I Found My Tribe

by Ruth Fitzmaurice

  We drive through mountains into Spain. These borders are free. I had half hoped for the danger of dogs, guns or at least barbed wire. Lovely roads fly high up on stilts through the Pyrenees. Look, children! Look at the view! Heads in books don’t even look up and Uncle Joe is asleep.

  The Costa Brava is awesomely lawless. We don’t give a shit. De nada – have another beer, wear your shoes around the pool, carry chips and chilled sangria to your deckchair, push each other down the water-slide, do a flippin’ backflip if you’re able – the lifeguard is smiling and really doesn’t care.

  A dwarf dressed in a giant sun costume is the campsite mascot. The short-legged sunshine dances through tall, hot girls, pushing kids into the pool. Whatever, de nada, we drink lots of cheap beer and smoke sneaky fags because they are criminally cheap. This is all a bit nasty and fun and so very friendly. The Spanish seem to love kids spontaneously. Waiters make beds out of chairs for the twins when they fall asleep at midnight dinners. We eat at the Mini Golf Restaurant. As the name suggests, this is total tourist heaven.

  Someone is still chasing me. I can’t relax or sleep at night. The cheesy love songs at the pool area go on all day and, oh Jesus, could someone just change this music to something dancy and empty of emotional Cheddar? Eyes are welling up here. My chin is trembling and I might just cry in a sun-soaked bikini, lip-synching the words to Whitney Houston. Simon sends me the odd functional email and it’s out of tune with the Cheddar.

  Relax gear begins to ease in. We go to Barcelona for a day. Barcelona is a magical place so obviously we go straight to McDonald’s. Children are thirsty. Then we get on an open-top tour bus and plug in headphones for two hours. We drive around with mystery tour sunstroke, looking at this gorgeous land. The buildings are spellbinding. Arden leans over the bus, loses his hat and cries for a long time. His face looks crushed and squinty in the sun. The twins pass out and wake up cross and sweaty. We unstick our legs from the seats, leave imprints of our asses for all time, get off the bus and drag little legs to a train ride home.

  There is a water-slide park. Jack begs to do the freefall with Uncle Joe, and I might puke with the motherly stress. We wave to distant dots, before they plummet together from up high. Jack survives and cackles at the bottom with a wide open grin. Subdued Uncle Joe has a tanned face alarmingly drained to grey ash. Holiday spells are being woven and we hold them in our bronzed, sticky hands. You can’t take that away from me, Whitney Houston.

  Why is sorrow sitting beside me in this sunny place with no shadows? I hadn’t realised how much my home life hurt. The extent of the battering has left large bruises. The muscles in my neck scream and spasm at night when I wake drenched in raw anxiety. Tension tails me to the pool, nudges me at dinner and asks me to dance when the lights are turned out. I lie in my narrow camp bed, tossing in sweaty sheets. Holiday, I have yearned for you for so long. What cruel trick is this?

  We follow the coast road over winding cliffs to a tinier town called Tossa de Mar. Old buildings and ruins cut into the cliffside. The horizon leads us to a beautiful beach with bobbing speedboats. All seven of us march through hot sand and plunge into the ocean. I crawl out and lie on the sand. My toes dig deep. Arden collects Spanish sea glass and silently deposits pieces on my sunbathing tummy. The sea works its usual magic and I find peace. Holiday, there you are, so nice to meet you.

  We drive back to France and someone is chasing me again. The French may be stricter but their food is a cosmic explosion. The campsite is run like a military base dressed up in sparkly drag. Have fun but don’t break the rules and don’t you dare wear dirty shoes by the pool.

  It turns out that after you make your escape from one coast to another, drive the length of France to dip in the Mediterranean, you feel powerful briefly, then just lonely again. The big world out there can be much bigger and lonelier and you are harder to decipher out of context. I am a sunburnt blip in a congregation of tanned couples and F cars.

  People we meet naturally presume that Joe is my husband. Joe is eight years younger than me so I am tickled. Poor Joe cannot hide the absolute horror from his face. We talk about getting him a T-shirt that says ‘I’m just the fun uncle’, or perhaps, ‘They’re not mine’.

  Joe is such easy company, he brings me back to my roots and normalises me in a good way. I struggle through his boring footballer biography and he steals my Game of Thrones. We share tasks and he shoulders small children, with a special place for Sadie, his doting god-daughter. There are few people who would actually look forward to a holiday with this circus. The kids and I know we are very lucky.

  For a married couple, Joe and I look remarkably like brother and sister. This sparks fun driving conversations about couples who are clones of each other and dogs that look like their owners. ‘Don’t mention dogs,’ I hiss. ‘I miss Pappy!’ wails Hunter on cue from the back. ‘He’s closer than you think,’ I sigh. ‘What do you mean?’ Joe pounces and then his face drops. ‘Is he here?’ I smile and Joe’s eyes narrow. ‘He’s under my seat, isn’t he?’ he says, deadpan. I shrug and then struggle to keep the wheel straight as Joe hops around like he’s on an anthill. The kids are too distracted by comic books and Hunter’s wailing to grasp our frantic giggles.

  We relish long laughs, drink fine wine and get cleaner in France doing drenched runs in the 36 degree heat. Mont Saint-Michel is another enchanted place; we stop there on the way home. From afar, it’s a pop-up-book pointy island over flat Normandy lands. We approach from a distance humming the ‘Ivory Tower’ film score from The NeverEnding Story. In close range, cross-faced army guys with guns are patrolling it and the tour bus driver screams at Hunter for standing in the luggage bay. He tries to ram a tourist car in front that dared to overtake him. I love angry French people.

  On the overnight ferry home we attack the all-you-can-eat buffet, dance and watch a magician climb into a giant man-sized balloon. He takes Joe’s shoe and pours a drink into it, in the shittest magic trick of all time. We clap with joy until our hands hurt.

  Back home, someone is still chasing me. Who is it? Oh hello, old friend, it’s only you, loneliness. I can see your shape again now we’re clear of all that sunshine. You had me worried there, in a stalker kind of way, but that’s OK. I suppose I can handle your prowling. There are bigger things to worry about.

  Our holiday has put us out of synch with Simon. Family and nurses have forgotten how to coordinate in the same space. Simon lights up to see the kids and they snuggle their tanned skin around him. Words typed to me are still frugal and his eyes glare with disdain. We seem to lose so many Saturdays. Kids grapple with boredom and bounce off walls, waiting for Simon to get up. He emerges in crisp trousers and shirt to say he doesn’t want to go anywhere. Rejected and lonely, I bundle the kids up to take them to the cove. I miss Uncle Joe.

  Some days just feel like you are failing spectacularly. Running away is supposed to save a day. Tears fall on rocks and I brush them out of sight from summer bathers and lounging families. The cove is always a safe place for such things, but today trouble is brewing between brothers.

  Arden and Jack exchange cross words. Stones get thrown at close range. One stone hits its target straight in the neck. Scuffles and blood-curdling screams entertain a busy summer beach. Jack is the man with the winning aim. ‘Go to the car,’ I scold and he storms off the beach. We follow a few minutes later and Jack is nowhere to be found.

  We drive around Greystones, with Arden hanging his head out the window like an anxious puppy. Is that him on the rocks? No, he was wearing jeans. ‘We should call the police, Momma, maybe he’s been kidnapped,’ pipes up Raife. We drive around for half an hour, circling the same path. On the third round we see him standing white-faced on the corner. I beep the horn and he looks up, haunted. A chalky ghost runs towards us and gets in the car.

  Jack had been hiding on the adjacent beach and got a fright when the car was gone. My boy had run away for real. ‘Never do that again,’ I gasp, hugging him close. ‘I won’t,
’ he muffles from somewhere deep within my armpit. I believe him, more than I believe myself. I love to run, but sometimes my family needs me to stay still. I can’t stay still long enough for Simon, but I have to try. The kids miss their Uncle Joe too and I should pay attention.

  I am totally prepared for stillness. I will settle into couch cushions and put the kettle on. This is easy because something wonderful has happened. My parched and shrivelled plants shudder their collective relief. Marian has come back to work, fighting fit and with smiling eyes. Orchids will bloom in her honour and we can spread into some kind of home again. I want to hug her tightly and never let go. Be gentle with those newly healed bones. ‘What about that moon swim, Ruth?’ asks Marian with a mischievous grin.

  War Wounds

  Marian and I just cannot sit still. We are hopping around on our moon-dancing feet. ‘Let me check my moon calendar,’ Marian announces like a mystic wizard. Expert fingers swipe her touchscreen tablet, gleaning moon data. ‘The Harvest Moon is on 16 September this year,’ she reads. Well of course it is. I chuckle in disbelief. My head-shaking puts Marian on high alert. ‘What? What?’ she demands. ‘Simon and I got married on 16 September. It’s our wedding anniversary,’ I explain. There is dumbfounded silence. Screams follow that frighten small children. I make breathless phone calls to the Tragic Wives. Rise up, ladies. The full moon swim is on.

  I can’t sleep at night. If you’re no longer afraid of the dark, then maybe days get easier. The moon holds mysteries to agitate the most anxious souls. Let’s night swim, embrace the dark, dive into black velvet and get drunk on infinity.

  The cove in September is a busy spot. Warm days mean crowds stick around for longer. Rocks are thronged with summer stragglers eating chips. We elbow our way down the steps and plunge in beside plucky teenagers. They ignore us and leap off rocks, shouting big words over one another.

  Evening is a quieter time to swim, even though our club numbers are growing. With a miniature Pomeranian cradled close, Yasmin skips her way into our hearts. She sets her beatbox to some funky tunes on the rocks and braves the water with charming enthusiasm. The dog is so tiny he waits quivering on a lead attached to her handbag. Maire from Sligo shames me with her fearlessness. ‘Those aren’t big waves,’ she scoffs, as we wade in from the shore to get hammered and rolled repeatedly.

  Aifric returns one day with fierce sea-hungry eyes. ‘Everything is so busy,’ she gasps, ‘I need to swim.’ Mornings find her peeling off smart clothes to dive in before hitting the office. She admits to sneaky post-swim licks of her arm behind her computer monitor. Mermaid arms taste salty. It’s an all-day reminder of that magic first dip.

  There’re still a couple of weeks to go before the full moon swim, but I bundle the five kids into the car. They’re in their pyjamas under warm hoodies. We spin down to the cove as dusk is falling. Michelle is there, steroid-free and healed, glowing brown and golden. A bearded Galen sits in his wheelchair flanking the railings, as close as he can get to the sea. Bodhi cuddles in on his knee. Aifric is here with warm rugs and tea. Random friends out walking stop to chat, and suddenly there is a gathering. This is the Michelle and Galen effect. They are people gatherers wherever they go.

  Ladies climb down seaweed-stained rocks because the tide is too far out for step swimming. Some daughters get in too, while their brothers wave sticks and slide off distant sand dunes. Sadie stands on the steps with baffled arms outstretched and roars, ‘Why are only the LADIES in the water?’ ‘Because it’s Ladies’ Cove and we’re mermaids,’ we laugh. There is whooping and panting as we tread water between chats. The boys get jealous and join in. We scramble over slimy rocks to dive again and again. Galen throws a stick repeatedly for Casper the wonderdog who whines and retrieves it. The dog climbs rocks better than all of us.

  It is so glorious we stay in much longer than we should. Eventually, I clamber out over sharp rocks, with the sea shakes and seaweed in my fingernails. I hop up to my car on wet feet. I return with a pocket first-aid kit. Plasters are passed around for bleeding toes, knuckles, elbows and knees. Aifric’s teacup moves through so many shaky hands, most of the tea slops over the rim. We laugh with faces open, eyes bright and heads emptied. Night has fallen fully by the time I get the windswept children back in the car and drive home to bed with headlights on.

  We are now swimming twice a day and we crave danger. Michelle visits our smiling hairdresser, who wonders what on earth all this green stuff is in her hair. We get closer than ever to becoming fully fledged mermaids. If the tide is out we scale rocks to dive. Crawling back out, our toes hook into barnacled rock crevices. Strands of seaweed tickle our knees and waves slam our backs as we rise out of the water. Our numb bodies get scuffed and scraped and that is good. Macabre blood runs off limbs and it is painless because of the cold. ‘This is badass,’ I say, as I count my bloody war wounds. Hours later, the cuts that looked so dramatic reveal themselves, bashfully, to be mere tiny scrapes.

  The week prior to 16 September, the moon teases us with an increasingly curvier shape. The 14th is the anniversary of Galen’s accident. Friends gather that morning at the harbour with him to swim again. This year Michelle gets in the water too. Galen slips into the sea and rolls on to his back with outstretched arms. I watch him survey an expanse of sky and his mouth opens wide with laughter. His face has floated right up out of pain’s reach. He looks weightless with a mad, happy head.

  My throat grows a lump as I watch Michelle and Galen swim together. I tread water because I want to stay in the sea as long as Galen does. Stubbornness almost freezes me because he doesn’t want to get out. This amphibian nutter will turn me into a blue-lipped Smurf. I don’t believe we are just numbing ourselves in this sea. I look at my friends coping and surviving. Like the rolling of waves, the thrill of the dive, the rush of cold, they choose to stay unchained. This is as free as we can all possibly be.

  Michelle returns to the harbour that night, with Yasmin and their collective children. I catch them between football pickups and it’s another party. Bodhi runs up and down the slipway, a naked boomerang that never wants to stop. The moon isn’t full yet, but it looks so close. The harbour has become a giant bath, lit by a glorious round globe. A large seal pops his head up close by. ‘We’ve named him Ron,’ giggles Michelle’s daughter. Seals look cute but I don’t know how I feel about swimming with one. We screech and splash and float on our backs howling at the big yellow moon ‘AAAAAAAAOOOOOOHHHHHH!’ It is the perfect evening; if only the harbourmaster would give us a chase.

  Swims like this clean the cobwebs from my mind, like clearing the laundry basket with a good run of hot washes. I am a woman restored. Happy washing is something perhaps only housewife brains can understand. Housewife is a word that is mostly outdated. I struggle with the title when filling out forms. My pen scrawls around Lady of the House, Maker of Homes, Home Engineer, Family Manager, Homestead Economist, Mistress of Four Walls, Dreamer of Dreams. I scribble them all out.

  Most of these routines that fill my day bore me so much. Cooking is kind of OK, but cleaning makes me shrink. I used to turn on daytime radio to drown out my own soul. Smooth over the silence of a wasted life. I tried reading the newspaper. Tapping into that social hum hurt my ears. I’d rather blow up than blend in.

  I keep looking in the mirror, staring at myself because I am shocked by the person I see. She is so much herself, more herself than herself could be. Moon swimming makes her wild-eyed with excitement. There is power in doing exactly what you should be doing. Call me anything you like. I want to sing my own tune. The moon and the ocean are calling me.

  Moon Swim

  ‘Happy Anniversary,’ I say to Simon with my usual morning kiss to his forehead. ‘Can you sit with the kids tonight while the girls and I go for a naked full moon swim?’ We have run ourselves ragged together for so long. Now I need this moon swim to save myself. The smile in his eyes gives me hope he understands that. I’m still not sure. He might just be enjoying my gift of a mental im
age composed of all-girl nakedness.

  I hum around the house all day, dreaming of full moons. I can taste the thrill of shy bodies standing naked over a dark sea. Our birth scars, broken veins and secret wobbly bits will bask in moonlight. We can defy our brains and dive deep with hammering hearts. The moment feet find water, bodies will work against worried brains. We’ll leap and mainline right into the pulse of nature. There is so much fear around illness, and this is the opposite of that. I am terrified.

  Daydreams get slightly altered at the school gates. I whisper my plans to a friend. ‘You’re getting naked at the cove … tonight?’ she cries. I nod and grin. ‘But, Ruth? It’s Culture Night in Greystones. There’s an outdoor cinema on the beach tonight. It’ll be packed. With hundreds! They’re screening Jaws.’

  ‘Holy shit!’ I bark within earshot of little people. I clasp hand to mouth as swarms of tiny faces glance up. We are doubled over with laughter. ‘Holy shit,’ I repeat quietly in a more school-friendly tone. Tragic Wives should clearly pay more attention to the social calendar.

  As daylight fades, I leave the kids cuddled up in bed, with Simon, watching a movie together. I might see a movie too, I wink, waving them all goodbye. ‘Good luck, Momma,’ they cheer, with popcorn-stuffed cheeks.

  The cove throbs with a carnival atmosphere. Food stalls blast out the heat of roast chicken on spits and hot barbecue sauce. A large cinema screen hangs facing the sea and coloured deckchairs are lining up on the shore.

  We climb down rocks on the other side of the steps to a small inlet, hidden away from the crowds. Huddled together on our secret beach, wrapped in blankets, we watch the moon rise. I never knew that the moon rose like the sun and feel like a bit of a dumbass. It is large and pure orange. Marian, Aifric, Michelle and I cuddle together like a wolf pack with the wild urge to howl. It is utterly beautiful and I feel total love for these women. Sharing this view with my Tragic Wives feels mightily untragic.