleven!!!) ride and they have hundreds of stables and stable hands, and the workers are treated like family and they have big barbecues every weekend and a huge porch with a swing and everyone’s welcome at the dinner table and it’s like a real family, big and loving and fun. Matthew could break and train horses and I could study and we could have a life together. It’s so real I can almost touch it. God, I hope I’m not pregnant. Maybe I’ll read Sheila’s book.
Mam won’t talk to me because I let Dr B in the back door. He thinks there’s something wrong in her head. He wants to do some tests but she won’t go with him. HE came home and she was shouting at Dr B and then, of course, HE started shouting because he just loves to shout. Dr B left but he asked me to keep an eye on her. I don’t know how that’s going to help but I said I would.
Dr B is getting really good at riding. We’ve been riding together a lot lately. I’m still a bit nervous but I pretend I’m not, and Dr B and Matthew don’t seem to notice. Dr B has nicknamed me Trouble. It makes Matthew laugh so I don’t mind. In fact, I like it. Hi, it’s nice to meet you! I’m Trouble!!!!
HE hasn’t had any work for a few days and he’s itching for a fight. She’s so quiet and withdrawn all the time, it’s even hard for him to pick a fight with her. He’s looking my way again but I’m not scared any more. In my head and my heart I’m free. Soon Matthew is going back to boarding-school. He’s going to do everything possible to come home at least once a month, no matter what his dad says or does. All we have to do is get through eleven months and we can start our new lives. Eleven months isn’t long. Eleven months is nothing. Roll on next July!!!!!
18. I knew I knew you
Aidan always cleaned when he did something his internal moral barometer deemed wrong. He cleaned when he’d told his mother to fuck off after a particularly nasty row about personal insurance. He cleaned when he’d lied to his friends about being sick just because he wanted a day off. Then again that was the problem with working for friends: lies are problematic and guilt-ridden. He cleaned when he’d used George’s credit card to buy tickets to Macy Gray after a fight about cheese. He cleaned when he’d stolen a T-shirt from Gap – he was dared to by a guy whose name he couldn’t remember. He cleaned when his sister asked him to mind her three kids and he pretended to have flu. Aidan was cleaning his apartment when the phone rang. He took off one Marigold before answering.
‘Aidan.’
‘Andrew?’
‘I know this is coming from nowhere but could we meet some time this week?’
‘Look, if it’s about Susan and the builder –’
‘It’s not.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘I’d really appreciate it.’
‘Okay.’ What the hell does he want? Make up an excuse. Oh, fuck, come on, think of something. He’s waiting. Think, you fucking moron. ‘I’m free tomorrow late afternoon, early evening.’
‘Good, great. Okay, tomorrow. Brilliant. Thanks. See you then.’
‘Andrew?’
‘Yeah.’
‘When and where?’
‘Oh.’ Andrew laughed. ‘Sorry. Anywhere in town suits me.’
‘How about the Westbury around five thirty?’ No one knows me in the Westbury.
‘Perfect.’
‘See you then.’
‘And, Aidan …’
‘Yeah?’
‘Thank you again.’
Aidan put down the phone and, as Susan and Harri weren’t picking up their phones, he called Melissa. She had finished crying fifteen minutes beforehand and was on her second whiskey. She could have told Aidan what had happened but she was too ashamed. She was even considering hiding from Gerry the fact that she’d almost lost their son. She answered the phone brightly: ‘What?’
‘You’re never going to believe who called me.’
‘George Michael?’
‘No.’
‘Damn it, what’s the point in hanging around with homos if it doesn’t get me closer to George Michael?’
‘Are you finished being Dublin’s answer to Joan Rivers?’
‘Okay. Go on.’
‘Andrew.’
‘Andrew Shannon?’
‘The one and only.’
‘What the hell did he want?’
‘To meet me.’
‘You’re not going to meet him, are you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Aidan.’
‘What?’
‘He’s a prick.’
‘Melissa, life is not that simple.’
She sighed because she knew he was right. ‘I wonder what he wants.’
‘No idea.’
‘Maybe he’s gay.’ She was being sarcastic, yet, judging from Susan’s version of their non-existent sex life, it was a one-in-a-million possibility.
Aidan laughed. ‘And I’m Tipper Gore’s wet dream.’
She laughed. What the hell had made him think of Tipper Gore? ‘Yeah
, I suppose the notion is pretty outlandish. Speaking of which, what the hell was Susan thinking, arriving with that Keith person?’
‘She wasn’t. She’s just a little lost, that’s all.’
‘That makes all of us. Did you hear where Harri’s gone?’
‘No.’
‘To Wicklow.’
‘Jesus. That was quick.’
‘I hope not too quick.’ She hadn’t embraced the idea when Harri had called her the day before, especially as she couldn’t go with her. Then again she had been the Googler so in a way she blamed herself. It’s too soon. Take some time. Google a bit more. Read your dad’s file. Have a holiday. Get back with James. Fuck it, get back to your life. I wish I could get back to mine.
‘Melissa.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Can you keep a secret?’
‘No.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘So am I.’
‘I want to tell you something.’
‘So tell me, but I cannot guarantee that I won’t tell the next person I see.’
‘You sound like Harri and it’s pissing me off.’
Melissa laughed. ‘Just tell me.’
‘No, forget it.’
‘You’re being a baby.’
‘You love Gerry, don’t you?’ he asked, out of nowhere. ‘I mean, you bitch and moan but that’s what women do. Am I right?’
‘Be careful. You may be on the phone but I will find a way to hurt you.’
‘Seriously.’
‘Of course I love him.’ Melissa smiled to herself, remembering earlier that morning her husband’s familiar kiss and the warmth when she spooned him. Quite suddenly she felt like crying again. I nearly lost our son. Jesus Christ, I nearly lost him. Get a grip, Melissa, calm down. He’s home, he’s in bed, he’s safe. You’re fine. Drink up. Pretend it’s all okay. ‘What’s this about?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ he said. The moment for truth had been lost. ‘Well, anyway, I’ll give you a buzz after I’ve seen Andrew.’
The Truth Will Out Page 21