No Way to Say Goodbye

by Anna McPartlin

  “I know. Just help him.”

  “He might never be able to look you in the face again.”

  “I know.”

  “No, love, you don’t. So many times I wanted to tell your mother but I couldn’t.”

  “He needs help.”

  “You could lose him.”

  “He was never mine to keep.”

  Van Morrison was playing in the day room. Penny looked up from one of the books Mary had sent and marked the page. The phone was free and had been for at least half an hour. She couldn’t delay making the call any longer so, after she’d helped Eileen from Ward Five to find the remote control, she dialled Adam’s number.

  “Hello?” she said. “It’s me.”

  “Penny.” He sounded relieved to hear her voice. “Are you OK? I’ve been worried sick. Why haven’t you let me visit you?”

  “I needed time.”

  “Fair enough. I’m just happy to hear from you now.”

  “Adam,” she began, “I know you’re back in Kenmare.”

  “I made Mary promise to say nothing,” he said, a little annoyed.

  “Don’t blame her. I asked about you and, well, you know what she’s like. She tried to cover but failed miserably.” She laughed a little. “How are you getting on in the restaurant and with your dad?”

  “We’re fit to kill one another. Still, it’s not too bad. We just hired a new chef and he’s a pain in the arse but excellent.”

  “Good. I’m sorry about you and Alina.”

  “You are?”

  “Yeah. I am.”

  “The kids are OK. I’m going to have them every second weekend. It’s hard but they’ll adjust and they definitely don’t miss the arguing.”

  “That’s good.”

  “When are you coming home?” he asked.

  “That’s what I’m calling about.”

  “You want me to pick you up?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, OK, what can I do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Penny remained silent just long enough for Adam to worry. Eventually she said, “You told me once about the first time you ever saw me.”

  “You were wearing blue shoes.”

  “That’s right. I was alone and you said you saw me cry.”

  “And all I wanted to do was save you.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Well, you can.”

  “How?”

  “Let me go.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said, sounding panicked.

  “I’ve been such a mess and for so long. I need to be a different person. I need to move on.”

  “Is that your doctor or you talking?”

  “It’s the right thing to do.”

  “No, Penny – please.”

  “I’m so sorry.” She hung up.

  Eileen from Ward Five was waiting to give her a hug. “It’s hard to let go,” she said.

  Penny nodded and dried her eyes. “Come on, let’s see if we can find an episode of CSI,” she suggested.

  “My favourite.” Eileen smiled.

  Mary made it home a little after eight, exhaustion threatening to shut her mind down. Mr Monkels was waiting by the window. She watched him stretch in anticipation of her key turning. He approached, tail wagging. She rubbed his head and together they walked upstairs. She fell onto her bed and he flopped beside her. Within minutes they were sleeping soundly.

  She didn’t wake until mid-afternoon the following day. Her eyes opened to the sound of Mr Monkels licking himself with the enthusiasm he usually reserved for prohibited foodstuffs. She sat up and looked out of the small square window. The sky resembled a perfect light blue silk and was cloudless. She stood up and went to look outside. Below, a woman walked past wearing sunglasses and pushing a pram with a parasol protecting a little face from the hot sun. Ivan was varnishing the deck of his boat, which he’d been promising to do all year. Chris emerged from the water and hauled himself aboard – his father pushed him back in, to Justine’s glee. The little girl threw her head back, laughing, perched on the side, swinging her legs. Mossy sat in his front garden, smoking a cigarette and cutting his toenails. His battered old radio was dangling by its cord from the window and from it Van Morrison sang to her about the water and the rain.

  Before she noticed the absence of Sam’s car, she knew he was gone.

  27. Those left behind

  It was a warm September evening. Mary drove home, anticipating a walk in the woods with Mr Monkels. She was determined to make the most of the weather and her time before it changed and she left. She’d stop at the plaque that bore her son’s name and walk through the trees with her camera in hand. Since Penny had returned, she had often joined Mary and Mr M and, while Mr M investigated the undergrowth, they’d gossip and laugh about all manner of subjects.

  It was during one such walk some weeks earlier that Mary had confided she had been accepted into a photography course in London.

  “You’re joking?”

  “No.”

  “Congratulations, you deserve it.”

  Mary was grinning from ear to ear.

  “When?” Penny asked.

  “Next month.”

  “I can take Mr Monkels,” Penny offered. “I’d love to help.”

  “Dad’s having him, but thanks.”

  “Good for you,” Penny said, and they stopped to watch the sun dance on the water.

  “You’ll come and visit?” Mary asked.

  “Absolutely.” Her friend hooked her arm through Mary’s. “Any excuse to shop in London.”

  “You’ll be OK?”

  “I will.” Penny smiled. “It’s all changed. It was the same for so long and now it’s not.”

  “It’s better?”

  “It’s much better.”

  But this evening Penny wouldn’t be joining them on their walk – she was going to her cooking class.

  Mary got home a little after six and called to Mr Monkels. He didn’t come out of the kitchen or down the stairs. He wasn’t stretched out on the sofa or by the window. He wasn’t in the garden because earlier he had made it very clear that he had no wish to go out, despite the warm weather. She made her way upstairs.

  “Mr Monkels!” she called. “Where are you, boy?”

  She found him on her bed but this time he wouldn’t wake. She knew instantly that he was gone. She sat beside him, kissed his furry face and then called the vet.

  After he’d left Mossy helped her carry her dog downstairs.

  “He wouldn’t stay to see you leave, Mare,” Mossy said.

  “Yeah,” she agreed, blowing her nose.

  “It’s for the best.”

  “I know,” she said, with a sob. “I’ll really miss him, Mossy.”

  “Of course you will,” Mossy said, patting her back. “Mr Monkels was a fine dog, loving and faithful and –”

  “Mossy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Right.”

  Mossy made tea while Mary sat stroking Mr Monkels. Ivan was the first to arrive, with Sienna trailing behind. Their separation hadn’t lasted long. In fact they had only managed a week apart when Norma had announced she’d found a job and a new place to live. Once Ivan had approved the house as fit for his wife and children, he insisted on paying the rent. Norma and the kids moved out and, one long conversation and a romantic trip to Paris later, Sienna moved in.

  Despite the late hour, Ivan and Sienna had managed to secure a wreath in the flower shop before it closed. The card read: Mr Monkels, we love you. The thought was so nice it made Mary’s nose and eyes run. All the crying was starting to get to Mossy, who took their arrival as an opportune moment to make his getaway.

  Adam arrived with a couple of spades and a large box. This, too, made Mary cry, so Sienna comforted her while Ivan and Adam dug a hole in her back garden. Penny arrived last, having received the text message at the end of her cooking class. She had shared Ma
ry’s news with the entire class, who had all donated their lamb and vegetable stew and lemon tarts so that Mary wouldn’t have to cook for a week.

  “It’s just like a real funeral,” Sienna said to Ivan, who took a break from digging to get a glass of water.

  “It is a real funeral.”

  “It’s a dog,” she reminded him.

  “It’s more than a dog. It’s Mr Monkels,” he said.

  When the hole was dug and Mary was ready to say goodbye, Ivan placed Mr Monkels in the box and, with Adam’s help, they lowered it into the earth.

  “Do you want to say anything?” Ivan asked.

  “I think the wreath says it all.” Mary gave a little sob.

  The scene was so sad that Penny and Sienna joined in with the sob, as did Mossy, who was standing on a beer crate and peering over his wall.

  In the absence of anything else to do or say, the lads filled in the grave and placed the wreath on top of the fresh earth. Rest in peace, Mr M. Afterwards an impromptu party was held. Jack arrived with a crate of booze, closely followed by friends Patty and Con, each bearing boxes of soft drinks and mixers.

  Pierre followed with some leftovers from the day’s trading. When Mary made a face, he chastised her: “This is perfectly good food, Marie. You Irish are so wasteful.”

  “You’re giving out to me at my dog’s funeral?” she asked, managing to hide a smile.

  “Say you’re sorry,” Jessie said, giving him a slap as she passed him.

  “You are right, Marie, today is not the day but as la belle Scarlett once said, ‘Tomorrow is another day.’”

  Jessie laughed. “I could listen to that man all day but it’s an awful shame I have to look at him.”

  “There’s something weird with those two,” Penny said.

  “You’re right,” Mary agreed.

  “What?” Penny asked, mouth agape.

  Mary winked.

  “They did not?” Penny said, eyes wide.

  Mary said nothing.

  “Jesus, you think you know people!”

  Penny walked off into the sitting room where Mossy was playing the only song he knew on guitar and Ivan was heckling.

  Mary watched her pass Adam, who was talking to Norma – she’d arrived with the kids who were outside placing flowers they’d stolen from a neighbour’s garden on Mr Monkels’s new place of rest. The birds above them were quiet.

  Adam called to Penny, who came back to join in their conversation.

  Their relationship was being redefined and it was hard on them both but, watching from her kitchen, Mary guessed that they would be all right.

  Steven and Barry arrived – without Pluto, as a mark of respect. “We didn’t want to rub it in, Mare,” Steven said. “After all, Pluto is incredibly cute and alive.”

  Mary smiled at him. “Thanks, Steve, you really know what to say.”

  Tin arrived into the kitchen looking for a bin. “Mare, sorry about the dog dying but still and all you’re looking great on it!” he said.

  Before long her house was filled with family, friends, neighbours, well-wishers and music.

  It was after twelve and the party was still going strong. Mary sat in her garden beside the mound covering Mr Monkels. Penny came out to join her. “Do you want some company?” she asked, handing her a freshly made coffee.

  “Only yours.” Mary smiled.

  “You’re being really brave,” Penny said, nudging her.

  “I know he was a dog and not a person but…”

  “But every time you said his name it brought back Ben,” Penny said.

  “Yeah,” Mary nodded, “it did.”

  “Everything was the same for so long.” Penny repeated the words she had said in the wood.

  “But it’s all changed now,” Mary replied.

  “And as hard as it is to let go…”

  “… it’s for the best,” Mary said sadly. Then she said, while watching Tin and Mossy attempt a two-hand reel through her kitchen window, “I received a copy of Mia Johnson’s third album today.”

  “Sam?” Penny asked.

  “No, Mia.” Mary smiled. “She sent a card.”

  “Such a nice woman. I still feel like such an arsehole,” Penny mumbled. “What did she say?”

  “She said that Sam was well and asked how I’d managed to get him into therapy. Apparently it was something she could never do. She said he was happy and healthy.”

  “What did happen between you two?” Penny asked.

  “Nothing,” Mary said, with a smile. “Nothing at all.”

  “OK, you don’t have to tell me – tonight.” A moment or two passed. “So, what’s the album like?”

  “It’s good. I especially like the track Sam wrote.”

  “He wrote a song for Mia?”

  “He wrote the music. Mia wrote the lyrics. She’s a very intuitive woman,” Mary said.

  “Did she mention me?” Penny asked, laughing, and Mary joined in.

  Epilogue

  It was a cold morning in New York City. Sam stood in the centre of the room taking a long look at the white walls and white-painted wooden floor. It reminded him of rehab and the man he used to be, if only for a moment. This room was much bigger than the one he had emerged from three years previously.

  Mia pushed him from behind. “Come on or we’ll be late.”

  “I still don’t know what we’re doing here.”

  “You’re so impatient,” she said, looking at the other people milling around. She pointed to a room off the one in which they were standing, which contained plants and a table of white and red wine. “Do you want a drink before we go in?” she asked.

  “No, I want to go home. Don’t you have a husband to do this stuff with?”

  “He’s in the studio.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who with?”

  “Does it matter?” she asked, pushing him towards the door.

  “OK, what about you? Shouldn’t you be resting?”

  “I’m pregnant, not ill. Come on!” She took him by the hand. “You’ll like it.”

  Sam stood in the middle of another white room. Black-and-white photos lined the walls. Mia pulled him to take a closer look. They were all gravesides or memorials, each instilled with a sadness that seemed familiar. He couldn’t explain it – you had to see the photos to be able to understand. He was lost in a photo of a young girl cleaning a broken headstone. She looked East European; she wore a scarf over her head and couldn’t have been more than ten. The headstone listed four names and their deaths were all dated for the same day. He wondered who they were and what they were to her. Was it her family or had she even known them? Maybe it was a summer job, but that didn’t explain the girl’s sadness.

  Mia pulled him along. He passed a photo of an empty goal with flowers intertwining the net and an empty bench in memory of a woman called Emily.

  “What do you think of this one?” she asked, stopping in front of another. “‘We love you, Mr Monkels’,” he read. “There’s only one Mr Monkels.”

  “Yes, there is, or sadly was – the photo testifies that he’s no longer with us,” Mary said, from behind him.

  He turned. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “I was going to phone, but it’s been so long.”

  “I was going to write. I just didn’t know what to say.”

  “You’re both as bad as each other,” Mia told them. “It’s a good thing I like to read the arts section.”

  They were staring into each other’s eyes.

  “I’m going home,” Mia said. “My feet are killing me.”

  Mary and Sam said goodbye to her, then turned to one another. It had been a long time and yet no time at all.

  “I have one photo I think you’ll like,” Mary said, and he followed where she led. She stood in front of a picture of a tree. Light streamed down from the sky above and rain poured down the bark, running into and past the carving.

  “LB – Lena Breslin! You found it! I can’t believe you foun
d it!”

  “It took a while,” she smiled, “but I had some time after you left.”

  “It’s a beautiful exhibition,” he said, gesticulating at the photos of ghosts that lined the walls.

  “Yeah, well, what else would you expect from Mary of the Sorrows?” She grinned.

  “I’m guessing you haven’t been that for a long time.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Would you like to catch up over dinner?”

  “Very much.”

  “And, if you’re free, maybe afterwards we could get married.”

  She laughed. “Let’s just have a shag first and see how it goes.”

  And in a moment reminiscent of the closing credits of a Hollywood romance or a French drama, Sam and Mary stood in the middle of a white room. It would have been obvious to anyone who cared to look that all they could see was each other. And if that person was given to fantasy they might have expected them to live happily ever after.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to my family: Mary and Tony O’Shea for being my aunt, my uncle, my mum, my dad, and all things during times good and bad; Denis, Siobhan, Brenda, Caroline and Aisling for taking me into your home and making me feel like I was a part of it; their significant others, Lisa, Paul, Mark, Ger and Dave, for all that you are to the people I love. Mary and Kevin Flood, for being my home away from home, and to Mary for being the eternal reminder that my mum once lived here; their sons Eoin, Dara, Cónal & Ruaraí for the eighties, and for being the people who never failed to make me laugh; Paudie McSwiney, for your friendship, which I hold dear; the McSwineys of Kenmare for being the first family in Ireland to buy a copy of Pack Up the Moon; my grandparents, Bertie and Nora McSwiney, no longer living but still in all our hearts – we loved you then and we love you now; Claire McSwiney, my half-sister and some would say better half, thank you for your kindness; Claire’s mother Mary – you were and always will be a lady; Don and Terry McPartlin for your enduring support, help and friendship.

  To my husband, who fell in love with me even though I had a God-awful perm and a penchant for wearing polka dots – like Dolly P once said, “I will always love you”, and the day you bother to read one of my books is the day you’ll get a dedication.