Everyone has bad days, Mum, everyone says things they don’t mean. Like anytime I got mad at Aunt Ruth in Coral Springs, I’d shout at her that I was going back to Rush. I didn’t mean it, I don’t think I ever meant it, I think some part of me just wanted to hear myself say it.
Something horrible must have happened with that man. Something really scary. I think I know what it was, maybe I know. But if it is what I think it is, I don’t know why your dad wouldn’t have done anything after you told him, I’m not even sure from what you said in your letter if he believed you or not.
It’s a bit confusing, Mum, all of it’s a bit confusing. I probably need to read this one again, before I go on to the next one.
But I know one thing already for sure. I believe you that something bad happened.
I’d have believed you, if you’d told me.
Rhea
August 16, 1983
Dear Ruth,
Three days, four hours, and twenty-two minutes. That’s how long it’s been since you and Mom flew home. I’m so glad we went to wave you off, I’m glad Dermot talked me into it, that he reminded me that I’d still have to say goodbye anyway—it was just a question of where I’d have to say it.
Time is so weird, don’t you think? When you were here, it felt like you were always here, like you and Mom were part of our lives. And even as we were at the airport saying goodbye and you were crying, some part of me still felt like you were only going to the store or something and that you’d be back in an hour. So, instead of feeling sad right then, I felt kind of relieved because I was getting an hour to myself and it’s not until three hours have passed and then four and then five that it finally hit me you’re not coming back at all.
But I don’t want to sound sad, because we had fun, didn’t we, Ruthie? I’m so happy that you and Dermot liked each other so much. He loved how you joked around with him about his bodhrán and even tried to play it, he got such a kick out of that and I know you did too. He’s still talking about that night at the Meeting Place, how all the men had their eye on you and that you left just in time before he married you off. Reggie Burke has stopped by the last two nights and he never stops by like that. He says it’s because he wants to talk to Dermot about what’s happening with the band but he keeps asking me about you.
I know you and Paul are engaged now—how could I forget with that huge diamond!—and even though I’m delighted for you, part of me has this fantasy where you fall for one of Dermot’s friends and move over here! Not Reggie—hell, no!—but maybe Dessie or Sean—I saw the way you looked at Sean. So, in this fantasy, you start dating Sean and you come back here every couple of months or something, and then you end up moving over here and you get married and you have a little girl too, and we all go swimming on the beach every morning together, have dinner every Sunday at one of our houses, and Dermot always gets us a good cut of meat!
What do you say, Ruthie? I know you liked it over here. I know you want to come back soon, you said you don’t want to miss Rhea growing up. Maybe come back on your own next time, without Mom? And I’d tell Dermot to make sure Sean gets a haircut and a new sweater.
I’m joking of course, well, I guess I’m half joking. I know you and Paul are really settled in the city, especially now you have your high-powered job. I’m so proud of you—my little sister a hotshot executive—you know I am. I just enjoyed having you here, so much. I guess I hadn’t realized that I was lonely. I thought I was happy here—I am happy here. But when you were here every morning when I woke up, I felt excited and I didn’t know why, and then I’d remember.
Sorry again for that thing on your last day. I still feel bad. I know it was my fault that I was cranky with Mom, that I should have just let her sit there and watch TV like always, but it was such gorgeous weather out and I really wanted to walk Howth Head with you, so you could see how beautiful it is when it’s not raining. I know she hadn’t asked Dermot to take the morning off to drive us, and you hadn’t either, but I just thought it would be such fun, you know. It didn’t even bother me that she wasn’t coming, to tell you the truth, but it just made me mad that you were going to stay with her. I didn’t mean that thing I said, about you always choosing her over me, I know it was childish and that I’m not setting a very good example for Rhea when I act like that, but sometimes I can’t help it.
Don’t forget to send on all those photos you took of Rhea, will you? I left mine to be developed yesterday at Hickey’s—they said it will take a week and I don’t know if I can wait that long! I’m getting three sets—one for you and one for me and one for Mom. I don’t know if she’ll even want them but I know she’ll be pissed if I don’t get one for her. I like how I can say Hickey’s now and you can picture where it is, that I don’t have to describe it. I like not having to explain what a 99 is or a bodhrán or that it stays bright so much later or how the weather can change so much in one day. I like that you’ve held Rhea in your arms and heard the funny way she laughs and seen her do that jiggle dance she does when music is playing. You know, out of everything, I think that surprised me most, how she was so willing to go to you from the beginning, that it was like she already knew you. She’s not always like that with people, sometimes in the village if someone tries to talk to her she can be shy and hide behind my legs, but from the start she went to you.
Do you miss her? I bet you do. I hope you mean it about coming back with Paul at Christmas—she’d love it, I know she would, and it’s only four months away so I’m sure she’d still remember you. If I’d written to you yesterday, I could have told you that she missed you. How she went into your room, first thing in the morning, looking for you and how her little face was all twisted and confused when she saw the bed was empty. The first morning, she pointed to the bed and asked where you and Nana were and she cried when I told her, as if she’d only just remembered and you were leaving all over again. The second morning, she went into the room but she turned around when she saw the empty bed and she didn’t ask and she didn’t cry. This morning she went straight down to breakfast and asked when we were going to the beach. I’m sure she does still miss you, somewhere in her little head, but it just made me realize how quickly they get over things at that age, how much easier things are for kids. Which is good, I guess. That’s why I wanted to get the photos though, to show her, because even though it’s good she’s not sad, I don’t want her to forget too soon, you know?
I just checked through this letter and there’s nothing in it to make you worry—I don’t think there is. I’m sorry I got you so worried before, I didn’t mean to. When I’m writing to you I just keep writing, let it all come out, like we’re having a conversation, but I know that when you see something written down it can seem scarier and more serious than it does when we’re having a chat. When you told me, that day on the beach, all the things that were in the other letter, I really don’t remember writing them at all. I know I was having nightmares for a while after Rhea was born but I didn’t think they’d gone on that long. Maybe you’re right, maybe it was postpartum depression or something, but whatever it was, I’m glad it’s passed now. And I appreciated you saying that I can always talk to you about anything and that you’d even pay for me to talk to a counsellor about it, but there’s no need—from what Mom said, he’s pretty much bed-ridden in that nursing home these days, so it sounds like he got what he deserved. There’s no point raking it all up again.
I think it was something to do with having Rhea that made it all come up when it did, but it’s gone now, honestly. I feel so much better—lighter, freer—and I know that other stuff is ancient history. I’m going to run to the post office now and mail this. I’ll mail the photos as soon as I get them too. Write me back quick, won’t you? And let me know as soon as you and Paul have set a date—I want to make sure Dermot has loads of notice so he has no excuse about not being able to close the shop! And thank you again for asking me to be your matron of honor. I
t means a lot, it really does. Maybe one day Dermot and I will get married again, so you can be there to see us this time.
Thank you again, Ruthie, for coming over to see me and spend time with us. You made me so happy—you make me so happy. And Rhea. And Dermot. I can’t wait to see you, and we will see you very, very soon!
In case I never told you—you’re the best sister in the world!! Ever!!!
Lots of love,
Alli xxxx
P.S. I’ll call you next Saturday like we said. I hope it’s still okay to call collect?
Dear Mum,
It’s brilliant hearing you so happy again! I wish I remembered that, their visit, but even when I looked at the photos I couldn’t remember it at all. It’s fifty kinds of crazy that out of the three sets of photos you made, I ended up with your mum’s ones! I knew I’d seen them before, I knew we must have had a set at home. I wonder what Dad ever did with them?
Aunt Ruth never mentioned anyone called Paul, I never heard of him. I wonder what happened. She’s not divorced, I don’t think she is, I’m sure someone would have told me that, so they must never have got married. If she’d married him then she’d never have been with Cooper and I’d never have met Laurie and, right at this second, I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. I’ve only one letter left, Mum, and I’ve decided I’m going to take it down onto the beach to read it, just like you did with Aunt Ruth’s first letter. I know I can read them all again, of course I can, but I can only read it for the first time once!
I love you, Mum. You know that, don’t you?
Rhea xxxx
Dear Ruth,
I’m sorry to ask you to do this but please—please just do this one last thing for me.
None of this is your fault, don’t blame yourself, Ruthie, I couldn’t take it if you blamed yourself.
Be there for Rhea for me, please. I know you will. Please give her this when the time is right. You’ll know when, you always do.
I love you, Ruth.
Your sister,
Allison
Dear Rhea, baby Rhea,
I don’t know how to start this letter. I’ve never been good at letters—I’ve always preferred writing things that I know no one will read and I know you’ll read this someday years and years and years from now. Or maybe I’ll tear it up when I’m finished and you’ll never read it at all.
I’m on the landing writing this, because you like to have the light on in case you need to get up to pee in the night. And I don’t want to wake your father up by turning the light on in our bedroom, even though I don’t think anything would wake him up tonight—he’s snoring so loud. It reminds me of the metronome Miss Hamilton used to use in music class at Brearley. That’s the school where I went as a little girl and they taught piano there as well as normal lessons and I had to learn to play when I was only a few years older than you are now. Your Aunt Ruth started even younger than me—she was six, I think—and I always wondered if that was why she was better than me or if she would have been better than me anyway. When she played, the music sounded like water, there were no corners. When I played, the music was slow, clanking, it hardly sounded like music at all. My teacher said I needed to be patient, that Ruth had to practice to make it sound the way it sounded, but I knew that I could never make it sound like that.
One of the things that amazed me early on about you, Rhea, was how you liked music, responded to it, right from the time you were a baby. I remember your dad saying to me that he thought you liked this John Lennon song, “Beautiful Boy,” and you were only a few months old. And I said to him that you weren’t old enough yet to recognize one song from another song, but when he put it on, your little head started to bobble and you smiled and made that spitting face you always do when you’re happy. And it was amazing, but it turned out that you did recognize it, that he was right.
I don’t know why I’m writing to you about music, it’s not what I had in my head when I sat down, but sometimes it feels like my hands take over and that’s OK. Things are always better with music, you know? I want you to know that. Some days, when your dad comes in from work, I time it so his favorite Jimi Hendrix song, “Stone Free,” is playing, the first beats of it, just as he opens the door. I have to watch him coming in the gate, and start the record just when he turns the corner to the porch. In the silence before the song, I can hear him take out his keys and unless he fumbles with them too long, the first note starts just as he opens the door and he smiles at us both, waiting for him. You get all giddy when he swings you up and starts to dance with you and he’ll grab me with his other arm and it doesn’t matter that he hasn’t had time yet to wash up properly from the store because he’s there, and you’re there, and I’m there, and that’s all there is—us and the music—and just for that few minutes, until the song ends and sometimes the album does, that’s enough. What we have is enough.
On the good days, I feel that. On the good days I see you, the changes in your face, your eyes, your smile, and I can feel it grounding me, keeping me here, keeping everything here. That’s why I called you Rhea, because my friend Denise in college told me the story of Rhea the Greek goddess who was married to a god who ate their children and Rhea protected them by making him swallow a rock. It might sound dumb to you, but I loved that story, the idea of you protecting, being protected, and there are days when I’m with you I feel like we’re protecting each other. But then there are the other days, the days when—I don’t know how to say it—it’s not that it’s not enough, this life, your dad, it’s more like I’m not, like I’m not even there at all.
Yesterday was a day like that, yesterday morning—the mornings are always worse. We’d been out late on Saturday night—you’d even slept on the row of seats at the back of Ryan’s and you’d barely woken up when your dad lifted you up to take you home. He let me sleep late, that’s all it was. I know he was being kind, I told myself that, I know he didn’t mean to leave me out. When I woke up the bed was empty, cold, he’d been up for ages. And coming down the stairs I could hear the two of you in the kitchen, your chatter and his voice, explaining something. He’s always good at explaining things. The door was open a bit and neither of you heard me when I pushed it open more. The light was so beautiful—the way it fell across the table and caught a bit of your chair. And your dad looked so handsome in his white rib-knit pyjama shirt, the sun making the lines on his face deeper than usual. He’d made sausages and cut them up with soft pieces of white bread the way you like it, and the whole kitchen was a mess. You had your back to me but I could see your hand, holding the sandwich on your own, the way you’ve learned to do, could tell from the back of your head that you were smiling.
Can you see that scene, Rhea? You and your dad, me standing, frozen in the doorway? I can. I can see it more clearly than my feet on the patterned carpet in front of me. I want to go back to it and put me in it. I want to rewrite it, as if it’s a play, and I want to make my character walk into the light and take a seat by the handsome man in the white rib-knit top. I’ll hold his arm with my hand and he’ll feed me a bite of sausage with the other. I want to let him push my hair behind my ear the way he likes to, and I want him to kiss me and for me to kiss him back, the way I always used to like kissing him back, and you might squeal the way you used to when we kissed. I want the scene to look like that, instead of the real one where I am already gone and all that’s left of me is the sound of a door closing.
You’re too young, Rhea, to understand any of this. I don’t know what age you’ll be when you read this but you’ll always be too young to get it, even if you live to be a hundred. No one should have to get it, you know that? No one is ever old enough to get some things. And the more I write this letter, I’m not sure anymore why I’m writing it, if it’s for you at all, or if it’s for me, or if it’s only by making these marks on the paper I can be sure I exist at all.
I love you, Rhea.
Did I say that already? How could I have written this much and not said that? It’s important that you know that. I want you to grow up knowing that. I want you to grow up here, in this place that’s safe, where the air is clean, and the only sounds you hear when you go to sleep at night are the sound of the sea and your dad’s snoring. I want you to always have sweet sleep, dreams that make you smile, and wake up knowing that you are happy and loved and safe. I want you to have breakfast on Sunday mornings in a sunny kitchen with your dad while he plays you his Hendrix records and teaches you the words. And if I can’t walk into that scene, if I can’t be part of it, I want someone else to be part of it, someone who can be your mother even if she didn’t give birth to you. Just because you give birth to a baby doesn’t make you a mother—that’s something you should know, Rhea, that’s something I learned.
Your dad’s stopped snoring. There’s silence now in the house.
Maybe he’s awake. Maybe he’ll get up and find me here, writing this letter. But no, it was only a pause, the way he pauses sometimes and he’s back to snoring again now and I feel like I might cry, even though I don’t know why. I just thought that maybe somehow, knowing I was out here, knowing how I was feeling, might have been enough to wake him. I know it’s stupid, but somehow I thought he might come out here and find me. And that this time he’d make me show him the letter and I’d give him the crumpled sheets and he’d read them and I wouldn’t watch him reading, I’d only hold my knees and close my eyes and listen and when he was finished, he’d pick me up and carry me back to our bed and fold me up in his strong body and I’d tell him about all the things that happened and all the bad dreams and he’d tell me he believed me and that he loved me and that no one was going to hurt me again, not ever, not me or you either. That he’d protect us both from everything.
How Many Letters Are In Goodbye? Page 35
