What is going on here? I wonder perplexed as I take the salad bowl and walk out of the kitchen toward the dining room. My dad always, always works late and he never, ever eats with us. We only eat at the dining table on Christmas Day. My mom and I usually eat from our knees, while we are slumped into the couches, watching TV.
I realize with him coming home early I am going to have to go up to my room earlier than usual. I scan my brain for any programs I might miss. What do I usually watch on a Wednesday night? I always make sure I am in bed and my earphones plugged into my ears when he gets home late every night. They cannot be in the same Nano-sphere for more than ten minutes when the fighting starts. I predict I will be deaf by the time I am forty, with the way I have to turn up the volume just to tune out their screaming and shouting.
With unexpected dread, I hear the front door open and my dad’s voice announces, “I am home.”
I walk through the double doors separating the lounge from the dining room and past the large triple seat couch. I walk out the door from the lounge, into the hall and am just in time to see my dad hang his scarf and coat onto the coat hanger next to the door. He bends down and puts his briefcase down next to the coat hanger. While he is in this awkward position, I take the opportunity to watch him. His dark hair is speckled with grey, and his temples are already snow white. It makes him look distinguished and more handsome. Inappropriately, I wonder why men age so handsomely and women just disintegrate?
He comes back up and notices me standing in the doorway to the lounge. He smiles widely. “Hey, Heather. How are you, stranger?”
Silently I agree with him because we are strangers. Loudly I say, “Okay, and you?”
He starts walking down the hall toward the kitchen. “Mm-mm, is that Lasagne I smell?”
I follow behind him and as he walks into the kitchen, he greets my mom by simply saying, “Cathy.”
I see my mom smile at him nervously. “Evening, John.”
My mom looks past him toward me apprehensively. She asks, “Heather, would you please grab the garlic bread from the micro?”
I walk to the microwave oven and click the door open. The smell of garlic assaults my senses as I take out the plate with the three rolls on it. Following them into the dining room, I place the plate with the garlic rolls next to the bowl of green salad.
My dad sits at the head of the table with his back facing the wall. He does not like to sit with his back exposed, I am sure this is some Neanderthal defence mechanism. I sit next to him to his left and my mom sits across from me.
I reach across the table, taking a garlic roll and I start to pick at the crust as I watch my dad dish up his portion of Lasagne. There is a nervous tension hanging in the air and once again, I wonder what the special occasion is supposed to be.
We eat, mostly in uncomfortable silence.
Eventually, I put the last fork of food in my mouth and then I grip my hands around the seat of the chair, preparing to push my chair backward when my dad looks at me. He says, “Before you excuse yourself, there is something we need to discuss as a family.”
I let go of the seat and fold my hands in my lap. I look at him, waiting in nervous anticipation, as I feel a weird bundle of nerves in the pit of my stomach.
My mom starts to fidget with the salt-shaker, and she keeps her eyes firmly glued on it.
He announces, “Your mom and I have decided to get a divorce.”
There is no sensitive introduction. No slow process he follows to deliver this news to me.
Obviously, sometimes I did wonder why they were still together when they could not stand being in the same room with each other.
However, there must have been a time when they loved each other. They must have loved each other enough to bring another human being into the world. Could they really not work through their problems and find that love they used to have?
Although I have always expected this day to come, I am shocked. The news literally shakes my world.
CHAPTER FIVE
Frowning puzzled, I look at him and then my mom.
My mom smiles at me uncomfortably. “We have decided it would be better for all three of us if your dad moves out.”
I ask, “When are you moving out?” My voice sounds defiant. An inane question, I know, but I could think of nothing else to say. They have decided and no matter what I say, they will still get divorced.
He answers casually, “This weekend.”
There are so many things I want to say. I want to shout out at them to try to love each other again, but I say nothing. I sit back in my chair as the news sink through me.
My mom glances at me remorsefully, while she says accusingly to my dad, “You could have used more tact when you told her.” She turns back toward me. “Heather, this will change nothing. Your dad still loves you as much as he always did. We will still be a family, but we will just be living in separate houses.”
I realize even though I hardly ever see my dad, he is basically already a visitor in my life, I will now have to schedule visits with him.
My dad turns toward my mom and with a retaliating tone in his voice, he insists, “She is sixteen and not a child anymore, how much tact did you want me to use. No matter how I say it, there is only one conclusion.”
My mom goes red in the face. The glow spreads from her neck up into her cheeks. When she gets upset her neck and chest turns a bright shade of red. She often jokes and says it must be her Scottish blood. Her family moved here a few generations ago. She turns in her seat toward my dad and she bangs her fist down onto the table. Her voice is slightly raised when she exclaims, “John, we agreed we would discuss this civilly.”
He presses his palms against the lip of the table, and his knuckles are snow white as his fingers grip around it. He pushes his chair back violently, and as he stands up, he says, exasperated, “Here we go again with the accusations.”
“Don’t you dare put all the blame on me, John! How can everything always be my fault? My fault you think you fell in love with someone else!” Her voice is pitched.
I gasp shocked. They both look at me. My dad is towering over me while my mom is still sitting across the table from me. She reaches her hand to me, as she whispers apologetically, “Oh Heather, I am so sorry. You weren’t supposed to find out this way.”
Pushing myself away from the table, the chair falls over and the leg scrapes my ankle, but I ignore the sudden sting. I walk away from the table briskly and then I run up the stairs to my room, taking the stairs two by two. I walk into my room and then I slam the door shut behind me.
I can hear their voices from downstairs—another fight has started. It does not last long though because, by the time I find my music player, I hear the front door slam shut and total silence fills the house. It is not the usual silence. It is an empty silence.
I lie on my bed, curled into a ball and I vacantly look across my room through the window at the pale blue sky. Summer will be here soon. The sun is setting later and later.
Hearing a funny noise, I sit up. I listen intently and then I realize it is my mom—she is crying. I feel sorry for her, and I wonder if I should go to her to comfort her. I decide not to, we all have to deal with our pain and sorrow in our own way.
Sometimes I just hate life. Sometimes everything just seems so pointless. Do we not exist purely to love each other? What did people in olden days do when divorce was taboo? They made it work, that is what they did! Sometimes I wonder why people even still go through the completely archaic ritual of getting married. It is a total waste of money if you want to ask me for my opinion. Unwillingly I wonder when my dad met the new love of his life. Will he marry her, or did he learn his lesson the first time that love just does not last. Could people not just enjoy the brief moment they are here on earth, make the right choices like never get married, never fall in love.
I plug my earphones into my ears, this time not to block out the noise, but to block out the utter silence left after my dad went mis
sing from my life. Granted, I never saw him because he was always at work or, as I have just discovered, with his new girlfriend, but he was always a part of my life. Now he will become my alternative weekend host.
Soon the music in my ears lulls me as I get lost in the lyrics of the songs, I only downloaded this morning.
CHAPTER SIX
Jayden drops his bag as he walks into the lounge. He looks around bored and then he sits down onto the musty couch. He slides around and lifts his legs as he stretches out onto the couch. Folding his arms under his head, he calls to Kieran, “Did you try to find the worst place in this town?”
Kieran calls back from upstairs, “This is all I could find on such short notice.”
Jayden can hear the creaks across the ceiling of the lounge as Kieran crosses the room above him. He sighs as he reaches for the remote control on the small, dingy-looking coffee table. With the tips of his fingers, he inches it closer until he can grasp it in his hand. He clicks the on button and then flips through the three television channels to see if anything interests him enough to watch.
Kieran crosses the bedroom and moves the curtain in front of the window aside so he can look out. He has a view of the entire town, from the railway bridge up to the hospital.
Turning away from the window, the curtain drops down, making the room twilight dark again. He walks across the hall to the only other bedroom in this two-bedroom apartment. He looks out of the window and notices his view is limited to the back gardens of the neighbours.
As he walks back to the first room, he calls down, “I am taking this room.”
He hears Jayden grunt above the noise of the television, “Fine. I’ll take this room.”
“You cannot sleep in the lounge.”
“Once we buy a decent TV and a nice couch and fancy this place up a bit, I think it will make a cosy room.”
Kieran leans over the banister. “Are you phoning for a cleaning lady, or am I?”
“You are.”
Kieran walks down the stairs as he presses the buttons on his phone. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he pushes the phone against his ear and then when the Cleaning Agency answers with a polite, sing-y voice, he arranges for somebody to come out and clean the latest dump they have to call home.
“Arranged. She’ll be here in fifteen minutes.” He sits down on the single-seated sofa and lifts his feet onto the coffee table. It sways under his feet, but he balances his legs until the table stands steady.
Jayden continues to stare at the TV, watching an advertisement for a new miracle shampoo. The girl on the TV has the same hair as the girl he has loved for so long now. When the advert is finished, he sighs and glances back at Kieran. “I am glad you found her so easy.” Although he has known for some time where she is, he did not want Kieran to know his secret.
“These days you can track anybody on the internet. All you have to do is Google it.”
“How life has progressed.” Jayden changes his voice and mimics Shakespeare, “For the better, or not for the better.”
“When the cleaning lady comes, I think we must walk up to her house.”
“What for?” Jayden says dismissively, “You’ll see her tomorrow at school.”
Kieran stares at the television. He asks abruptly, “Are you really not going to try and make her choose you this time?”
Jayden smirks. “No competition from me this time, brother. Just go for it. I am tired and I want this curse broken. You said you can find anything on the internet, so find a way to keep her safe and you can live your happily ever after, but please just get it right this time.”
Half-heartedly Kieran says, “You know if she chooses you, the curse will automatically be broken.”
“Yeah, but she keeps choosing you. I get the message loud and clear; it will never be me. Just find a way to keep her safe or to break the curse when she chooses you, so this can be over. I am not doing it again.”
“I have a view of her house from my room.”
Without expression Jayden continues to stare at the TV. His eyes narrow briefly and then he sits up quickly when there is a knock on the door. “It’s the cleaning lady. Let’s go for a walk anyway while she is here, familiarize ourselves with the outlay of this town.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning, I wake up as usual until the memories from the night before come rushing back. In a flash second, I relive the entire episode.
Lethargically I get dressed for school. I shake my head in self-denial when I pull on my checked, pleated school skirt. The hem comes mid-way up my thigh. This is the old me, I think sadly. The me who believed in love even if you disagreed with the one you loved. Admittedly, my mom and dad could not agree on anything and they disagreed on everything, but they were still supposed to love each other. What happened to that love they had when they met?
No! I will not mull over this again.
I rummage through my cupboard until I find a pair of tattered jeans and an old T-shirt. I get dressed in this exclusive ensemble. I pull a beanie over my messy hair, wrap a scarf around my neck and pull on a bright pink puffy jacket. The hideous jacket my dad bought for me last Christmas—eventually I will have to admit to myself the man just did not know me.
At the moment, the fact he does not know me does not really cause me any concern, what really bothers me about my mom and dad getting divorced is—where did the love go?
I go downstairs and before I open the fridge to get a yoghurt drink, I read the note on the fridge. “I had to go into work early.” I notice it is still handwritten. She should Xerox them and save herself the trouble every morning. It would surely be easier to just pull one out of a large stack and hastily push it in under the pineapple fridge magnet than actually having to scribble it down in pen every day.
I get the yoghurt drink and then open the kitchen drawer under the cutlery drawer. I reach my hand in, until my fingers clutch around a small wooden box pushed to the back, under a pile of dishcloths. I take it out and then I pull the emergency credit card from its protective interior. I am in need of emergency retail therapy.
I leave the house and pull the door until I hear the latch catch. I turn the handle and push the door to make sure it is locked. I do this only once because if I did it twice it could be construed as OCD.
I walk away from my house into the misty rain and I follow the road through the estate toward the main road. We live here on the outskirts of Drogheda, County Louth on the lush green isle of Ireland. It is two miles from my home to the centre of town, but I have walked this journey many times and I need to clear my mind anyway.
I walk past the usual places, the pubs, the yoghurt factory, the houses with their quaint gardens while I listen to the music in my ears. The fine, misty precipitation does not wet me, and there are no actual drops of rain. I push my hands deep into the pockets of my shocking pink jacket.
When I get to the mall, I walk into my usual clothes store. I pick new pants, new shirts and a few dresses. I choose new jackets and for good measure, I buy some new underwear. Everything I select is in various shades of black. After all, I am mourning the absence of love.
When I can hardly see over the pile of clothes draped over my forearms, I walk to the pay points. I stand in the short queue and I notice a beautiful black Celtic cross hanging from the impulse-buy display-unit, conveniently located in the narrow stand-in-line passage toward the tills. I move my arms awkwardly and I wrap my pinkie around the chain until I wrangle it from the display-unit, just in time for me to move forward for my turn to pay.
I drop the clothes onto the counter unceremoniously. The elderly teller starts to scan my items and she looks up at me sympathetically. She asks, “Who died, honey?”
She probably thinks my new black wardrobe is for a funeral. Here everybody knows everybody, and usually when someone dies, foreigners will stick out like sore thumbs—like us. We moved here six years ago from England. Foreigners usually do not know the deceased went to school with t
he person you are talking to, nor were friends of so and so’s uncle’s cousin twice removed.
I look down and she assumes I do not want to talk about it.
She says with concern, “It gets easier, honey.”
I nod my head as if I understand and then when she gives me the total for my purchase, I slide the credit card across to her.
Walking out of the shop with my bags, I consider I would have to catch the bus home because these bags would get progressively heavier when I walked back up the hill to my house.
I walk past a hairdressing salon. About five steps further, I stop. The man behind me almost collides with me. I turn around, ignoring his angry complaints, and walk back to the hairdresser. My long brown hair will never suit my new look.
Uncertainly, I walk in and go to the counter. The girl behind the counter looks up at me, and then she smiles friendly.
I ask, “Is it possible to fit me in for a colour and a cut?”
She looks down at her appointments and she taps the end of her pencil against the book. She looks up at me again and she says, “Is Angie okay? She is free now.”
I cannot remember when last I set my two feet in a hairdressing salon, so I have no idea who Angie might be, but I say anyway, “Okay.”
She smiles and tells me, “Go through to the back, to the basins.”
I follow her instructions and sit down on the chair. A girl comes and without a word, she gently pushes my head backward. She washes, treats and rinses my hair. I am starting to get a cramp in my neck when at last she is finished.
She wraps a warm towel around my head, and she directs me toward a chair in front of a large mirror. I sit down on the black leather chair, but I do not want it to look as if I am staring vainly at myself in the mirror, so I swivel the chair away from it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Another girl approaches me, and she asks friendly, “What are we doing for you today?”
Timeless (ForNever) Page 2
