The Importance of Being Me

by Caroline Grace-Cassidy

  “I’m sorry, Mom, I don’t want to hurt you. I just don’t want to go to Cornwall for the summer,” she says quietly.

  “I understand that, love,” I reply carefully and then I say, “But there is a lot we need to discuss, darling. We can’t just say I go and you stay with Dad.”

  “But why not?” She peeps up at me under her dark lashes.

  I know I shouldn’t ask her this, but I just have to.

  “Would you not miss me, love?”

  “Probably . . . I dunno . . . but Mar-nee said I could FaceTime you every evening.”

  “You really want to work in a beauty salon?” I ask – not in a judgemental way; I just want to know what she has to say

  “I do.” She nods eagerly.

  “Why?” I ask because I genuinely want to know.

  “I love the business, Mom . . . the beauty business. I love how the salon smells and the soothing music that’s played into the treatment rooms. I love how clients feel about themselves after a massage or a spray tan. It’s somewhere that people can feel good about themselves.”

  I nod and I pull Go-go, her little white bear, onto my lap. I make him cover his eyes with his paws and she laughs. A small laugh.

  “Okay . . . I get it,” I say, and I do. It sounds like a perfectly good career, but I just don’t want Mar-nee to force her into it.

  “If it’s okay with you, Mom, I’d prefer Dad here too when we talk about it. I just . . . I just feel you don’t listen to me . . . He does . . .” She bites her perfect lip. It turns white under the pressure.

  “But I do listen to you, Susan . . . I want you to be happy,” I tell her, waving Go-go in the air. She snorts. “What?” I say, waving Go-go’s paws about now, and I lean across the bed to her and put my hand on her back. Immediately I freeze.

  “Are you wearing a bra?” I ask in shock. You see, Susan is extremely flat-chested still. Little buds not yet bloomed. Mainly because her frame is so thin, our doctor said. She will develop in her own time. She pulls away from my touch.

  “Stop! So what if I am?” Her defences are up again.

  “But . . . but . . . I thought we said maybe in the summer we’d look at training bras,” I stammer at her.

  “I told you, Mom, I’m the only girl in the class who doesn’t wear a bra!” She pushes her back up against the headboard.

  “You don’t have breasts!” I say stupidly.

  “Oh I do! I do so have breasts! I am a woman, Mom!” she shouts at me, her eyes blazing.

  “That’s not what I mean, love . . . Don’t twist my words.” I stand up.

  “If you must know, Mar-nee took me to be measured and I am a 28AAA – that is my bust size, Mom! She bought me the most beautiful bras. Pink lace and black velvet!”

  Spittle flies out of her mouth and lands on my face. I wipe it with the back of my hand. She jumps up now and we stand facing each other. Her eyes are filled with tears. Mine are too. Jesus, how can I stop Mar-nee doing this to me? The timer on the oven shrills out downstairs to tell me the twenty minutes are up.

  “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get changed and I’d appreciate my privacy!” Instinct makes her cover her breasts with her hands and then she turns her back to me, dropping her hands by her sides. We are so lost.

  “Susan, please. I didn’t mean that—”

  “Just go away, Mom, please . . .”

  I turn and leave her room, trudging wearily down the stairs again, clasping the bannisters so tightly my hand pains. I’m having déjà vu. I’m rubbish at being a mother. I heard myself in that room: I told her she didn’t have breasts. I don’t know how to do this any more. It’s about time I faced that fact. I’m a failure at this.

  Robotically I set the table and put the kettle on to reboil. Putting two large spoonfuls of coffee into a mug, I make a drink for myself. My hands are still shaking. Calming down is an absolute necessity before they arrive. I need to cook. To busy my thoughts, I remove my puff pastry and slice my mushrooms, melting the butter in a pan before I drop them in, then cover and cook them for two minutes. I blend in the flour and milk, and season.

  How am I going to get through this? Claire was so bloody right. What a complete and utter fool I was. I should never have avoided the courts, especially now that Susan is almost sixteen. I lay out the good cups and sit at the kitchen table and wait for the doorbell to ring. Can I force her to be with me any more? Is that what this has come to? My biggest and newest question now is galloping around my head: would she be better off with David and Mar-nee?

  The doorbells rings. Taking a huge, slow breath, I walk down the hall towards it. Opening it, I’m greeted by Mar-nee with David standing behind her. I’ve never really seen Mar-nee this close up. It’s usually in the car or at the ground-floor lift to her apartment.

  “Hello Mar-nee, David. Come in, please.” I open the door wide and they step in. I can see her taking in the hallway and looking up and down at the pictures of Susan and me and some of David on the walls. She stops at each one and studies them intently. It’s like she’s not socially aware. That’s not something you do in this type of situation.

  “Where was this one taken, bunny?” she asks David. It’s a picture of me, him and Susan at one of those food festivals in Herbert Park years ago. We are all eating hot dogs. One of those chancers of a photographer took it; he came back twenty minutes later with it printed and framed for us and charged us twenty euros. David told him where to go. I called him back and bought it. I know now, though, David won’t have a clue. I stand and wait.

  “I haven’t got a clue, bunny,” he says back to her and heads casually towards his kitchen. She doesn’t speak. The smell of her perfume is overpowering. Sweet and sickly.

  “We need more pictures up, bunny.” She toddles behind him in towering pink heels. If she works all day into late nights in those, she deserves a medal of bravery.

  “Susan, love,” I call up the stairs. “Dad and Mar-nee are here, pet, can you come down?”

  They are both seated at the kitchen table as Susan comes in, dressed now in a green bodycon dress, plastered with make-up and with her hair in a donut. It’s like I left her for three years and not one night! The atmosphere is dreadful.

  “Ah, stunnin’ on ya, Sue-Sue! Didn’t I tell ya?” Mar-nee claps her hands in delight. Susan sits.

  “Tea or coffee?” I ask impatiently.

  “Just water, please, filtered or bottled if you have it,” Mar-nee replies.

  “Same for me please, Courtney,” David says.

  “I’ll have a green tea, Mom, please.” Susan looks at me.

  I don’t have green tea, but I don’t say anything. I get the drinks and put a bottle of still water in front of them all.

  “I’ve made some vegetarian vol-au-vents.” I put them on the table but no one reaches for any.

  Mar-nee speaks first. “Now, Courtney, we come in peace, chicken.” Her bee-stung lips are incredibly heavily glossed and she is wearing her cerise-pink Mar-nee’s uniform. Her name is written in big bubble writing over her very large left breast. She is not unlike one of the pink ladies from Grease. Frenchy.

  “You won’t get anything else from me, Mar-nee. I’m here as Susan’s mother and I want what’s best for her,” I steadily inform my husband’s girlfriend.

  “We all want that.” David struggles to open his water and puts it back down.

  “Susan, have a vol-au-vent, please?” I ask her.

  She leans forward and puts one on one of the small plates I’ve set out.

  “The way it is, chicken, is that Sue-Sue is very comfortable with us. She has new pals in the complex and she loves being in the salon. A brilliant little Shellac nail painter, she is. We love having her and, well, we . . . me and bunny . . . David . . . don’t think it’s very fair, chicken, on Sue-Sue, that you’re dragging her over to Cornwall for the summer. We know you have agreed to take the job.”

  She has to keep her lips slightly parted to avoid them sticking together, I imag
ine. Reaching for a vol-au-vent now, to give me time to gather some thoughts but also in the hope it will make me appear way more relaxed than I feel, I think of my next line.

  “I haven’t actually made up my mind about the job yet, Mar-nee,” I say calmly and honestly.

  “Come on now, we all know you have taken the job in Cornwall for the summer, with a view to relocating there permanently when Sue-Sue finishes school. Your long-term plan is to live there permanently. Don’t be telling us little fat fibs, chicken.” It’s like she’s delivered the closing testimony in a High Court trial. She looks chuffed with herself. I rub my fingers into my palms to rid them of excess flaky pastry. How could she possibly know that?

  “I’m never living in Cornwall for ever!” Susan exclaims.

  “Don’t worry, love, I won’t allow her to take you!” David pipes in.

  “I haven’t, Mar-nee . . .” I say very shakily.

  Mar-nee drops her head onto her right shoulder and makes a face at me.

  “Oh. But ya have,” she drawls, before she adds in a small squeaky voice, “You can’t kid a kidder.”

  “I have not made any such decision.”

  “Well, one of my clients works very closely with you and she told us that ya most definitely have.” Mar-nee rests her case.

  Of course! That bitch Yvonne Connolly. I knew she had been talking about me.

  “Your information is incorrect, Mar-nee, no official decision has been made!” I glare at her.

  “I don’t believe you.” She extends her hands to David and Susan. “We don’t believe you, Courtney.”

  Temper explodes in the pit of my stomach, but I keep it there. Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

  “We are here to discuss only the possibility of me taking the summer job and Susan coming with me for the three months,” I manage.

  “If you take the job in Cornwall, Susan stays with us. And—”

  Mar-nee is interrupted by Susan. “And even if you don’t, I want to stay with them for the summer, Mom. I need some space. We need some space . . . I don’t want to hurt you, but I – I’m begging you let me move in with them for the summer . . . when I finish my exams.” Susan is standing now. Fingers clasping the corner of the kitchen table. I have a flashback of her around four years old, standing there as the owner of a kitchen in our old game.

  David fidgets and tries again to open the bottle of water. Mar-nee puts a protective hand over Susan’s. My phone shrills out on the table. I have no intention of answering it, but I take a glance at the caller ID. Then I grab for it immediately.

  “Hello?” I say hurriedly.

  “Courtney?” a familiar voice asks.

  “Yes . . . Hajra?”

  “Yes. It is with great regret that I call . . . I am so sorry, Courtney, dear Alice passed away about five minutes ago.”

  I hold the phone to my ear. I can’t find any words. My heart pounds and my throat dries up. My eyes prickle with tears and I am seeing distorted versions of the three faces starting at me.

  “Courtney? Are you there please?” Hajra’s voice is soft and kind.

  “Thank you . . . I’m on my way.” I sniff and hang up.

  “You’re leaving?” Mar-nee has stuck her finger into a vol-au-vent on the main plate. She’s inspecting the filling on her freakishly long pink nail.

  “Get out, Mar-nee,” I say quietly.

  “Courtney!” David says.

  “See? Told you! Told you she’d react like this, Dad, didn’t I? What did I say?” Susan shouts like the spoilt teenager I see her to be. “I hate you!” she shouts in my face.

  “Pack a bag, Susan . . . Get your school bag and go with them. Your lunch is in the fridge. David, I will need to see you tomorrow to discuss the arrangements. I will not discuss anything with Mar-nee present. Now, if you will all excuse me, my granny has just died . . . I need to go and be with her,” I tell them all in a quiet, composed voice, despite my head and heart being shattered. All three mouths fall open. I didn’t plan for it to be so dramatic, but I just want to be on my own. This argument suddenly seems so silly. Life is just too short. I don’t care any more, I really don’t. Maybe I really am the worst mother in the world. Like a fighter on the canvas, I want more than anything to get up, but I can’t. I know this fight is over.

  “Oh no, Mom.” Susan steps towards me. “Oh, Mom . . .” She’s as confused as I am, although she rarely came up to see her great-granny, if I’m perfectly honest. I never forced her. Maybe that’s all my fault too.

  “It’s okay, Susan, I’m happy for you to stay with Dad for the summer if that’s what you really want . . . or for as long as you like. I’ll be here – here, at home – if you ever need me. I’m not going to Cornwall.”

  “Sorry for your loss, chicken.” Mar-nee says, her eyes darting around.

  “What will I do, Dad?” Susan asks him.

  “Get your things, pet,” David says as he moves towards me. Susan scurries upstairs.

  “I’m so very sorry, Courtney.” David puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. The human contact is surprisingly appreciated.

  9

  It was a bright sunny Saturday May morning when I buried my beloved Granny Alice. I couldn’t look at her in the coffin. I closed my eyes, but Claire led me over and I put my hand on her chest. I felt her for the very last time.

  “Thank you,” I’d whispered to her. “Thank you so much for always loving me. I will miss you so much.”

  Susan was very quiet and didn’t come in to see Alice, and I, of course, didn’t force her.

  “I didn’t really know her,” she had told me as we dressed in black and waited for the cars to pull up outside.

  “She was sick, love, by the time you were old enough to know her.”

  Susan had just nodded slowly.

  Tom had made all the necessary arrangements and we spoke little at the Mass. He chose not to have a gathering for the usual soup and sandwiches after. I’d said goodbye to him, fully sure I’d never lay eyes on him ever again.

  “She left a will, you know, but where it is we don’t know!” he’d told me, white spittle gathering at the sides of his mouth.

  “Really?” I’d answered him, surprised.

  “Like you didn’t know that.” He’d raised the left side of his bushy monobrow at me.

  “I didn’t. She gave me her wedding ring last year . . . She always told me I could have it.” I’d put my hand on it, where I always wear it on a long gold chain around my neck. “I’m sure if anyone can find the will, you can, Tom,” I’d said, not altogether unsarcastically.

  “You bet yer furry knickers I will. Daft old bat,” Tom had said, clapping one hand off the other as though he’d just finished some successful business deal. “Well, I’m gonna start gutting Inchicore next week anyway, so if there’s any other old tat you want, you’d better get down there and take it. It’s all going in the skip. I see someone already got the good antiques.” He’d informed and accused me at the same time. Silly Tom. Little did he know that the weeks before I moved Alice into the nursing home, we had gone through every item she owned. The old sideboard had been emptied out and Alice and I had divvied out all the expensive stuff from the so-called tat. A young boy, Simon, needed treatment in America and his mother was the local nurse, Eileen Kilkenny, who came to dress Alice’s ulcer on her leg of a Wednesday. I took it all to an antiques dealer in Capel Street and we got over four thousand euros for it, which we duly gave to Eileen to put towards the treatment. The “tat” I kept preciously in my front room. It was priceless to me. Just like old Alice.

  “That’s okay, Tom, no thanks.” I’d stared at his greedy little beady eyes.

  “No . . . you got what you wanted already, I’d say, Courtney, what?” He’d smirked at me. “I guess I’ll see you in Mr O’Neall’s office in the next few weeks for the reading of the will . . . when I find it.”

  Claire and I go for lunch in a fancy litt
le Italian restaurant, Del Caesar’s, in town after. It is the first time I’ve seen Claire since that day at her house. We’d had to cancel our Friday plans. I have no idea what’s going on with her when we sit down and I feel dreadful about it.

  “You okay?” She leans across the table and takes my hands, which are cold despite the heat outside. I exhale.

  “Are you okay?” I say straight back. We just look at each other. I am immediately struck by the deep, deep sadness in her green eyes. “All a bit shit at the minute, isn’t it?” I half laugh.

  She nods like one of those dogs in the back of cars.

  “Oh yeah, pretty shitty all round.” She draws the words out.

  “I’m so sorry, Claire. I haven’t been there for you at all.”

  “Don’t be stupid, you’ve so much going on. I know how deeply you loved Alice. Look, we have all day to catch up. This is our celebration of beautiful Alice. I can’t spend another afternoon crying over Martin, I really can’t. Today I want to just block it all out. I want to talk about Alice and, knowing her as well as I did, I’m sure she’d want us to eat the best of food and drink copious amounts of good red wine, and that’s my plan for you today. First, tell me about Inchicore,” she says, her eyes full of tears.

  “What do you mean?” I hand her a tissue from my pocket and then break off a piece of bread from the full basket.

  “Well, did Alice leave it to Tom then? Is that what that weasel was saying to you?” She dabs her eyes, looking surprised.

  “Why would you even ask that?” I pop the bread into my mouth.

  “No reason.” She sips her water.

  “Actually, the will is missing. Tom knows it’s in the house, but he has to find it.”

  “Alice! How dramatic! Love it! Doesn’t the solicitor have a copy?”

  “Apparently not.” I shrug. To be honest, Alice had never mentioned a will to me. I just assumed that all she had would be left to her son, and I totally understood that. “You know, I’m going to have a long, hard think over the weekend, Claire, about my life . . . I have to finally tell Lar on Monday if I can go to Cornwall or not. My life here is a total mess.” I raise my eyebrows.