“Declan, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were still here. What can I do for you?” I enquired, without meeting his eyes.
Declan was looking straight at me. “I just wanted to say that I was sorry about your fella. It was a terrible thing that happened to him.”
His kindness threw me. I was touched and I desperately wanted to cry again. “Thank you,” I managed.
He got up to leave and then he stopped. “Miss?”
“Yes, Declan?”
“Can I tell you a joke?”
I smiled despite myself.
He dropped his schoolbag on the ground and walked up to me. “There was a bear and a rabbit taking a shit in the woods. The bear turned to the rabbit and said: ‘Hey, Rabbit, does shit stick to your fur?’ The rabbit said, ‘No,’ so the bear wiped his arse with the rabbit.” He smiled as though to ask, “Do you get it?”
I should have admonished him for his bad language but instead I laughed and when he saw me laughing, he laughed.
“That’s a great joke,” I said.
“I know,” he grinned and he reminded me of John as a teenager. He turned to leave.
“Declan!” I called involuntarily.
He stopped.
“You live down the road from me, don’t you?” I enquired.
“I do.”
“Would you like a lift home?” I asked.
He smiled. “Only if you let me drive.”
I laughed while advising that there was no way in hell. He waited for me while I collected my things and for a few minutes everything was normal. Declan opened the door for me.
“Thanks,” I said gratefully and we both knew that I meant it.
* * *
That night Clodagh arrived with another stew from her mother.
“How long is she going to keep making me stews?” I asked her.
“Not long. Another six months or so,” she answered, smiling.
I put it in the freezer on top of the stew and lasagne she had made me the week before.
Clo sat at the counter and continued, “She just wants to help, Em.”
I nodded and I wished I could feel normal again. I turned to her, smiling. “One of my students told me a joke today – it was very funny.”
She looked surprised. “Tell me.”
“Well,” I began and paused, realising that I couldn’t remember it. “It was about a bear shitting on a rabbit or something. It was really funny,” I said lamely.
“A bear shits on a rabbit? It sounds hilarious,” she smiled. “Jesus, Em, we really need to get you out.”
We laughed and it was the first time we had enjoyed a second together since the accident. The fog was dissipating and I thanked Declan in my head once more. Later we sat in the living-room with coffee and I asked her how Seán was. I hadn’t seen him much since the funeral. He had called around a few times, but I pretended I was out and hid behind the curtains, watching him walk down the road. I couldn’t face him and now it seemed like he couldn’t face me.
“He’s fine,” she said, but she was a brutal liar.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she replied.
It made me angry. “I wish you’d talk to me!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she answered, hurt.
“Stop freezing me out. John’s dead, not me. Why can’t you just talk to me like you used to.” Tears burned my eyes for the fourth time that day, which was considerably less than the day before.
She looked at me, her eyes glassy. “I really miss him, Em!” She was crying. “I feel sick all the time and I don’t know what to say.” She continued, like a torrent: “I should have some insight or wisdom because of my dad, or maybe it’s because of his death that I know there is nothing I can do to make this any better. I wish I could say the magic words. I wish I knew them. I should, but I don’t.”
I was so relieved. I sat on the couch beside her. I told her that everything was going to be all right and we hugged.
Suddenly we were having our first real post-John conversation. She told me about a wealthy client of hers who kept sending her flowers. She talked about Seán, how he had become withdrawn and of her fears that he was smoking way too much hash. He had promised her that he’d stop, but she wasn’t sure whether he was just saying it to get her off his back.
She told me that two weeks previously Anne had missed her period and did a pregnancy test in Bewley’s café, but it turned out negative. I couldn’t believe that Anne hadn’t told me.
“Well,” she said, “with everything you’re going through …” she trailed off and thought for a second, then continued unabated, “Which is something we’ll all stop doing.”
We both smiled. She got comfortable in her chair.
“Em, in the spirit of openness, there is just one more thing.”
“What?” I smiled.
“Please stop wearing John’s deodorant. It smells like shit on you and it’s weird.”
“Point taken,” I agreed, sad but relieved. “To tell you the truth, it gives me a rash.”
We sat in silence, listening to the stereo, and after a while I asked her if she still thought about her father. She thought for a minute before she answered.
“Every now and then,” she said, before going on to tell me that, although he had been gone a long time and she hadn’t really known him, once in a while she’d see someone walking down the street or she’d find a picture of him or see a re-run of a show that her mom said he’d liked and when she did it made her smile. It wasn’t much to hold on to but it seemed to be enough. She told me that her mom said the pain goes. I recalled my vague memory of her crying in her bunny slippers and the doctor taking her screaming mother upstairs all those years ago. I still couldn’t imagine the pain in my chest ever subsiding, and somewhere deep down I didn’t want it to. She was right, she didn’t have the magic words, but what she did say helped a lot.
Chapter 7
The Bodyguard and the Graveyard
John was dead six weeks. I had promised Clo that I would visit Seán, but I had been putting it off. I was thinking about him as I drove home from school. Declan was sitting beside me in the car searching through my tapes and slagging off my taste. I was attempting to stand up for myself, but failed miserably when he pulled out Meatloaf and held it up.
“You’re not serious? Meatloaf? He’s cack.”
I couldn’t deny it but of course I tried.
“He’s great. It’s a great album, full of songs that …” I had nowhere to go and it was obvious. I gave in. “OK, fine, he’s cack,” and tried to explain that it was a phase.
“Really?” he said, still holding up the tape. “What phase was that? The vomit phase?”
I laughed but stopped suddenly when he pulled out the soundtrack to The Bodyguard.
He shook his head from side to side and I nodded, embarrassed. Nothing was said as we both knew there was no defence. I dropped him to his door. He got out of the car.
“Hey, Miss, tomorrow I’m going to introduce you to some real music.”
He legged it up the path and I made a mental note to buy Paracetamol.
* * *
I was sitting at home alone. Clo was on a date with Mark, the client who kept sending her flowers. Anne and Richard were at some fundraiser and I was bored. I picked up my keys from the coffee table and played with them for a few minutes before grabbing my coat and heading for the door. As I approached, the doorbell rang. I opened it instantly. Seán was standing there.
“Hi,” he said and then he noticed I was holding my coat. “You’re going out. I’m sorry, I should have phoned.”
I was really happy to see him. I smiled and told him that I was on my way to see him. He brightened and came in. I made coffee and he sat at the counter. He was uncomfortable and apologised for his distance. I told him it was OK, that I understood.
“I did phone a few times but when –”
“I know,” I interrupted and put his coffee
down in front of him, trying not to spill it, but my hand was shaking slightly. I sat opposite him and continued. “I just needed some time. It was selfish –”
“No, that’s not true!”
But I was determined to make things right. “You lost him too …”
I wanted to continue and apologise, but he took my hand and squeezed it.
“I was afraid I’d lost both of you,” he said.
“Me too,” I stammered.
Neither of us mentioned the mistaken kiss. It was too complicated, too embarrassing, too sad and too pathetic. Neither of us spoke about our guilt, but it was impossible to ignore it as it was painted into every facial expression.
If I hadn’t gone back inside for the lighter. If I hadn’t leaned down to kiss him. If he hadn’t told me I was beautiful. If I hadn’t dawdled, too embarrassed to move. Our lips met and John had died.
Sitting together was strange, unfamiliar. All that had gone before was dead and buried with John. We had to find a new way to communicate. I was no longer Seán’s best friend’s girlfriend. I was just me and of course we had a bond, the kind that is built up over time. We’d shared so much throughout college and now our adult lives, but I’m not sure either of us knew if it was enough to hold on to. We would have to start again with one another, a new playing field. Our comfy and safe flirtation was now behind us, our link now missing.
I made tea and we sat in silence.
“I was drunk,” he said after a long time.
Oh God, he’s talking about it.
“We all were,” I said after a time.
“I shouldn’t have kept you,” he mumbled.
“I can’t talk about it.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”
He was welling up. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t bear to see him broken. I wanted to hug him but couldn’t.
What would John think?
“I heard a good joke the other day,” I said hopefully.
He wiped his tears and looked at me strangely. “Yeah?” he said.
“Yeah,” I agreed, hoping I’d get it right.
“Go on then,” he encouraged.
“A young girl is lying in her bed in the Rotunda hospital. The old nun comes up to her and asks her for the name of her newborn baby’s father. The girl says she doesn’t know his name. The nun is puzzled and asks her why not and the girl says, ‘Listen, sister, if you ate a can of beans would you know which one made you fart?’”
Seán laughed. I smiled. It was funnier when Declan told it.
“Who told you that?” he asked.
“A kid from my class – you’d like him. He reminds me of …” I didn’t finish.
He smiled.
He looked tired. Black circles ringed his brown eyes making them unusually dull. His skin looked dry and sore, hidden under three days of stubble. He’d lost weight, so much so that his clothes looked big on him. He scratched at his new growth absentmindedly.
“Do you want to go and visit him?” he asked.
“I can’t,” I said. “Not yet.”
Over our fourth cup of coffee the void was closing. We managed to find our neutral ground. We spoke about a movie coming out and the actor who had been caught with his dick in a prostitute’s mouth. Somehow this led to a conversation about a nasty case of crabs he’d picked up a few years ago.
“I thought my dick would fall off,” he confessed.
Somehow Seán with an itchy dick amused me. “Did you tell John?”
“Yeah.”
“He never said anything.”
“I made him swear,” he said.
“So where’d you get them?” I asked, delighted by the diversion.
“Candyapple.”
“Brian!” I exhaled.
“Yeah, Brian,” he laughed.
He stayed until after nine. We watched an episode of The Bill together. It was nice watching TV with someone. When he was at the door I asked him to take care of himself and stop drowning his sorrows in drink and drugs, and to eat. He maintained that he was already on the road to recovery. I wasn’t so sure. We hugged and it wasn’t weird. We agreed to look out for one another because we were friends.
I had lied. I was ready to see John. In fact, I had planned to go to the graveyard the very next evening and I needed to be alone. I had bought a little rose bush to plant. John wasn’t a particular fan of roses but it looked pretty in the shop. It was Doreen who gave me the idea. She maintained that sometimes it helped to have something to do. I thought it was a good idea and even if I hadn’t, she had me in the car and on the way to the garden nursery before I could back out.
“When in doubt dig a hole,” she said, while Elton John sang about a rocket man on the radio. “I saw Seán on Grafton Street. the other day. He looks terrible.”
“He’s fine.”
“Oh, I don’t know – he was drinking a lot during the funeral. You’d want to watch him.”
I was concerned, but didn’t mention that Clo had the same fears.
“I’m sure he’s fine, Dor. We all have our ways of coping.”
“Getting locked isn’t coping, darlin’.”
“He said he was taking care of himself.”
“I hope so,” she said, patting my knee.
“Me too,” I mumbled.
* * *
It was raining again. I was walking around in circles trying to find John’s grave. I found myself walking across strangers’ resting places in an attempt to shorten the journey. The reality of what I was doing only dawned on me when I tripped on a wreath on the grave of a woman named Mary Moore. I jumped off.
“Sorry, Mary, I didn’t think.”
I walked on, using the moss-filled pathway that surely would be my own end. I’m going to slip and break my sodding neck. I bitched at myself for wearing high heels. As if John would notice.
Eventually, after checking nearly every gravestone in Section D, I found him. It was weird. Suddenly I was standing alone in front of a sodden pile of soil covering a box and in that box lay John, his fair hair still spiked with gel the way he liked it. His eyes closed, his beautiful face relaxed, his mouth a thin line. I didn’t know what to do. It was like a job interview where the interviewer refuses to speak. I stood in the rain for a long time. I could feel my trousers sticking to my legs. The pointed toes of my leather high-heeled boots were curling.
Damn, I love these boots. I shouldn’t think about boots. I’m here with John. Concentrate.
Doreen had been right: the tree was a fantastic idea. The rain had softened the ground. I took the little garden shovel from my bag and began to dig a hole and while I dug I found chatting easier. I no longer pretended that he was still here. I chatted as one would to a dead person. I was over the denial. I was mostly over the anger and I had bargained enough in the hospital to last a lifetime.
“Doreen’s worried about Seán. So is Clo. I think Anne is too – she mentioned him twice yesterday on the phone. He’s been drinking a lot, smoking too. I told Dor he’d be fine, but I’m not sure.” I was having difficulty, having hit rock. “Clo’s fine. She’s met someone – his name is Mark. He works in a garage. Apparently he’s very attractive. I haven’t seen him yet. He sounds nice. I hope it works out.”
I stopped talking for a moment to concentrate on levering the rock out of its comfy spot. “Got ya!” I was talking to the rock. I fit the rose bush into the hole I’d just created. It fitted perfectly. Now all I had to do was cover it over and, bingo, a lovely rose bush.
“Anne thought she was pregnant. She wasn’t. She says she’s glad. I think she’s upset though”. I felt a pang of guilt. I hadn’t been ready but that’s all over now.
The tree was suddenly lopsided.
“Crap!” I tried to straighten it, catching my finger on a thorn. “Ow! Stupid bloody tree!” I began removing some of the soil while pushing at the tree gently. “Noel’s quiet these days. He’s kind of distant. I think he feel
s guilty, God turning out to be a total bastard and all.” I could hear John laughing in my head. “He’s different since you left, but then I suppose we all are.”
The tree began to right itself. I held it while packing the soil around it to ensure it held.
“I’m fine. That doesn’t mean I don’t miss you. I miss you all the time. Wasn’t there a song called ‘Without You I’m Nothing’? Maybe it was a book, or a film. I can’t remember. Anyway, without you I’m nothing. I’m fine though. But I’ve no idea where I’m going or what I’m doing. Jesus, I’m not even sure if I know who I am. It doesn’t matter though. I’m fine.”
The earth felt solid around the rose bush. I stood up to survey my work.
“It looks good. I bet it’ll be lovely in the summer. I’m thinking about putting fencing around your grave. You wouldn’t believe the amount of people who walk on the graves around here.”
I left soon after. I hadn’t cried. I hadn’t even moaned – well, not really. I had been strong. It was a good thing to do. I was a survivor just like my dad had told me I’d be. I walked to the car with my shovel in hand.
I’m terrified.
Chapter 8
Mama
For three months my mother and Anne were vying for the world record in how many times a day they could phone me. Eventually after I threatened to cut my phone line, they stopped. It was time to pick up the pieces and move on, but the problem was there was still the issue of the driver.
A simple blood test had revealed the driver to be sober, unlike his victim. An inquest revealed that the driver had been going at a reasonable speed but when John, drunk and stoned, had stepped out in front of him, he was unable to brake because the brakes on the car he had had serviced that day were faulty. A further investigation was leading to a possible conviction for the mechanic who had supposedly serviced the car. I didn’t know who these people were and I didn’t want to. I wasn’t like those people you read about, desperate for justice. How could the imprisonment of some unknown mechanic make up for a life? I didn’t feel the need for redemption through someone else’s misery. It was easier to convince myself that it was just a random, terrible accident.
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