You, Me and Other People

by Fionnuala Kearney

  I tuck my shirt into my jeans and sit back, aware he’s still watching me. ‘You’re right. I’ll call her tonight.’

  ‘Good … Do it soon. She’s off to Los Angeles next week.’

  My eyebrows both travel upwards. ‘Really?’

  ‘Meeting the producers. Business-class ticket – paid for by the film company.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say again. I feel weird. My spirits feel strangely uplifted at the news. She’s earned this success and deserves it after years of hard work and rejection. I’m not sure, but I think it’s pride and I can’t help wondering if I have the right.

  ‘Make sure you call her.’ Ben drives up a side street just outside the cemetery. Just past the main gates, he stares upwards. ‘I’d forgotten how big these oaks are. They’re amazing, aren’t they? Remember our one? How big it was?’

  The memory is a fond one. We never exactly owned a tree, Ben and I, but there was one that we called ours and it wasn’t an oak. It was a sweet chestnut with an enormous gnarled trunk, about a five-minute walk from our house on a local farmer’s private land. We’d sneak in there to the small lake with this solitary tree by its side, hook up our swing made from some old rope from Dad’s shed. Each summer we’d return, set it up, and swing until exhaustion took over. It seems weird looking back that we were never discovered or asked to leave.

  ‘Mum never wondered why our clothes were wet.’

  ‘Fun times,’ I reply, and he nods, smiling wide. ‘Up ahead, left. You’ll have to park there, then we walk a few minutes.’

  ‘Do you know what Beth’s song is called?’ I ask Ben. After any nostalgic memory, I automatically end up thinking about her.

  ‘“Fall Apart”.’

  I nod. ‘Sounds like a new one.’

  ‘It is.’ He gets out of the car. ‘Something she tells me she’s had first-hand experience of. So, at least you were useful for raw material.’ He smiles again, but I don’t think it’s funny.

  At the graveside, it’s him who seems uncomfortable. ‘Relax, Ben. Just talk to them. In your head.’

  ‘I have been here before, you know.’ He is indignant.

  ‘Have you ever talked to Beth about this?’ Ben asks. He is standing, staring into the distance. I am stooped over the vases, trying to avoid kneeling on the damp grass.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’ His question is almost as simple as my monosyllabic reply, but I’m seized by a horrible panic.

  ‘I have never needed to – and for fuck’s sake, don’t you go telling Karen either … In fact, you need to promise me you can keep your mouth shut to Karen. Those two are joined at the hip. If you tell her anything, she won’t be able to help herself. I—’

  ‘Whoa! Stop now. I haven’t said a word – about anything.’

  ‘Well, don’t. Ben, I can rely on you, can’t I?’ I touch his arm.

  ‘Always,’ he says, before looping his through mine. ‘We done here?’ He doesn’t wait to see if I am, just tugs me away, back in the direction of the car.

  ‘That time, I know we don’t talk about it … It was what Picasso would call “a blue period”.’

  I nod. My stomach is still gnawing away on itself at the thought of Ben discussing our past with Beth via Karen.

  ‘You were the strong one, held it all together. You found us a home, got me into uni. I owe you.’

  ‘You don’t owe me anything. Not a thing. Except maybe to keep your trap shut with Karen.’

  He stops walking, tilts his head as if to repeat, ‘What did I just say?’

  We carry on back to the car park. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just with you and Karen together, I know the natural thing to do is to share, to be honest.’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe we’ve both got faulty DNA there.’ He grins.

  ‘I’m serious, Ben. And don’t put yourself in the same boat as me. You were always totally honest with Elise, even when it hurt her at the end. I admired that. It’s the way you are and that’s what worries me.’

  ‘Adam, you’ve got a lot worse shit coming your way. Noah? You have to tell Meg, and she’ll have to be tested and …’ He doesn’t finish but, if he had, he would have reminded me that Beth was going to find all of that out soon anyway. He would also have added that now might be as good a time as any to tell Beth that my parents had not both died in a car accident. He might have intimated that how they did die has somehow affected me in my adult life and I might have laughed it off, as I always do.

  ‘So, where’s this veal milanese then?’ He rubs his tummy like a child.

  I try not to groan out loud. We did say we’d do it, so I just point him towards Roberto’s brother’s restaurant.

  Pulling into the gravel driveway, my senses seem amplified. The stones crushing beneath the wheels and the voice in my head telling me to turn around are deafening. My fingers, wrapped around the steering wheel, are white and numb. The pungent scent of Beth’s potted hyacinths assaults me from the front door. And there’s something in my mouth that tastes like pure fear.

  I push the doorbell and hear the sound of Meg skipping down the stairs.

  ‘I was up in my room,’ she complains. ‘Why didn’t you just let yourself in?’

  ‘New locks.’

  She tilts her head, as if suddenly remembering something important. Her ponytail swishes from side to side. ‘Ahh, yes,’ she says, as I pass through the door into the hallway. Beth’s words still adorn the hallway wall. ‘Come on up. Shut your eyes when you get there. I’ve a pot of coffee, two mugs.’

  I’m immediately saddened by the pictures on the stairwell and notice there’s a new one, a black and white of Beth and her parents and Simon. I resist the urge to touch them as I climb the steps, wanting to use my fingers to expand the images, like on a phone. Make them bigger. Make those memories feel real.

  She’s right. Her bedroom looks like a warzone. She points me to a chair, gives me a black sack and explains that anything she hands me must go in the sack. I sit, bag in hand, like an obedient child. Her head jerks towards the coffee. ‘Help yourself.’

  I nod.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asks. ‘You look a little pale. I got your email about the run. You’re not overdoing it, are you? It’s a long time since you’ve done anything to keep fit.’

  I nod some more.

  She hands me some clothes. I pile them in the bag. She pulls a furry toy, a small ragged Eeyore, from the bottom of a wardrobe. ‘Dad, look, it’s Eeyore.’ She giggles.

  ‘So it is, love.’

  ‘Do you remember when we got him?’

  ‘I do …’ Like it was yesterday. She had been about five or six and was obsessed with Winnie-the-Pooh. We’d spotted the lone Eeyore amongst hundreds of Winnies and she’d begged us to buy him – told us he was lonely and that she was meant to be his mummy.

  I lean forward, rest my elbow on my lap, my chin in my hand. ‘Meg …’

  ‘Hmmm?’ She’s looking out of the window, lost in the memory of Eeyore.

  ‘We have to talk.’

  ‘I know, you’re right.’ She jumps up, walks to her desk and pours two mugs of coffee. ‘I met Nana yesterday.’ She hands me one, smiling broadly. ‘Oh, she gave me a letter for you. An old-fashioned letter, eh, Dad? Some people still write them apparently.’ She lifts a jacket from the back of her desk chair and rummages through a deep pocket, pulls out a tissue, loose coins and a crumpled envelope. I take it from her, push it deep into my own jacket pocket. It can wait.

  ‘Aren’t you going to read it? Never mind.’ She waves it away like it’s already forgotten. ‘The thing is, Nana and I had some great ideas. We had a bit of a Grand Gesture brainstorming session.’

  ‘Meg.’

  ‘Yes?’ She seems exasperated that I’ve interrupted her flow.

  ‘We need to talk. At least, I need to talk and you need to listen?’

  She pulls the desk chair away from the desk and plonks down heavily. ‘Go on,’ she says, ‘I’m listening, but I warn you, I’m not up f
or excuses. I know you want Mum back. Her, I’m really not so sure of, but that’s what we’re going to work on and, frankly, I need you both back together. Soon.’

  I can’t find the voice. There is no way that the words can come out.

  ‘Isn’t her news brilliant? She seems so excited about LA.’ I can’t do it. I just can’t do it.

  ‘She is.’ Meg smiles. ‘And you know what? The song is fantastic, definitely one of her best. I’m so proud of her.’

  ‘Me too … me too … Meg, look, there’s something I want your help with.’

  She eyeballs me, suddenly intrigued. Maybe it’s my tone. Desperate …

  ‘What?’ She sips her coffee, makes a face as it’s obviously lukewarm.

  ‘Years ago, you know already, I—’

  ‘Dad, what is wrong with you?’ She stares at me as if I’m an interesting lab specimen.

  ‘Years ago, more than ten years ago, I … I cheated on your mother. One night. One night only …’

  She gapes. ‘I do not need to know this.’ Her head moves side to side.

  ‘You do, Meg. You do.’ I’m aware of the distress in my voice. ‘The woman, Kiera Granger – she had a child. My child. I knew, but she wanted me to have nothing to do with it. I—’

  Meg’s head is suddenly still, statue still. Nothing moves, not even her pupils. Her face is ashen, her expression one of total disbelief, total distrust.

  ‘You have another child?’ she interrupts. ‘Are you telling me you have another child?’

  ‘Yes. A son – I’ve never known him. That was what we agreed. Kiera wanted it that way and … that suited me. I have never told your mother. I have never told anyone until, weeks ago, things changed.’

  Meg’s eyes have not moved from mine. ‘I have a brother,’ she says, quietly. ‘One my mother knows nothing about. Jeee-sus Christ … You really are a piece of shit! Why now? You planning on making us all the fucking Brady Bunch?’

  I look away, count the stripes in her carpet. ‘He’s sick. Leukaemia. We need to test you as a bone marrow match urgently. If you agree, that is. The fact is, siblings are the most likely match and you’re his only sibling. Half-sibling.’ I correct myself.

  She raises both hands to her mouth, then suddenly reaches down to the floor for her wastepaper bin. She breathes deeply, holds her stomach as though she’s going to be sick.

  ‘Meg, I …’ I stand, move towards her, and she shoves me away.

  ‘Get out,’ she whispers. ‘Leave now.’

  ‘Please, Meg. Please listen.’ I want to scream at her that I get it. That she can be mad as hell at me afterwards, after she’s been tested and given Noah a miracle cure.

  She stares up at me. ‘I don’t know who you are. I’m not sure I ever knew who you are.’

  ‘He’s just a little boy and he’s dying.’ I’m determined for her to hear me out.

  She bites a trembling lip. ‘Leave now. Get out.’ Tears slide down her face, as if a silent tap has been turned on. ‘Do not say another word. You and I are finished. FINISHED! And don’t think for a second that I’m keeping this from Mum.’

  With that, she points to the door. ‘Get the fuck out!’

  Steadying myself on the back of her chair, I inhale deeply through my nose and exhale through my mouth. I have never known a pain like this. My heart feels as though it has been shredded, minced.

  I turn and leave her room. ‘You and I are finished’ echoes all around me. It ricochets off the walls on the stairs and the pulsed message seeps into my body repeatedly, penetrates my bones, pierces my brain. I grasp at anything that looks or sounds like hope. The pictures, the memories … She doesn’t mean it. She’s hurting. It’s a lot to take in. She’s angry and sad. Of course she’ll help. We haven’t brought her up to do anything else – but she’s going to tell Beth. That is as sure and as certain as the fact that Meg has my DNA flowing in her veins, as the fact that Noah has my DNA flowing in his veins. She will tell all, if I don’t first.

  I’m afraid. I can feel fear in my stomach and limbs – such fear that I have a sense of what my parents felt. It scares me shitless.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It’s pissing rain, the sort of relentless rain that bangs against the Velux windows in the loft, making it difficult to concentrate, so I haven’t been able to work. Plus, I woke up this morning singing ‘Miss You Nights’ by Cliff … The lyrics made me think of Adam; I can’t seem to shake him from my head this morning. I’m staring out through the bi-folds at the back of the house. The garden is in an awful state. We’re having a pretty mild winter, but I really need to find a gardener before December sets in and everything just dies. That, or I need to develop gardening skills. An idea forms in my head, and before I have time to dismiss it, I pick up the phone.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Hi.’ He sounds nervous. Only one word and, somehow, I can tell.

  ‘You all right?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, I’m …’ He sighs. ‘How’re you? All packed?’

  I’m not going to LA for another six days, but he knows me so well. All of my ‘summer’ clothes are washed, ironed and packed already. I have sunscreen, a full make-up bag, hairdryer, straighteners, knickers and bras, all arranged in neat piles in the case. In a separate plastic folder sitting on top of the case are all my travel documents – ticket, passport, insurance. I like to be organized well in advance of travel.

  ‘I’m not going for nearly a week,’ I say, ‘but yes, most of it’s done. Listen, I was wondering. When I’m away, would you be interested in doing some gardening? It’s really looking a mess. I could get a gardener, but I thought, maybe you miss it, maybe you’d like … You used to love the garden. I mean, it’s in both our interests to …’

  ‘Er, yes. Okay. If you’d like.’

  ‘I leave on a Sunday, thought maybe you could take the Monday off and stay over?’ I decide to leave a note directing him to one of the spare rooms. Our bed is now my bed.

  ‘If you’re sure.’ He seems a little hesitant. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, that’s sorted then. I suppose I’ll have to lend you some keys.’ I emphasize the word ‘lend’ deliberately. I already know he can’t get a set cut as they’re security locks allocated to me.

  ‘Maybe leave them with Sylvia and I’ll pick them up from her?’

  ‘Okay. Have you heard anything from Meg?’

  He is silent.

  ‘It’s just she’s not answering my calls. She was here yesterday. I’ve been nagging her to sort her room out, but by the time I got back, she was gone.’

  ‘We spoke yesterday.’

  ‘Did she seem okay? She left her room in a worse state than it was when she arrived …’ I realize Adam wouldn’t know if she was okay or not as he has the emotional antennae of an earthworm, so I don’t wait for a reply. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll just keep trying her. I’d better get on … Thanks for the gardening. I’ll make sure Sylvia has a key.’

  ‘Beth?’

  ‘Yes?’ I hear a slight catch in his voice as he seems to hesitate. ‘What is it, Adam?’

  ‘You know I love you, don’t you.’

  I honestly think my mouth has fallen open.

  ‘It’s important you know that. I love you. I have always loved you and I always will. I know it’s too late, but I want you to know.’

  I close my mouth, inhale deeply.

  ‘Say something,’ he pleads. ‘Anything …’

  ‘You’re right. Too little, too late,’ I say.

  ‘Should I have fought for you?’ he asks. ‘Ben – other people – keep telling me that I should have fought for you. Made you listen.’

  ‘Other people are wrong. It was never going to happen, Adam. You were too busy reinventing yourself with Emma. You may have loved me, you may still do, but you always loved yourself more. It’s beyond you to fight for someone.’

  A part of me feels cruel saying this to him, but it’s the truth. I’m not saying it to hurt him. I’m even sad, because I
know it does hurt him, but I really feel that he needs to grow up, to somehow realize that the world doesn’t spin on his axis.

  ‘I’m not quite that selfish,’ he says. ‘I was vain, stupid and, yes, selfish. But not quite that bad …’

  ‘Okay, why didn’t you then?’

  ‘Didn’t I what?’

  ‘Fight for me? Why did you leave, Adam? Why did you keep on seeing Emma? I thought you’d made a choice and that our marriage was over.’ Silence again.

  ‘Let’s face it. You left for sex. Lots of it. Lots of different, exciting and new sex with a younger woman. And that’s the crux of it. You put your sexual gratification over your love for me and your love for Meg.’ I’m on a roll. ‘Forget me for a moment. Have you any idea what our break-up has done to her? Have you any real clue how destructive all that brilliant sex has been?’

  There is only the sound of his breathing on the phone.

  ‘Have you?’ I repeat.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, and hangs up the phone.

  I’m left staring at the receiver. What just happened? I decide against ringing back. There’s no point. Instead, I find my mobile in the kitchen and text Meg. I have a worrying niggle and ask her to call me. All the time Cliff Richard is nagging away in my brain. Not for the first time, I lean my hands on the kitchen worktop and work on my breathing. There are times when I do wonder, what if? Like now, after that strange conversation. There are times when I miss him so much, still. It feels like the pain of a phantom limb. Days like this are rare but, when they happen, they’re long and lonely. I close my eyes, focus on LA, on Meg and all the blessings in my life. But yes, Cliff. Thinking about tonight, you’re right. Those ‘miss you’ nights are bloody awful.

  Giles is coming over. We’re having supper and a bottle of wine. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, made after the phone call with Adam, and I am now officially crapping myself. I did it so quickly that I didn’t really think about it. Will he think I’m interested? Am I interested? Will he think this is like a date? God. What have I done? I’ve made a lasagne and salad. I have a bottle of white chilled and a bottle of red open. I’ve had a shower, have worn matching underwear and spritzed scent behind my ears. I’m wearing a favourite dress – one that I know I look good in. Shit, shit, shit. What am I doing? I glance at the oven clock. In an hour he’ll be here. I call Karen. After hooting with laughter, she tells me to stop worrying, that it’s like riding a bike. She tells me to calm down and have a glass of wine, just one. Then she snorts with laughter again. This is not helping. I hang up on her.