by Hazel Hayes
He inhales deeply, and then lets it out in a soft sigh.
‘I am excited to make a new home with you,’ I say, sniffling into a tissue. ‘It’s just hard to let go of this one. I don’t think I realised how hard it would be.’
‘That’s okay. Look, all I can really say is thank you for even considering moving here to be with me. And if you don’t like it and you want to go home, I will completely understand. But if you do stay, then I promise I will do everything in my power to make our life here really fucking lovely.’
‘Really fucking lovely? Wow.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
I smile and close my eyes. A familiar ease settles between us in the silence. He knew this would all hit me, that I’d get cold feet. He knew before I did.
‘Why don’t you sleep on it?’ offers Theo, but I’ve already made my decision.
After we say goodbye, I find myself lying in the dark, thinking about Wexford. I haven’t been back there in almost a decade, and I didn’t realise I spoke about it so often, or with quite so much fondness. My mother took us there every year when we were kids; as soon as we finished school for the summer, we’d migrate south for a month and stay in a caravan park in Kilmuckridge.
No wonder Theo thinks it’s some magical place; I see it in my mind’s eye through a warm pink filter, as though tinted by time itself. The memories are more like textures than pictures and as I drift steadily towards sleep, floating in that space between thinking and dreaming, I feel like I’m hovering over them, looking down on them from above.
A field of memories … Lush green and grainy. Freshly cut and yellowing at the edges. The orange glow of sunlight through closed eyelids. Blades of grass like broken bottles, sparkling in the afternoon sun. Moist soil between tiny toes, dirt paths made for two, the low hum of an electric fence, and a stripy beach ball echoing empty bounces on hot black tarmac; endless rings of yellow, red and blue.
I sink. Lungs heavy with thick, salty air. The tinny roar of rainstorms on a corrugated roof. Bare gravel when the circus has moved on. Coloured crayons in a row. Freckled shoulders white with cream. And a plump purple raspberry bursting between teeth, while sticky fingers reach to pick another.
My father doesn’t exist in this place. I have no memory of him here. I try to place him between brightly coloured windbreakers, or squeeze him into the small alcove that served as our breakfast table, but when he appears there – always in the act of raising a cigarette to his lips – he looks wrong somehow, like a stain on a watercolour.
Suddenly, I’m on Kilmuckridge beach with my feet planted firmly in the soft sand, looking out at a honey-coloured horizon. The sound of geese drifts by on the breeze but I can’t see them. I’m searching for them in the sky when I’m distracted by something floating in the sea in front of me; a huge, flat rectangle, dark and slick with water, is submerged just beneath the surface. I wade in for a closer look, but the tide is rising fast now and it pulls me under, dragging me towards the object, which rises towards me in the murky water like a terrible fish. As my body slams into it, my head reeling from the impact, I realise it is in fact a car. It’s my mother’s car. Her old black Honda. And I can just about make out the shape of her inside. I press my face to the window, desperately trying to see inside, then suddenly her face thumps against the glass, her eyeballs bulging, and her pale flesh bloated and decayed.
I scream. Water rushes in. I wake up.
I thought about it once. Suicide. Towards the end of my last relationship it crept into my consciousness and lodged there; a little seed that grew into a plan. He was a lot like my father, my ex. They so often are. We choose these men, I’m told, because the pain they cause is familiar and therefore comfortable. How sad is that?
For a long time, too long, I was reluctant to call his behaviour abusive. Abuse, I thought, was bruises and broken ribs. Abuse left marks. But I’ve since learned that abuse can also be insults and isolation, veiled threats and accusations, a clawing, cloying control that stifles and suffocates till you forget what it was like to take a full, deep breath.
He wore me down until I was just a walking, talking shell. And one night, while he was out getting drunk somewhere, I lay in bed, shivering and sweating and giddy at the prospect of escape. I stared at my face in the bathroom mirror – stared and stared until all I saw were two black holes in a flat, white circle – then I opened the medicine cabinet behind the mirror and gathered together all the pills inside – I even arranged them in order of potency – before finally coming to the conclusion that they might not kill me. They might, in fact, leave me only half dead, catatonic or comatose in some hospital bed somewhere. And what if it did work, and I left my family and friends behind, wondering if maybe this was their fault? I couldn’t do that to them.
It had, of course, occurred to me to just leave him. But he kept me crazy to keep me around, because that’s what they do. And so it took my options being whittled down to living without him, or dying, to finally make me leave. The next morning I worked up the courage to tell my doctor about him. I remember how she looked at me and without a moment’s hesitation she said, ‘Run. And never go back.’
I left the doctor’s surgery and went straight to my mother’s house, where I planned to stay the night and wound up staying for over a year. I saw him only twice after that – once to tell him it was over, and once more to move my things out of our house. I was wracked with a mixture of guilt and fear and relief. I didn’t sleep or eat for weeks. Then one night I stood in my bedroom and looked at my body in the mirror. My hipbones protruded, and my ribs rolled under my skin, just like my mother’s had all those years ago.
I sometimes wonder if it’s possible for a person to inherit a set of habits, a connection to a place, or a propensity towards loving bad men, like the ability to roll one’s tongue. I wonder if my father made me the way I am, or if my mother did, or if he’s to blame for how she is too. And if so, who’s to blame for him? I wonder if we’re all just the product of our parents’ fears and failings, and their parents before them. I wonder how far back the cycle goes, whether I’m predisposed to being mentally ill, whether I have any choice in how my life unfolds, or the person that I’m destined to be. You could go mad trying to figure it out.
My therapist says I do have a choice, not in how I’m programmed but in how I let that programming affect my behaviour. In doing so, she says I can ‘break the cycle of abuse’. I hope I can do it. I hope I can change. Because I’m still haunted by the ghost of what I almost did, and the knowledge that, given the right circumstances, it might one day seem like an option again.
I can’t get back to sleep after my nightmare, and for the first time since I was a child, I decide to go sleep in my mother’s bed. She opens her eyes when she hears me come in, and I worry for a moment that I’ll have to explain myself, but without a word, she pulls back the covers and sleepily shuffles over to make room for me. I climb in beside her and go straight to sleep, and in the morning she asks if I slept okay and I tell her I did.
We have tea and toast in bed while she worries over a crossword, then we get ready in silence, as we always do, sometimes popping in or out of one another’s rooms to borrow lipstick or some hairspray. My mother helps me drag my suitcases down the stairs and into the car, then she pretends to be busy in the front garden, idly picking at the hanging baskets, while I take a moment to say goodbye to the house.
This is the hardest part so far, and it threatens to be my undoing, so I tell myself, ‘It’s not goodbye; it’s just see you soon,’ and I stop myself from lingering too long.
I’ve made a lot of trips to London in the past few months. Usually my mother stops the car outside Departures, then I grab my bag from the back seat and off I go. It’s all very quick and unceremonious, like she’s dropping me off at a friend’s house for a sleepover.
Today is different.
As she pulls into the short-stay car park, this simple deviation from the usual routine is enough to heighten emotions in the car. Onc
e we’ve found a spot, I pull the suitcases out of the boot and we each take one and wheel it into the airport. She doesn’t usually come inside with me.
We walk in silence, save for the odd, sporadic piece of advice.
‘It gets much colder there in the winter,’ she says.
‘I’ve packed loads of jumpers.’
She nods.
‘Do you need to convert some euros to pounds?’
‘I’ll just pay by card for now,’ I say.
She nods again.
‘What if you need to get a taxi? Do they take credit cards?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘all good.’
A bedraggled-looking family of five, all wearing Mickey Mouse ears, pass by us going in the opposite direction. My mother throws me a sideways glance and I laugh.
‘I can’t think of anything worse than going to Disneyland,’ she says.
I laugh.
‘What kind of plugs do they have over there?’ she asks.
‘Same as ours.’
‘Right so.’
I can hear the cogs turning in her head as she tries to foresee and resolve all possible problems before they arise – after all, this is what mothers, and anxious people, do – but before she can think of anything else, we’re inside the main door and it’s time for me to go.
People hurry past with trolleys full of luggage, a gaggle of girls in matching blue hoodies talk excitedly on their way to the check-in desk – they look like some kind of sports team – and a few feet away, a woman is trying frantically to dismantle a pram while her husband soothes their screaming baby. My mother and I look around quietly, both unsure of our next move.
‘Right,’ I say, ‘I’d better go check these in.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ she asks.
‘No, no. I’ll be grand.’
The thought of prolonging this any further is excruciating. I need to cry. It’s coming and I can’t hold it back much longer.
‘All right,’ she says, ‘if you’re sure?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I can wait here for a bit, just in case.’
‘No, honestly,’ I say. ‘Get yourself home.’
My voice catches on the word home and I almost break. I’m sure she can sense it. She’s probably holding back her own deluge of tears.
‘Okay,’ she says.
‘Okay.’
‘Are you all right?’ she asks.
‘Yeah. Just …’
I trail off and she nods.
‘You’ll be back before you know it.’
‘Exactly,’ I say.
‘Text me when you land, okay?’
‘Of course.’
We hug one another, both letting go a little too quickly, both acting like this goodbye is the same as all the others. We’re trying to be strong for one another, which is silly really, since we know we’re both about to go away and break by ourselves.
‘I’ll miss you,’ she says, as she steps back.
‘I’ll miss you too,’ I say with a smile. ‘Talk to you in a couple of hours.’
I walk away awkwardly, wheeling both suitcases together and turning around occasionally to smile at my mother, who waves and smiles in return. Everything is fine, our smiles say, this is no big deal. Eventually, I round a corner and lose sight of her.
The queue at the check-in desk feels interminably long. By the time I reach the desk I have watched several dramas unfold, including an American man who appeared to have packed the entire contents of his house, and a frazzled Italian lady whose passport expired last year. Everything outside of me feels far away and fake, like this is a film set and these people are all hired extras.
Finally, I arrive at the desk. A blonde lady in a green uniform and fuchsia pink lipstick asks me to lift my luggage onto the scales, then she shakes her head and smiles up at me condescendingly.
‘You have too much baggage,’ she says.
‘Lady, you have no idea!’
She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even blink. Maybe she hears that one a lot.
‘Our baggage limit is twenty kilos,’ she says.
‘I know,’ I say, ‘but I’ve paid for forty.’
‘Mmm hmm,’ says the lady, checking her screen, ‘I can see that.’
‘So how much do they weigh?’
‘Well, one is fifteen kilos and one is twenty-five kilos.’
Even with my terrible maths skills, I know that adds up to forty kilos. But how do I tell her that without sounding like a patronising bitch?
‘That adds up to forty kilos,’ I say. Turns out there was no other way.
‘Right. But I’m afraid each individual bag can’t exceed twenty kilos.’
‘You’re joking.’
She shakes her head.
‘But it’s the same amount of weight,’ I say, ‘going on the plane.’
‘Our policy is that each individual bag can’t exceed twenty kilos.’
‘Yeah you’ve said.’
She just blinks at me.
‘So if I move five kilos’ worth of stuff from this bag to this bag,’ I say, pointing at the bags, ‘you’ll put them on the plane?’
‘Yes!’ she chirps, like she’s proud of me for figuring it out.
I want to scream at her. I don’t want to say anything in particular. I just want to scream, very loudly, in her face. Instead, I drag my suitcases back off the scales and start walking, looking for a space where I can lay them down and open them up and not be in everybody’s way.
The airport is teeming with people and I’ve wandered almost all the way back to the entrance by the time I find a suitable spot. I round the corner where I lost sight of my mother and there she is, sitting on a bench by the window.
‘My bags are overweight,’ I say, and she nods, her face fixed in a placid smile. She’s so calm. I’ve never seen her so calm.
‘But if I move some stuff from one bag to the other bag they’ll let me check them in.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ she says.
I just nod, exasperated.
‘All right then,’ she says, standing up. Moments later, we’re kneeling side by side on the cold, shiny floor with my suitcases open in front of us. People veer around us on either side, paying us no mind.
‘What about this?’ she asks, holding up my hairdryer.
‘Yeah, that’s heavy,’ I say, and she moves it to the other case.
‘How come you were still here?’ I ask.
‘Just thought I’d wait till you took off. In case you changed your mind.’
For a moment I can’t speak. I feel as though a fist has seized my heart. I want to grab her and hold her and never let go.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, delicately, ‘but I can’t come home now.’
My mother laughs, a proper, hearty laugh, and all I can do is stare at her in confusion.
‘Oh!’ she says, still laughing. ‘No, I wasn’t waiting to take you home, I was waiting to make sure you got on the plane.’
‘What?’
She places one soft hand on my cheek and looks knowingly into my eyes.
‘I know what you’re like, love.’
Everything in me relaxes. Tears fill my eyes.
‘Oh,’ I say, ‘so, you want me to leave?’
‘Of course I don’t! I’d keep you here for ever if I could. But you have to go.’
She resumes reshuffling my luggage, as though satisfied that we’ve reached an agreement, then without looking at me she adds, matter-of-factly, ‘This place is too small for you, anyway. It always was.’
My mother moves one last bundle of clothes between cases and when she’s done, she sits back on her heels, places her hands on her knees and says, ‘There, that should do it.’
We zip up the cases and I stand up first, helping her to her feet.
‘Thanks,’ I say, knowing that doesn’t capture even a fraction of what I want to convey. There are countless things I could say, countless questions I could ask. Maybe I will on
e day, I decide, but now isn’t the time.
‘Of course,’ she says.
We hug again and this time we don’t let go straight away. We stay for a few minutes, holding one another, as my mother cradles my head in one hand and rubs my back with the other.
‘It’ll be okay,’ she says into my ear, ‘everything will be okay.’ I’m not sure who she’s trying to convince, but she repeats it over and over again.
By the time we let go, our faces and shoulders are wet with tears.
‘I’ll call you when I land,’ I say.
‘All right.’
‘I love you, Mam.’
‘I love you too,’ she says. ‘Bye, love.’
‘Bye.’
I turn and walk away.
I don’t look back. I can’t.
On the plane I read a book of short stories that Donal gave me after dinner on Sunday – it’s still odd to get books from him that I don’t have to return to the library. I delve into the first few pages and am instantly soothed by the familiarity of the form.
I think I like stories because they’re simple and contained. You establish a status quo, create conflict, then resolve it. In life, nothing is ever really resolved. Your story never stops. How can it, when all our stories are woven together, part of some greater tapestry of tales that make up our lives and the lives of those around us?
Take that story about my mother, the day she drove to the beach. That story didn’t end when she came home. Nor did it end years later, when she decided to tell me the story herself. It’s a decision I’m not sure I will ever fully understand. Because that story is all over me now. It drips from me and stains the ground around my feet.
And this story doesn’t end when I get on the plane, or when she gets home and stands in doorways staring into empty rooms, wondering where the time has gone. For better or for worse, I am my mother’s daughter, and her story is my story too. It’s mine to carry, mine to hold – with love if I can manage it – and mine to weave into my own.
Knowing: Part I
On a brisk Monday morning in mid-September, Theo and I wake up together on the cold, filthy floor of a tent. We’ve spent the past three days at a music festival in Sussex, and yesterday we stood at the barrier all day drinking and dancing and screaming the lyrics to all our favourite songs. We’re both nursing particularly horrid hangovers today, but we need to get an early train to London so that I can catch a flight back to Dublin this afternoon. This has been our lives for two months now; Theo in London and me in Dublin and dozens of planes and trains back and forth to one another.
