I am drunk, just as I had planned to be. Well, ‘pleasantly pissed’ would be the proper term and the numbness I feel right now from all my real life is just what I needed. I’m on a high, a rush, and if anyone stands in my way I will give them a piece of my mind.
‘Another vodka please,’ I ask the bar man, who serves me immediately, totally oblivious to the emotional car crash he is witnessing. I am in a bar I have never been in before in the city centre and I chose it carefully because there is a tattoo parlour next door and as soon as I get this next drink down me, I am going to get a tattoo, but not for the reasons I should be. I am doing it because I know that when sober I never, ever will.
You were doing so well. Please don’t get pissed.
Flo’s words keep echoing in my ear. What does she know about how well I am doing? She lives in her little bubble with Billie and moping about over her ex and she drinks too! Everyone drinks to forget. It’s just for some reason any time I actually do it, there’s alarm bells as far as America, where my sick brother still finds time to be concerned.
I down the vodka and step out into the evening sun as ordinary people who don’t need to numb their emotions with alcohol go about their daily lives, shopping and chatting and going for coffee and dinner and doing ordinary things like I used to do when I had a husband and a life of my own.
The tattoo parlour is dark inside and another woman is in the waiting area, flicking through a magazine. I plonk down beside her.
‘Don’t get a tattoo when you’re drunk,’ she tells me and I want to tell her to mind her own business. ‘I mean it. I did it before and it cost me a fortune to have it fixed.’
She rolls up her sleeve and shows me the evidence, but I barely notice. I’m not going to let a stranger influence me on what I am about to do.
‘Is this your first?’
Oh would she just shut up already?!
‘Yes,’ I answer. ‘First and last.’
She sniggers.
‘We all say that,’ she says and goes back to her magazine. ‘I still say that, twenty-one inks later.’
The tattooist shows his face for the first time and asks me ‘what I’m after’. I hadn’t actually thought of that bit. I think of Lucy. I don’t want to think of Lucy. I want to do this for me, just me. I am sick already of everything being about Lucy.
‘A heart on my wrist,’ I tell him and the woman bursts out laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ I ask her. She is really not helping right now.
‘A heart! On your wrist! It’s just so…’
‘There’s nothing wrong with love,’ says the tattooist, who rolls up his sleeves and calls me into the back, where he will work his magic. ‘We all need a little bit of romance in our lives.’
‘This is nothing to do with love or romance,’ I tell him. ‘Nothing at all.’
By the look on his face, I know he believes me.
Lucy
8th April 1999
I am in the midst of a domestic with my mother.
I mean, it’s not like we really get on at the best of times, but today was a particularly bad day because it started out over a simple request (from her) for me to have my hair cut and a simple reply (from me) stating that I did not want to have it done.
Here are the reasons I do not want to have my hair cut:
1) I don’t see anything wrong with how it is at the minute.
2) Having it cut means going to the hairdressers and I don’t have the patience to sit while someone talks to me about holidays and how I am getting on at school and do I have a boyfriend yet? (The answer to that is no, but I am working on it.)
3) I am a wee bit afraid of how it might change me. My hair is very long and I am used to it. I don’t want to let it go.
So , for now, I have won the argument and avoided having my hair cut, but I know this is only the beginning of this discussion and that my mother will win in the end because, let’s face it, mothers always do. All she has to do is:
a) Ban me from going to the youth club and that would be a disaster because my best friend Amy is going and so is George Bleeks and he is even more important than Amy, but don’t tell her I said that.
b) Make me wear a dress out in public. I am still not over my intolerance to frilly dresses.
c) Hide my CD collection or take down the posters from my bedroom wall, which would be the end of the world for me. I have to wake up with Take That looking over me. I just have to.
Anyhow, I need not fear of any of the above for now because I have discovered (when my mum isn’t in a really bad mood, i.e. drinking) that there are three ways to get round her or distract her from persisting with her hair-cut plans and these are:
1) Suggest we get a new puppy – she goes into a spin when we even mention the ‘P’ word, as she calls it, and no matter if a bomb went off she wouldn’t notice because she would be too busy letting us know there would not be a new dog, ever, in our house.
2) Tell her she looks a bit like Celine Dion. My mum LOVES Celine Dion and it is her favourite subject of all time. It’s also an idea to have Celine music playing when you say this, to make sure she stays distracted.
3) Make her food of some sort, preferably sweet, and surprise her with it! This is my favourite method of all because it means that I get some too!
So, basically, all is well that ends well because I mentioned all three! I asked for a puppy, threw in the Celine compliment and then… then I baked my mum a chocolate cake all from scratch and she was over the moon!
She genuinely was touched and despite the intention (to distract her) it gave me a fuzzy, warm feeling inside when she said how much it meant to her that I had gone to such an effort.
We actually had ‘a moment’. You know, one of those rare moments when the world stops just for like a millisecond and you feel full up inside.
I should do it more often, really. It’s not that difficult and it really can let someone know you care. Maybe we should all do that more often and we wouldn’t argue as much in our house. If we all just took time to show the people we love that we do actually know how to use our hearts and not always just our hot, steaming heads, I think the world would be a much nicer place, but then I am only fourteen so what do I know?
I should bake my mum a cake more often. It’s nice to surprise someone you love.
Note to Lucy Harte: Surprise someone you love and watch their face when you do!
Note to Lucy Harte: Don’t be afraid of change. Get yourself a haircut!
PS… I feel bad now for not having a haircut when my mum thinks it’s for the best. I will go downstairs now and tell her she is right and we will go to town and I will talk nonsense to the hairdresser about school, holidays and imaginary boyfriends. Simon is having his new girlfriend around so I think he wants us to disappear for a while, so I’d be doing him a favour too.
Okay, here goes! Watch out world, the new-look Lucy Harte is coming to you very soon! Over and out! Goodbye!
Chapter 18
Simon calls me later that night when I am back at home in my pyjamas in front of the TV with a bottle of wine, a thumping headache and a very sore wrist. The tattooed heart stares at me and I can’t decide if I like it or if I’ve just done something I will sorely regret in the morning.
I have just read Lucy’s very last diary entry and it has pained me deeply. All of my gratitude to her is now riddled with guilt as to how her life was cut short and I have been given a second chance, which I seem to only make a mess of.
I contemplate not answering the phone. I am not in the mood for jolly bucket lists right now and I can’t do any heavy, sentimental chat when I am so low in myself.
Sod it, I’ll answer.
‘Hello, stranger!’ Simon says in his usual upbeat tone.
I just can’t rise above this. It’s like I’m on an emotional rollercoaster, up, down, up, down, elation, grief, delight, guilt, joy, anger… it just goes on and on and on.
‘Hi, Simon,’ I reply and my words
come out in stark contrast to his greeting, like a tired slur. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m excellent, actually,’ he tells me. Oh, wonderful. ‘I visited my parents’ grave today, and I had this really strange experience, strange in a good way, so I thought I’d ring and tell you. That’s if you don’t mind. Maybe you’re busy. Are you?’
I take another mouthful of wine. My head is nodding involuntarily. I am really busy… really busy hating the world and getting drunk and getting tattoos on my wrist. That’s how busy I am. I try to concentrate.
‘I’d love to hear it. Go.’
Simon speaks with great animation as he explains how he and Andrea had a scan appointment that morning and how emotional it was to see their baby again on screen.
‘We have only ten weeks to go to meet our little one,’ he says and the joy in his voice should really snap me out of my drunken bitterness, but it doesn’t. ‘I guess I am on some sort of dad-to-be high, so sorry if I seem hyper.’
‘You’re very entitled to be,’ I reply. ‘You and Jeff should team up and swap stories.’
Woops. I didn’t mean to say that, but it just came out. Simon stalls.
‘What? God, I’m sorry. Are you okay, Maggie?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I retort. ‘I’m… I’m having a bad day. It can’t all be roses and bucket lists and happily-ever-afters unfortunately. I’m not the one having the baby, am I?’
I shouldn’t have said that.
‘Oh…’
‘I’m sorry, Simon. Don’t mind me. Please go on.’
‘If it’s a bad time I can call you later in the week,’ he says, his tone dampened by my negativity. ‘I just thought you’d like to know about it, that’s all. No big deal if you don’t.’
‘I do! I do want to know! I can imagine how thrilled you all must be,’ I say to him, but it’s not really what I am thinking.
I am delighted, over the moon for you, Simon, and for your beautiful wife, but I can’t help it. Right now I am so lonely and empty inside…
‘Are you still there, Maggie?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m still here. Go on.’
‘Well, you’ll have to tell me all about Dublin in a second, but anyhow, gosh I feel silly saying this but…’
I close my eyes and try to focus on what he is trying to tell me.
‘I heard the most beautiful morning springtime sound,’ he says, ‘and the next thing, right by the grave, a tiny yellow-and-grey songbird sat right between us and chirped and sang for what seemed like minutes.’
What the hell is he on about?
‘Like, it sat there right between Andrea and I with no fear and it just sang. It was so beautiful. It was like a message, a sign. Do you believe in all that, Maggie?’
I should really say goodbye. I am not in the right frame of mind to hear about fucking songbirds. The man is grieving. He would take anything as a sign from Lucy or his mother or his father.
‘Yes, yes, I suppose I do,’ I lie. ‘That’s a really beautiful… thing to happen.’
I feel really, really sick. The room starts to spin. I wish he would just hurry up and go because I am drunk and selfish and don’t deserve to hear this.
‘Andrea and I, we just sat there in awe and then we were both saying how amazing it is that you are carrying out Lucy’s wishes,’ he continues. ‘It’s like you are keeping her memory alive and I am so grateful. It’s like Lucy is alive in you, Maggie. It’s like I have found my little sister again. It’s amazing.’
I need him to stop talking. I feel hot and claustrophobic, slightly breathless when I hear his words. His elation is suffocating me. I wasn’t expecting to feel like this. I can’t keep Lucy alive. I can’t talk to Simon right now. I can’t listen to his voice any longer, but he keeps going.
‘So, Dublin, then? Did you find our guy?’ he continues. ‘Did you say hello from Lucy? I know it was a long shot, but I hope it was fun. How weird if you found him and he remembered –’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t do this any more, Simon!’ I tell him and I sit up on the sofa. I am really going to be sick. I lean forward and hold my forehead in my hands and beads of cold sweat roll on to my fingers.
‘What? What do you mean you can’t? But you said you would. You have to.’
‘I don’t have to! I don’t have to, Simon! This is ridiculous!’ I shout. ‘I am not Lucy, Simon! I am not your sister! I am Maggie and I need to focus on my own life, you know! You and Andrea have your life and I have mine. My brother is sick. My marriage is over. My job is potentially on the line. I can’t do it any more. I’m sorry! I can’t do it!’
I am sobbing now. Sobbing like the drunken, pathetic loser that I am.
‘But – but I thought you wanted to?’
‘I don’t want to,’ I say emphatically. ‘I don’t want to any more. Focus on your wife and baby, Simon. Just forget about me. Focus on your present, not your past. Let Lucy go and let me go! I can’t do this any more! Goodbye.’
I slump back onto the sofa and drop my phone on the floor, then get up and clumsily put Lucy’s bits and pieces into the navy biscuit tin they came in. Her photos, her notes, her diary, her list. I take the box and shove it in a bottom cupboard in the kitchen and close the door, and then I lean up against the door, crying and howling like a mad woman.
Find Tiernan Quinn; go to the world’s tallest bridge; forgive your friends and family; spread your wings and travel far; learn to play guitar, throw a dinner party, surprise someone you love, have a haircut, get a tattoo, never stop dancing…
The list is going round and round and round in my head and I can’t block it out! I close my eyes and block my ears, but I can still hear her young voice and see her with her long hair and freckled nose.
‘Go away!’ I shout out loud. ‘Go away, Lucy Harte! Leave me alone! Please!’
And then it dawns on me… the bird that visited her grave. The songbird, just like in the song I said I would learn in her memory.
It’s all too much. I can’t do this any more. I need my own life back.
I find myself on the steps of Powers Enterprises early the next morning, in my work attire, and I wait in the foyer, much to the shock and delight on Bridget’s face. I am not saying she is delighted to see me, more that she is delighted that there may be a bit of reaction around the team since I am not due back for another three weeks.
Melanie from Finance is first to arrive in the building and I can almost see gossipy speech bubbles above her head as she scuttles past me and says a surprised hello.
‘Aren’t you supposed to still be off, erm, sick?’ she comes back to ask me, unable to resist some titbits of information straight from the horse’s mouth.
‘Sick? Who said I was sick?’ I ask her. ‘I am not, and never was, sick.’
‘I heard…’ she leans in and whispers, looking at the floor when she speaks. ‘I heard you were having some sort of breakdown after, you know, your husband leaving and all that.’
I want to punch her, but instead I smile.
‘Davey the porter was glad to see me back,’ I tell her. ‘I thought the rest of you might be too.’
‘Oh we are, I mean, I am. Like no one else knows yet. Does Mr Powers know? You should really have told him. He’s out of the country at the minute. He should really know you are coming back early.’
Sylvia Madden, one of the CEO’s who was at my meeting a few weeks ago, is next on the scene. Thankfully, she handles my grand reappearance with a bit more tact.
‘Maggie! I wasn’t expecting to see you this morning. How are you?’
‘I’m wonderful,’ I tell her. ‘On top of the world and ready to get stuck into my job. You know, my job that you all said I could come back to when I wanted.’
She remains calm and then whispers softly.
‘Of course. Yes, we did say that, but can we go and chat about it over coffee? Somewhere away from prying eyes and ears?’
She looks at Melanie in distaste.
I follow her out
of the building like a lost puppy. I have no idea what else to do.
We sit by the window in the coffee shop across the road from Powers and I stare outside as Sylvia orders for us both. I feel like a child who has turned up in school uniform on a non-uniform day, embarrassed and out of place. I want to go home. I shouldn’t have come here.
‘Tell me, how have you been getting on?’ asks Sylvia, now that the waitress has gone. ‘And you can be totally honest with me. Are you really feeling better? Are you really ready to get back into the nine-to-five rat race?’
I nod slowly and then bite my lip. Better? I thought I was better. I don’t even know where to start. I don’t know if I will ever feel better.
‘It’s… it’s hard,’ I tell Sylvia. ‘I need to get back to work. Is it okay if I just come back and get on with things?’
To my surprise, Sylvia reaches out her hand onto mine.
‘You know, Maggie, it was my idea to give you some time out,’ she says, a sincere warmth in her eyes.
‘It was? Why?’
She looks around the café and then fixes her sleek grey bob behind her right ear. For the first time ever, as long as I have worked for Powers Enterprises, Sylvia Madden is showing a human side. She was always known as a tough nut, the only woman to have reached the very top of Team Powers and everyone both admires and fears her at the same time.
I didn’t know she was so kind inside, but then I remember her passing me a tissue on the day of our meeting and then I remember the day I really messed up an appointment and she should have let rip at me but didn’t. Maybe this isn’t the first time she has shown some humanity to me. It’s funny how we don’t see the wood for the trees sometimes…
‘Can I tell you something, Maggie? Something about me?’ she asks.
‘Of course you can.’
She looks around nervously again and then back to me.
‘About fifteen years ago, Maggie, I went through the most humiliating, painful experience of my life,’ she tells me in a soft whisper.
The Legacy of Lucy Harte Page 14
