Pack Up the Moon

by Anna McPartlin

“Who knows?” she said and then she smiled to herself knowingly.

  “John?” I asked conspiratorially.

  “Maybe,” she smiled the same smile.

  “Jesus,” I said.

  She nodded.

  “I wish he’d fuck off,” I said wistfully, not sure that I was particularly happy with my ex and his penchant for sending me on missions of mercy.

  Doreen laughed. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

  She left and as I drove to school I wondered if John really had sent me another message from the grave or was I just super-sensitive since his passing. Either way, before his death I was never known for my intuitiveness. I also thought about the fact that I seemed to be spending a large portion of the last two years in and out of the bloody hospital. By the time I reached the school car park, I was convinced that John had looked down on us. He had seen trouble and he had helped us and it didn’t freak me out. I apologised to him for my earlier comment. I didn’t want him to fuck off. It made me happy to think that maybe he was still around looking after us and as I parked the car I realised that I no longer feared life and death blurring into one. I knew he was continuing, that he was being taken care of, that he was at peace and that I’d see him again in another world, at another time. Seán would be there and Clo, Anne and Richard and we would be fine and for the first time in a long time I thought about God and His plan and I believed. Noel would have slapped his thigh.

  After school I headed to the hospital. Anne looked a good deal better and although she found it difficult to sit up at least she was horizontal, which was an improvement on the night before. She was pitiful, weak and terribly afraid, and my heart broke for her.

  Clodagh arrived, breathless, as she had run out of a meeting to make the strict visiting hours. Richard hadn’t appeared yet which was worrying. Anne was apologising to Clo, worried that in her present condition she wouldn’t be able to be bridesmaid. Clo wasn’t worried. She had full faith that Anne would recover and if she didn’t Tom had a cousin that would fit into the dress.

  Seán had been speaking to Richard daily since the break-up and it emerged that he, like Anne, felt like the victim and was similarly depressed and mute. Seán tried to talk him into making the first move but it was no good. He was stubborn and so used to her caving in that he felt it was only a matter of time. Seán had tried and failed to reach him. He had no idea how badly his wife was suffering and it seemed that he didn’t care. As far as Richard was concerned, Anne had walked out on him so why should he care? Sean had tried to explain that relationships were give and take and that maybe he should consider giving in just this once. Richard called him an asshole and hung up. Sean cursed and blamed me for insisting he interfere.

  In the end, where Seán failed, Clo had triumphed. She had a bellyful of it and so two days into Anne’s injury she managed to locate him through his PA. He was in Paris tending to an apartment that he was letting. It appears he was having problems with the non-paying tenants and he had decided to evict them personally. She called his hotel room from my place and told him how it was, as only she could.

  “Richard, it’s Clo, don’t you dare hang up. Richard? Right, it’s like this. You and Anne have been together since first year in college. She’s your wife now. You’re apart and miserable and we, your friends, are really worried about both of you. So here’s the wake-up call. You’re a spoilt bastard and you’ve had your own way since forever, but you’re married now and that means compromise. Anne is in hospital, having fainted from starving herself – now I’ll admit I may share the responsibility there but the fact is that now she’s done her back in. She’s desperately unhappy, in agony and you are supposed to love her. So get off your arse, get home and do something about it. Oh and by the way, from now on check your bloody messages.”

  She fell silent and I wished I could hear what he was saying. After a few seconds she handed the phone to me.

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  I said hello and he asked me if Anne was alright.

  “She’s really hurt herself and it could have been a lot worse,” I said and I believed I wasn’t exaggerating.

  I told him that Anne had done everything she could to try to make him happy and it was about time he returned the favour. I reminded him of the good advice he had given me and I hoped he would accept mine.

  Clo grabbed the phone and added, “Don’t be a dick all your life.”

  She hung up.

  “Clodagh!” I screeched. It had seemed to go well until she called him a dick.

  “I’m sick of him,” she noted.

  “But for Christ’s sake! Calling him a dick is hardly the best foot forward.”

  “We’ve tried everything else and besides a fact is a fact.”

  “Lovely,” I noted.

  She grinned. “You worry too much. You’re so like your ma.”

  I threw a cushion at her. “I am not,” I said disgusted.

  I have to point out that I’m not sure why this analogy upset me, as aside from loving her, I am also very fond of my mother, but it did.

  “You,” I said.

  “You,” she countered.

  “You,” I furthered.

  This line of argument continued until Seán arrived laden with shopping and a large brown envelope. Leonard immediately jumped down from the window and followed Seán into the kitchen, desperate to be fed. Seán obliged before returning to the sitting-room lighting a cigar.

  Clo and I looked at him.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Celebrating,” he noted.

  “Oh yeah?” Clo asked.

  “Yeah,” he agreed.

  “Celebrating what?” I ventured.

  “My book. It’s being published.”

  Our jaws fell.

  “No!” Clo said.

  I was on my feet. “Oh my God!”

  I was so excited I thought about puking. This was something I thought about a lot lately. My stomach was on edge. Still I was extremely happy, delirious almost. Seán was jumping up and down in the one spot. I was clinging on, enjoying the ride.

  “That’s incredible,” Clo said genuinely pleased.

  “It could be on the bookshelves as soon as Christmas,” he noted proudly while holding me tight.

  “I could do the PR!” Clodagh almost screamed. “I’d love to do a book launch!”

  I laughed. She was such a media whore. He was dancing and inhaling his cigar and it was forgetting that it was a cigar as opposed to a cigarette that was to be his downfall. Five minutes later he felt sick.

  Clodagh left soon after. At the door I wondered aloud if we had done the right thing in calling Richard. She told me that we had and begged me not to waste the night worrying when there was so much to celebrate. She was right.

  * * *

  Our phone call had worked. Within five hours Richard was by Anne’s bedside holding up the piece of paper that she’d written “Choose” on. The word, “Choose” had a line through it and underneath was written “You”. It was a real movie moment, but instead of falling into his arms (let’s face it, she wasn’t in a position to) she stood (lay) firm. They had to make changes in their marriage and they would either fix it or walk away. They talked for hours and for the first time Richard listened to his wife. She articulated all that bothered her and it turned out that there was a long list to get through. He agreed that he had been a dick and actually apologised. He hadn’t meant to be such a dick and he admitted her fall had frightened him. He had thought that if he held firm she would come back, but for the first time in his life Richard realised that the world didn’t revolve around him. They talked into the early hours and eventually it was agreed that they would try to live in Dublin for the majority of the year. Richard was giving in to his wife’s wishes and despite the discomfort she was elated. Equality at last.

  Chapter 22

  Blue

  I woke up at seven a.m. The alarm hadn’t gone off and it was unlike me to wake before it.
I felt restless and looked over at a peaceful Seán. I thought about waking him to discuss Anne’s impending hen night, but decided against it, as my feeling was that he wouldn’t be too pleased. I got up. He found me in the bath half an hour later. He offered to make breakfast, but I really didn’t feel like it. He offered to give me a back rub, as my body seemed to ache. I stood up and felt dizzy. He noted that I was pale while handing me a towel. He helped me from the bath and was concerned, but the bath water had been hot so I promised it was no big deal. I tried to force-feed myself a piece of toast, but the sight of it made me queasy.

  Please, God, not the flu, I silently prayed as I got into the car. This night was to be Clo’s hen and there was no question that I wouldn’t be there. I headed to school praying that if it was the flu the kids had it too. They didn’t.

  Damn, I thought as I prepared myself to educate thirty rowdy students.

  * * *

  Declan came up to me after the lesson.

  “You alright?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” I smiled feeling a little better.

  “You sick?” he asked.

  “No,” I smiled.

  “Hmmm,” he said under his breath.

  “What’s ‘Hmmm’ supposed to mean?” I attempted a smile.

  “You’re green.” He pointed at my face.

  “Are you thinking about going into medicine, Declan?”

  “No,” he answered flatly. “I’m going to manage pop groups, work them like dogs, make millions and retire at thirty-five.” He smiled and leaned forward. “Did you ever hear Jackie Lynch in third year sing?” he asked.

  I said that I hadn’t.

  “Nice little voice on her and not a bad looker. A bit of slap, the right clothes, she could be a little ride.” He grinned and added it was a pity I wasn’t ten years younger.

  I let it pass because he always entertained me and, to be truthful, at my saddest and before Seán, I swear there were days when I thought it was a damn shame he wasn’t ten years older. I watched him leave and wondered how long it would be before I was reading about him in magazines. I felt much better by lunch. I ate, which was to be a big mistake. I lost said lunch rapidly, but by the afternoon I felt better again. It was now obvious that I was coming down with some sort of stomach bug and prayed it wouldn’t fully kick in until the next day.

  * * *

  Seán was home before me, waiting by the door. He was smiling and holding a bunch of balloons in one hand and box of my favourite chocolates in the other and he had a rose between his teeth. I laughed.

  “Well?” I queried suspiciously.

  He had to spit the rose out to speak. “They’re giving me a two-book deal with an option for four,” he said beaming.

  I screamed. “Oh my God, you’re such a ride!”

  “I know!” he agreed, shouting.

  I jumped him. He dropped the balloons and the chocolates, much to a slim-lined and deprived Leonard’s joy, and, while we torn each other’s clothes off, Leonard tried to gnaw through packaging. We celebrated with champagne in bed from five to eight and then I had no option but to leave for Clo’s hen. He understood and besides we had the whole weekend to celebrate. The good news was that I was feeling great, full of love and champagne and ready to party. Clo hadn’t trusted us with the arrangements for the hen, saying we’d make an arse of it. Instead she took full charge, advising that any hen arriving with a plastic or mechanical mickey would be asked to leave. No wigs, no ball and chain, no crowns, no T-shirts, no phallic foods. This was a night about women together, clubbing, getting pissed and going out with a bang. There were ten of us, all dressed in little black numbers with big hair, lots of make-up and high heels. We entered the first pub, sat in a line at the bar and drank a row of shots and then another. The third was on the house.

  We took a table and drank cocktails, talking about Posh Spice, diamonds, health spas, the tax system, Caribbean holidays and men, Clinton, phone sex, Big Brother, Kid Rock, Palestine, Nostradamus, babies, weddings, Clo and the future. She was glowing, intoxicated and having a blast. We headed to a club and danced for hours while Anne stood painfully and yet waving from the side of the dance floor, then on to the next club to play pool, sit on couches, smoke cigars, drink some more, fall off the couches, drink some more hoping that nobody noticed.

  At four the management called us some taxis.

  Anne had improved greatly, still a little stiff, but she was loosening with alcohol. Clo helped her into the taxi, afraid that her hen may have been too much for her injured friend, but Anne was adamant that it was a night for celebration and she was not about to miss a second of it. Richard was away so she invited us back to her place for another toast. Anne filled our glasses and we held them high. She remained standing, as sitting was still a bit of a challenge.

  “We wish for you everything good and more!” she smiled and we clinked glasses.

  Clo wanted to make a toast. “To the many men I turned down tonight and to the many men I’ll be turning down for the rest of my life! Good luck to one and all!”

  We laughed and Anne raised her glass.

  “One and all!” we repeated.

  I didn’t make a toast – I was too busy drinking. Anne made herself comfortable on the floor, drinking from a straw so she didn’t have to move her head. We sat up until six talking about the past, our teenage years, college and our summer in the States, the people we met along the way, the people we lost along the way. Clo reminded me of my dream wedding, John standing on the altar, George Michael singing at the reception. I laughed. Now when I daydreamed it was of Seán and George Michael didn’t really figure. It’s funny how the world works, how we win and lose, how we can never really know what’s ahead though we never stop planning. How we survive and move on. There’s a sadness that comes with survival, but also more joy to be had. We agreed Clo had earned hers. She deserved the best because to us she was the best, the brightest, the funniest and the truest and Tom was a good man and although we three, sitting there, had long ago realised that life isn’t all roses and behind every silver lining lies a big dirty cloud, we also knew that we would always find comfort in one another and after all isn’t that what being a hen is all about?

  * * *

  The next day I suffered. I suffered like I’ve never suffered before. Truly the pain in my head was tantamount to a bomb going off deep inside my temple. At one point I considered that I might be having an aneurysm. I even thought about going back to the hospital. Why not? At this stage they all knew my name. I lay in bed with a cold cloth carefully placed over my eyes and moaning to ensure that I hadn’t lost the power of speech. I felt sick but then again that was to be expected. I had drunk my own body weight. An unusual side effect of this particular hangover was painful breasts. They also felt a little bigger than usual and were extremely tender to the touch. I opened my top and there were little brown rings circling my nipples.

  Interesting.

  Seán was in the office playing catch-up, which is something he often did on a Sunday. I was alone except for Leonard who was engaging in a staring match with Old Mrs Jennings’ cat across the road. It was after two when I eventually made it out of bed. I puked and instantly my stomach felt better. However, my head was still reverberating when Doreen called to share in the events of the previous night. She made tea while I was only too happy to detail the kind of hangover I was experiencing. She didn’t seem too concerned.

  “Yeah, well, it serves you right.”

  “Thanks a lot, Doreen.”

  “Yeah, well, what age are you? Really, Emma, sometimes I wonder about your generation.”

  I began to wonder why I bothered. I made a face and she laughed. “It’s not funny. I was supposed to mark essays today. I can’t see straight. I want to puke.” Then for some reason I added, “And the odd thing is, my breasts are tender.”

  “Tender how?” she asked.

  “Just tender, sore,” I said dismissively.

  “How sore?”
>
  “Oh for Christ’s sake, sore!”

  “What else?” she asked.

  I wondered about whether I should mention the brown rings and then I wondered, if I didn’t, would it be something I should have mentioned and I couldn’t once I’d slipped into a coma.

  “Brown rings around my nipples.”

  This statement was met with a silence that was unusual for Doreen. “Brown rings,” she repeated in a voice that suggested concern.

  “It’s a bit weird, isn’t it?” I queried briefly, considering whether or not it was the effect of too many sunbeds in my early twenties.

  “How have you been feeling lately?” she asked.

  “Fine,” I said and then I thought about it. “Actually not really fine. Last week I could have sworn I had a touch of food poisoning and then yesterday I felt like I was about to come down with the flu. I was kind of dizzy.”

  “You are dizzy,” she sighed.

  “Excuse me?” I responded with great indignity.

  “Emma, it’s obvious.”

  But nothing was obvious to me.

  “When was your last period?”

  I began to twig where this conversation was heading and I would have laughed only laughter caused pain. “About two months ago,” I said smiling.

  “Two months ago!” she nearly shouted.

  “I know what you’re thinking but it’s no big deal. I’m as irregular as Dublin Bus.” It was true. As a teenager I’d be lucky if I got six periods a year. I’d pretty much regulated in my twenties, but then John died and I’d been all over the place ever since.

  “Emma, despite your irregularity would you not consider taking a test?” she asked, not particularly comforted by my menstrual history.

  “No.”

  “Well, I think you should.”

  This was not what I needed to hear today of all days. “Really, Dor, it’s fine.”

  “I’m sure it is, but that doesn’t mean you’re not pregnant, love. Brown circles are a real giveaway.”

  Bollocks.

  She had to go to her son’s football match and she left warning me to get a test. I stayed on the couch, attempting to block out the conversation we’d just had. By four I couldn’t take it anymore. I got into the car, drove to the nearest chemist and bought headache tablets and a pregnancy test.