by Marian Keyes
“What ridiculous stories?” he asked. He had difficulty saying “ridiculous.”
“Let’s see,” I said. “You’ll probably tell me that you’re taking care of a cow for your brother and that it has nowhere to stay except in your bedroom and that it’s shy and afraid of strangers.”
“Would I?” he asked, thoughtfully. “Well, you might be right, that sounds like me, so it does. You’re an exceptional woman, Lucy Sullivan.”
“Oh, I’m not,” I smiled. “Not anymore.”
That confused his already alcohol-addled head.
“So you see,” he said, “we have to go back to your place.”
“I’m going,” I said. “You’re not.”
“But…” he said.
“Goodbye,” I sang.
“No, wait, Lucy,” he said in alarm.
I turned and smiled benignly on him. “Yes?”
“How am I going to get home?” he asked.
“Do I look like I can foretell the future?” I asked innocently.
“But Lucy, I don’t have any money.”
I put my face up to his and smiled.
He smiled back.
“Frankly, my dear,” I beamed, “I don’t give a damn.”
I had always wanted to say that.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—in language that you’ll understand”—I paused for impact and put my face right into his—“FUCK OFF, GUS!”
There was a little pause while I took another deep breath. “Extort money from someone else, you drunken little bastard. I’m no longer open for business.”
And I swung off down the road, leaving Gus staring after me.
A few seconds later I realized I was walking the wrong direction for the tube station and had to slink back the way I had come. Luckily the little swine wasn’t still there to see me.
Chapter 75
I was exhilarated with anger.
I went to Uxbridge, but only to pick up my things. The other passengers on the train looked at me oddly and kept their distance. I kept remembering how mean I’d been to Gus and a triumphant voice in my head reminded me that you’ve got to be cruel to be cruel.
With bitter amusement, I wondered what my father had managed to destroy in my absence. The drunken fool had probably burned the house down. And, if he had, I just hoped that he’d managed to burn himself with it.
I thought of what a conflagration there’d be, and in spite of everything, I laughed. More funny looks from the other passengers. It would take about a week to put him out. He’d burn so brightly he’d probably be visible from outer space, just like the Great Wall of China. Maybe they could harness him up to an electricity generator and he could power the whole of London for a couple of days.
I hated him.
I had seen how badly I had let Gus treat me and it was an exact copy of the way my father treated me. I only knew how to love drunk, irresponsible, penniless men. Because that’s what my father had taught me.
But I didn’t feel as if I loved him anymore. I’d had enough. He could take care of himself from now on. And I wouldn’t give him any more money—either of them. Gus and Dad had merged into one in the melting pot of my anger. Dad had never stroked Megan’s hair, but, nevertheless, I was furious with him for doing it. Gus hadn’t cried all over me when I was a little girl and told me that the world was a terrible place, but that was still no reason to forgive him for it.
I was actually grateful to both Dad and Gus for being so horrible to me. For pushing me into a place where I didn’t care about them anymore. What if I’d never found out? If they’d been just a bit nicer, it could have gone on forever. With me forgiving them again and again and again.
Memories of other relationships rushed back, ones that I thought I’d forgotten. Other men, other humiliations, other situations where I’d made it my life’s work to take care of a difficult, selfish person.
With the unfamiliar anger, another strange emotion had surfaced. This new one was called Self-Preservation.
Chapter 76
“You’re so lucky,” sighed Charlotte enviously.
“Why?” I asked in surprise. I couldn’t think of anyone less lucky than me.
“Because you’re all straightened out now,” she said.
“Am I?”
“Yes, I wish my dad was an alcoholic, I wish I hated my mother.”
This bizarre conversation with Charlotte took place the day after I had left my dad’s and returned to my apartment in Ladbroke Grove. It was nearly enough to make me consider moving back in with Dad.
“If only I could be like you,” Charlotte went on. “But my father can hold his drink and I love my mother…. It’s not fair,” she added bitterly.
“Charlotte, please tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Men, of course.” She was surprised. “Boys, lads, fellas, the ones with the love truncheons.”
“But what about them?”
“You’re going to meet Mr. Right and live happily ever after.”
“Am I?” That was nice to hear, but I wondered where she was getting her information from.
“Yes.” She waved a book at me. “I read it here. It’s one of your crazy books. About people like you, how you always pick men just like your dad—you know, ones that drink a lot and don’t want any responsibility and all that.”
I felt a twist of pain, but I let her go on.
“It’s not your fault,” she said, consulting her book. “You see, the child—that’s you, Lucy—senses that the parent—that’s your dad, Lucy—is unhappy. And because—well, I don’t really know why—because children aren’t too wise yet, I suppose, the child thinks it’s her fault. That it’s up to her to make him feel better. See?”
“I suppose so.” She had a point. I had so many memories of Dad crying, and I never knew why. But I remembered the overwhelming need to know that it wasn’t my fault. And the fear that he’d never be happy again. I would have done anything to help him feel better.
Charlotte continued blithely to slot my round life into the round hole of her theory.
“And as the child—that’s you again, Lucy—grows older, she is attracted to situations where the feelings of childhood are…what the fuck’s this? Re…re…rep…?”
“Replicated,” I supplied helpfully.
“Wow, Lucy, how did you know?” She was impressed.
But of course I knew. I had read that book many times. Well, at least once. And I was fully conversant with all the theories in it. It was just that I had never thought they applied to me before now.
“It means ‘copied,’ doesn’t it, Lucy?”
“It does, Charlotte.”
“Okay, so you sensed that your dad was an alkie, and you tried to make him better. But you couldn’t. Not that it was your fault, Lucy,” she added hurriedly. “I mean, you were only a little girl and what could you do? Hide the bottles?”
Hide the bottles.
I heard a bell ring, it was a long way away, more than twenty years. And suddenly I remembered a day when I was very young, maybe four or five, and that’s what Chris said to me. “Come on, Lucy, we’ll hide the bottles. If we hide the bottles then they’ll have nothing to fight about.”
A wave of heartbreak washed over me, for the little girl who hid a bottle of whiskey that was almost as big as herself in the dog’s basket. But Charlotte kept chattering, so I had to file it away for later.
“So the child—that’s still you, Lucy—grows into adulthood and meets all kinds of men. But the ones she’s attracted to are the ones with the same problems as the child’s parent—that’s still your dad. See?”
“I see.”
“The grown-up child feels comfortable and familiar with a man who drinks to excess or is irresponsible with money or who routinely uses violence…” she read aloud.
“My father was never violent.” I was nearly in tears.
“Now, now, Lucy.” Charlotte calmly wagged her finger at me. “These are o
nly examples. It means that if the father always ate his dinner wearing a gorilla suit, then the child feels comfortable and familiar with boyfriends who wear fur coats or have hairy backs. See?”
“No.”
She sighed with exaggerated patience.
“It means that you met men who were always drunk and didn’t have jobs and sometimes were Irish and they reminded you of your dad. But you weren’t able to make your dad happy, so you felt like you’d been given a second chance and you thought ‘Oh good, I can fix this one, even if I wasn’t able to fix my dad.’ See?”
“Maybe.” It was so painful I nearly asked her to stop.
“Definitely,” said Charlotte firmly. “Not that you did it on purpose, Lucy. I’m not saying that it was your fault. It was your conscience that did it.”
“Do you mean my subconscious?”
She consulted the book. “Oh yes, your subconscience. I wonder what the difference is?”
I didn’t have the energy to explain.
“And that’s why you always fell in love with crazy drunks like Gus and Malachy and…who was the one that fell out of the window?”
“Nick.”
“That’s right, Nick. How is he, by the way?”
“Still in the wheelchair, as far as I know.”
“Oh, that’s terrible.” She spoke in suddenly hushed tones. “Is he crippled?”
“No, Charlotte.” I was brisk. “He’s completely better, but he says the wheelchair is much handier for getting around, seeing as he’s drunk the whole time.”
“That’s okay.” Charlotte sighed with relief. “I was worried his willy was kaput along with the rest of him.”
It wouldn’t have made any difference if Nick had lost the use of his genitals. Most of the time I’d been with him he’d been too drunk to even get it up. If his wallet hadn’t been stolen early one Saturday evening, I don’t think we’d ever have consummated the relationship.
Charlotte continued.
“And now that you know why you always pick the wrong men you won’t do it anymore.” She beamed at me. “You’ll tell all the drunk spongers like Gus to get lost and you’ll meet the right man and live happily ever after!”
I couldn’t return her dazzling smile.
“Just because I know why I pick the wrong men doesn’t mean that I’ll stop doing it, you know.” I laughed in exasperation.
“Nonsense!” she declared.
“I might become mean and bitter and hate men who drink.”
“No, Lucy, you will allow yourself to be loved by a man worthy of you,” she quoted. “Chapter Ten.”
“But first I’ll have to relearn the habits of a lifetime.” Let’s not forget that I had read the book too. “Chapter Twelve.”
My ingratitude upset her.
“Why are you being so difficult?” she said. “You don’t know how lucky you are. I’d give anything to have a dysfunctional family.”
“Believe me, Charlotte, you wouldn’t.”
“Yes, I would.” She was firm.
“For God’s sake, why?” I was becoming more and more upset.
“Because if there’s nothing wrong with me and my family, how can I explain why all my relationships are disasters? I’ve nothing or no one to blame, except me.”
She stared at me again, with resentful envy.
“You don’t think my father’s a bully, do you?” she asked hopefully.
“No,” I said. “I don’t know him well, but he seems to be a very nice man.”
“You don’t think he’s weak and ineffectual and a poor leader, inviting disrespect?” she asked, reading aloud from the book.
“On the contrary,” I said. “He seems to command a lot of respect.”
“Would you say he’s a control freak?” She begged. “A melagomaniac?”
“It’s megalomaniac, and no, he isn’t.
“Sorry,” I added.
She was annoyed.
“Well, Lucy, I know it’s not really your fault, but you invented all these things…”
“Invented what?” I demanded, poised to be annoyed.
“Okay, well, not invented them exactly,” she backtracked. “But I wouldn’t know about them if it weren’t for you. You’ve put ideas in my head,” she added sulkily.
“In that case I should get a medal,” I muttered.
“That’s mean,” she said, her eyes bright with tears.
“Sorry,” I said. Poor Charlotte. How awful to be just bright enough to know how stupid you are.
But she never stayed down for long.
“Tell me again how you told Gus to fuck off,” she demanded excitedly.
So, not for the first—or last—time, I told her.
“And how did you feel?” she exclaimed. “Powerful? Victorious? I’d love to be able to do that with that pig Simon.”
“Have you spoken to him lately?”
“I had sex with him on Tuesday night.”
“Yes, but have you spoken to him recently?”
“No, not really.”
That made her laugh.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re back, Lucy,” she sighed. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
“And now that you’re back we can have lovely talks about Frood…”
“Who? Oh, Freud.”
“Wha…? Say it again, how does it go?”
“Like ‘fried,’ but in an Australian accent. Froyd.”
“Froyd,” she murmured. “Yes, I was reading about Froyd… Now, Froyd says that…”
“Charlotte, what are you doing?”
“Practising for the party on Saturday.” She was suddenly bitter. “I’m sick to death of men thinking that just because I’ve got big tits, I’m stupid. I’ll show them. I’ll go on and on about Frood—I mean, Froyd. Although they probably won’t even notice, men never listen to me, they just have conversations with my chest.”
She was gloomy for only a moment.
“What are you wearing to the party? It must be so long since you’ve been out.”
“I’m not going to the party.”
“What?”
“Not yet. It’s too soon.”
Charlotte laughed and laughed.
“You silly woman,” she roared. “You make it sound as if you’re in mourning.”
“I am,” I replied primly.
Chapter 77
The anger that I’d felt that night I saw Gus propelled me out of my father’s house, with the minimum of anguish and soul-searching. I moved back in with Karen and Charlotte and waited for normal life to resume.
I don’t know how I thought I’d get off so lightly.
It took less than a day for the hired gun of Guilt and his henchmen to track me down. They worked me over good and proper and continued to do so every day. I was almost unrecognizable, beaten to a pulp by Grief, Anger and Shame.
I felt as though my father had died. In a way he had—the man that I thought had been my father no longer existed. Had never existed, in fact, except in my head. But I couldn’t mourn him because he was still alive. Worse than that, he was alive, and I had chosen to abandon him. I had surrendered my right to grieve.
Daniel was wonderful. He had told me not to worry about a thing, that he would figure something out. But I couldn’t let him do it. It was my family, my problem and I had to be the one to fix it. First of all, I yanked Chris’s and Pete’s heads out from where they were buried in the sand, and in fairness to the pair of lazy bastards, they said that they’d help to look after Dad.
Daniel had suggested contacting social services and there was a time when I would have thought that that was the most shameful thing I could do to Dad. But I was beyond feeling shame, I was all shamed out.
So I called lots of numbers. The first number I called told me to call a second number and when I called the second number they told me it was the people at the first number that should help me. Then when I called the first number again they told me that the rules had bee
n changed and it really was the people at the second number that should be helping me.
I spent about a million hours of my employer’s time on the phone and heard the words, “That’s not our area” over and over again.
Eventually, because Dad was such a danger to himself and others, they made him a priority case and allocated him a social worker and a home help.
I felt wretched.
“He’s okay, Lucy,” Daniel promised me. “He’s being taken care of.”
“But not by me.” I was lacerated by a sense of failure.
“It’s not your job to take care of him,” Daniel gently pointed out.
“I know, but…” I said miserably.
It was January. Everyone was broke and depressed. No one went out much, but I didn’t go out at all. Apart from with Daniel.
I thought about my father constantly, trying to justify leaving him alone. It had come down to a choice between me and him, I decided. One of us could have had me, but there wasn’t enough of me to be shared between two.
I chose me.
Survival was an unpleasant thing to witness. Survival at someone else’s expense was an unpleasant choice to make. There had been no room for love or nobility or honor or feeling for my fellow man—in this case, Dad. It was about me and only me.
I had always thought I was a nice person, a kind, generous, selfless person. It was a shock to find that when the chips were down, the kindness and generosity were only a veneer. That I was a snarling beast just like everyone else.
I didn’t like myself very much—although that was nothing new.
Meredia, Jed, and Megan were intrigued by my state of mind. Or rather, my states of mind. Every day I had a different emotion and they were eager to know all about it and offer advice and opinions.
As I said, it was January and no one got out much.
“What is it today?” they chorused when I walked into the office.
“Anger. Anger at not having had a real father when I was a little girl.”
Or…
“Grief. I feel like the man I loved, the man I always thought was my father has died.”
Or…
“Inadequacy. I should have been able to take care of him.”
Or…
“Guilt. I feel so guilty for abandoning him.”
