by Anthology
He didn’t speak to me yesterday at all.
“I’m literally about to walk out the front door, D. Please don’t lock it!”
I’m on the graveyard shift at Tesco tonight, but I stupidly left my key at Molly’s, so of course I need to communicate with him somehow. I considered leaving a note, but it’s highly unlikely that he would see it. After chastising me for the spilled spoons, he took himself to his room and has been there ever since, only surfacing for sustenance and nicotine fixes at the back door. It’s pissing me off big time, although Molly’s little theory has been plaguing my thoughts continuously, making any sort of reconciliation an awkward thought. Not that we need to reconcile. We haven’t fallen out. However, it is unbearable and it is breaking me in two, so as I get ready to leave tonight, I vow to be as normal as possible from this moment onwards. Perhaps he will come around if he thinks I am not going to dig inside his grief bag each time I speak to him. It’s worth a shot I suppose.
I shake my head and rag my coat over my shoulders as I listen to the silence that wafts down the stairs before heading out of the door.
The walk to the supermarket takes fifteen minutes, so I plug my headphones in and walk briskly, my feet hitting the pavement to the beat of the music. Turning the corner of my street, the music switches to my ring tone and I angrily pull my phone from my back pocket to see who it is that has rudely interrupted Adam French. I check the screen and see Molly’s name flashing at me, and my eyes involuntarily roll, which I quickly decide is unfair as she really is only trying to help. With a purse of my lips, I swipe the screen.
“Hey, Mol.”
“Hey. I’ve got your keys.”
Dufus. Of course that’s why she is ringing. “Oh great thanks. I was going to ring you in the morning once I’d finished work. Shall I pop round on my way home?”
The line is quiet as I wait for her to reply. She clears her throat before she answers me. “No. It’s ok. I’ll be passing by your house later this evening, so I can drop them through the letterbox. You’ll be tired after your shift anyway won’t you.”
I frown and shrug to myself. “Ok that’s cool. Thanks, Mol. Got to rush now, but I’ll speak to you soon.”
“See ya.”
I hang up and stare at the screen, a little confused at the weirdness that seemed to float around in that conversation. She probably feels guilty still though, so I shake it off and pick up the pace towards work.
STACKING SHELVES AT two am was never an ambition of mine growing up, but here I am, lifting and shoving twentyfour-packs of beer down on aisle three of the local supermarket. I mean it's hardly taxing and required three of my brain cells, so it's pretty easy money, but on nights like this, when a new delivery is in and everyone is in their dedicated section of the store, I can't help thinking there must be more to life.
I watch as the other staff members wander around doing their bit, each one of them dressed like me, each one of them harbouring a secret life beneath their uniforms. I haven't really made friends here—nor anywhere really—keeping myself to myself. I do the job I'm paid to do, and then I go home.
Building new relationships has always been hard for me… how do you know that people won't let you down? How do you know which ones will stick around? How do you know they won't leave you at any moment?
My heart can't take any more disappointment so I guard it against the pain of abandonment, ensuring that I don't have to rely on anyone but Dutch and myself. We don't need it.
We don't need anyone else.
AS I PUSH the handle to our front door, expecting to find it unlocked, I curse through my teeth.
He’s fucking forgotten.
“Dutch. For fucks sake.” I take a step back and look up to his window, shouting louder. It’s four now, and I am pretty sure he will be dead to the world with a skin-full of beer in him.
This is just typical of his insular behaviour at the moment and I decide to have it out with him in the morning. I bend down and pick up a handful of pebbles and launch them at the glass, smirking to myself as every one of them clinks and then rattles down the pane.
I’ve always been a good shot.
There’s no noise at first, but then I see the curtain twitching. Dutch stands in front of the window, naked to the waist, and he flips me off. I am ready to launch into a rant when his mouth turns up at the side indicating that he is just messing with me and I shake my head, grinning at my best friend in the world who, even if it is only momentary, is back to his playful self.
“Come the fuck down then, and let me in.”
He disappears from the window and then seconds later returns, lifting the latch and opening it.
“Catch.”
My keys come flying down and they land perfectly into the palm of my hand. I am so smug in that moment, because I have always been a good catch too. Dutch reckons I throw and catch ‘like a girl’ which I take offence to because first of all, there’s nothing wrong with catching like a girl because girls are not inferior in the catching and throwing stakes, and second of all, he is wrong. And he forgets he is wrong. It always surprises him when I throw and catch perfectly.
His brows lift, and the corners of his mouth turn down as he nods with his thumb up to signal his approval of my abilities.
My dimple tucks itself in as I blush in the darkness at his praise. How ridiculous!
Shoving the thought back where it belongs, I unlock the door and walk into the house.
Instinct takes over as I climb the stairs, and once I am in my pyjamas, I sneak onto the landing and wait in front of Dutch’s bedroom door. It stands slightly ajar, and I can see that his light is on now. As I push it open, he moves his eyes lazily towards me and gives me a tight-lipped smile.
“Can I come in?”
He nods and throws the duvet back to allow me entry to his pit. Pattering barefoot across the laminate flooring I climb in beside him, curling my body into a ball facing him. I don’t dare wrap my arms around him just yet, as I am not sure where we are at in this reconciliation game. He has obviously realised he wasn’t being fair in shutting me out, but he might not be ready to just settle back into our old routine yet. Lying on his back, he lifts his eyes to the ceiling and links his fingers behind his head. He looks deep in thought, and I long for a way to get inside his mind and have a nosy at his musings.
He clearly has something to say and although I don’t want to push him anymore, I can’t bear the silence so I nudge him instead. “You okay?”
He kisses the top of my head. “I’m sorry, Jess.”
I swallow down a lump of emotion that appears from nowhere in the back of my throat.
This is a first.
I am the most stubborn person on the planet, but Dutch comes pretty close. He never apologies unless I tell him he should, and even then it is begrudgingly.
I reach my hand up and flick the end of his nose. “Hey. It’s ok.”
“No it’s not.” He breathes in and moves his eyes to my face. “It’s not okay, but I don’t know how to come back. I don’t know how to be me anymore. I’m broken beyond any repair I think. He was a part of me, y’know? He was my everything, and now he isn’t here anymore. How am I supposed to be all of me ever again?”
I put my arm over his chest and hug him tight. “You probably won’t, but I suppose you now need to figure out who you are after him. You were one kind of Dutch before him, another kind of Dutch when he arrived, and now you need to work on building this new kinda Dutch. And I am here to help you with that. Always. Okay?”
“Okay. But don’t push me. Right? I need to do this in my own time, and you nagging at me every day to dissect my feelings is only going to piss me off. Don’t make me angry… you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”
“Alright, David Banner!”
“Actually, it’s Bruce Banner. That crap eighties TV show got it wrong.”
“You’re such a geek.”
“I am a pedant.”
“Yes. You are.”
I wriggle my body closer and tangle my legs with his, rubbing up and down his shin with my cold feet until he can bear it no longer.
“Fuck, Jess! Pack it in!” His arm slowly lifts from under his head and snaking around my back.
Giggling, I snuggle my head into the crook of his shoulder, listening to his breathing and the sound of his heartbeat. I close my eyes and savour the warmth that spreads through me at the closeness of us. This is how it’s meant to be. This is how we fit together.
I HEAR THE tinkling of a spoon against crockery and stretch my arms above my head before yawning loudly. Now that’s a truce call if ever I heard one. Turning my head towards tinkling sound that travels up the stairwell, I let out a sigh of relief after last night’s breakthrough. It's not quite back to normal, not by a long shot, but at least he's talking to me now.
I take my chances and shout down from my comfortable position in his bed. “Gimme.”
He lets out a low chuckle from the kitchen, and I can imagine him shaking his head. “Not a chance. Get your arse out of bed.”
“Dutch, you fucker. That’s just fucking mean.” I kick at the blankets angrily and swing myself out of bed, defeated.
Catching my reflection in Dutch’s framed poster of Jimi Hendrix, I groan and pull at my hair. What a mess. I really need to get it cut. Untwisting my pyjama vest and readjusting the waistband of my shorts, I head towards the stairs and to Dutch. My buddy. My life.
Eyes scanning the newspaper, he picks my coffee cup up and holds it out for me as I pass and I take hold of it with a grunt heading towards the bread bin.
“There’s toast here. I haven’t put anything on it because I have to go.”
“Meh. Off you go then. What time is it anyway?”
“One.”
I spin around and stare at him in disbelief. “One? Are you kidding me? Why did you let me sleep for so long?”
“Because you didn’t get in till four, then we didn’t sleep ’til gone five.”
“But I have things to do today!” I snatch a slice of toast from under his nose. “I am so late for everything.”
“Things like what?”
“Things like important things. Like seeing if I have enough money for a haircut and watching last night’s episode of One Tree Hill. That’s what.”
“Ha. Ok. Well I think there are probably still enough hours in the day left for you to do that. Anyway. I have to go. I’ll be back about seven. Make sure my dinner is on the table, wench.”
I turn back around to him and, like lightning I hasten to add, swipe at his leg with a twirled up tea towel. He shouts and dodges, but not quick enough and I laugh as he grabs at his thigh whilst squealing.
“Don’t be cheeky. Now get to work!”
As he moves towards the door, he turns back around. “There’s a letter for you. I’ve left it on the coffee table. Looks interesting.”
I take a sip of my coffee and nod. “Bye then.”
I watch him leave and allow myself to think positively about moving forwards. The memory of Bobby will hang like a dark shroud around here for a long time, I have no doubt, but I can cope with that if we are facing it together.
Pottering around, I push the handle on the toaster down and decide to check out my mail. I rarely get anything through the letterbox unless it is a bill. I don’t really know anyone who would want to write to me, so the idea that it could be something more exciting than maintenance paperwork kinda thrills me a little bit. Of course I still fully expect it to be formal, so when I see that it isn’t, my heart beats a little faster.
I pick the cream envelope up from the glass tabletop and smooth my finger over the unfamiliar handwriting. It is full of loops and swirls and the longer I look at it, the more quickly the desire to see what is inside subsides. I carry it back to the kitchen, placing it down on the counter next to the toaster and eye it suspiciously as I continue to make my breakfast.
Once my toast is laden with unhealthy amounts of butter and jam, I pick up my plate, a fresh cup of coffee and the letter, and placing all three on the tabletop, I sit primly on the edge sofa and flick on the TV, my eyes never leaving the envelope.
It glares at me accusingly or something, so as I reach for my toast, I gingerly push it further away, and try to focus on the television. Of course it doesn’t help really, so my growing curiosity, and its need to be satisfied, takes over my apprehension.
I slide the strange letter back over to where my plate sits and pick it up again slowly. Turning it over, I notice a return address, and my heart picks up again.
Galway… that’s Ireland, right? I do not know anyone who lives in Ireland. Do I?
Nausea sweeps over me for a moment and I breath deeply through my nose in attempt to dispel it.
Tucking my legs underneath me, I shuffle to the back of the sofa and lean into the cushions.
Two swift movements and I will know. Two swift movements and I will be able to find out who it is from…
Dearest Jessica,
My heart pounds in my chest at the informality, the fact that the sender seems to think they know me well enough to call me by my full name and I inhale deeply through my nose before continuing.
I have no idea how I am going to go about writing this letter, and the good Lord only knows it’s not the first time I have started it. Now, I expect you are wondering who in holy hell I am—
I close my eyes tight to stop them from wandering to the next line prematurely. I want to know so badly who this is, but not until I get there, not until I have had chance to absorb all the other letters on the page that come before the revelation. I want to know, but I want to know at the last possible moment.
—so rather than prolong the agony, I will reveal myself now. My name is Edith Dunne, and I am your grandmother.
I throw the letter to the end of the sofa like it’s just burst into flames and jump to my feet, my eyes never leaving the daintily swirled handwriting. Pacing the floor in front of the coffee table, I chew at the skin on my thumb, my other hand slapped across my forehead as I try to wrap my head around what I am in possession of. I mean, seriously? Who the hell does that? Who just writes to someone out of the blue after twenty-three years? I didn’t even know I had a bastard grandmother. After my heartbeat returns to something that resembles a regular rhythm, I sit back down and pull the letter towards me and continue reading it from a slight distance.
Now that you have gotten over that little revelation, I will continue. I live in Galway, as my return address suggests, and I have done all of my life.
Why is she telling me this now? Why on earth does she think that I want all this dredged up now? I swipe at my face angrily and force myself to read on.
There is so much that I need to tell you, but I do not feel that this is the right forum. I realise you are probably pretty confused right about now, and if your temperament is anything like your da’s then you’ll likely be raging too—
At those few simple words my breathing stops.
I get my temperament from my dad… My da’.
I’m like my da’.
It’s like a bullet to my chest as my eyes roam over each letter for a third, fourth and fifth time. Each time, the pain ricochets around, opening up another patched up wound in my heart.
I can’t read anymore, and I stuff the thick, quality writing paper back into its envelope and stand it up on the mantelpiece next to the photograph of Dutch and me that sits there always.
I have a dad.
HE FINDS ME curled on the sofa, staring blankly at the TV, still in my pyjamas, but the minute I realise he is here, I sit up and blurt it out.
“I have a da’”
“Huh?”
“A da. A dad. I have a dad.”
“Jess we all of us have a dad somewhere, else we wouldn’t exist now, would we.”
I practically launch myself forwards to grab the letter from its place above the gas fire and thrust it into his hands. My eyes are wide as I try to catch his an
d get him to understand without having to form more words or sentences. Nothing is lined up ready, other than the words I continue to repeat.
“I have a dad.”
Dutch frowns his eyes flitting from the envelope and back up to my face. “What’s this?”
“My da’”
“Y-e-e-e-s.” He draws the word out impatiently. “I know you have a dad, Jessica—you have told me fifty times—but what is this?”
I shove my fingers backwards through my hair and walk to the sofa again, sitting down and holding my head in my hands so that I can think of what to say. Sighing I look back up at him. “It’s a letter from my grandma.”
His face contorts a little, a smirk twitching at the side of his mouth. “How do yo—”
“It’s a letter from my grandma, telling me about my dad.”
Probably realising how serious I am, he begins to pull the paper from its hiding place, his eyes never leaving mine, his brow furrowed.
“I haven’t read it all yet.” The words blurt out again like someone has been pushing the door closed against their force and suddenly lets go causing them to tumble out without warning.
“Well then why are you giving it to me?” He stops pulling out the paper and holds it out for me to take. I clasp my hands between my knees, biting down on the inside of my lips and shake my head.
“Nu-uh. I don’t wanna.”
It’s at this point where he softens a bit and comes towards me, crouching down in front of me. He places the letter on the cushion beside me and pulls at my hands so that they are encased between his own. His eyebrows raise a little as he bobs his head to catch my eyes, his lips pursing in a serious kinda smile. I brace myself.
“Jess, this could be the rest of your life. I know it’s real hard opening yourself up to it, but you gotta read it. I will sit with you, or I can go upstairs if you want me to be out of the way, but this has to be something you do.”
“What if I don’t want the rest of my life? Read it out for me.”
