Rules of the Road

by Ciara Geraghty

One reads Vera Armstrong. Her mother’s name.

  The second envelope is addressed to me.

  2

  YOU MUST ALWAYS BE AWARE OF YOUR SPEED AND JUDGE THE APPROPRIATE SPEED FOR YOUR VEHICLE.

  ‘The speed limit on a regional road is eighty kilometres per hour,’ Dad says.

  ‘Sorry, I’m … in a hurry.’ I glance in the rear-view mirror. I think I hear sirens, but I see no police cars behind me.

  In my peripheral vision, Iris’s letter, in a crumpled ball at the top of my handbag.

  My dearest Terry,

  The first thing you should know is there was nothing you could have done. My mind was made up.

  Panic is spinning my thoughts around and around, faster and faster, until it’s difficult to make out individual ones.

  ‘Did I ever tell you about the time I had Frank Sinatra in the taxi?’ says Dad.

  ‘No.’ Most of my conversations with my father are crippled with lies.

  ‘It was a Friday night, and I was driving down Harcourt Street. The traffic was terrible because of the … the stuff … the water …’

  ‘Rain?’

  ‘Yes, rain and …’

  The second thing you should know is there was nothing you could have done. My mind was made up.

  The lights are red and I jerk to a stop. The brakes screech. The car is due for an NCT next month. I need to get it serviced before then. Brendan says I should get a new one. A little run-around, he says. Something easier to park. But I like the heft of the Volvo. It’s true that it’s nearing its sell-by date. Maybe even past it. But I feel safe inside it. And it’s never let me down.

  ‘… and I said to Frank I know the words to all your songs and …’

  … but please know that this is a decision I have come to after a long, thorough thought process and I do not and will not regret it.

  I’ve never been to Dublin Port before. I park in a disabled spot. I have no permit to do so.

  ‘Dad, will you stay here? I have to … I have to do something.’

  ‘Of course, love, no problem.’

  ‘Promise me you won’t get out of the car?’

  ‘Are you going to pick up your mother?’

  ‘Swear you’ll stay here ’til I get back.’

  … and perhaps it is too much for me to ask; that you understand my choice, but I hope you do because your opinion is important to me and …

  My father looks at me with curiosity as if he’s trying to work out who I am, and perhaps he is. It is sometimes difficult to tell what he knows for sure and what he pretends to remember.

  I bend towards him, put my hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ll be back soon, okay?’

  He smiles a gappy smile, which means he’s taken out his dentures again. Last time I found them inside one of Anna’s old trainers in the boot.

  ‘You’ll be back soon,’ he says, and I tell him I will, and close the door and lock him into the car.

  … practical arrangements have been taken care of with the clinic in Switzerland and are enclosed for your …

  If the car catches fire, he won’t be able to get out. He’ll be burned alive. Or suffocated with the smoke. But the car has never caught fire, so why would it today? Of all days? I hesitate. Brendan would call it dithering.

  … only a matter of time before that happens, which is why it needs to be now, before I am no longer able to …

  I run through the car park, towards the terminal building. I try not to think about anything. Instead, I concentrate on the sound of my soles thumping against the ground, the sound of my breath, hot and strained, the sound of my heart, thumping in my chest like a fist.

  My dearest Terry,

  The first thing you should know is …

  I spot Iris immediately. She’s easy to spot even though she’s not all that tall. She seems taller than she is.

  The relief is palpable. Solid as a wall. She’s in a queue, doing her best to wait her turn. She does not look like a woman who is planning to end her life in a clinic in Switzerland. She looks like her usual self. Her steel-grey hair cropped close to her scalp, no make-up, no jewellery, no nonsense. It’s only when the queue shuffles forward, you notice the crutches, and still, after all this time, they seem so peculiar in her big, capable hands. So unnecessary.

  I stand for a moment and stare at her. My first thought is that Iris was wrong. There is something I can do. What that something is, I haven’t worked out yet. But the fact that I’m here. That’s she’s still here. I haven’t missed her. It’s a Sign, isn’t it?

  The relief is so huge, so insistent, there’s no room for any other feeling in my head. I’m full to the brim with it. I’m choking on it. My voice sounds strange when I call her name.

  ‘Iris.’ She can’t hear me over the crowd.

  I walk nearer. ‘Iris?’

  ‘IRIS!’ Heads turn towards me, and I can feel my face flooding with heat. I concentrate on Iris, who turns her face towards me, her wide, green eyes fastening on me.

  ‘Terry? What the fuck are you doing here?’

  Iris’s propensity to curse was the only thing my mother did not like about her.

  My mouth is dry and the relief has deserted me and my body is pounding with … I don’t know … adrenalin maybe. Or fear. I feel cold all of a sudden. Clammy. I step closer. Open my mouth. What I say next is important. It might be the most important thing I’ve ever said, except I can’t think of anything. Not a single thing. Not one word. Instead, I rummage in my handbag, pull out her letter, do my best to smooth it so she’ll recognise it. So she’ll know. I hold it up.

  When Iris sees the page, she sort of freezes so that, when the queue shuffles forward, she does not move, and the person behind – engrossed in his phone – walks into the back of her.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ he says. Iris doesn’t glare at him. She doesn’t even look at him, as if she hasn’t noticed his intrusion into her personal space, another of her pet hates. Instead, she nudges her luggage – an overnight bag – along the floor with a crutch, then follows it.

  I stand there, holding the creased page.

  People stare.

  I lower my hand, walk towards her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I hiss at her.

  She won’t look at me. ‘You know what I’m doing. You read my note.’ She concentrates on the back of the man’s head in front of her. The collar of his suit jacket is destroyed with dandruff.

  I fold my arms tightly across my chest, making fists of my hands to stop the shake of them. I should have thought more about what I was going to say. I don’t know what I thought about in the car. I don’t think I thought of anything. Except getting here.

  And now I’m here, and I can’t think of what to say. Or do.

  ‘Iris,’ I finally manage. ‘Say something.’

  ‘I’ve explained everything in my letter.’ She looks straight ahead, as though she’s talking to someone in front of her. Not to me. People in the queue crane their necks to get their fill of us. ‘I’ve read it,’ I say, ‘and I’m none the wiser.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Terry.’ She lowers her head, her voice smaller now. A crack in her armour that I might be able to prise open.

  I put my hand on her arm. ‘It’s okay, Iris. It’s going to be okay. We’ll just get into my car. I’m parked right outside. Dad’s in the car by himself so we need to …’

  ‘Your dad? Why is he here?’

  ‘There’re rats. In Sunnyside. Well … vermin, which I took to mean … but look, I’ll tell you about it in the car, okay?’

  ‘How did you know I’d be here?’ Iris says.

  ‘I saw the booking form. On your computer.’

  ‘You hacked into my laptop?’

  ‘Of course not! You left your computer on, which, by the way, is a fire hazard. Not to mention the security risk of not having a password.’

  ‘You broke into my house?’

  ‘No! I used the key you keep in the …’ I lower my voice ‘… shed.’

  The
queue shuffles forward, and Iris prods her bag with her stick, follows it. She is nearly at the head now.

  ‘Iris,’ I call after her, ‘come on.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Terry,’ she says again, looking at me. ‘I’m taking this boat.’ Her voice is filled with the kind of clarity nobody argues with. I’ve seen her in action. At various committee meetings at the Alzheimer’s Society. That’s another thing she hates. Committees. She prefers deciding on a course of action and making it happen. That’s usually how it pans out.

  I stand there, my hands dangling uselessly from the ends of my rigid, straight arms.

  ‘I am not going to allow you to do this,’ I say then.

  ‘Next,’ the man at the ticket office calls.

  Iris bends to pick up her overnight bag. I see the tremor running like an electrical current down the length of her arm. I know better than to help. Anyway, why would I help? I’m here to hinder, not to help.

  I’m not really a hinderer, as such.

  Iris says I’m a facilitator, but really, I just go along with things. Try not to attract attention.

  Iris hooks her bag onto the handle of the crutch, strides towards the man at the hatch. Even with her sticks, she strides.

  I stumble after her.

  ‘I’m collecting a ticket,’ she says. ‘Iris Armstrong. To Holyhead.’

  The man pecks at his keyboard with short, fat fingers. ‘One way?’ he asks.

  Iris nods.

  3

  DON’T MOVE FROM ONE TRAFFIC LANE TO ANOTHER WITHOUT GOOD REASON.

  I run outside. My father is still in the car. The car is not on fire. I fling open the door. He looks at me with his now familiar face; the one that is somehow vacant, like an abandoned house. Or a space where a house used to stand.

  ‘Dad, I …’ My voice is high and tight with fear. Crying seems inevitable. My brother called me a crybaby when we were kids.

  ‘Your mother should be back by now,’ he says. ‘She’s been gone a long time.’

  I clear my throat. ‘She’ll be back soon,’ I say. I don’t have time for crying. I have to think.

  THINK.

  I could call the guards. Couldn’t I? I have Iris’s letter. That’s proof, isn’t it? But is it illegal? Iris’s plan? She’d never forgive me. But maybe she would, in the end. Maybe she’d be grateful I forced her hand?

  I look at my watch. The boat leaves in an hour and a half.

  THINK.

  I ring home. I don’t know why. Nobody is there. But the ring tone, the sound of it ringing in my own home in Sutton, in the hallway that smells of the floor polish I used this morning, the phone ringing in its own familiar way, is a comfort to me.

  In the early years, I did nothing but worry about the house. The lure that it represented to would-be burglars. The strain of the mortgage on Brendan’s salary. And on Brendan himself. I worried that he would end up like his father, who died a week before he retired from the building sites.

  ‘We can buy a smaller house,’ I said. ‘In Bayside maybe. They’re not as expensive there.’

  But Brendan had already put the deposit down. It meant a lot to him, our address. He said I wouldn’t understand because I hadn’t grown up in a three-bed council house in Edenmore.

  He told me not to worry.

  I worried anyway.

  The phone stops ringing. Then a click, and Brendan’s monotone. ‘We’re not in. Leave a message.’

  ‘You could sound a bit more …’ I said when he recorded the message.

  ‘A bit more what?’

  ‘Well … interested, I suppose.’

  I don’t remember what he said to that. Nothing, I expect.

  I hang up. Dad smiles at me and says, ‘Did I ever tell you about the time Frank Sin—’

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘What would you say if I told you we were going on a little trip?’ This is crazy. I can’t go. I have too much to do here. Too many responsibilities. Besides, I’ve got no change of clothes. Or even a toothbrush.

  ‘But what about your mother?’ Dad asks. ‘She has to come with us.’

  I scan the front of the terminal building. Maybe Iris will come out? She seemed stunned when I left. She was probably expecting me to do something. What should I do?

  THINK.

  I can’t just get on a boat. What about Dad? And the girls? They’re both under pressure at the moment; Kate with her play debuting in Galway next week, and Anna, in the last year of her politics and philosophy course. Studying for her finals.

  Brendan told me not to ring him at work unless it’s an emergency.

  ‘GoldStar Insurance, Brendan Shepherd’s office, Laura speaking, how may I help you?’

  ‘Oh, hello … I …’

  ‘Is that you, Mrs Shepherd?’

  ‘Well, yes, yes it is, I—’

  ‘I’m afraid Brendan is in a meeting and he—’

  ‘I’m … sorry, I don’t want to disturb him, but I need to … could you …’

  ‘Certainly, one moment please.’

  ‘Greensleeves’. It sounds soothing after the brisk efficiency of Laura Muldoon. She’s worked there for years. Brendan says he couldn’t manage without her. His right-hand woman he calls her.

  A second round of ‘Greensleeves’, and still no sign of Iris. Part of me knows for a fact that she is on the boat. That’s what she said she was going to do, so it seems likely that that’s what she’s done. Still, I look for her at the main door of the building. Just in case.

  ‘Terry?’ Brendan sounds worried. ‘What is it? Is everything okay?’

  ‘Well, no, but, I—’ What to say, exactly?

  ‘Are the girls all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes, they’re fine, it’s just—’

  ‘I’m in the middle of an important meeting. The Canadians arrived this morning. Remember?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ How could I have forgotten about the Canadians? Brendan has talked of little else but this takeover for months now. There’s talk of rationalisation. He’s worried about his staff. Losing their jobs.

  ‘Can you print out last week’s bordereaux on the financial services portfolios?’ Brendan asks.

  ‘Pardon?’ I say.

  ‘Sorry, I was talking to Laura there. Listen Terry, I’m going to have to—’

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘What is it?’ His impatience is almost tangible. I clear my throat.

  ‘Brendan. I need to talk to you. It’s about Iris.’

  ‘Iris?’ He wasn’t expecting that. I can’t blame him. Iris is not someone who usually warrants an emergency phone call.

  ‘Yes, Iris,’ I say, so there can be no doubt.

  ‘What about her?’ The urgency is gone from his tone. He thinks this is one of my worrying about nothing scenarios.

  ‘Well, she’s … talking about going to Switzerland. She says she’s going to a place where she can … it’s a clinic. In Zurich. They help you to … you know … end your life.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Iris is going to Swi—’

  ‘No, Jesus, I heard what you said, I just … what the hell is she doing that for?’

  ‘Well … she says it’s to do with her MS and—’

  ‘But there’s not a bother on her. She’s not even in a wheelchair.’

  ‘That’s why she wants to do it now, she says. While she still can.’

  ‘That makes no sense whatsoever.’

  ‘Look Brendan, there’s no time to explain. The boat is leaving in …’ I check my watch. ‘… an hour and a quarter, and—’

  ‘Boat? What boat?’

  ‘The boat to Holyhead.’ It was a mistake. Ringing Brendan.

  ‘But she’s going to Zurich, you said. Why would she—’

  ‘She doesn’t fly. You know that.’

  Brendan makes a sort of snorting noise down the phone. ‘So she’s going to kill herself, but she’s taking the boat just in case the plane crashes? Jesus, even for Iris, that’s crazy.
’

  ‘Don’t say that, it’s—’

  The sound of a foghorn wails through the air, startling me.

  ‘Where are you, Terry?’

  ‘I’m … I’m at Dublin Port.’

  ‘What are you … Jesus Christ, you’re not thinking of going with her, are you?’

  ‘Of course not. I mean, probably definitely not. It’s just … she’s by herself and …’

  Crackling on the line now, then a door – Brendan’s office door – being firmly closed. When he speaks again, his voice is louder. Clearer. As if he is pressing the receiver hard against the side of his face.

  ‘Terry, listen to me now. She’s not going to go through with it. This is one of her notions. Like that time she said she was going to trek through the Sahara Desert.’

  ‘She did trek through the Sahara Desert.’

  Brendan pauses, takes a deep breath.

  ‘Look, Terry, you’re needed here. Work is crazy at the moment with the Canadians landing. And there’s Kate. We need to be in Galway for her play next week.’

  ‘I know that, but—’

  ‘And what about Anna? She gets so stressed at exam time. And these are her finals.’ I want to tell him I know all that. I am her mother. These are the things I know. Like Anna being stressed and her skin being bad. I’m positive she’s not applying the cream I got for her eczema as regularly as she’s supposed to.

  ‘The best thing to do is go home, Terry. I won’t work late tonight. I’ll do my best to be home in time for dinner. We can talk about it then.’

  I picture Brendan, arriving home from a hard day at the office and no dinner on the table and the washing still hanging on the line in the back garden. Anna brought a week’s worth over yesterday, and I promised her I’d …

  THINK.

  I think about Iris.

  Say I went.

  I can’t go.

  But say I did.

  Could I persuade Iris to change her mind? I’ve never persuaded anyone to do anything. I couldn’t even talk Brendan out of having the vasectomy after Anna was born.

  ‘Terry? Terry? Are you there?’ I hear the bristle in his voice, straining to get back to his important meeting.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So I’ll see you tonight?’

  ‘Well, I …’