Sister A said that Harriet Evans didn’t get to be with God. Heaven didn’t get to go to heaven, as it were. I remember Fionnuala, her eyes glazed as she talked about the Virgin Mary, the Infant Jesus of Prague. How she didn’t want to take over the lease on the shop because it had once been used for religious gifts and memorabilia.
Names are powerful. It was the first thing she told me. Names are powerful.
Something dirty and strange starts to dredge up from my memory, like a fishing rod hauling up an old boot. Something hidden under years and years of Catholic schooling. Something I have taken for granted, never questioned nor thought about.
People who commit suicide don’t get to go to heaven.
Or, not according to the Church they don’t. Maybe they’ve changed that lately. The Pope likes to change things, rebrand Catholicism to make it seem fresh and interesting. But that was the way for a long time, wasn’t it? Suicide was a sin, in God’s eyes. Fionnuala called her sister Heaven as a prayer. Heaven. Heaven. Heaven.
Heaven wasn’t killed by the ritual. She had killed herself during it.
It’s going to be so interesting. If you live.
If. If. If.
I shred my nails down to the quick, my fingertips sore and raw. What was I going to have to do to get Lily back? What would I have to willingly sacrifice?
I clutch my tarot cards to me, hoping that they will provide the answer.
“Will the ritual bring back Lily?” I ask aloud, while sifting their familiar weight between my hands.
I draw. The Seven of Cups. It’s a weird card, a man looking at a bunch of cups, each filled with a different symbol. Jewels in one, a snake in another, a dagger in another. Gifts and curses. The man is just standing in front of them, a rabbit in the headlights of divine choice.
This card has come up a few times in readings before, and it’s usually about not being able to make a choice. I try to apply that to the situation, but it doesn’t quite add up. Surely, by doing the ritual at all, we’re making a definite choice. We’re acting; we’re not staring at a bunch of cups and waiting for the world to pass us by.
I look again, and try to think of the card differently. The dagger hovering above the cup draws me in, and I press my thumb over the blade.
Maybe it’s not about choices. Maybe it’s about wishful thinking, and pretending there are multiple options when really, there’s only one.
Life for a life. Give big to get big. It’s how black magic works, isn’t it?
I bite down on my lower lip and draw again. As soon as I see the card, I drop it on the floor, then immediately cover it with my foot.
“No,” I whisper, looking at my toenails. “No.”
I knock on Jo’s bedroom door. It’s early on Saturday morning but she’s awake and propped up on two pillows, reading a book. She’s not gone to college all week on Griffin’s advice. “But I feel fine,” Jo said. “It’s not that,” Griffin responded gruffly. “I mean … it would just be safer.”
“Hey,” I say, hovering by the door.
“Hey back,” she says, looking up. “You’re up early. What are you doing?”
“I just … wanted to check in on you.”
“Are you cold?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to hop in?”
I don’t say anything, just make my way across the room and climb into her double bed. The bed is so cosy, the sheets perfectly white and clean. Jo never eats in bed, like I do. I’m always in a losing war with toast crumbs.
“I’ve no pillow,” I grumble.
“C’mon, share mine.”
She reaches over for me and tucks me under her arm. I rest my head on her chest, listening to the thump-thump-thump of her heart.
“We haven’t done this since you were small,” she says. “You used to beg to sleep in bed with me.”
“You’d never let me either. Cow.”
“Can you blame me? You had the sharpest toenails. And cabbage farts.”
“I did not.”
What would usually be a cat fight settles into a sleepy, dozy argument, both of us staring at the ceiling.
“Are you scared?” I whisper.
She’s quiet for a moment. “A little,” she answers.
“That you’re going to get attacked again?”
“Yes. And that Sarra is going to get it worse. And that –” her voice strains a little – “and that things are just going to get worse for everyone.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think a lot of us have just … assumed that things were getting so much better. So progressive, y’know? We’re in this liberal Ireland and all that. I think we all got a bit too proud of ourselves too soon.”
She gulps and rubs at the tender skin underneath her black eye.
“I think this is the backlash.”
I imagine my sister being screamed at, being followed, being attacked. And then Aaron on TV, distracting the host and talking about how there’s two sides to every story. I hold her tight, turning my face into her shoulder, trying not to think of the Seven of Cups or the card that I trapped with my foot. The Death card is still in my room, still lying face up on the floorboards.
I know enough about the Death card to know that it doesn’t mean death.
Or. Not usually.
“Hey, why are you snuffling?”
“I’m scared,” I say. And then: “I’m scared for you.”
“Ah, sure look it. There’s no point in being scared. I’m lucky. I’ve got a great family and a great girlfriend and I’m smart and I’m hot. I’ll be fine,” she chuckles.
“But not everyone will be.”
“No,” she reasons. “Not everyone else will be.”
“I love you.”
She stops and looks at me, surprised.
“Are you OK, Maeve?”
I give an unconvincing nod.
“I love you too. But don’t be worrying yourself about this. It has nothing to do with you. Just try your best to be there for people more vulnerable than you. Keep your eyes and ears open. Speak up if you see something messed up. OK?”
I hold her close and try to find a way to tell her that it has at least a little to do with me.
The day crawls on, sullen and heavy. The cold snap has well and truly passed, but there’s now a waspy humidity in the air, close and sticky. The three of us arrange to meet at the river at midnight. Lucky for me, Mum and Dad are going to a dinner party, and Jo is at Sarra’s house. The attack seems to have brought them even closer together. Sarra came over last night and they spent all evening in the living room, curled up around each other like foxes. I hope they move in together. Jo will like that.
I hug both of my parents when they leave, holding them tight. I breathe in the smell of my mother’s hair. Her perfume smells like liquid gold.
“Any plans for the night, Mae?”
“I’m going to watch a film at Fiona’s house,” I answer mechanically, wondering if this is the last lie I will ever tell her.
“Oh? Do you need money for a cab home? I’d offer to spin you home but we won’t be done till way late.”
“No, I won’t be coming home,” I say. Already wondering, Why did I say it like that. “I mean, I’m going to sleep at Fiona’s.”
It’s going to be so interesting. If you live.
“All right.” Mum is wrestling to put her phone in her tiny clutch bag.
“Why don’t you just leave your phone at home?” I say, encouragingly. “You don’t want to be disturbed anyway, do you?”
I won’t have to really do it, will I? Not when Lily isn’t even dead. The Housekeeper had made that clear. She’s just trapped. I won’t have to do it. And anyway, I couldn’t do it.
How would I even do it?
“I suppose you’re right.” She shrugs, and leaves the phone on the sideboard.
“Are you all right, Mae?” Dad asks. “You seem a bit … off.”
“I’m fine.”
They leave,
and I wander around the house aimlessly. It’s only 7 p.m. My fingers trace the grooves in the wallpaper, my feet trace the skirting boards. Roe was right. I do have a beautiful home. It’s funny that I never appreciated it before now. It’s strange how I never understood the immense privilege, the wealth, the love that I’ve had the luxury of growing up with. Instead I was too busy obsessing over the friends and the grades that I didn’t have. It all seems so childish now. I go in and out of my siblings’ bedrooms, picking up things and putting them down again. Abbie’s shelf of Jane Austen books. Pat’s records. Cillian’s old Subbuteo football figures, Blu-Tacked to his desk and gathering dust. I lie on Jo’s bed for a while, just staring at the ceiling.
When was the last time everyone was home together? Cillian was at his girlfriend’s house last Christmas, and Abbie was at a destination wedding in Tahiti. We said we would all Skype them but we never did, and instead me, Jo and Pat watched Labyrinth until 2 a.m. and ate a tin of Roses. Pat let me have a rum and Coke.
I remember, with a sting of shame, being glad that Cill and Abbie weren’t home. Pat and Jo were my favourite siblings anyway. It was better when I had them all to myself. When the four of them were together, they all talked about work stuff and people I don’t know. They treated me like a baby, and made condescending declarations about how I was “turning out”. Now, I want to slap myself for having favourite siblings. For not being happy in our unit of five.
If the cards are right, we’ll never be five again.
I wonder, briefly, if it would be good to leave a note. To stop Mum from blaming herself, or Dad from having a nervous breakdown. But what could the note possibly say?
Had to break a curse, brb.
I pad around the kitchen, opening drawers and closing them again. I take the sharpest knives out of the wooden block next to the stove, testing each one against my fingers. One, a long Japanese knife my dad got off the boys for his birthday, pricks my finger the moment it touches the skin. A bubble of blood appears at the tip. I suck on it. It doesn’t hurt too much.
I won’t have to do it. Will I? Should I?
My phone buzzes. Roe.
Hey. You home?
Yep.
Can I come over to yours before the spell tonight?
Sure.
Great, thanks. x
He arrives a couple of hours later in his red bomber jacket, carrying a tote bag.
“Hey,” he says, smiling nervously. “Thanks for letting me come over.”
I shrug. “That’s OK.”
He looks at me and cocks his head like a curious puppy. “Are you all right, Maeve?”
“Yeah,” I say, softly. “I’m just, uh – I’m on my period.”
His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline in surprise.
“Oh, you’re all pro-woman and genderqueer until I start talking about my period,” I say, sarky.
“No, it’s not that,” he says, wounded. “I’m just surprised you would bring it up.”
I shrug again and make my way into the kitchen.
“Do you want a tea, or something?”
“Sure.”
I flick the kettle on, and my eyes go to his tote bag on the floor. It’s full of clothes.
“What are those for?”
“Oh,” he says, bashfully. “I was just hoping I could change my clothes here. I wanted to … never mind.”
“What? Tell me.”
“I don’t want to. You’re in a mood with me.”
“I am not.”
“You are. I can tell.”
And he looks so confused that my heart melts. I want to wrap my arms around him, to kiss him long and slow. I want to sit him down on my couch, my legs on either side of his waist. I want to feel his hands under my clothes.
None of this is his fault. He wanted to be with me, before he found out what kind of person I am. Maybe part of him still does want to be with me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to hold back the emotion in my voice. “It’s not about you. Really. Please tell me.”
I pour the hot water and start working the bag against the bottom of each mug.
“OK,” he says. “I just thought … this spell will work better the more powerful we feel, right? And I want to feel as powerful as I can. Like I do onstage.”
“Are you going to do the spell dressed in drag?”
“No,” he responds, a smile spreading on his lips. He holds the gown against himself. “I’m going to do it dressed like myself.”
“Roe … that is so fecking cool.”
“Do you think?” He’s excited now.
“I do!” I start laughing and digging through his tote bag. I pluck out a silk navy camisole and a long pearl necklace.
“They’re only glass,” he says, as if he’s apologizing.
“This is going to be awesome,” I say, and for a minute I forget about Aaron and Heaven and all the other reasons I’m terrified.
“Do you have make-up? I don’t have much.”
“Not a lot. But my mum does. Expensive stuff.”
We take our mugs upstairs. Roe sits on my parents’ bed while I dig through her things.
“What do you have?” I ask.
“This,” he says, throwing over a pencil case full of pound-shop make-up. It’s cakey and half-melted and looks like it’s been flushed down a toilet.
“Well,” I say. “Jesus.”
“What?”
“Roe, I don’t know much about make-up, but I wouldn’t give this to my worst enemy.”
“Hey, shut up. Do you know how many lipsticks I’ve had to suddenly flake into the bin or into the river?”
“Fair enough. Well, let me introduce you to Mr MAC.”
I start working on him. I smudge a coffee-coloured shadow across his eyes, then draw an inky line across the lids, trying my best to flick upwards. I remember Michelle boring us all about “cat eyes” at school. Roe, though. He actually looks like a cat. I let him put on his own mascara because I’m too afraid of poking him in the eye. I dab a tiny bit of pearly highlighter on his cheekbones, so they glow when he catches the light.
All the while, I’m trying to avoid thinking about the fact that my skin is on his skin, my fingers on his face. I try to stop catching his eye when he looks up at me. We haven’t been this intimate since the day he walked me home and made fun of my driveway. And even then, we had barely started. We were still getting to know each other’s bodies, and then it was all cut short. And now I’ll never know his body in that way. He won’t be my first. Maybe no one will be.
“Maeve?”
“Hmmm?”
“You’ve gone all quiet.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
I pick up my mum’s handheld mirror and show him his face.
“Oooh, I like it.” He grins. “I usually just put on red lipstick. I haven’t done this whole smokey-eye thing before.”
“Lipstick is so messy,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “Hard to kiss with.”
I look at him, sitting on my parents’ bed with a face full of shadows and pearls, and wonder if anyone has ever been this beautiful. We stare at each other. What is he doing? Why is he throwing out lines like “hard to kiss with”?
“Yeah.”
I screw the tops back on my mother’s make-up and put it back on her dressing table.
“Maeve,” he says, grabbing my hand as I pass him. I snatch it away.
“You can borrow some of my clothes if you like,” I say quickly. “I have a fur coat you could borrow.”
“A fur COAT?”
“Don’t start. It’s inherited from my great-grandmother, or something.”
We go up to my room and I show him the coat. The room, lit by the single bulb of my bedside lamp, glows like a sunken sunset. The rabbit fur catches the light and shines a deep, steely silver. He puts it on over his T-shirt.
“You need to see the whole thing. With the silky top and the pearls and all that.”
“All right,” he says. “Pa
ss me the bag.”
I throw him the tote and sit down on my bed. Roe takes the fur off and slowly eases his T-shirt over his head.
And I stare. God help me, I stare.
I’ve never been alone in a room with a boy with his top off before. I’ve been to the beach. I’ve idly watched lads playing football in the summer, shirts versus skins. But here, in the low light of my childhood bedroom, the place I’ve had chickenpox and sleepovers, the place I’ve slipped my hand under my pyjama pants and thought about … well, this. Him being here. In front of me. Like this.
The air shifts in the room. Roe looks at me, looking at him. I decide not to look away. This, after all, could be the last chance we get. I decide to admire him. His body, like him, is a series of contrasts. His thick, stocky shoulders against the slender, elegant collarbone. The muscled arms that have spent countless evenings lifting amps and drums in and out of practice rooms, versus the delicate arches where his stomach meets the button of his jeans. He’s like a puppy now, all big paws and feet. In a few years, he’s probably going to fill out like Pat did, strong and wide and thick as a brick.
He watches me, watching him. His face goes ruddy and red under the iridescent highlighter. He reaches for the navy top.
“Hey,” I say, softly. “You don’t have to put it back on.”
“I don’t?”
“No.” I smile. “I like looking at you.”
“I like looking at you,” he responds, his voice hoarse. “But I feel a little on display here.”
“Oh.”
I glance down at my own clothes. I’m wearing navy, as Fiona instructed. A woolly jumper dress with thick black tights underneath. I pull it over my head, standing up as I take it off.
I am standing opposite Roe O’Callaghan in my bra and tights. I want to laugh out loud, completely unable to believe what I just did. When did I become the kind of person who takes their clothes off in front of someone?
I answer myself, and the laugh stifles. When you decided that this could be your last day alive, Maeve.
Aaron’s right. It will be so interesting. If I live.
He steps forward and pushes my hair off my face, his hands following it to where it ends at my shoulder blades. Roe pulls me in closer to him, his warm body pressed against mine in the cool attic air.
All Our Hidden Gifts Page 27
