I do have to say, the sight of my father makes me feel relief, like that feeling of crawling into your parents’ bed at night after a bad dream.
But this isn’t a bad dream.
This is very real.
I love Padraig with all my heart. I love him so much that it’s a wildfire that burns through my chest, creating new scars and new growth on the inside. I can’t temper these flames and the fact that I don’t have Padraig, that he told me to go and that I actually left, makes those flames char me to the bone.
What if I never go back?
What if he stops loving me?
What if this is a bad dream I can never wake up from?
By the time I reach the door, I’ve dropped the suitcase and collapsed into my father’s arms.
“Hey baby girl,” he says to me, holding me tight. “It’s okay. You can cry. You’re home now.”
But Padraig was my home. Shambles was my home.
“Let’s go inside, okay?” he says to me, pulling away and smoothing the hair on my head. “I’ll make some coffee and we’ll talk. Or not. Whatever you want.”
Somehow my dad has gotten even more loving while I was gone. It makes me realize how much I missed him, especially after what happened with Colin. Even though the reason why I’m here is horrible, at least this is giving me another chance to work things out with my parents.
Of course, once he leads me over to the couch in the spotless living room and sits me down, I’m reminded at how much easier it is to work things out with him versus my mother. Just looking around the room and how everything is so minimal and stark and clean with sharp lines, it’s such a contrast to Shambles, which, at times was in shambles a bit. Agnes had doilies everywhere and little ceramic knickknacks gathering dust on the shelves, and crooked frames that housed Padraig’s mom’s poems, and there were so many books everywhere. It was cozy chaos but it was warm and I loved it.
I’m about to ask where my mother is when she comes out from down the hall, fluffing up the ends of her hair. I have a feeling she made herself look nice just for me.
“Sweetheart,” she says to me, throwing her arms out.
“Hi mom,” I say, getting up and giving her a light hug and preparing for the worst.
“Let me look at you,” she says, holding me at arms-length and eying me up and down.
Yep. This is the worst.
“You look so tired,” she says, wincing.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I just got off a plane. From Ireland.”
“Plus you must be so broken-hearted. Dave!” she yells into kitchen. “Do you have any wine? I think we need some wine.”
I shake my head. “No, I’ll pass out.”
Though not a bad idea.
“Fine, Dave, I need wine!” She gives me a tight smile. “It’s better for you not to drink wine anyway, so many empty calories.”
Whatever expression I had on my face falls and I shudder internally.
This again.
But this time, I don’t want to ignore it.
“Why are you so worried about calories?” I ask her pointedly.
She frowns, taken aback. “What do you mean? We should all be worried about calories.”
“But you’re not. You’re having wine and you don’t care.”
“I used to, when I was young, when I was your age,” she says stiffly. “And it’s only because of that that I can have what I want now. When you get older, things change. You’ll see. It’s not uncommon for women to find their ideal weight when they’re in their fifties and sixties. So don’t give up.”
Is she serious?
“Don’t give up?” I say. “Mom, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t count calories anymore. I watch what I eat in a roundabout way but if I want a cookie, I’m going to have a cookie. And I’m fine with that.”
“Irene, are you harping on your daughter again?” my dad shouts from the kitchen. “She’s going through heartbreak again, be nice to her.”
I raise my brows and look at my mom like, yeah be nice to me.
But my mother just raises her chin, right away going on the defense. “I am being nice. I care about you sweetheart, that’s all this is. I worry for you.”
“Why? I’m a size twelve! I’m not obese! And even if I was, who are you to say whether I’m healthy or not! I don’t have health problems other than the fact that I was hit by a truck when I was little and I had to learn how to walk again and I have scars and pins and rods all over my fucking body!”
She flinches like I’d slapped her. “You don’t need to yell. We all know what happened to you. But you can’t use that as an excuse.”
“An excuse for what?”
She throws her hands out. “I don’t know, this,” she says gesturing to me. My eyes go wide. “Whatever you’re doing that makes all these men leave you.”
I gasp.
NO.
“What did you just say?” I ask, the words coming out as sharp as daggers.
She swallows, hesitating. “Look, sweetie. I love you. But this is the second relationship in a row that you’ve let burn to the ground. What can I say? Both Cole and this Padraig fellow were rich, handsome and respectable men and both of those relationships ended. You’re obviously doing something wrong, something that puts them off. Sooooo … maybe it’s your weight.”
I can’t even believe it.
I should believe it, but I can’t.
The fucking nerve.
She goes on, “I mean, have you seen most women your age? They’re at the gym all the time. You never go. They watch what they eat. You never do. Now, I know you can’t wear high heels because of your feet, but you could try dressing a little sexier too. Don’t you see, there are ways to improve yourself? Just try them out for once and maybe you’ll be able to change. I believe in you. I believe that you can do it.” She smiles at me.
The worst part of this is that the smile is genuine.
She actually believes all this shit.
“I think I’m fine the way I am,” I say, my words barely audible, the anger rising up through me like molten lava.
“She’s fine the way she is, Irene,” my dad says harshly as he comes over.
She spots the wine and reaches for it but he holds it back. “I’m not giving you this until you apologize to your daughter,” he says, meaning business.
This makes my mom’s hackles go right up. “Why should I apologize to her? It’s not my fault she’s like this.”
“Like what?” I ask. “Just say it. Just call me fat if that’s on your tongue because I’m okay with that. It’s just a word. It doesn’t mean anything bad unless you make it bad. The word fat doesn’t define anyone and it certainly doesn’t define me. It’s a word that’s not worth anything.”
She gives me an apologetic smile. “It’s worth something when your men leave you to find someone else better.”
FUCK. THIS.
“You know what?!” I erupt at her, my words screeching out of my throat. I start unbuttoning my coat and then toss it to the ground.
“Are you getting ready to fight me?” she asks in shock as I start pulling off my sweater. “Is she going to fight me, Dave?”
“I am sick and tired of this!” I yell, throwing my sweater to the ground and then taking off my shirt underneath until I’m in my bra.
“Valerie,” my mom scolds me, hand at her mouth as she eyes my bra. “What are you doing?”
I start pulling off my leggings and then slide off my boots and socks until I’m standing there in my bra and underwear in front of my parents. “This,” I say, pointing to my body, right there in all its scared and chubby glory. “I’m doing this. I’m showing you what I’ve never let you see before, not even when we went on vacation because I never went swimming if you were around.”
I start poking at my belly, squeezing the cellulite my thighs. “This is all me. This is my body and that’s all it is. I am worth more than this. This body does not dictate how much love I ge
t or how much respect I’ll get or how smart I am or how kind I am or how far I’ll get in life. It doesn’t dictate who loves me and it doesn’t dictate who finds me attractive.”
My dad has turned away in embarrassment of seeing his daughter in her underwear, while my mom looks like she’s watching a horror show but I keep going. I run my hands over my scars. “These scars tell a story. They tell the story of my body, how I was flattened by a truck and how my body found the strength to survive and keep going. It found the strength to walk again and live again. My body did all of that. So if you’re going to equate worth with someone’s body, lets focus on that.”
I feel wild. I feel wild and so free. My heart is going a mile a minute, the adrenaline pumping through me. “And one more thing!” I look at my mother dead in the eyes. “I had a man that I loved and I lost but that doesn’t mean I’m a failure. Padraig was worth every single second I was with him. He was worth giving my heart to and even if things don’t work out in the end, I’m a better person for loving him.”
And with that, I bend down, gather up my clothes and head upstairs, wiggling my ass as I go.
“She’s lost her mind,” I hear my mother say in shock.
Yeah, well anytime you talk about the truth, there are people who will call you crazy.
Later that night I’m at my desk in my old room. I was scrolling through Facebook and Twitter and Instagram earlier, something I never did when I was in Shambles, but everyone’s fake perfect lives get too much for me so I put my phone away. I don’t have any texts or emails from Padraig either, not that I thought I would. Agnes said she would try and email me daily to keep me updated on his progress but so far there’s nothing from her either.
I’m all cried out over him and over the fight with mother and I don’t know if I have anything else left in me. But even so, I pull out my laptop and open a new word document and stare at the blank white page.
Somehow I think there’s a story in me somewhere. A story about a girl and her life in shambles.
I start writing.
I write and I write until there’s a knock at my door.
“Come in,” I say, expecting to see my father.
I’m shocked to see my mother.
“Can I come in?” she says. She’s holding a plate of cookies in her hand. “I made you some cookies.”
“Are you trying to make things up to me or is this a trap?” I ask. My mother never grovels or admits she’s wrong, so the fact that she’s here makes me wary.
“It’s not a trap. Can I come in?” she asks again, this time there’s something soft and pleading in her voice.
“Sure,” I say with a sigh.
She puts the tray of cookies before me on the desk and my stomach growls at the sight of them. I haven’t eaten anything since the shitty breakfast on the plane this morning.
She then sits down on my bed and clasps her hands in her lap, her shoulders slumped. She looks so small, like a child. I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen her so meek.
“I know you hate me,” she starts off saying. “And I don’t blame you. But I just wanted to talk to you.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“You should hate me.” She starts wringing her hands together. “I hate me. I’ve been so horrible to you and I’m so sorry. I deserve all the hate I get.”
I sigh loudly. “I said I don’t hate you. Okay? But yeah, you’ve been horrible. You’re often really shitty to me, to Angie, to Sandra, even to Dad. And, you know, we all still love you, because you can have shitty people in your family and still love them regardless of that.” I pause. “But I think whatever issues you’re having with me and my weight or the girls and their relationships, I think it says more about you. You’re projecting. And, honestly, I think you should probably talk to someone about it.”
She just nods, pressing her lips together. She looks around the room, trying not to cry.
Oh dear God. Please don’t let her cry. I will lose it. My body is just looking for another excuse to let the tears fall.
“Mom,” I say to her. “It’s okay. I don’t hate you. I love you.” I get up and sit beside her, putting her arm around her. “I love you. You just need to stop being shitty.”
“I blame myself,” she cries out. “I blame myself for what happened to you.”
“It wasn’t your fault. If anything it was mine,” I say, trying to console her. “I’m the one who ran into the road.”
“You were just a child, Valerie. I was watching you and then Angie distracted me and the next thing I knew I heard the squeal of the tires and your scream and … I knew. I knew what happened.” She sniffs into my shoulder. “I saw you lying there on the road and I … I almost died right there. I thought I lost you. It changed me. It changed me inside, as much as it changed you. Sweetheart, I was so afraid after that. So afraid.”
She looks up at me and the pain on her face makes me ache inside. For all the shit my mom says, this is the first time I’ve realized how broken she is inside.
“I pushed you away,” she says, voice cracking. “And I am so sorry. I was just … so afraid that I could lose you again, that I was a bad mom for letting this happen. And your weight … your beauty. I felt so bad that you had to learn to walk, that you were bullied, that you were in pain. I just thought if you were perfect in every other way then you could have the life you were always meant to have.”
A tear rolls down my cheek as I give her a gentle smile. “But mom. I do have the life I’m meant to have. I’m living it right now. And no matter the heartache, no matter the fighting, no matter the ups and downs … it’s beautiful.” I kiss the top of her head. “Just like you. I love you mom. We may not fit flush with each other but it’s close enough.”
“Thank you,” she whispers to me and I hug her some more, letting her cry out all the tears she never let herself cry.
Then, after she was gone, I ate all the cookies.
23
Padraig
I’m woken up by someone slapping me across the face.
I jerk awake, my eyes wide open, my heart pumping, and see Nan standing beside my bed, a rolled-up newspaper in her hand.
“That’s what ye get for being a bloody eejit,” she says, a hand on her hip. “But I think you’re too thick to get it. Perhaps I better get the spoon.”
She disappears and I’m left in bed trying to figure out just what the fuck is going on?
Before I can get my brain working, she comes back, brandishing that large wooden spoon in her hand. The sight of it makes me shudder.
I put my hand out to stop her. “What is wrong with ye? Have you gone mad?”
She comes to the side of the bed, this eerie determination in her eyes and I quickly roll over and get up on the other side, my muscles aching from being atrophied.
“I haven’t gone mad,” she says. “I’m just trying to knock some sense into ye. It at least got ye out of bed, didn’t it?”
“The doctor said it’s good for me to rest as much as I need,” I protest. Though I have to say, now that I’m on my feet, I don’t feel half bad.
“That was a week ago,” she says, slowly walking around the bed with the spoon in her hand, calmly slapping her palm with it like some villain in an old movie. “And I know ye need to rest but ye also need to try and get on with your life. He said that too, didn’t he?”
I keep watching the spoon. “He said a lot of things. My mind is a bit fuzzy, you know.”
“So, then what have you done to try and move on with your life? Because as far as I’ve seen, you’ve only moped about. And before you blame your disease for it, perhaps you should take a moment to think about the real reason you’re sleeping all day and night long and not eating a single thing I’ve cooked ye. Because you’re heartbroken.”
I don’t say anything to that.
I can’t. Not really. Not except to say that heartbroken is an understatement.
My heart is completely shattered into smithereens, into a million
tiny pieces that are too small to see, let alone pick up and put back together again.
I lost the love of my life and it’s all my fault.
I pushed her away.
I did what I thought was the best thing to do but I also did something that I can’t quite understand. How I could say those things to her? How I could be so cruel? It’s like it wasn’t even me in that hospital bed.
It was the personification of fear.
And now she’s gone and this loss is overshadowing all others at the moment. It’s something I feel with every passing second of the day, the fact that I hurt the woman I loved, the fact that I did this to myself, that I made myself bleed to prevent future bleeding that may never have happened to begin with.
“You’re heartbroken and yet you can fix it,” she says sternly, stopping in front of me. “Have ye contacted her at all this week? Have ye called her or sent a text or an email or one of them messages?”
I swallow down my shame. “No.”
She suddenly whacks me on the arm with the spoon. “Then this is what you get for that!”
“Ow!” I cry out, my arm stinging where she got me, throwing my hands up to protect myself like I’m being fucking jumped or something. “Stop that! I’m not well.”
“Yea, you’re not well,” she says, holding the spoon up. “You’re not well in the head because you’re a bloody eejit. Now why don’t you start thinking about your next steps because a girl like Valerie isn’t going to wait forever. She’s as precious as a gemstone she is and loves you with all her world.”
“Look, Nan,” I say to her. “I want to talk about this but you have to put the spoon down. Grandmothers shouldn’t terrorize their grandchildren.”
“Of course they should!” she says, waving the spoon at me. “It’s called tough love, boy, and someone has to give it. Valerie isn’t here now to take care of ye so it’s up to me. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
I give her a look. I see what she’s doing.
And she’s right.
This is apparently what I wanted.
But it’s not what I wanted at all.
My Life in Shambles: A Novel Page 26