I'm Still Standing

by Colleen Coleman

  ‘How was Ibiza?’ I ask in return. He shrugs and I notice his face darken but decide not to push him on it. Maybe it’s his accident. If his arm is in a cast, it must have been serious. Or maybe there’s more. Perhaps something else happened out there. I can’t put my finger on it but there is a change in him. Something about his posture, the deep tone of his voice, makes him seem more serious, more intense.

  For the most part, our conversation touches only on the surface of things, and for the time being neither of us seems ready to go deeper than that.

  ‘The place looks excellent, James. I love the colour of the walls, and the paintwork. All the holes and patches and cables seem to have disappeared!’

  He shrugs. ‘I should have done it a long time ago.’

  He lights the fire and we sit in our old chairs, cradling our glasses of wine and listening to the crashing waves outside. The wind whistles through the gaps in the windows and doors and I notice that the clouds have balled together the way they do when it’s getting ready to storm. The first blinks of lightning begin to register on the distant horizon, making the world outside flash as if someone were taking photographs of us, capturing this crazy snapshot of two exes sitting together like the perfect couple in the most idyllic setting when the truth is so far from how it might appear. How is it that we can sit like this, be this comfortable together now, when we couldn’t when we were still married?

  In the moonlight, his face is half in shadow. ‘Evelyn. We need to talk.’

  ‘I know. We haven’t had a single offer on the cottage all this time. The work you’ve done is excellent, James. Hopefully it might attract some interest now.’

  It takes a moment for him to answer me, his words floating in the firelit darkness.

  ‘Not about the cottage,’ he whispers. ‘About us. About me and you.’

  I look up at him, trying to read his face. What does he mean? There is no us any more.

  He swirls his wine before looking at me. ‘I should have listened to you. You were right and I was… I was an ass.’

  A log sparks, sending trails of smoke up the chimney. He adds more wine to our glasses. I reach my hand over the rim of my glass to stop his overly generous pour.

  ‘I’ve been picturing this for months. What I’d say when I saw you. If I ever saw you. And I promised myself that if I did get the chance to speak to you again, if you’d give me the time, I’d tell you exactly how I feel. No holding back, because what I’ve realised is that I have nothing left to lose.’

  His eyes drift to the window. He stands and slowly walks the length of the living room and back. He’s thinking, so I give him a moment.

  ‘I fucked it up, Evelyn. And I’m sorry.’

  I look away from him momentarily, not wanting see the struggle in his eyes.

  ‘Are you okay, James? Did something happen to you in Ibiza?’

  He nods. ‘For the first couple of weeks I thought I was living the dream. Everything was how I’d imagined it would be: paradise. I partied all night, slept all day, ate well, drank well. I took full advantage of my freedom, let’s say.’ He glances over at me, shame and sadness in his eyes.

  ‘James, you don’t have to apologise to me. You’re a single guy. You are free to do as you please. This is what we wanted, both of us. I wanted you to have your freedom, so I’m glad you made the most of it.’

  He shakes his head. ‘That’s the problem. I couldn’t handle the freedom. I spun out of control.’

  I nod towards his arm. ‘Is that how that happened?’

  He rubs his chin and laughs drily. ‘If only this was all of it. I spun out of control in every way. And by the second month, things had started to go tits up. I was waking up with no idea where I’d been. Do you know where I was on the morning of my birthday? I woke up on a pillow covered in animal-print fake fur on the floor of a bedroom I didn’t recognise with a woman I couldn’t remember even speaking to. And I thought, what the hell am I doing? I don’t want to be here. I want to be at the cottage. I want to turn over in my beautiful bed and kiss my beautiful wife and know that I’ve got everything I need. And that’s when it dawned on me. I had everything I needed and I let it slip away.’

  There are traces of tears in his eyes. I have never seen James cry… never.

  ‘I tried to remember how I’d got there: a vague image of a bar and then a club after that. Neon strobe lighting, neon drinks, everything after that a complete black hole.’

  ‘James, it’s fine. It’s just a drunken one-night stand. People have them. It’s no big deal. Not worth beating yourself up about.’ I feel like this is cathartic for him. Like he needs to tell me everything now that he’s built himself up to do so. I don’t know where it’s going but the least I can do is listen. Poor James, whatever went wrong, it’s had a profound effect on him.

  ‘There’s more. There’s so much more I need to tell you.’ It sounds like he’s pleading with me. What can I do but stay and hear him out? We were together a long time. And even though I’m not sitting here as his wife or his lover, I can be here as his friend. I owe him that.

  ‘It wasn’t just a one-night thing, Evelyn. I’d been doing it for months. Night after night after night, relentlessly. I looked at myself in the mirror and told myself to get a grip. That I wasn’t having fun any more. I got it all wrong. I thought I’d feel light and carefree and as though I was living for the moment, but I didn’t. I felt heavy and pained and lonely.’

  ‘Is that why you came back?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘No. I thought it would pass. I thought I just needed time to get my head around everything. Figure out what had happened. And what had happened? I was happy, then I wasn’t. I was married, then I wasn’t. I was here, then I was there. Well, none of that really explains how two people who thought they’d spend the rest of their lives together wake up one day and realise that they hardly know the person lying next to them.’

  I simply nod, when really all I want to do is tell him how hearing him out is the last thing my heart can take right now. I can’t bear that he was in so much pain all by himself.

  ‘You did the right thing by coming home. By taking care of yourself.’

  He fidgets with his watch strap and then pinches the bridge of his nose. I’m a complete wreck as I sit here and wait.

  ‘One day, I tore off on my motorbike. Thinking I need to break this cycle, get out of the strip of bars and clubs. I needed some space. Some nature, some quiet, somewhere with no neon lights or happy hours. But all the time in my head, I was thinking how stupid I’d been. How momentously I’d screwed up. It felt good to ride out into the wild, to follow the road as it got greener and more lush. I was too far out from any shelter when a storm started to rumble in the distance, and then the rain lashed down. It was dark, and the road was slippery, so I missed the bend in the road and my back wheels started to spin. I panicked. Next thing there was a huge crashing sound and I came off the bike.’

  I’ve covered my eyes, my image of James injured on the side of the road too clear in my mind.

  ‘When I came around, the rain had stopped, but I was covered in shattered glass, and my arm was crumpled at the wrong angle. The pain was worse than anything I’d ever felt before.’

  I lean my elbow into the couch and cover my mouth with my trembling hand.

  ‘And that’s when I thought, this is it. I’m going to die. And right after that, I had a second realisation that stung more than anything else: no one would miss me. I looked up at the stars, and I thought of you, Evelyn, trying to teach me the constellations on the first night we moved into our little cottage. And how I didn’t listen. I never listened. I have been an unbelievable arsehole. A lazy, ungrateful, selfish git.’

  He is sobbing now, just letting the tears run down his cheeks. I slide in beside him and put my arm around his shoulders.

  ‘It’s okay, James, you’re here now. Everything is okay.’

  He nods his head and blinks back the tears. ‘I kept searching the
sky and I swore to myself that if I survived this, I would change, I would be the man I promised you I’d be the night I proposed all those years ago. Because I get it now. You know what love is, Evelyn, you know how it should feel – that’s why you called time on us. And you were right. And that just makes me love you and admire you even more.’

  I close my eyes and soak up his words. I never knew this, never imagined it. When we went our separate ways, I always assumed James was having a fantastic time, living exactly as he wanted, partying and being free as a bird. I never expected this. I’m not sure at this point what else to expect. After several quiet moments, I reluctantly open my eyes.

  He is on one knee now; he takes my hand in his. My breath catches in my throat. No, James… Please, please no…

  ‘Evelyn Anne Dooley, this time things will be different. I want forever with you, here in this cottage. I want the family, I want it all. This time I will be the man you deserve.’

  Shaking my head, I slowly withdraw my hand, then sink down on my knees to face him.

  ‘James, you think I am what you want. But I’m not. You don’t want to go back; neither of us do. You need to make room for the new stuff; you need to get rid of everything that doesn’t make you happy and stop it blocking all the light and the goodness and the adventure that’s waiting to get in. You will always be my first love, James. But you will have a last love too, and that isn’t me. It will be some beautiful girl with dreams as big and bright as yours, and when you are with her, you’ll know that you align perfectly and she makes you shine your brightest self. And until you meet her, don’t settle, okay? She may be the first person you meet tomorrow, or it may take a bit more time than that, but if you look for her, she will appear. And that’s when you’ll know you’ve found your forever, James. Promise me?’

  I could say this with utter conviction. I could tell him without flinching with doubt or with uncertainty. Because that was what I had found with Danny.

  He nods. I pull him against my chest and together we say goodbye to our past, and make room for everything that’s out there for us now that we’ve learned our lessons about life and love and letting go.

  Those lessons have been hard. Cruel and heartbreaking. But one thing is for sure, we’ve learnt never to make the same mistakes again.

  James drops me home, and just before I get out of the car and say goodnight, he tells me not to worry about the cottage; that he’ll sort it out. That it’s the least he can do for me.

  I thank him, and then I wave him goodbye.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ‘Evelyn! It’s me, Mum, I’m home!’

  And soon the house is full of sounds: sizzling bacon, the rumble of the washing machine, the whistling kettle and Mum’s little transistor radio belting out her favourite country music. Muffin bounds up the hallway and jumps onto my duvet, licking me and sniffing me and wagging her big bushy tail. Yes, I’m back to square one. Again. But other than Muffin’s panting halitosis, it’s not the worst square on the board.

  ‘I’m in the kitchen, Evelyn! What a lovely to surprise to arrive home and find you here. I’ve the tea on, come down when you’re ready.’

  I look at the clock on the bedside table. Eleven o’clock! Since James and I made our peace, I’ve been staying at home waiting for Mum to get back, sleeping like a baby for twelve hours a night.

  In many ways, the day I left Dublin was a dark day. It took a lot out of me. Who’d have thought that I’d ever have to say goodbye to Danny? Who’d have thought that I’d have to say goodbye to James again? Poor James. Everything he said that night, about being ready for a family, ready for us, I would have given anything to hear him say a year ago. If that was how he’d felt before, we’d probably have tried harder to work things out, to stay together. We might even have a baby by now. I’d still be a teacher at St Mary’s; we would still be at the cottage.

  But it’s too late to rewind to what might have been. Too much time has passed, too much has happened. If he had uttered those words in the marriage counsellor’s office that day, the whole course of our lives could have steered in a different direction. He might never have had his hard-won epiphany in Ibiza and I would never have met Danny. I would never have moved to Dublin or taken on Rosie’s or met Ruby or Colm or Christy. So much could have been different if we had stayed the same. But last night made me realise something: that I don’t regret any of it. I don’t want to rewind and change the steering of the course; I don’t want a second chance at a life I wanted to escape the first time around.

  Even now, back in this bed, back in my mother’s house, I feel like I’ve been somewhere. I feel like I’ve lived, I’ve learned, I’ve tried something different and new. And as a result, I am different and new. And I’m not the only one. I had a lovely long Skype chat with Ruby last night; she’s applied for the bursary I told her about that supports higher-education funding for students from disadvantaged backgrounds. I found the number online and then rang up to explain to the administrator exactly how much adversity Ruby has overcome to try and get a place on an art foundation course. I’ve vouched for her, but ultimately she has to make the case herself, and her work must be good enough to qualify. This is her big opportunity. And only she can make it happen from here. She sounded excited, though, fired up and ready to go, so fingers crossed she channels that energy the right way.

  I feel shattered, like I’m in recovery somehow, maybe because I’m rebuilding, transforming, shedding old layers. I ache in every part of my body.

  ‘Tea’s made!’ Mum yells. A nice big mug of sugary tea, yes, that’s what this rebuild needs.

  With all the agility of a ninety-year-old, I swing my feet over the side of the bed and stand. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look shocking: pale and spotty. Puffy. And hung-over despite the fact that I haven’t drunk anything in ages. Lately, the mere thought of drink just hits me in the throat, and the next thing I know I feel close to getting on my knees and arching over the toilet bowl, puking from the pit of my stomach. I seem to enter into some kind of masochistic game of thinking of things that make me want to puke even more… kebab… uggghhh; runny egg… ugghh; ashtrays… UGGHHHH.

  I can’t let my mum see me looking like this. She’ll think the worst. I’ve come home and I look sick. She’ll immediately think that I’ve developed a heroin addiction.

  ‘Just getting ready! Be there in a minute.’

  I step out onto the landing. Even the salty scent of bacon is making me want to gag. Maybe I am actually sick; this isn’t normal. I lock the bathroom door. I really don’t feel well at all. With my cheek pressed against the cool tiled wall, my right hand finds the hot tap and I start to run the bath. I’ve always had bad periods, especially during times of stress, so I guess that would explain how I’m feeling now. Between the pub and Colm and Danny and moving back home and then meeting up with James, I guess it’s no surprise that…

  Wait a minute.

  It’s been way longer than a month since I’ve had a period.

  I’m usually like clockwork every month. Even when I was in the middle of exams or going on holiday or even on my honeymoon, my period arrived like a pedantic jobsworth. Now this is definitely not normal.

  I hold my fingers up in front of my face. I really need twenty-eight fingers right now to work this out. I do some rough maths in my head. Then completely disregard it. I take my phone out of my dressing gown pocket and use the calculator. And the calendar. And only then does it actually sink in that – holy shit – I am three weeks late.

  Three weeks.

  A sharp pain shoots through my breasts and another wave of nausea ripples through me.

  Sweet Jesus. It couldn’t mean… I can’t be…

  Just over a month ago, it was opening night at Rosie Munroe’s; just over a month ago, I went back to Danny’s for the first time.

  Oh my God. What if this is what I think it is? What if it’s real and it’s happening? To me?

  Is it possible that I
could be properly and legitimately up the duff?

  ‘Evelyn, phone!’ my mother calls from the hallway.

  I sit on the toilet and rub my hands down my face. I feel tears rising, but weirdly, not tears of sadness; tears of wow. Tears of thank you. Tears of how amazing. Shocking but wow, thank you, amazing…

  ‘Evelyn, it’s the solicitor about the cottage. Can you come?’

  ‘No!’ I shout, just before my stomach surges into my mouth and I plunge my head into the toilet bowl.

  I wake up, startled to hear my mum pounding on the bathroom door. ‘Are you okay? Evelyn, answer me! Are you all right in there?’

  There is a gross, acidic taste in my mouth and I am draped over the toilet seat. The bath is still running, so I rush over and turn it off just as the water reaches the rim. Unlocking the door, I stand facing her.

  ‘Oh my, Evelyn, you’re as white as a sheet. Has something happened?’

  I want to say that yes, I definitely think something has happened. I think that something is happening right now. But I don’t know for certain. It could be a gastric bug, food poisoning or something stress-related, a result of being run-down. Maybe I’ve got it wrong. I’ve missed a period and I’m sick. That’s all I’ve got to go on. There could be other explanations. I’m going to have to find out either way, for certain. And I want to find out right now.

  ‘Any chance we could go into town?’ I ask her. ‘I need to pick up something at the pharmacy.’

  Mum nods, lip pursed, never taking her eyes off me. ‘I’ll get my keys.’

  As I fasten my seat belt in the passenger seat of my mother’s car, the impossibility of the task ahead hits me. How on earth am I going to go into the tiny pharmacy in Ballybeg with my mother and secretly buy a pregnancy test?

  It cannot be done.

  Seriously. This is completely impossible. Because even if I shake her off for ten minutes, even if I could manage to lose her at the butcher’s or sneak off when she’s in deep conversation with someone from church that she’ll inevitably meet, I would have to ensure that the pharmacy is completely empty of people so that word doesn’t get back to her from a nosy customer. Or the pharmacist, or whoever is on the till… Actually, the only way I can see myself acquiring a pregnancy test is to shoplift one.