No Filter

by Orlagh Collins

  ‘I could sneak out,’ she says, eyes all earnest. ‘Grandma’s always asleep by ten thirty. Friday nights are no different, and she doesn’t get up until after seven. She’s like clockwork. I’m pretty sure I could pull it off. I’ve been thinking about it –’

  ‘You have?’ I ask and she nods. ‘OK, that makes me happy.’

  She smiles back. ‘But could you?’

  A wave of adrenalin takes me and I’m riding it with only instinct. Logic has long left. ‘If we wait till your grandma’s asleep, we’re talking proper darkness, which I’m not supposed to sail in at all, but then, I’m not supposed to take the boat either. So yeah, hell yeah! I’d go tonight if we could.’ I clamp my hand against the cold aluminium pole behind her head and kiss her. I almost forget we’re standing in the middle of the village, when some drunk fella standing outside the cop shop does a loud wolf whistle I’m pretty sure is for us.

  Em pulls away. ‘I feel weird about going to Mum’s Family Day thing tomorrow. It’s been looming over me for days now,’ she says, glancing towards the drunk lad but looking through him somehow. She’s impressively unbothered by his antics.

  ‘Nervous about seeing your mam?’

  ‘A bit, but it’s not just that. I know this’ll sound strange, but I almost don’t want to go back there, to England. Even for a day.’

  I can’t not smile. ‘Ah, here, you don’t have to say that …’

  ‘No, seriously. I’ve managed to keep everyone and everything at a distance these past weeks and the truth is, it’s been so much … easier. Thing is, I feel free, but going back, I mean physically being there, feels … I dunno, unsafe maybe.’

  ‘It’s only one day, right?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess,’ she says, walking on again. ‘C’mon, I’m starving,’ she orders, before turning around and marching ahead.

  ‘Wait!’ We’re only yards from the chipper now. ‘I’m not sure I can wait until next Friday,’ I say, not quite caring that I didn’t dress this up better. I’m racing inside just thinking about it. ‘I’m off next Tuesday night and I’ve only an afternoon shift on Wednesday. What do you say?’ My brain’s whirling inside my skull as I stand there, waiting for her to answer.

  ‘Your enthusiasm is noted.’ She laughs. ‘It’s a date!’

  EMERALD

  Settling a wobbly glass

  I’ve counted nineteen chairs in our little circle. Dad’s sitting on my left and between us, on an empty seat, there’s a sticker with ELIZA written on it in green marker. I can’t work out whether that means Mum is going to sit here or whether they were expecting only one of us. Tea and some sorry-looking biscuits sit on a table at the front, but so far nobody’s touched them. The lady three chairs down has begun weeping loudly. There’s an Asian guy with a shiny gold necklace tapping one Airmax trainer restlessly, fanning some air around the stuffy room. An older couple on Dad’s left appears to be having a wordless row. In the corner a girl, dressed in a long cardigan and well worn UGGs, is biting her nails. She’s around my age, I think. Suddenly she gets up and leaves the room. I wonder if anyone actually wants to be here.

  ‘Did Mrs McKenzie get back to you about my results?’

  Dad is reading an email on his phone. ‘Huh?’

  I nudge him. ‘My GCSEs. Did she say whether you could collect them for me on the twenty-fourth?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. There was a message on the answering machine,’ he says, still staring into his phone. Then he looks up, as though suddenly struck. ‘Don’t you want to go back to Hollyfield to pick them up? See all your friends?’

  ‘Maybe you could just bring them over?’

  He squints back at me, bewildered. I don’t know whether it’s to do with me not wanting to go back, or something he’s read.

  The door opens and Nick walks in. It’s a striped blue shirt day. He’s smiling at everyone and crossing the room in long, purposeful strides. He pulls at the knees of his grey cords before taking his seat by the window. Dad is punching furiously into his BlackBerry again, his forehead looking like a freshly ploughed field. Nick does this little cough. I want to nudge Dad again but he looks too absorbed so I look around and count the still empty chairs, of which there are four.

  Eventually Dad looks up. ‘Apologies,’ he says, slotting the phone into his jacket’s breast pocket.

  ‘Thank you.’ Nick mouths it from across the room. Dad puts his hand on my knee. I hope it’s a signal to say he’s ready.

  Nick stands up. ‘Welcome, everybody, I’d like to thank all of you for coming here today.’ He clears his throat in an unnatural sort of way before continuing. ‘This is what we call our family-group session. This will start us off before we move into the individual sessions, when some of you will join your loved ones for one-to-ones this afternoon. This may even be the first session for some of you …’

  I zone out for a bit now, mostly because Nick has that kind of voice, but it doesn’t help that my eyes won’t seem to stay open. I stayed up way too late, listening to Liam’s music. Ended up creating a SoundCloud profile just to comment on his songs. I couldn’t help myself. Spent ages googling around afterwards to see if I can find any other trace of him online, but I’ve found nothing. It’s not even eleven and I’m ready for lunch.

  It’s been five weeks since I’ve seen Mum. Dad said under normal rehab circumstances, if such a thing exists, she’d be out by now. Most people come in here for twenty-eight days but Mum opted for a rehab double whammy. Her decision, apparently. Nick said it was a positive sign that she’s ‘invested in her recovery’ and really wants it to work. I won’t allow myself to believe this is true, not yet.

  It’s so frustrating to think we’re here and she’s here, somewhere, and we can’t even see her yet. I pluck out some of Nick’s words, but really I’m busy watching the other people in the group. A psychologist would have a field day on the body language in this room.

  UGG-boot girl returns. Nick smiles up at her but doesn’t miss a beat. ‘I’d like to invite you all to introduce yourselves and share, perhaps, how it is you’re feeling today.’

  For real? I slump down into the chair. UGG-boots folds her arms deliberately across her chest, obviously sharing my enthusiasm level. The crying lady begins to convulse.

  ‘Let’s start with you,’ says Nick, motioning to Dad with one hand and handing the crying lady more tissues with the other. The room is deathly silent aside from her gentle whimpering, which has just been softened by the clump of Kleenex.

  Did he really ask Dad to start? The air in the room changes; suddenly there’s not enough of it. I can’t figure out whether Nick is just stupid or whether he has way bigger balls than I thought. I feel a bit weak.

  ‘Ah, ehm …’ says Dad, hooking his feet around the legs of the chair with a horrible screeching sound and sitting up straight. Then he stands up, which I don’t think you’re supposed to do. I slide down even further in my seat and try to concentrate on what he’s saying but all I can do is panic that it’ll be my turn next.

  ‘It’s good to be here,’ he says, and then he looks around like he’s addressing a boardroom. ‘I’m sure we’re all pleased our … loved ones are here, and eh … attending to their issues,’ he says, before clapping his hands, which sound like cymbals crashing inside my skull. ‘And, yes, that’s it. Thank you.’ He rubs his palms together one last time and sits back down.

  Awkward is not the word.

  It’s clear from Nick’s face that Dad didn’t quite get it, whatever it is, but thankfully Dad doesn’t seem to notice. I can feel all the eyes in the room land on me. I close my eyes and slide my sweaty palms down the thighs of my jeans.

  ‘Thank you, Jim. Let’s move on to you now … Bev.’

  It takes a second for the name to sink in. Only when I hear a lady with a harsh East London accent launch into the horrors of her son’s relapse do I breathe out.

  It took over half an hour to get around the small room. Airmax guy, Sunil, was a revelation; articulate and wise. Basica
lly, his girlfriend lost her mind on crack cocaine. He’s in recovery himself, but it’s only been a year and he was really open about how wobbly he feels and how he’s frightened of her now, even though he really loves her. He spoke for ages, like he really needed to. I felt Dad shift in his seat for most of it, like he was angry the guy wouldn’t shut up. Eventually it was my turn but I froze after I said my name; all the words I’d feverishly planned stuck in my throat and nothing came out. Nick just smiled at me and said, ‘Maybe next time,’ which I thought was pretty cool.

  I’m lying on the grass outside now, looking up at the cartoon blue sky and following a scattering of Simpsons clouds sailing slowly by. I begin to feel dizzy so I sit up and stare up at the house that Dad and I pulled away from five weeks ago. It looks different. Just being in England feels different; shapes feel sharper, their shadows more pronounced, like everyone is speaking just that tiny bit too loud, or that weird way you realise your house has an actual smell when you walk in the door from holiday, but then quickly it’s gone and you can’t get it back again.

  I’m almost afraid to look at my phone in case it might somehow announce to my entire address book that I’m back. For the life of me I can’t work out whether I’ve come back to reality or whether I’ve actually left the real world behind. Being in this place doesn’t help.

  Someway off in the distance, sleepy-looking people in leisurewear spill out from the main door. It’s not long before I spot Mum in the small crowd and my stomach flips. That’s how Liam said he feels when I smile, but I hope it’s for a very different reason. Dad’s been pacing up and down by the rhododendron bushes, waiting. His phone buzzed relentlessly during the session; emails dropping into his inbox like soft, silent bombs. He looks grey from it all.

  I watch them come to stand together at the top of the drive. It feels like an eternity before he kisses the top of Mum’s head and she dips low, leaning on his chest now so his whole body is taking her weight. I’m waiting for his arms to reach out and hold her but only his right arm moves and she slowly steps back. I stare into the space between them, unsure of quite where to look. Dad’s head nods as his voice drones indistinguishably in the distance. His eyes might even be closed but his hands keep gesturing in short, sharp bursts that way they do. I wish I could hear what they’re saying. Suddenly they both freeze and their eyes lock. I’m wondering what’s happened when I realise the ringing phone I can hear is Dad’s. But he’s not actually going to answer it. Not now. Is he? Oh God, he is.

  He turns and strides up the path. Mum’s left standing alone. I want to jump up and rescue her. She looks around the garden and seeing me, lifts her hand to wave. As she approaches I can’t help notice her walk, the way her arms move freely by her side. Despite what’s just happened she seems looser. Her thick curls are tied back into a low ponytail. Her hair has grown. I’m about to get up but it’s too late, she’s already at my feet.

  She sits down beside me and steadies her breath deliberately, like she is preparing to say something but maybe she’s just recovering from that marooning at the top of the drive. ‘Thank you,’ she says finally, ‘for coming.’

  Maybe I was expecting something more. Not drama exactly, but fervour perhaps. She’s staring straight at the house; we both are, when she turns to look right at me. Her eyes look so clear but she’s ghostly pale under the last traces of a suntan. It’s sad that I still describe people using Instagram filters, I get that, but it’s like she’s been rinsed in Reyes, or possibly Sierra: beautiful but totally washed-out.

  ‘It’s so good to see you, Em,’ she says, placing her soft, cold hand on mine.

  It is good to see her. I smile back. ‘You too, Mum.’ It’s the first time I’ve seen Mum outside the house without make-up. She crosses her legs and takes another long, yogic breath before reaching over and taking my shoulders in her arms.

  She holds me there, clumsily. Our bodies are unnaturally twisted and it’s really uncomfortable, but still it feels so nice. I’ve almost synced my breath with hers when she pushes me back and releases me, gently, holding her hands there, a few inches from me, as though waiting for a wobbling glass to settle. Eventually she takes her arms away.

  I want to let her know Dad’s been distracted like that with me too, and it doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. ‘He’s got a lot on.’ It spills out clumsily.

  ‘He has, sweetheart.’ She says this in a way I can’t read.

  I want to make her feel better. I desperately want to believe this is going to work and that she really will get well. I want to tell her she’s doing great. I want to tell her I love her, but because of how much I do, I can’t. It’s precisely the fact I want all of this so badly that makes me want to ruin it before there’s a chance that she, or anyone else, can.

  I nod to the other leisure-wearers, huddled in small groups around the garden. ‘Made any new friends?’ I ask, clearing my throat in an attempt to distract from the quiver in my voice.

  Her lips part to reveal her lovely teeth. ‘I have actually.’ It’s that smile from the photo on my phone, but then quickly it’s sadder. She flicks her fringe out of her eyes before closing them to the strong sun. I wonder what more to say to her but I’m scared to let anything I really feel out in case I damage this easiness. I know how fragile it is. I know how quickly this warmth can blow cold.

  I feel her turn to me again and I’m suddenly terrified. I say nothing but I know my face betrays me. Mum always said I have a lot going on in my face, which basically means I can’t lie. Not that this has ever stopped me, but it makes it hard to hide what’s going on in my head from the few people who really do want to see.

  ‘I know you’re afraid,’ she says, swallowing. Mum and I haven’t shared a truthful word like this in weeks, months, possibly even years, and I don’t know where to look. ‘But I’m really trying to do this, Em.’

  I feel all my fear morph into a deep longing, that could, at any moment, sneak out of my eyes and roll down my face.

  ‘I don’t want to rush you, darling,’ she says. We both sit up and stare back at the house, clearly uncomfortable with this intimacy, but craving it all the while. I notice we’re both rocking, out of time. ‘I know I’ve got a lot of making up to do too,’ she adds, placing her trembling hand back on mine.

  The route back to the airport is the exact journey Dad and I made together five weeks ago, but it’s overcast now and not because of the weather. Dad is driving fast, too fast, which is nothing unusual, but it’s making me nervous. Whatever is troubling him is making me even more uneasy. There’s no music this time: just a stiff, brittle silence I don’t know how to break. Whatever happened between Mum and Dad back there after his call, the thick, leaden air has followed him.

  ‘Mum was looking well,’ I say, hoping to lift the mood. But nothing; it doesn’t even register. ‘You OK, Dad?’

  All his movements are brusque. ‘Fine,’ he says.

  ‘It’s just …’

  ‘What?’ There’s no tenderness. ‘What is it, Em?’

  I fold my arms and legs to stop them shaking. ‘It seemed like you didn’t want to be there today.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘Christ, Emerald. I have other things on my mind. OK?’

  My whole body freezes. You could choke on the tension. Dad never calls me Emerald. Suddenly he indicates and slips into the slow lane behind a very slow-moving lorry. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. We travel in the shadow of the giant truck. Every passing car rolls by like thunder. My heart is hammering too loud. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says finally. ‘It’s just … I could have done without it today.’ He fiddles with some buttons on the dash, before running his fingers under his shirt collar. The AC is on full and the car is almost too cold, but Dad is smouldering under some mysterious heat. I can think of several responses to what he’s said about ‘doing without today’ but none of them are helpful. We continue to tail the back of
the lorry in silence.

  ‘I’m in trouble, Em,’ he says, without looking at me. I watch as his shoulders slump forward, almost like he’s going to fall. I’m surprised by how small his hands look on the steering wheel. For one horrible moment I think he’s going to let the car and us, and everything in our life, spin out of control. I lunge at the wheel to grab it but he pulls himself back and brakes. We both try to catch our breath. Then he flicks the indicator left again. I try to catch his eye but he stares ahead blankly, not looking at anything in particular, just locked into the middle distance. We’re driving so slowly that the truck is way out in front now and I can’t see any slip road ahead. The steady tock-tic, tock-tic, tock-tic, tock-tic, tock-tic continues and we stay put in our lane; there is nowhere else to go.

  ‘Dad?’

  It takes a few seconds before I realise we’re sliding gradually to the left, drifting into the hard shoulder. It takes another long, long minute to come to a gentle stop as we literally run out of road.

  ‘Dad?’

  His head falls forward on to the wheel. ‘A lot of trouble,’ he whispers.

  LIAM

  A lost wallaby

  The call-out for Saturday night scoops has gathered a fine crowd: Kenny, Fiona, Turbo, Murph, Billy and two of Fiona’s school friends are all here in Moloney’s. Dirty glasses and peanut packets are strewn over the table. Kenny’s telling a joke I’ve heard before. I take my phone out and start typing under the table.

  Hope it went OK with your mam today.

  Send.

  X.

  I hit send again, and lean back against the wall, taking in all the sights and sounds around me, then I take my phone back out.

  Thanks for the SoundCloud raves btw.

  Send.

  I’m staring up at a bunch of older lads crowding around the door, all sporting red-raw tans after the day’s sun when I feel the phone ring between my legs. It’s her.

  ‘Hey!’ I’m not sure what I was expecting to be honest, but her sniffling on the end of the line comes as a bit of a shock. ‘Emerald?’