In a Moment

by Caroline Finnerty

  Rob was taken aback by his brother’s admission; he’d had no idea things were so bad. “Jesus, I had no idea!” He took a swift intake of breath before adding, “Jesus, sorry, bro’. I didn’t know it was that bad.”

  “Sure, you weren’t to know.”

  “Has it been like that since you came home?”

  “Uh-huh.” Adam nodded his head.

  “Fuck. Look, I don’t want to say some shit like ‘give it time’ or ‘time is a great healer’, but I, well . . . I don’t know what to say. Sorry.”

  “I’m trying, I really am, but she doesn’t seem ready to move on and I know this is awful but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I’m starting to lose patience.” He lowered his voice, shamed by his own admission.

  “Look, I don’t know what to say,” said Rob. “I hate all this shit, y’know I do, but you and Emma, well, you’ve been through a lot . . . so give it time, yeah? You can’t just expect her to forget what happened, Adam.” Rob whistled softly. “Whoooah there – Jesus, listen to me, I sound like Jeremy Fucking Kyle!”

  “I know, I know, you’re right. It’s just I don’t even know if that’s what she wants any more.”

  “Jesus, I don’t know – just talk to her or something.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right – I think we need to have it out.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, I’m crap at all this.”

  “Yeah, I know you are!” Adam laughed at his brother who was shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Fuck off, you!”

  The conversation changed to the steadier ground of Leinster’s chances of winning the Heineken cup and eventually, after midnight, Adam called it a night and went home.

  17

  Adam woke abruptly and bolted upright in his bed. His mouth was dry. Panicking, he tried to take in great gasps of air against the will of his constricted throat. He started to cough and splutter as the air made its way deep into his lungs. Lying there, at last still, he kept on breathing.

  He was covered in sweat and his heart was rattling wildly against his ribcage. It was always the same dream.

  He put a hand down to feel the sheets underneath him. They were damp and cool to the touch against his flushed skin. In the darkness he automatically felt blindly over to the other side of the bed but then he remembered. He turned back and looked at the clock sitting on his locker: its illuminated red LED display told him it was only 5.44 a.m. He groaned; his alarm wasn’t due to go off for at least another two hours. Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep now, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and got up instead.

  Switching on the side-lamp, he took his dressing gown from its home, hanging on the bedpost, and wrapped it around himself tightly, swathing his body against the early-morning coolness of the house. He looked at the damp imprint that he had left on the sheets. He pulled them off the bed to leave the bare mattress exposed and bundled the pile into the laundry basket in the en-suite. The bathroom tiles were a welcome coolness against his feet. Tugging on the cord on the shaving light above the bathroom mirror, he lit the bathroom in an eerie glow. He was almost frightened by the pallor of the man staring back at him: the lines were deeper, the circles blacker than ever before. He pulled the cord down, cloaking the bathroom in darkness once again.

  Tiptoeing out onto the corridor, he glanced at the door behind which she lay sleeping. Or maybe she wasn’t sleeping, he thought. He stood briefly in front of it, before continuing past.

  He crept downstairs and went into the kitchen. He flicked the switch on the kettle and waited for it to boil. It seemed unnaturally loud against the stillness of the house. He made himself a cup of instant coffee with two sugars and no milk and some toast. Sitting down at the table, he flicked through the sports section of yesterday’s broadsheet to pass time.

  A while later, he rubbed his head and looked at the clock on the wall: it was just after seven. He supposed he might as well go into work early. At least then he would be gone before she woke. He would be doing her a favour, he thought to himself, by saving her the hassle of avoiding him for once.

  As he left the house, the sun was starting to rise, filling the sky with its awesome red glow. The grass was bent double under the weight of its dewy cover. He cycled along the canal bank, its body of water still save for the odd ripple from life carrying on underneath its surface. His head was spinning with fragments of his dream. Fragments were all he was ever left with when the night was over. Fragments of frost-covered trees, a watery sunlight, his car, his hand on the grey leather of his steering wheel. It was always the same, it wouldn’t leave him.

  They needed to talk. He couldn’t do this any more, live in this void of despair, it was smothering him whole. Things had gone on like this for too long now and there was an ocean between them. One of them had to do something. He decided he would cook her dinner that night and then he would broach it with her. His stomach was somersaulting even just thinking about it.

  * * *

  That evening Adam set the table with the Newbridge canteen that they had received from his Great-Auntie May as a wedding gift. If the truth were told they had never so much as taken it out of its polished wooden case before now – it was far too formal for the pair of them but he felt he wanted to make a special effort for tonight. He was following a recipe for slow-braised beef and he studied each line thoroughly in case he missed a bit. He was measuring the ingredients precisely because he wasn’t confident enough to throw a cup in here and a spoon in there ad lib – if it said fifty grams then fifty grams it was, no more or no less. He had bought a big sticky pecan-nut tart in an artisan bakery that had set him back more than the beef and ingredients for the starter and mains combined, but it was Emma’s favourite dessert and he wanted everything to be just right. He knew it was cringey but he just wanted her to remember what they had once been like and, if she could remember that feeling, well then, maybe there was a glimmer that they could save their marriage.

  He set the table with the runner and place mats, the way they did it whenever they had people over for dinner. He had a bottle of Sancerre chilling in the fridge and a Montepulciano on the worktop in case she would prefer red. The starter he had prepared was a Caesar salad with no Parmesan or anchovies, because that was how Emma preferred it. Now all he had to do was get changed and wait. He had emailed her at work a few hours ago to ask her to come home early that night but she hadn’t even bothered to reply, let alone ask why. But he still held out hope that she would come soon. He had been thinking about it all day, playing over and over in his head how he hoped the conversation would go.

  By half past eight there was still no sign of her. The beef was well braised at that stage so he lowered the temperature of the oven and waited. Quarter of an hour later he checked on the beef again which was now way overdone. Frustrated, he turned it off and just let the dish sit there.

  At a quarter past nine he opened the bottle of wine in the fridge and poured himself a large glass. Eventually just after half nine, he heard her key in the lock and started.

  “Hi, Emma!” He swung his head around the door into the hall.

  “Hi.” She was purposely monosyllabic.

  “You’re working late?”

  “Yeah.”

  That was as much as she was offering by way of an explanation.

  “Come in, I’ve made dinner.”

  “Well, I’m not that hungry.”

  “Oh right – well, sure the beef is probably inedible at this stage anyway.” He laughed nervously, alone.

  She followed him into their kitchen, her cool eyes taking in the set table. There was the unmistakable smell of burnt meat. He hurriedly poured her a glass of wine in case she decided to go back upstairs. He needed to keep her here.

  He cut her a slice of the tart and put it in front of her.

  “I said I wasn’t hungry.” Her tone was terse.

  “Sorry, it’s just it’s your favourite, that’s all, I th
ought you might like . . .” He trailed off. She wasn’t even listening.

  “Emma – we need to talk,” he blurted out.

  Emma looked down at her fingers wrapped around her glass and felt them tighten automatically. “I already told you, I don’t want to talk about it,” she said coolly.

  “Emma, please just hear me out. Can you just sit down for a minute?”

  Amazingly, she did as she was asked and took a seat on one of the high stools at their breakfast bar. He knew he had only a short period of time to say what he wanted to say so he came straight out with it.

  “We can’t keep on living like this, Emma.”

  “Like what?”

  “Emma, please, I’m begging you, don’t make it any harder for me than it already is. I’m just asking to talk to you.”

  “I’ve told you before I don’t want to fucking talk about it!”

  “Look, I’m worried about you. Maybe you need to see someone?”

  “Like who?”

  “A counsellor or a doctor – I don’t know – maybe just someone to talk things through with.”

  “Oh and talking is really going to fix things, is it? Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Emma, please – there is no need for sarcasm. I’m trying to help you here.”

  “Well, don’t bother!” She practically spat the words at him.

  “Emma, we’re going to have to talk about things sooner or later – it’s sitting between us like a gulf. We can’t just keep ignoring it.”

  “Ignoring it? Who’s ignoring it?” She was shouting now. “If anyone is ignoring anything, it’s you! Should I just be like you and forget everything that has happened and get on with my life – go back to work straight away, go out drinking every night and think everything will be the same as it was before? Is that what I should do?” She was roaring bitterly at him, her voice full of contempt.

  Adam felt as though her words had pierced through his skin and into his chest.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” he said.

  “Really? Well, you’re doing a pretty damn good job of pretending that everything is normal!” She practically said the words as if they were on fire in her mouth. They fell out on top of one another, landing like hot coals on Adam.

  “Emma, it’s been over a year now.”

  “Oh and after a year I’m meant to be feeling okay again, am I? Is that the magic number?”

  “I didn’t say that.” He lowered his voice. “I just thought . . .” He trailed off. “Emma – it’s hard, it’s a bloody nightmare, but sooner or later you’re going to have to realise that life goes on. Whether you like it or not there will come a time when you have to move on.”

  Emma was stunned as she tried to process the words that Adam had just uttered. They hit her with an almost physical force. She felt winded, as if Adam had just put his mouth over hers and sucked every last breath of life from her lungs or punched her in the chest so hard that she couldn’t breathe. Had he really just said what she thought he did? She looked at him in disbelief and Adam knew instantly that he had said the wrong thing. He could see the anger infused with hurt washing over her face, working its way down from her forehead to her mouth, like a venetian blind being shut. Fuck. But it was too late, he couldn’t take it back.

  “Well, I don’t want to move on, Adam!” she screamed. Her face was red, her eyes wide. Her face was consumed with hatred and anger and it was all directed at him. “How dare you!” Her voice was shrill but trembling, the pitch of her voice rising rapidly. “I cannot believe you just said that!”

  Never in all their years together had he ever seen her react like this. Never. Oh, Sweet Jesus. Her face was contorted in such rage that he didn’t dare answer.

  “Time to move on? Do you think I am supposed to just forget everything?”

  “No . . . I . . . Oh God, Emma, I’m sorry. That wasn’t what I said . . .” Adam buried his head in his hands.

  She grabbed her bag off the worktop and ran out to her car. Somewhere on the periphery she could hear Adam calling after her but she wasn’t looking back. She jabbed her keys into the ignition and somehow managed to start the car.

  She drove on autopilot for a few moments until she felt her mouth water and a rush of nausea forced its way up her throat. She pulled the car over to the side of the road and brought it to a sudden halt, causing another car to swerve out of the way to avoid her. She could feel the sick making its way up her throat. She swung the car door open and leant over, retching onto the road below her. No sooner had she sat back in the seat than she could feel her mouth fill with saliva again. Oh Jesus. Emma watched as vomit was projected from her mouth onto the road again.

  She sat back into her seat and waited for her body to cool down. She wiped the beads of sweat off her forehead and searched inside her tote for a tissue to clean the spittle from her mouth. She looked at the ground beneath her which was splattered with the liquid that she had spewed up. She closed the car door again and breathed in deeply in an effort to calm her body.

  * * *

  Emma drove aimlessly around south County Dublin for hours. She had gone through roundabouts, traffic lights and driven down roads she didn’t know until she eventually found herself in Dun Laoghaire. She got out and walked the length of the pier and wondered what would happen if she just kept walking until she fell off the end of it. It was tempting to think that with just a few short steps she could be free from all of this. It could all be over. But she knew in her heart and soul that she would never have the balls to do it. She watched a passenger ferry set off majestically on its voyage overseas before she turned around and walked back to her car and sat inside it in the darkness thinking through it all. She was reeling; she couldn’t believe Adam could be so callous and have such a lack of awareness of her feelings. After all they’d been through together, she had thought that he knew her better than that. Her chest ached and she was almost certain it was physical; it felt as though her ribcage had been crushed inwards and she found it difficult to draw breath. The ever-present questions kept looping inside her head: Why, oh why? Why them? How had this happened? It was too cruel. The injustice goaded her. She felt the warm tears flowing uncontrollably down her face until she could taste the salt in her mouth.

  18

  Adam sat on his own at the kitchen table. All he could do was sit in stunned silence and let the thoughts and the fear play over and over in his head. He was utterly deflated, all his hopes of having a heart to heart had been quashed before he had even got started. How have we ended up like this? He was racking his head for something. Anything. He needed something to cling onto that would make everything okay. He was at the end of his tether. His wife didn’t want to be around him, couldn’t bear to be around him, as if she resented his very presence in her life. She had effectively shut down on him. He wasn’t sure where they went from here. He wasn’t religious but he even found himself asking God for an answer. He needed bloody divine inspiration because he didn’t know what else to do or what more he could do. He had apologised to her over and over, he had tried to talk it through with her, tried to put himself in her shoes. But it wasn’t easy for him either. He couldn’t undo what had happened, there was no ‘undo’ button in life. They either moved on or . . . well . . . he wasn’t sure what they would do.

  Her words had cut deep; his way of dealing with things was to keep busy, bury his head in work, watch TV, go for a run, meet people – anything at all to take his mind off what had happened – but it didn’t mean he had forgotten! He knew he had effectively shut down that part of his brain because it hurt too much but there wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t think about what had happened, no matter how often he wished to forget. He was angry now and thinking of all the things he wished he had said. It wasn’t easy for him either. It wasn’t his fucking fault! Why did she blame him? It was all swirling around in his head. He felt as though he was competing against an egg-timer and his side of the sand was running out rapidly.
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br />   The reality of how desperate things were between them had begun to hit home and it both frightened and angered him. He felt like he was banging his head off a brick wall. Emma was his wife, they were best friends, he should be able to talk to her. Did she really think she was the only one hurting? He had a right to be upset too – didn’t his feelings count? Well, fuck that, there was only so much grovelling he could do. He grabbed his jacket off the coat stand in the hallway. He was going out and he was going to get slaughtered.

  He walked to the top of the road and flagged a passing cab. As he sat back in the taxi, he was already starting to feel more relaxed, now that he was out of their house.

  When he arrived into the pub, the usual crew was there. He nodded at them all before heading straight to the bar. He needed something stronger than his usual beer so he ordered a double Jameson and Coke. He inhaled the vapour of the whiskey while still standing at the bar, before taking a long sip, allowing it to flow straight back, feeling it burn its way down his throat. He instantly felt warmer, happier, as he made his way back to the gang.

  They were all well on, having been there since after work and he was playing catch-up. He had finished the Jameson five minutes later and went back up and ordered the same again plus a round of Mickey Finn’s for everyone. A cheer rose up when they saw him returning with the tray of shots. It was a cue to play their usual game where the last person to knock back the shot had to buy another round of shots for everyone. As this game had no discernible end-point everyone ended up in a right state but that was exactly how Adam wanted to feel. He wanted to get shit-faced and forget his own name, where he lived, what had happened, and mostly he wanted to forget that he was married.

  * * *

  Two hours later and Adam was in a worse state than any of them. He was feeling buoyed up and merry when he went for a wander around the pub. He saw some of the lads were huddled in together talking about something before they all threw their heads back at the same time, exploding in laughter. That was where the craic was at.