Now and Then

by Mary O'Sullivan

  “Shit, Leah! This is for the children. What future do you think they’ll have here? And you’re being unfair yet again. My mother idolises the children. She would never do anything to harm them.”

  Ben stood to face Leah. She hovered as if not sure of what to do next. He frowned. Suddenly this vulnerable woman bore little resemblance to his self-assured wife. She bowed her head but not before he saw a lone tear trickle down her face. He put his arms around her.

  “Don’t cry, Leah. Please don’t cry.”

  As he held her close he felt her body shake with sobs. He stroked her hair and rocked her gently, as if she were one of the children in need of comfort.

  “You’ll see,” he murmured. “It will all work out for the best. The children are young enough to relocate without difficulty at this stage. They’ll adapt really quickly and –”

  She pulled abruptly away from him. The Leah look was back on her face. Disdain, anger and behind it all a deep disappointment. Her eyes were red-rimmed, tears glistened on her cheeks, but yet she was ready to lash him with her disapproval.

  “What about Rob? He’s just settling into school here and you want to drag him away. The twins are booked into kindergarten for next year. And my business. What about that? I’ve worked my butt off to build the salon up so that we can at least eat, and you dismiss it without a thought. You certainly inherited your mother’s arrogance.”

  Ben shook his head as he stared at her. When had she become a harridan and he a . . . ? What was he now? A failed husband and father? An unemployment statistic. A doormat.

  Leah was still ranting on, picking relentlessly at the last of his self-esteem. He was gripped by an urge to hit her, to land his fist on her mouth. Shocked by the force of his anger, he walked back until she was out of range of his already clenched fist.

  “Shut the fuck up!” he heard himself shout.

  Leah stopped talking. She looked terrified. Ben, bile rising up his throat in self-disgust, took a step towards her. She backed away.

  “Don’t come near me! I’m warning you!”

  He stood still as she backed even further away.

  “Give me a break, Leah! I apologise for shouting but, Christ Almighty, you never listen to a word I say. You organise me like I’m one of the children. Can’t you see I’m suffocating here in Paircmoor? There’s no –” He fell silent mid-sentence when he saw the kitchen door slowly open.

  Rob’s head, all tousled hair and sleepy eyes, peeped around the door. As the child stepped into the room, he held his tattered security blanket in front of him like a protective shield. His bottom lip was quivering. Leah turned and held her arms open to their son. He ran to her and clung on.

  “I heard shouts and bad words, Mom,” he said. “I’m afraid.”

  Ben took a step forward to comfort his son, to explain. Leah glared at him over the child’s head. There were no words spoken. They were not needed. Anger shone from her eyes, warning him to keep his distance. She turned and walked away with Rob, crooning softly to him, telling him Mom and Dad were just playing a silly game. The kitchen door swung shut and he could hear them no more.

  The walls of the kitchen, the overhead beams, the counter, the sink, the stove, presses with cereals and ware, the kit and caboodle of everyday living, all began to bear down on Ben. He was dizzy, breathless, his heart thumping so loudly the sound seemed to fill the room. The beams spun until they were on the floor and the stove on the ceiling. Imprinted on everything was the image of Rob, his dark eyes filled with fear, his little chest heaving with sobs. Even as the words of apology and regret formed in Ben’s mind, he knew Rob – gentle, sensitive Rob – would never forgive him and he could never forgive himself. Leah would make sure of that.

  He picked up Ellen’s vase from the table in an effort to get comfort from the beauty of the piece. There was none to be had. Ellen was just like the vase, beautiful on the outside, shallow inside. Reaching his arm back, he flung the vase as hard as he could against the feature brick wall around the stove. The crack of shattering ceramic steadied the spinning images in his mind and forced a gulp of air into his lungs.

  He strode out into the hall, through the front door and into the dark of the night.

  I sat at the side of Rob’s bed with him on my lap, gently stroking his back, feeling the heat of his body through the fabric of his Batman pyjamas. My shoulder was damp from his tears.

  “I was so afraid, Mom. Why did you and Dad play such a cross game?”

  Why indeed? I had seen a new side to Ben tonight. A vicious, aggressive side. The cross game had frightened me too. I laid my chin on top of my son’s head and encircled him in my arms.

  “It was a mistake, Rob. It was a silly game and we will never play it again.”

  “Dad said a bad word. I heard him.”

  “Then he can’t watch TV for two nights. That will teach him –”

  There was a loud crash. The explosive crackle of ware smashing. Rob stiffened in my arms. Jesus! Had Ben lost his reason? The smash was quickly followed by the sound of the front door opening and banging shut. Rob was shaking.

  “What’s happening, Mom? Is an ogre coming into our house?”

  His dark eyes were glistening with tears again, skinny little arms latched on around my neck as he clung tight. At that moment I felt a surge of hate for Ben as strong as my protective instinct for my son.

  “No, Rob. Ogres are only in stories. They don’t really exist. Your dad must have dropped his cup on the floor when he was putting it in the dishwasher. You know what a loud bang that would make on the tiles. He’s just gone out now to put the pieces in the bin.”

  “Oh!”

  Lies, lies, lies. I hated lying to him but what was I to tell him? He wriggled in my arms as he lifted his right hand and stuck his thumb into his mouth. He had not done that for two years now. There had been a time when I thought he would graduate from university with his thumb in his mouth. I felt his body relax as he sucked and I was glad he was finding comfort. Gently, I laid him on his bed and tucked him in. I continued to stroke his hair until his eyes closed and his breathing was deep and even.

  I kissed him softly on the forehead and tiptoed out of his room.

  The kitchen door was closed. The bang had been so loud, I knew something must have been hurled with force. The sound had reverberated with angry energy. What in the hell had he done?

  I took a deep breath and opened the door. The floor around the stove was strewn with shards of painted poppies and daisies.

  I stared at the remnants of the beautiful artefact. Like a shaman casting bones, I read my fortune in the shattered pieces. There the shard of scarlet poppy represented Ellen Riggs, here the sunshine heart of a daisy, the children. And the rest, the splintered and sharp bits were Ben and me, our past, our future, hurled against a brick wall and destroyed.

  I shivered, then got the dustpan and brush and began the clean-up.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Not a sliver of moonlight or starshine pierced the heavy cloud cover. The sky was black, black, black. Even the air was dense, heavy, as Ben tried to draw it into his lungs. Out of the darkness a sudden gust of wind swirled, bringing with it rain.

  He shivered. He had been in such a hurry to leave Cowslip Cottage behind that he had come out without a jacket. The rain soaked into his T-shirt and the wind slapped icy drops into his face. His T-shirt was white. Like a flag of surrender, waving as he walked towards the sea. Away from Paircmoor. Away from his family.

  Five kilometres. That’s how far he was from the coast.

  He upped his pace, pushing against the wind and rain. The night got even darker as the road narrowed. The trees on either side meshed branches overhead to form a tunnel. They creaked and groaned as he passed underneath and occasionally dumped sprays of rainwater onto his head. He stood and shook his fist at the leafy arch.

  “Go on! Piss on me. Everyone else does!”

  The sound of his own voice came back to him out of the darkness. He lau
ghed. Out loud. Hysterically. Then he began to cry. How had Ben Parrish ended up standing on this godforsaken road, drenched, frozen and in despair, threatening trees with physical violence? It was a nightmare. He had never lost his job. Of course not. He had worked too hard, been too talented to be thrown on the scrapheap. And he could not be living in the arsehole of the country, in a house he didn’t like and couldn’t afford to renovate. A has-been before he had really begun.

  He started to run. His lungs hurt as he gulped breaths of the winter storm, his muscles ached, his heart thumped. He focused on reaching the end of the tree tunnel. That would be where he could leave the nightmare behind and stride into reality. His real life. His meaningful, successful life. He rounded a bend, one he knew well from driving the children to the beach. He was warmed for an instant by an image of that day when Ellen had come too and they had sat side by side on a rug and watched over the children playing in the sand. Ahead of him the trees still entwined branches over the road. The tunnel must end soon. Then everything would be alright.

  The road widened and there were no more trees. Nor was there, Ben admitted, any new reality. The helplessness, the grieving for opportunities lost, the bitter taste of failure, were still burrowed into the very essence of his soul. This was it. His life.

  He kept running. A car came against him, slowed then stopped. It was a silver saloon, driven by an elderly man of the helpful stranger variety. He lowered the driver’s window.

  “Bad night,” he said. “Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Ben told the Good Samaritan. “Just doing some marathon training.”

  He continued running towards the sea. To where he knew with certainty he would find a solution to his problems.

  One way or another.

  Just as he thought he would never reach the coast, Ben caught a waft of brine on the wind and heard the rumble of restless tide. He knew if he continued on the main road it would take him towards the bleak Pouldubh Head. Instead he took the turn to his left, down a by-road, which brought him towards the beach. Tarmacadam soon gave way to gravel path. He stopped to catch his breath, leaning over, hands on knees. A dog barked and before he could straighten up, it came running at him out of the dark. He backed slowly away, afraid to make any sudden moves.

  “Pilot! Come here! You bad boy!”

  A woman, leash in hand came rushing forward, grabbing the dog by the collar.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “He’s not used to seeing people out here this time of night. He won’t bite you. He just likes to make a lot of noise.”

  She reached into her pocket, pulled out a torch and shone it on the dog. Ben almost laughed out loud. He had anticipated seeing at least a snarling Alsatian, teeth bared. Instead a Shih Tzu wearing a blue ribbon in its hair bounced on its legs as it continued the loud barking.

  “Not to worry,” Ben said. “I’m fine.”

  “All the same you must have got a fright. Would you like a cup of tea? Vera Sanquest is my name. I live in Cliff House, just over there.” She pointed to her left.

  “I’m good, thank you,” he answered, deliberately withholding his own name, not sure whether this Vera was being nice or nosey.

  Ben knew the house to see. It was the only one so near the cliff edge. Ellen had speculated on whether it would fall into the sea in five years’ time. Or two if coastal erosion continued as it was going.

  “Well then, I had better take Pilot home. Looks like it’s going to be a very bad night. Are you sure you’re alright? Do you have far to go?”

  “No, not far. Goodnight.”

  He walked back towards the road – the Paircmoor Road – and stood in the darkness until the circle of light from the Vera Sanquest’s torch disappeared into Cliff House and she shut her front door. Then he headed back to the sea.

  The cliff path sloped gently to the shore. Safe and comfortable to walk in the daylight but it was neither as Ben slid his way down in the pitch dark, the sound of surf pounding in his ears. Occasional flashes of white streaked the darkness as foam-crested waves rushed to shore and a buoy flashed intermittently far out to sea. He could easily lose his footing, batter his head against rocks, tumble into the sea below. Risks he was willing to take in order to reach his goal. Somewhere along the road from Cowslip Cottage, it had become urgent for him to find the cave he, Ellen and the children had explored on that precious day they had spent together on the beach.

  Almost down to the beach, he discerned the rhythmic scrape of pebble and shell being sucked back into the powerful undertow. Fine spray misted his face. He licked his lips and tasted salt. He was shivering uncontrollably, the chilling wind seeming to blow right through him. He was cold to his core. Maybe he should have accepted that woman’s offer of a cup of tea. A heat by her fire before setting off back home. Not home. That had been in Dublin. Before it had been sold to an investor. Before it was subdivided into apartments and let out to students. Before Cowslip Cottage. And what would he tell the woman in Cliff House when she asked who he was, what he did, why he was out in a storm half-dressed, half frozen to death?

  He stood still. A short flight of steps led from the cliff path onto the strand. He squinted his eyes and peered down. Stilled his breathing and listened intently. Was the tide incoming or ebbing? He knew he would have to turn left at the bottom of the steps and walk along under the cliff face for a minute or so before he could reach the cave. What if he got trapped by this raging tide and was dragged out to sea underneath tons of heaving water? Just when the possibility of a job with Zach Milburg offered the first glimmer of hope since his redundancy.

  It seemed to him at that moment, poised between the security of dry land and the threat of a lawless sea, between unemployment and the hope of a new start in America, that he was already trapped by fate. He had missed every goal he had aimed for. Why should working for Zach Milburg be any different? Mum would champion his cause. So would Hugh, not because he cared about Ben but because Mum told him to. But Leah. She would dig her heels in. Against all the odds, a city girl born and bred, Leah was rooted in Paircmoor and was making sure the children were too. And yes, they had talked about moving here and he had agreed. But Paircmoor was just meant to be a breathing space. A place to lick wounds and heal. He had not anticipated a burying alive. He was drained by failure. Reaching the cave could be his last challenge and, by Christ, he was going to achieve it. He grabbed the handrail and put his right foot into the void.

  Six minutes later, Ben found the cave. It had taken courage to walk that short distance, at one stage a wave washing over his feet as it bullied its way further inshore. He flopped onto a rock inside the cave and got control of his breathing. The coldness of the cave crept into his bones but at least he was sheltered from the biting wind. He heard a drip and remembered seeing fresh water from the clifftop seeping in when he had been here with the children. And Ellen. They had all called their names out loud, just to hear them echoing from the depths of the cave. It was hollowed out far back into the cliff, the roof getting progressively lower. They had stayed at the front, exploring the rock pools and finding little fish darting about. Gobies, Ellen had said. She had an encyclopaedic knowledge of nature. And a wonderful laugh. And a fuck-off, fabulously successful, husband. Why had he ever thought she could have been interested in a has-been architect with a wife, three children and no prospects?

  He stood and stretched, his raised arms almost tipping the roof of the cave, wondering if bats were hanging there, sensing his presence. Could they feel his fear and know he was too destroyed by life to be a threat to them? The dark of the night seeped into the blackness in his mind, his heart, his soul. His arms dropped to his sides, forced down by the weight of despair. He recognised that this was his nadir. He was scraping the very depths of – of – of what? Depression, self-pity, or like Leah always said, selfishness?

  A wave crashed onto the rocks a few feet away. A semi-circle of foam pushed into the cave. The tide was incoming. At a fast pace. In
a short time he would be trapped here. Until the tide swept him out to sea. Until it filled his lungs with water and fed his remains to hungry fish. And it would all be over then – the constant feeling of inadequacy, the permanent knot of sadness in his throat, the dashed hopes, the rejections. All the unbearable things he had to battle every day. What were a few moments of panic and pain compared to the prospect of eternal peace from all that torment? Never again to dread waking to another day, to see the look of pity in peoples’ eyes . . .

  Never to see the children again. Not Rob, solemn and calm. So in need of protection. Not Josh, the sensitive little man. And Anna, precious Anna. A mini-Leah, feisty and full of energy. He tried to imagine how they would be without him. He was their main carer, their cook and chauffeur. They would miss him for a while and then they would forget him. Leah was young and attractive. She would remarry and the children would have a new daddy. A man to pick them up when they fell and cuddle them when they were afraid. Someone they could look up to, who would provide them with opportunities in life. Someone like Hugh. The successful brother.

  A sob escaped him. He turned to look back into the cave but it was too dark to know if he could shelter safely there until the tide went out. And if he should even try. Perhaps his subconscious intention in coming here had been to throw himself at the mercy of the sea, and not, as he had told himself, to relive the day he had shared with Ellen. He thought he saw her emerge from the darkness. He blinked and she was gone. Back to her husband.

  A huge wave crashed against the mouth of the cave. Now the decision was out of his hands. Water rushed in and washed over his feet. He felt so tired it was difficult to stand. He tried to take some deep breaths but his lungs continued to make shallow grabs for air. Numb feet made wading to the opening even more difficult. He stood at the mouth of the cave. To left, right and ahead, he was surrounded by heaving sea. The water was reaching for him, imposing its rhythm of ebb and flow on his breathing. On his thoughts. On his memories of a life begun in privilege and ending in disaster.