Don't Even Think About It

by Roisin Meaney

  I haven’t opened it yet. It’s sitting on my desk in front of me, and it’s about twice the size of a shoebox and fairly heavy. It cost $14.25 to post, and on the back Mam has written her name and address. She lives in a part of San Francisco called The Mission, which she says is a good place to live as she can walk to the downtown area where she works.

  It’s the first time she’s ever written to me.

  It’s the first time she hasn’t been here for my birthday.

  I’m wondering why it’s so hard to open the box.

  She’s sharing an apartment with a couple called Enda and George. She still tells me she misses me every time she phones, and she hopes I’m eating properly. I don’t mention the pizzas, or the Coke. She asks me about school, and Bumble, and how my painting is coming along, and she never, ever mentions Dad.

  It’s easier now, talking to her on the phone, even if she’s still the one doing most of the talking. Dad always gets out of the way, which is nice of him. It still makes me sad that she’s so far away, of course, and I hate the time right after I hang up. I usually make straight for the freezer. I’m getting through a tub and a half of Ben & Jerry’s every week.

  And now it’s getting near time to go out to dinner, and I heard Dad coming home a while ago, and I’m sitting in my room looking at the box on my desk, trying to pluck up the courage to open it.

  You’d swear there was a bomb inside it.

  I couldn’t think about anything else all day. For once, Santa didn’t have to give out to me for anything. And at break, Bumble asked me why I was so quiet. He’d just given me the White Musk, and I’d dabbed it on my wrists, and I could see him breathing through his mouth to stop himself from throwing up.

  And for once, I couldn’t tell him. Even though he’s the only person I told about Mam walking out on us, I just couldn’t mention the box. I muttered something about missing Mam, and he nodded, and spent the rest of the break trying to cheer me up with his awful jokes, and I smiled to keep him happy.

  And now I can’t put it off any more, so here goes.

  Half past seven

  Dad was brilliant. He didn’t say anything, which was exactly what I wanted, just put down the newspaper and held out his arms when I came into the sitting room, and held me until I was totally out of tears. And that took a while, believe me.

  When I finally dried up, Dad said, ‘What about doing the Chinese meal tomorrow night instead?’ and when I nodded, he went into the kitchen and came back with a tub of Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk that was only half-empty, and two spoons. And while we ate it, he told me that he knew how hard it was for me without Mam being here, and that he thought I was coping brilliantly, and that he was really proud of me.

  It was the first time he talked to me as if I was a grown-up, which was what I’d been waiting for forever.

  And guess what? All I wanted was to be five years old again, so I didn’t have to face all this horrible grown-up stuff.

  I asked him why Mam had left, why they couldn’t have sorted it out, whatever it was, and he shook his head and said that some things just couldn’t be sorted out.

  And then, without thinking, I said, ‘Well then, why couldn’t she have taken me with her?’ And straight away I was sorry I asked that, because Dad’s face kind of crumpled a bit, and I knew I’d hurt him. But he thought about it for a bit, and then he said, ‘Maybe because she didn’t want me to be left with nobody.’ And I thought how much I would have missed him, if Mam had taken me with her.

  I was really afraid then that he’d ask me if I’d rather have gone and lived with Mam, which would have been impossible to answer. I mean, I think I probably would rather be with her, if I absolutely had to choose – maybe because Mam and I are both females – but whoever I lived with, I’d end up missing the other one terribly.

  He didn’t ask me, though. Maybe he already knew the answer. Maybe parents know more than we think.

  The phone rang when we were almost finished the ice cream, and I put down my spoon and walked out to the hall. I knew if I didn’t answer it she’d just call back later.

  It was awful. As soon as I heard her voice, I wanted to cry again. I had to pinch my arm hard all the way through, while I was trying to sound happy, and thank her for the presents, and tell her the other presents I’d got.

  In the end, I said dinner was ready and I had to go. I suppose she knew something was up, but she said nothing. What was there to say?

  I took a few deep breaths and went into the kitchen, where I found Dad scrambling some eggs, which sounds strange right after a load of ice cream, but I ate every bit. I suppose it was just dinner the wrong way around. And soon after that I came upstairs again.

  My face is hot, and my cheeks feel tight from all the salty water they’ve had to put up with, and my nose is sore from blowing it so much, but in some kind of a funny way, I feel lighter. I had no idea tears could weigh anything at all. Dad’s jumper must be pretty heavy right now, with all the ones I left in it earlier.

  Things in the box:

  1. A birthday card with a letter folded up inside

  2. A box of chocolates called See’s Candies

  3. A blue t-shirt with a giant ice cream cone on it

  4. A pair of green and blue check pyjama bottoms

  5. A set of three lipsticks

  6. A silver neck chain with a heart on it.

  There’s a verse on the inside of the card. It reads:

  Some say thirteen’s unlucky,

  But that is SO untrue –

  And if you don’t believe me,

  Just take a look at you!

  And here’s the letter that fell out of the card:

  Darling Liz,

  Imagine – you’re a teenager! I can’t believe my baby is so grown up. I hope you have a wonderful day, and I’m really sorry that I’m not there with you to help you enjoy it.

  I know I keep telling you, but I’m going to say it again: I love and miss you very much, and I hate that we can’t be together. You’ll always be the most important person in the world for me, remember that - it makes no difference how far apart we are.

  I hope you like the few little things I’m sending – See’s Candies are made in San Francisco, and I think they’re yummy! The t-shirt can be worn with the pyjama bottoms, or just on its own as a top in the summer. The necklace is to remind you of how much I love you, and the lipsticks are to have some fun with! (But try to stay away from the boys for another while!)

  Happy Birthday darling, thinking of you as always,

  Mam xxx

  The card has a picture of a girl with long straight brown hair, wearing a pink t-shirt and blue jeans and platform shoes, and balancing a load of shopping in one hand. She’s holding a leash in her other hand, and there’s a little dog at the end of it with a pink bow in his hair.

  I think I’ll go to bed now.

  A quarter past seven, May, a Saturday around the middle.

  I haven’t told you about Ruth Wallace yet, have I? Although I think I’ve mentioned the Wallaces a few times. They live next door to us, and Ruth is twelve, just a few months younger than me, and she’s got brown hair and glasses and a grey cat, and an older brother called Damien. Oh, and she’s in a wheelchair.

  She doesn’t go to my school, so I hardly ever meet her during the week. A white van collects her every morning at ten past eight – I hear it from my bedroom when I’m getting up – and drops her back every afternoon around four.

  You can see other kids in the van. One boy waves at everyone the way very little children wave, just flapping his fingers, even though he’s about my age. He smiles all the time too. Another girl is hunched over in her wheelchair and never looks up. All you can see is the back of her neck.

  Ruth’s dad takes his daughter out to the van every morning and waits while they lower the ramp at the back. Then he wheels her on and kisses her goodbye, and he stands, waving, while the van drives off. In the afternoon, her mam comes out, when
the van driver sounds the horn, and she wheels Ruth back inside.

  And if I could choose a person to live beside, anyone at all in the whole world, Ruth Wallace would be my very last choice.

  Now let me explain, because I know how horrible that sounds. You’re probably wondering how I can be so mean to my poor disabled neighbour. Well, let me tell you about Ruth Wallace, and then you can decide who the mean one really is.

  She lies in wait for me every Saturday in her wheelchair. She sits just inside her gate until she sees me, and then she wheels herself out onto the path and says whatever nasty thing she’s been thinking up for me – that I stink, or that my top is horrible, or that I need to use spot cream.

  Sometimes she tries to trip me up with her wheels, which is a bit pathetic, because I can easily hop out on the road and dodge around her.

  Listen, I’m not making this up. I wish I was, but I’m not. Ruth Wallace is a nasty, cruel person, and I’m the only one who knows it, because, for some reason, she’s as nice as apple pie to everyone else. She smiles and looks fragile and says ‘Hello’ in an innocent little girly voice that makes me want to puke, and they all call her poor Ruth and pat her hand and tell her she’s a great girl, and all the time I know what she’s like, but I can’t tell anyone, because, of course, they wouldn’t believe me.

  ‘Ruth, nasty?’ they’d say in surprise. ‘Why, Liz Jackson, how can you say such a thing? Ruth is so sweet and fragile, and extremely friendly too,’ or something like that. That’s what they all think, you see.

  Ruth wasn’t always disabled. Apparently, she got some disease like meningitis when she was only two or three, and she almost died, and since then she hasn’t been able to walk. Which is all very sad, of course, but I still don’t see why she should be so mean to me. I mean, I didn’t make her sick. I didn’t take away her legs. Not that her legs are gone – they’re still there – but you know what I mean.

  I’ve told Bumble what she’s like, because I knew he’d believe me. He thinks Ruth is probably jealous of me being able to walk, and that’s what makes her so nasty. When I pointed out that everyone else can walk too, and she’s nice to them, Bumble said, ‘Well, she probably picked you to be mean to because you’re handy, living right next door.’

  Sometimes I wish Bumble didn’t always have an answer for everything.

  Ruth’s brother Damien is nice, not a bit like her. He’s almost sixteen, so I don’t hang around with him or anything, but he always smiles and says hello. I wonder what he’d say if he knew what kind of a sister he has.

  Today Ruth was waiting for me, as usual, when I came home from town. I could see a bit of her hat poking up from behind the hedge – she always wears a hat, every single day – and my heart sank. I walked quicker, but of course out she came.

  She said ‘Hello Liz’ in a really sickly sweet voice. I didn’t look at her, just kept going. And as I passed her, she belted me on the back of the legs with a stick she’d been hiding down the side of her wheelchair. That’s what I mean by nasty. For no reason, she just lashed out. It really stung too – I had a red stripe on my legs for about an hour afterwards. But as usual, I said nothing.

  Poor Ruth, my foot. She wasn’t abandoned by her mother, was she? I bet that’s worse than being in a wheelchair. Well, maybe not worse, but definitely as bad, in a different way. At least she has her two parents around.

  And she has a brother too, which is more than I have. That was another thing I was sorry about when Mam left, that I hadn’t any brothers or sisters, just Dad.

  Anyway, that’s the story of my nasty neighbour. The Wallaces’ cat is nice, all lovely soft grey fur. It’s a he – I checked after we had a lesson on cats – and I call him Misty, but that’s not his real name. Of course I can’t ask Ruth what it is, and I’ve never heard anyone calling him anything. Mrs Wallace just says ‘puss, puss’ when she’s calling him.

  I suppose I just have to put up with the nastiness from Ruth. It can’t be much fun being in a wheelchair, even though it means never having to mow the lawn, or take out the bins. But it must be hard to see everyone else running around having fun; it must make her feel really sad. And maybe Bumble’s right, maybe she needs someone like me to lash out at sometimes.

  I just wish she’d picked someone else, that’s all.

  Five o’clock, Friday, near the end of May.

  We got a new computer yesterday. Well, not brand new – one they were throwing out from Dad’s work – but it’s still in fairly good condition. I told Dad it’d be a big help to me for doing my homework, and he kind of snorted and said since when did I become so studious, and I ignored him, naturally.

  But it made me think. With a computer you can send e-mails.

  And Mam works on a computer all the time now, so she definitely has an e-mail address.

  I know we talk on the phone every day, but sometimes it’s easier to write things down than to say them. Especially when you want to ask tricky questions like ‘When am I going to see you again?’ and stuff like that.

  It’s been five months since I’ve seen her. I wonder if she looks the same. I know people don’t change all that much in a few months, but still.

  Sometimes when I try to see her face in my head I can’t, and I have to look at a photo of her to remind myself what she looks like. And that is very scary.

  We don’t have too many photos of anyone in the house – our camera is embarrassingly old, and nobody is that interested in using it – but we have a video with Mam in it. It’s from their tenth wedding anniversary, about five years ago, and some friends of theirs had a surprise party for them in their house, and made a video and gave it to them afterwards.

  It says ‘Anniversary’ on the side of the cassette, and it’s probably still sitting on the shelf behind the telly, along with The Wizard of Oz and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and Dad’s Laurel and Hardy collection, and a few others.

  We watched the anniversary video a lot at the start – or at least I did. It was like eavesdropping on Mam and Dad when they were out at night, and I loved it. Mam wore a blue dress with see-through sleeves, and her hands flew up to her face when they walked in the door and all their friends shouted ‘Surprise!’. She and Dad looked really happy in the video. They kissed when their friends drank a toast to them.

  I might be able to watch it again sometime, but I think I’ll stick to the photos for now.

  In case you’re wondering, here’s a description of Mam:

  Height: About 168cm

  Hair: Short and straight, brown but dyed red

  Eyes: Grey

  Lipstick: Rust-coloured, matching her hair

  Anything else: Three holes in one ear, two in the other. A small bump on her nose where she broke it after falling off a horse when she was about my age. A few red lines called broken veins on her cheeks.

  She has short, stubby fingers that she hates – she always told me I was lucky I got Dad’s hands. She wore a silver ring like a bit of rope on her left little finger, and she smelt of the almond body lotion she put on every morning.

  I wonder if she still smells the same. I wonder if her hair is longer, and if she still puts in the red colour every three weeks.

  I wonder if she remembers what I look like.

  Half past seven, the next day.

  You are not going to believe this. My father has just gone out with Marjorie Maloney.

  Remember her? Lives across the road, dyed black hair, stinky perfume, tight skirts that show her knickers. Breaks her iron so she has an excuse to call over to Dad, and bakes lemon meringue pies that nobody wants.

  When Dad told me that he was going out with her this evening, I was sure he was joking. I just looked at him and began to smile, and he said quickly, ‘No, really, we are. Just to the cinema, and straight back. Two and a half hours at the most. Will you be OK on your own, or will I get someone to come around?’

  I couldn’t believe it. He was serious. After all the times we used to hide in the sitting room when she cam
e knocking on the door with one of her yukky casseroles. I thought he felt exactly the same about her as I do.

  I was so mad I could hardly talk. I managed to say, ‘I don’t need a babysitter,’ and then I turned and went upstairs, and he had the good sense not to follow me. He called up a few minutes ago to say he was going, and that he’d leave his phone switched on just in case. (Of course HE has a mobile phone, not like some people who’ve been BEGGING for one for months.)

  I didn’t bother answering him, just turned up Eminem.

  I am MAD AS HELL. How DARE he go out with Marjorie Maloney? What if somebody sees them?

  As if I’d phone him anyway, even if the house was burning to a cinder. Even if a gang broke in and tied me up and robbed the place. (I know I couldn’t phone him if I was tied up, but you know what I mean.)

  When I heard the front door closing, I snuck out to the landing and watched him walking across the road to Marjorie Maloney’s house. She came out straight away – was probably watching him too, from her landing – and they got into his car and drove off, in full view of anyone who might be watching. She had a red skirt and a black top on, and she was giggling like anything as she was getting into his car. I said a quick prayer that she’d catch her skirt in the car door, but God mustn’t have been listening.

  Half an hour later

  OK, I phoned Bumble, who managed to calm me down a bit. He said Marjorie could easily have asked Dad to go out, instead of the other way around, and Dad would be too much of a gentleman to say no, even if it was the last thing he wanted to do.

  Bumble also said that maybe Marjorie really wanted to see this film, and maybe there was nobody else to go with her, and she didn’t fancy going on her own, so she only asked Dad along to keep her company.

  And the more I thought about it, as I was making a peanut butter and banana sandwich afterwards, the less mad I felt. Of course it’s not a date, nothing like that at all. Dad wouldn’t do that, not with Mam only gone a few months. No, he and Marjorie are just sort of friends.