Grace After Henry

by Eithne Shortall

  ‘Grace, we have to go back in. We were almost at the top of the line.’

  ‘We can’t go back in there. Did you not hear me? Larry and Aoife! And Aoife knew. She definitely knew. She couldn’t look at me, she was incredibly shifty and Jesus! She knew.’

  ‘How could she know?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I? Maybe she guessed.’

  ‘She did not guess, Grace. Nobody guesses this. Come on,’ and he went to walk back towards the building.

  ‘What? No. I’m not kidding. I’m not going back in there and neither are you. No way. And I gave Larry our ticket.’

  ‘Grace!’

  I dragged him further up the street and down a lane at the side of a pub.

  ‘What happened to telling people?’

  ‘Not in the passport office!’

  ‘Where would you suggest would be a suitable venue?’

  I rolled my eyes.

  ‘I’m not mucking about, Grace. You said you were going to give this a try and you gave up at the first hurdle.’ The frustration was audible in his voice as he threw his head back and exhaled loudly. ‘Did you even consider that Aoife being shifty might not be about you at all? She had just run into you, and she was with Larry. You didn’t know they were dating or whatever, right? This was the first time you’d seen them together. So she was probably a bit embarrassed. She probably thought she was the one caught out.’

  ‘Wait,’ I said, leaning against the wall of the lane. ‘They’re dating?’ I put my hand to my mouth. ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, but why else would she be accompanying him to the passport office?’

  I looked at him, my eyes wide, as it dawned on me. Andy just shrugged.

  ‘I had no idea,’ I said. ‘I didn’t even ask why she was there, I was too busy . . .’

  Andy pursed his lips, presumably in a bid not to say ‘I told you so’.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, after I had digested the new turn of events. ‘I got a fright. If it was up to me, we’d never leave the house.’

  This, I could tell, had not been the right thing to say.

  ‘I am going to tell them,’ I clarified quickly. ‘I just wasn’t prepared.’

  Andy threw back his head like he was saying he reluctantly believed me, but I knew that really he had no choice. And as I stood there, leaning against the wall, I couldn’t imagine a single suitable time or setting in which to tell Aoife or anyone the truth. I couldn’t imagine the circumstances in which I told them that Henry had a twin, that we’d been hanging out all these weeks in secret and that we were making wild plans to raise Henry’s child together.

  ‘Isabel was asking for you.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I was trying to imagine telling my parents. But that was another blank. I could see their faces, listening, but I couldn’t quite picture me saying the words.

  ‘We’re going to go to Wexford on Saturday for a couple of days. Doesn’t sound like Conor is coming, but she invited you.’

  ‘I can’t go to Wexford,’ I said vaguely. ‘I have work and . . .’ I thought about asking him to stay, to spend the weekend locked up in Aberdeen Street, plotting and dreaming and nesting, instead of posturing like some sort of tribute act in the holiday home where Henry had spent countless summers. ‘I can’t go.’

  ‘We thought you’d say that,’ he said with a half-smile, and I grimaced at the notion that he and Isabel were now a ‘we’.

  ‘Will you come to dinner on Friday instead, the night before we go? Can you make that?’

  ‘Friday. . .’ I thought through my roster, but Friday was wide open. ‘Yeah, I can make that.’

  ‘Awesome,’ he said, and I returned his smile.

  ‘Yeah.’

  And I told myself that the sinking feeling, the sense of something falling away, was just the baby stretching out.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  ‘So let me get this straight,’ said Martin, pacing back and forth slowly in front of Maureen’s grave, making the most of this rare foray into the spotlight. ‘This man, the so-called brother’ – Martin drew quotation marks in the air with his fingers – ‘wants to raise your child. Congratulations again, by the way, Grace, I’m over the moon for you. He wants to raise his brother’s child?’

  ‘Help raise,’ I said patiently. ‘Yes.’ Patsy and Billy had already grilled me. I was hoping the facts might stick the third time around.

  Martin kept pacing. He put his hands behind his back, the fingers interlaced. ‘And he’s not just Henry’s brother, on a point of accuracy. He’s Henry’s identical twin brother?’

  ‘We’re not one hundred percent sure on that. But yes, they do look alike.’

  He retraced his steps. ‘Curiouser and curiouser.’

  ‘Not really, Martin. We’ve already been over this. Twice.’

  Martin unlocked his hands and held them up in a don’t-shoot gesture as he took a step back. Billy rolled forward. I sighed loudly.

  ‘So,’ said Billy, stroking a beard he did not possess, ‘Henry’s twin, who you never knew existed because Henry never knew he was adopted, turns up out of the blue and basically wants to take his dead brother’s place?’

  ‘Now you’re trying to make it sound ridiculous.’

  ‘It doesn’t take much trying,’ he replied. ‘Not from where I’m sitting.’ The other two joined in for the collective mmmhmm-ing. ‘When people ask how you want to live your life, is the answer: with a man who looks like my dead boyfriend by my side? Don’t make that face, Grace. I’m just painting a picture.’

  ‘Isn’t it important to have an open mind?’

  ‘Sure is,’ agreed Billy. ‘Just not so open your brain falls out.’

  This was me telling people. It wasn’t quite family or lifelong friends but it was a start. I was standing in Glasnevin Cemetery, confessing the complicated intricacies of my life to a trio of men who could get an hour’s conversation out of which visitors did and didn’t put back the watering can correctly. And if that wasn’t giving it a try, I don’t know what was.

  ‘I don’t think it’s completely mad,’ said Patsy, taking a sliver of the chocolate cake I’d brought. ‘Well, not from your point of view. Him, though . . . It’s quite the offer, raising someone else’s child.’

  Billy concurred. ‘I barely wanted to raise my own.’

  ‘I’d bring up someone else’s child,’ mused Martin. ‘I think that’d be great.’

  ‘Anyway,’ I said loudly, returning the conversation to its point, ‘now you know. And if he comes here with me again, you’re all to be nice and civilised.’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Patsy. ‘It’ll be good to have someone who can give me a hand with what needs doing around here.’

  Billy snorted, but when Patsy looked over he was pretending to choke on his coffee.

  ‘Do you think women would like that?’ pondered Martin.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘If I offered to raise their children.’

  ‘No, Martin,’ said Billy, ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s creepy.’

  ‘Grace doesn’t think it’s creepy, do you, Grace?’

  ‘I do a bit,’ I said.

  Martin looked wounded. ‘Oh yeah,’ he sulked, picking up another slice of cake. ‘Some exotic chap with great shoulders offers and it’s all dandy. But poor Martin makes the same suggestion and he’s a creep.’

  ‘What did your parents say?’ asked Patsy.

  ‘I haven’t told them.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Yet. I haven’t told them yet. I have told Henry’s parents. Well, not about the baby, but about Andy. They’ve met him. Henry’s mother likes him. A lot. And I will tell them about the baby too, soon. What?’ I demanded.

  Patsy had the same look he got whenever the redheaded tour guide who said this section was added in 2014 instead of 2004 came by with a group. It was an expression that said he was fighting a serious inner battle to hold his tongue.

 
‘Nothing,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘Just tell me. What is it?’

  ‘Well,’ said Patsy, only semi reluctantly, ‘are you sure?’

  The other two turned to look and I waited for him to elaborate.

  ‘God knows I spent many months thinking my Maureen might just turn up at the door someday. But if ever it did happen, and I saw her lovely face through the pane of glass, and then I opened the door to find it wasn’t actually her at all, well, I don’t know that I’d thank you for it.’

  Billy stared over at his own wife’s plot. Martin stuffed his hands in his pockets and shook his head.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said evenly. ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘All right then,’ said Patsy brightly, patting me on the shoulder. ‘Consider us only delighted for you.’

  Pedalling through the park, careful not to fall behind but comfortable at my own pace too. Convinced the borrowed bicycle will suddenly take flight. I could have followed you for ever, sustained by the periodic turns of your head that allow me to see your face. What a face.

  ‘Hey!’

  Your hair blown into a terrible comb-over, and the big smiling head on you.

  ‘Hey yourself!’ I shout back.

  You look away and I am preparing to freeze-frame that image until the next turn, whenever that might be, when your head flicks right back again: ‘I love you!’

  I don’t just hear the words, I feel them; the wind pushes them into my ears and swirls them all around. ‘Well, that’s convenient!’ I shout back, worried now about flying bikes and also that my heart might burst. ‘Because I love you too.’

  I don’t know about near-death experiences and people’s pasts flashing before their eyes, but in that moment, I see my future. A blur of you and me, laughter and fights, tired and happy, kids and holidays, work and life, all of life, and yes, somewhere in the distant future, death. I strike a deal there and then. I sign up for it all.

  Outside the Heritage Centre, my bike thrown on top of yours and me thrown on top of you. I will hold you up, Henry. That is what I’m thinking. You kiss me and it is still ringing in my ears: I love you, I love you, I love you. You saying it, me saying it, and both of us breathing it. Your chest against mine, our hearts count it out in beats: I love you, I love you, I love you.

  And you must feel it too, our bodies must hum with it. Because your face is in my hair, the moisture of your lips and breath as you open your mouth to speak into the crown of my head: ‘But I do. I do.’

  I felt the weight of the baby all that afternoon, burdening me and making me doubt myself. I was slow in the kitchen, which Dermot was quite pleased about. The customers were irritating him more than usual today. ‘Did they always chew this loudly?’ But I was constantly apologising to Tina who bore the brunt of diners complaining when they got the wrong food. The third time I messed up – sending a vegan burger that wasn’t even on the menu to a customer who’d ordered a steak sandwich – I went out to correct the mistake myself, bringing the right dish with me.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I said, taking up the vegan burger and placing the steak in front of the woman. ‘My mistake.’

  ‘Grace?’ she said, pushing her head down to catch my eye. ‘It’s Claire Maguire.’

  ‘Claire. Oh my God, sorry. I wasn’t even looking. Hi! How are you?’

  ‘I’m good,’ she said, smiling. ‘Just moved back from Hong Kong last month. My husband got a job here so, happy days.’ She raised her arms in a silent cheer. ‘This is my sister Angela.’

  ‘Hi,’ I said to her lunch companion. ‘We’ve probably met. I used to go to a lot of parties at your house. God, it’s been ages. Years. When was the last time I saw you? It must have been . . .’

  ‘Johnny Connors! Is that you? Oh my God, Johnny Connors!’

  ‘No. Not me.’

  ‘Are you sure? Grace, is this guy not the cut of Johnny Connors?’

  ‘No. That’s Henry Walsh.’

  ‘. . . one of those Christmas Eve drinks,’ she said, finishing my sentence. ‘At the Back Bar. It must be, what? Three years ago now? Four?’

  ‘Five,’ I clarified. ‘It was five and a half years ago.’

  ‘Five years. Wow. Time flies. And how are you? Wait, no. Jesus, that’s a stupid question. I was so sorry to hear about Henry. I still can’t believe it. I would have gone to the funeral only we were still abroad then.’

  ‘Oh no, no worries,’ I said, growing hot under my chef’s whites as I attempted a laugh. ‘I was barely there myself.’

  ‘It must have been awful. I can’t imagine. Grace’s partner died in a cycling accident,’ she told her sister. ‘Henry Walsh. Do you remember? He lived at the other end of the estate.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said the sister. ‘That was your partner? I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, the back of my neck burning.

  ‘You must be devastated.’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ I said, not quite looking at the sister. ‘Anyway, I better get back to work. It was really nice to see you.’

  ‘So great to see you!’ exclaimed Claire. ‘Give me a shout if you ever want to get a drink. Well, not for another couple of months!’ And she slid back her beer-barrel stool to reveal the bowling ball she was smuggling under her top.

  ‘Wow,’ I said, feeling the sweat form on my hairline. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Took a while, but . . .’ And she did her silent ‘happy days’ cheer again. ‘Look me up – I’m on Facebook!’

  ‘Okay. Nice to see you, Claire. And congratulations. Again.’ Then I turned on my heels and power-walked back to the kitchen, the vegan burger falling from its plate as my shaking hand tried to place it on the counter.

  ‘Fuck,’ I said, tears of anger rapidly making their way to the surface. ‘Fuck!’

  ‘You all right?’ asked Tina, coming into the room behind me.

  ‘I dropped the burger.’

  ‘It’s cool, Grace. Nobody ordered it anyway.’

  ‘This city,’ I blustered as my nose began to run. ‘It’s too god-damn small!’

  ‘I’ve been saying that since I got here,’ said Tina, picking the chickpea mush up from the floor. ‘You run out of Tinder options in a lunch break. But you probably didn’t mean it in that way,’ she called after me as I made my way to the bathroom and pushed open the door. ‘Too small for what? Grace?’

  But I didn’t respond. I just leaned over the toilet bowl and vomited.

  For two of them, I thought as I slid down onto the floor. This city was too small for two of them.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Isabel got to the door before us, holding it open as we made the rest of our way up the path. Somewhere behind her, Scooter was working himself into a frenzy.

  ‘Come in, come in. How are you, dear?’ she said, catching me by surprise as she gave me a peck on the cheek. It had been a while since she’d greeted me like that. She stepped towards Andy as his arms opened. ‘Hello, sweetheart!’ she enthused, and he rested his chin on her head. It was exactly what Henry had always done. I didn’t recognise Isabel’s dress and her hair was recently cut. She looked as well as I’d seen her in months.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, inspecting the wine bottles as I handed them over. ‘Were they out of the usual?’

  In the five years I’d been coming for dinner at this house, I’d always brought the same two bottles of rioja. It had become a fun tradition. Today I was carrying merlot.

  ‘I thought it might be good to try something new.’

  ‘Well,’ she cleared her throat and placed the bottles on the sideboard, ‘I’m sure these will be worth trying too. Come on through. I’m almost ready to serve.’ She ushered us into the sitting room.

  Conor stood from his armchair and I got another kiss on the cheek. ‘Hello, Grace,’ he said. There was a pause before he extended a hand to Andy, all the while looking beyond his son’s doppelgänger. I followed Conor’s line of vision to Isabel who stood in the doorway nodding at the handshake.

 
She asked Andy to help her with the plates, leaving Conor and me to make small talk.

  ‘Am I imagining it, or is the room different somehow?’ I asked, doing a quick 360, trying to locate the anomaly.

  ‘Bit cleaner maybe,’ Conor replied, ‘if that’s possible.’ His statement was punctuated by a loud laugh from the kitchen, and he moved closer to me. ‘This is no good,’ he said with a quiet ferocity. ‘It’s too confusing. She thinks he’s . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Conor,’ said Isabel, making us both jump as she appeared again in the doorway. ‘What did you do with that bread I asked you to buy?’

  He looked from Isabel to me and then back to his wife. ‘I must have left it in the car,’ he said wearily, and Isabel stood waiting until he went out into the hallway and we heard the front door open. ‘Everything all right, dear?’

  ‘Fine,’ I replied, in spite of my growing unease. I flashed her a smile. ‘Thanks.’

  Isabel went back to the kitchen and I watched from the window as Conor sat in the passenger side of his BMW and stared directly ahead with the bakery bag in his hands. The low mumble of Andy’s voice from the kitchen and Isabel’s airy laugh. If we stayed two hours that would be enough. Two hours and then we could go home.

  Andy brought the plates through from the kitchen. He put ours side by side and I gave him a look of relief as I shimmied into the adjacent chair. Under the table, he squeezed my hand and I only pulled it away when Conor went to pour the wine. Not the wine I’d brought, that was still sitting in the hall.

  ‘None for me, thanks,’ I said, reluctantly covering the glass with my flattened hand. ‘I’m just getting over a cold.’

  Isabel led the conversation. She asked me about the restaurant and how the house was working out. I told her about all the jobs Andy had done on it and watched as she beamed with pride. Andy told them about his plans to claim his Irish passport and a few leads on steady jobs. They discussed their plans for Wexford, what time they would leave in the morning, what they’d do, whether there were walking boots in the holiday home that would fit Andy. I watched Conor throughout the meal, bending further and further over his plate. He didn’t speak until we were on dessert and Isabel was dishing out the neighbourhood gossip.