Clodagh dissolved. “How?” she asked.
“Well, you’re still smashing things,” her mother responded.
Clo cried, for her mother, her friend, for me, for herself. All the while her mother held her, safe in the knowledge that she would survive.
BARGAINING
Noel called in every few days. He’d stay long enough to know that I was OK. Then he’d leave. He spent most of his time praying. He and John had been friends … no, they were closer than that. They grew up together. Noel was two years older than John, but they clicked. John admired all the traits that I had initially found so offensive. He liked that Noel didn’t follow the crowd – he liked talking with him about something other than the usual football, cars, girl conversations that ruled his universe. John made Noel laugh out loud and until he was sore in places. He would miss that. He would miss their religious debates; God versus science was an old favourite which they would return to over and over again.
God, please, don’t let me forget! If you had to take him, please allow me to hear his laugh!
He wished he could tell us that John was at peace and that his death meant his resurrection in heaven and that we should be happy for him, that we should celebrate his homecoming. He couldn’t. His heart wasn’t in it. He missed his friend too much.
Please, God, make me understand.
He was working through his pain the only way he knew how. He said Mass; he visited the old folks’ home, the hospital; he gave a scheduled talk in the school. At the end of each day he went to the home he shared with Father Rafferty, a Corkman in his sixties. Father Rafferty would watch the news while Noel cooked them dinner. Noel would eat in silence, nodding intermittently at Father Rafferty who was dedicated to worrying himself sick about the state the world was in. When Noel would at last escape to his room, he’d put Nina Simone on his CD player and listen to her sing about sadness while he knelt at the foot of his bed with his hands clenched in prayer.
Please God, I’ve devoted my life to you, take this pain away. I bow down before you. Take this loneliness away.
* * *
As I learned much later, Noel had met Laura at a cake sale. She had baked over four hundred queen cakes in support of breast cancer. She’d lost her mother to it, and she felt fundraising was the least she could do. She was warm and chatty. A lot of people don’t chat to priests, not in an everyday kind of way. Noel was disarmed. He enjoyed her easygoing ways and her openness. She wasn’t afraid of speaking her mind, but she wasn’t afraid to listen either. They went for coffee and she talked about her mother while smiling and laughing at old anecdotes. She told her sad tale with humour, free from guilt, and he found it refreshing. He had found that he too talked about himself. This was new to him and an unexpected pleasure. They had met again a number of times, sometimes accidentally, sometimes it only appeared that way. They had never been intimate nor would he even consider it, but he had been feeling guilty about his new friendship. That was before John had died and now the loneliness that he had felt so long was becoming unbearable.
Lord, I’m on my knees. Please, I beg you, make this loneliness go away.
* * *
He grabbed his coat and without a word passed Father Rafferty who was ironing his jacket. He closed the door behind him and walked onto the street, preparing to hail the first taxi he saw.
He arrived unannounced. Laura opened the door and smiled happily. She led him inside to her warm sitting-room. He sank into her sofa. Candles were burning on the mantelpiece. It was dark except for a lamp by a reading chair where her book lay opened. He had interrupted her; he had no reason to be there. His embarrassment caught him off guard.
“Would you be more comfortable if I turned on the main light?” she asked, aware of his discomfort.
“No,” he apologised, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.” He bowed his head to avoid her gaze.
“I think that’s exactly what you needed.” She smiled. “Let me make tea and we’ll talk about it.”
He nodded his head.
Later she sat on her reading chair and Noel told her about his friend who had been killed in an accident. He told her about his anger and his shame. He talked about his pain, his regrets and he even mentioned a few fears.
Then she was hugging him. Holding him close to her and he cried on her shoulder while she rubbed his back and told him that he would be OK. He felt her breath on his neck and her cheek pressed against his. He inhaled her perfume and felt her breasts pressing on his tunic. He pulled away, startled by the tightness in his pants. “I should go.”
She nodded. “If you ever need anything.”
He nodded.
She walked him to the door and he hugged her despite himself.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Any time,” she said sadly.
She watched him walk down the pathway and close the gate. He didn’t look back. She closed the door.
Noel walked home. It took him over an hour, but it felt like minutes. His head hurt.
I wanted her. Oh God, help me, I’m so confused! Please, God, I am yours, give me strength!
DEPRESSION
Seán left the funeral and went straight to the pub. He sat alone at the corner of the bar, emptied his pocket of all his money, placed it on the counter in front of him and ordered a whiskey, then another one and another one. He kept going as long as he had the money to pay for it. He didn’t interact; he wasn’t there to be social or to get laid, which probably surprised a few of the regulars. When he fell off the stool, the barman stopped serving him. He didn’t argue or throw shapes – he just took his money, pushed it into his pocket and meandered out of the establishment, his exit as silent as his entrance. He’d bought a few bottles in the off-licence next door, his Visa taking the hit, when he discovered that his remaining change couldn’t stretch to a kebab. He needed help leaving; the mixture of twelve whiskeys and fresh air had hit him hard and his legs were becoming unstable. He didn’t recall how he got home. He didn’t remember the mode of transport nor how he managed to fit the key into the lock. He found himself sitting on his favourite chair, a tatty, ragged thing that, once you sat in it, swallowed you whole. Clo used to call it “The Lotus”.
He didn’t leave it that night. Instead he sat in the dark drinking from the bottle, not caring about any possible damage he could be inflicting on his tired body.
What’s the point?
He took a long-overdue week off work and there he remained in his tatty chair, in his small apartment sitting-room surrounded by the books that lined his walls. He wouldn’t be reading for a while – his eyes hurt too much. The CD machine in the corner remained silent. Sound hurt his ears. The TV lay permanently idle. Food was a foreign concept; he’d forgotten how to swallow solids without choking. He couldn’t sleep. He just drank until there was nothing.
He ignored the telephone and the door. He was in no fit state and after a while he didn’t hear them. He’d fall asleep but his troubled mind woke him quickly. His head would loll, and then fall slightly; he’d pick it up, eyes closed. This would occur a number of times before he would finally succumb to a deep sleep.
John would be there and for a moment everything would be fine. He would be sitting in The Lotus beside John’s hospital bed. John would turn to him and say: “Jesus, man, you look like shit!”
Seán would nod his head, smiling. “You gave us a scare,” he’d say and John would sit up grinning.
“I do love the spotlight.”
“It’s not funny. We thought you were dead.”
Seán would move to the window, mesmerised by the glowing sun that seemed to dance in the air like a bright orange balloon. He could hear John laughing behind him.
“Nobody dies – we go somewhere else, that’s all.”
Seán would try to turn away from the window, but his eyes would remain focused on the sun.
“Yeah. Well, I’m glad you stayed,” he’d say, battling to turn his face to John.
&nb
sp; “I didn’t.”
Somehow released, he’d turn but it would be too late: he’d be facing an empty bed and then he’d wake, startled by his own cries. The dream was always pretty much the same. The odd detail would change; instead of a dancing sun it would be a yellow moon or a white cloud. Once it was a chocolate M&M.
He’d been drinking for five days when the key turned in his door. Jackie, a girl he had been shagging, entered, still knocking.
“Hello? Anybody here?”
Unable to respond he remained seated, drunk, exhausted, haunted and suffering from a touch of alcohol poisoning. She stood over him, surveying the damage he had done over the previous five days: the empty bottles that lined the floor, the cigarette butts towering over the ashtray, the smell of booze which almost took her breath away. His eyes were red raw. He was filthy, not having changed his clothes in days. His fingers were yellow and shaking. He was sweating profusely.
“Oh my God! What have you done to yourself?”
He sat staring into the middle distance, drawing deeply from a cigarette, and she wasn’t sure if he was merely ignoring her or if he was even aware that she had entered. She walked to the bathroom in search of a face cloth. She slipped on vomit and then gagged.
“You’ve turned into Shane McGowan!”
She cleaned her shoe as best she could and closed the door as she left the bathroom. She approached him slowly, afraid to make any sudden moves. When she eventually reached him he didn’t stir. She knelt a safe distance in front of him, afraid to reach out, and slowly she attempted to make contact.
“Seán … Seán … Seán …”
Nothing.
“It’s me, Jackie,” she said, nodding and pointing to her own face.
“I know who you are. I’m not blind,” he drawled, concentrating on the floor.
“So look at me,” she challenged.
He didn’t want to. He couldn’t remember ever giving her keys and he was annoyed at himself. He didn’t even really know her.
“Go away.”
“I know you lost your friend, but this is ridiculous.” She was pointing around the room and it made him dizzy.
“So leave,” he managed, before sinking further into The Lotus.
“I’ll leave when you shower, change your clothes and dump those fucking bottles.”
Her intervention was not welcome.
“Just go,” he pleaded.
“I can’t.”
“Get out of here,” he moaned.
She wasn’t budging. He used all the strength he could muster to be as threatening as he possibly could be.
“Get the fuck out of my house! I don’t want you. I have nothing to say to you. I don’t even like you.”
He picked up a bottle and swallowed the dregs.
“You’re just upset,” she said calmly as she stood up to regain some power. “You’re just drunk.”
He looked up at her glassily, sneering at this stranger, who on reflection was not even that attractive. If she didn’t want to leave he’d make her want to.
“I am drunk and you’re a whore.” He lit another cigarette, satisfied she would be soon gone.
“You fucking asshole,” she observed. “You’re the fucking whore. You’re the one can’t make a relationship work, so don’t put your fucking shit on me,”
He didn’t care enough to answer.
Tears were spilling from her eyes. “I wanted this to work but it takes two.” She was moving to the door.
“Haven’t you forgotten something?” he said, closing his eyes, relieved.
She turned and looked around, confused.
“My keys.”
She threw them on the glass table, knocking a can full of sodden butts onto the floor. He didn’t look at her again. She left, slamming the door. He opened his eyes and the tears that had refused to come for so long ran freely.
ACCEPTANCE
Anne and Richard suffered like the rest of us. They felt disbelief, anger, depression and guilt but they also had each other and in one another they retained the security and hope that the rest of us had lost. When Richard felt overwhelmed, Anne was right by his side. When Anne found it unbearable, Richard was holding her tight. They missed their friend but thanked God they had one another.
One week after their inheritance party they sat together on their couch holding on to one another and watching John make his groomsman speech at their wedding. He was tugging at his tie and grinning while his hands involuntarily shuffled telegrams.
“I’m not going to keep you long …” A pause. He grinned. “Unlike Anne’s ma.”
The assembled guests laughed on cue. The cameraman panned to Anne’s mother laughing and feigning embarrassment while mouthing, “Oh stop!”
The action over, the cameraman returned to the speaker.
“I’m just going to read a few greetings from people who didn’t care enough to come.”
Again the guests laughed. Anne in her wedding dress was smiling widely. Richard was wiping his eyes, grinning at his new wife.
Four years later Anne was watching her dead friend on screen and crying in the arms of her husband. They held each other, watching John as he lined up to kiss the bride, laughing and making smacking noises with his lips. Waving them off, hugging them and spinning them around, intoxicated by their joy. They cried but they laughed too. They couldn’t help it; he was funny when he wanted to be. They told stories of when he was smart and when he was stupid. They talked about his bad habits and his favourite sayings. They recalled the good times and some of the bad. They remembered him well and in doing so they achieved acceptance.
Chapter 6
The Bear, the Rabbit …
I woke up on Friday morning. John was dead a month. I hugged his pillow, which still smelt of him because I’d made sure to spray it with his aftershave when I’d eventually washed it. It was still early and I didn’t have to be in school for a few hours so I tried to sleep but my body refused to co-operate. I was wide awake for the first time since the accident. I kept closing my eyes, but they burned to open. Frustrated I sat up and really wanted to cry, but my eyes remained dry. After several attempts I gave up and crawled out of bed. I sat in the bath on my own, playing with the taps with my toes, but that got boring pretty quickly. I lay there remembering John’s arms around me. I remembered our fist kiss on the wall outside my house, his look of sheer delight the day I produced a packet of condoms in the schoolyard, our time in America, our home, our dreams, his face, his smile, his eyes, his heart and still no tears.
What the …?
I felt sick. I wanted to cry for him because crying was all that I had left and now it would appear that even that had been taken away. It wasn’t fair.
“Fuck this!” I screamed to the shower curtain. “Fuck the lot of it!” I roared. “Fuck you, God!” I yelled to the ceiling.
Not content with fucking God out of it, I attacked the rest of his family.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you bastards!”
Then I moved on to Allah and Buddha just in case and in the end Judas even got a mention.
“Why?” I begged. “Why did you take him, God, you greedy bastard? Why couldn’t you let him live?”
Not surprisingly, I didn’t get an answer, but as I got out of the bath I slipped and for a fleeting second I though it might be retribution so I gave the ceiling the fingers and mumbled, “You’ll have to do better than that, fuck-face!”
After that I made my way around the house being careful to check that all electrical appliances were safe before using them.
* * *
It was the last class of the day and my students had been on their best behaviour since my return. When I entered the classroom, instead of chaos, I was met with silence. The smart-asses weren’t being smart, the chatterers were silent and the swots were slow to raise their hands to share their knowledge. I was subdued and fragile. My pain was naked and it had a rippling effect on all who witnessed it, including my students, and I felt
bad for them. Grief filled every room that I entered like a fog that only lifted when I left. It was the last class of the day, I was teaching history to First Years and we were concentrating on The Reformation. I asked Jackie Connor to read a paragraph on the Lutheran Church and switched off. I was staring out the window at two pigeons’ heads butting one another on the school roof when I heard Rory McGuire calling me.
“Miss? Miss? Are you OK?”
I emerged from the haze and smiled at him. “I’m fine, Rory. Why do you ask?”
He looked around at his classmates whose eyes were cast to the floor. He cleared his throat. “Well, Miss, Jackie finished the paragraph five minutes ago.”
I felt tears spring to my eyes and I looked towards the ceiling and God.
Oh fucking great, this morning I begged you to let me cry and nothing. Now in front of twenty-five teenagers, you fucking …
I didn’t finish the thought. Instead I tried to pull myself together. “Does anyone have any questions?” I asked cheerfully.
The class remained silent.
“Right. Good. OK.”
I looked on my desk for the book, but I couldn’t see it. I must have appeared panicked because Jane Griffin in the front row handed me hers.
“Here, Miss, we’re in the middle of the page.”
I smiled at her, embarrassed. “Thank you, Jane.”
I looked at the book but reading was difficult. I kept telling myself only ten minutes to the bell, but then my heart started racing and my palms began to sweat. I wondered if I was having a panic attack.
Pull yourself together, I told myself again. I tried to concentrate, but finally I gave up and asked David Morris to read the next paragraph and while he did, I prayed that it would take us to the bell. When it eventually rang the entire class exhaled and they almost ran from the room. I sat at my desk with my eyes closed and my head in my hands, taking refuge in the darkness. I hadn’t noticed that Declan Morgan had remained sitting at his desk. I heard someone say “Miss” and I looked up.
Pack Up the Moon Page 4
