Addition (11 page)

I pull myself out of bed with a determination and suddenness that surprises me. I stand next to the bed. I’m up.

‘No.’

His eyebrows rise satisfactorily.

‘No, I have no football team. Marx was wrong. Sports are the real opium of the people.’

He grins, as wide a grin as I’ve ever seen, and the crinkles around his eyes look like lots more smiles. ‘That’s sad, Grace. That’s really sad. But it might not be your fault. Perhaps you need to be shown the beauty in a run down the wing, or a long goal from the boundary.’

I take two toothbrushes from the bag and throw him one. ‘Football? Please. Why do people care? And 6 points for 1 goal? That’s just plain annoying. Why does their team, an arbitrary, illogical grouping at best, inspire this kind of bone-headed loyalty?’

I’m in the loo with the door closed, but he keeps talking. ‘It’s not arbitrary. It’s far from arbitrary.’ I can hear other noises, too. Kitchen cupboards, opening and closing. The fridge. ‘Do you have any juice?’ His voice is muffled.

When I come out of the toilet, he’s drinking a glass of water. ‘No. No juice.’

He shrugs and goes back to the kitchen. I brush my teeth with a spanking new toothbrush. I stand behind the bathroom door. Put on clothes from last night. This is tricky because I am technically still in my clothes from last night. It would be much nicer to grab some clean clothes, or at least some clean knickers. My clean clothes are back in my bedroom, in my dresser and in my drawers. But then I wouldn’t have put on my clothes from last night. Quickly I take my clothes off. Then I put them back on again.

I don’t brush my hair or wash my face or even have a glass of water.

When I come out of the bathroom, Seamus is standing beside my bed peering at my Cuisenaire rods.

‘Are these rods? Like we used to have in school?’

‘Yep. A relic from my childhood. Can’t seem to part with them.’

Then he picks up Nikola’s photo.

‘Is this your grandfather?’

He’s holding it in both hands, so that it faces towards me. I walk towards him and take it out of his hands.

‘No. No, he’s not my grandfather. He’s kind of…my hero.’

‘I’m guessing he’s not a footballer.’

‘Nope.’

‘A dentist?

‘Ah, no.’

I stand there, holding Nikola.

‘Is he…coming to breakfast with us?’

I guess I’ve been holding him too long.

‘No. He doesn’t eat much.’

‘Then let’s put him back and go. I’m starving.’

I return Nikola to the bedside table. Face down.

We walk. Down the hall, down the stairs, down the path. Along the street. We walk, and I do nothing from my old routine. We cross the street. This is so easy.

We don’t speak as we walk because I am thinking of hands, and of the length of my fingers. The index finger on my left hand is 69 millimetres from the first crease to the tip, and my ring finger is 68.5 millimetres. The index finger on my right hand is 67 millimetres from the first crease to the tip, and my ring finger is also 67 millimetres.

Like every measurement ever taken, every measure of every single thing, these numbers are important. Digit ratio is the ratio of the length of your digits, from the first crease at the join of the hand to the tip. This is usually measured using the index and ring fingers, and differs between men and women. In men, the index finger is typically shorter than the ring finger; in fact, the index finger is only 96 per cent as long as the ring finger. So an average digit ratio for a man is 0.96. In women, the fingers are either about the same length, or the index finger is slightly longer; a ratio of 1.00 or above. Mine, for example, are 1.007 on my left hand and 1.000 on my right.

I’ve read that the reason for this difference between the sexes is the effect of sex hormones on the foetus. When we are blobs in our mummies’ tummies, we are exposed to different levels of sex hormones, especially testosterone and oestrogen. Less testosterone and more oestrogen, we remain little girls. Lots of testosterone and less oestrogen and we become boys. And as well as growing penises, boys grow longer ring fingers.

So what? Well, testosterone has other effects and digit ratio is an excellent marker for these. So men with a lower ratio are more physically aggressive, have more sperm and more babies, and are better at sports (and, surprisingly, music). Or so the theory goes. A man with a higher ratio would have a greater risk of heart disease, and more chance of being gay. Conversely, women with a high ratio (like me) are more fertile with a higher risk of breast cancer. If my ratio was lower, odds on I’d be more verbally aggressive, which I certainly don’t need, and more likely to be a lesbian.

Things get interesting when you think about this in terms of evolutionary theory. We might know these differences are caused by testosterone, but why? Why did men evolve with a longer ring finger than women, when so many women I know seem evolutionarily predisposed to collect as many wedding, engagement, eternity and just plain ornamental rings as possible?

One theory is man’s historical job: hunter and warrior. A longer ring finger confers more stability when spear-throwing, either at a woolly mammoth or some other long-ring-fingered gentleman from another tribe. Hence the scarcity of female world darts champions. When you spend your day picking berries, cooking, and raising children, it really doesn’t matter which finger is longest.

Or maybe it’s got nothing to do with throwing spears. Maybe it’s a result of selection, in other words maybe women subconsciously fancy men with a shorter ratio. The sexual power of the appearance of a man’s hands has long been underrated. Perhaps a woman’s subliminal mind is thinking, ‘Sure, he’s got a pot belly and a face that belongs on a wanted poster, but take a look at that ring finger.’

Seamus Joseph O’Reilly has the sexiest hands I have ever seen. They are sometimes swaying at his side, sometimes half in his pockets. At the café, he leans one against the door to open it for me. Inside I don’t have to remember where I sat yesterday and sit at the next available table rotating in a clockwise direction. Seamus picks a table, chooses one that is somehow better than the others, and walks towards it. I don’t have to decide anything. We both pick up menus.

When Cheryl sees us together, her smile fades. ‘Seamus? Company today?’

Hi Cheryl. It’s me, Grace. I come here every day. Remember?

‘Good morning Cheryl.’ Seamus says. ‘Special occasion.’ He gives me a sideways grin.

Cheryl squishes her face up like a piglet, pulls her notepad from her apron and waits.

‘Grace?’ Seamus says.

Breakfast. He wants me to order breakfast. The first thing on the menu under
Breakfasts
is
fresh fruit with yoghurt
. But the first thing alphabetically is
bacon and eggs on toast
. There are more headings, too:
sides
,
coffee
,
tea
,
juices
,
smoothies
. I should have a coffee: the first thing under
coffee
is
espresso
. But then I should have the first thing under
breakfasts
, and the first side. But ordering
fresh fruit with yoghurt
with
bacon
on the side sounds a wee bit stupid. Alphabetically, the first thing on the entire menu is
apple juice
. Perhaps I should have that.

They’re waiting.

‘You go.’

‘Berry and banana pancakes with maple syrup, thanks Cheryl.

And a cappuccino.’

He’s got to be kidding. Who eats that much sugar at this time of the morning? Does he know what that would do to his insulin levels? Those calories would feed a medium-sized African village for a week.

They’re still waiting.

I glance at Seamus, then back at the menu. ‘I’ll have the same.’

Cheryl writes, scowls and heads for the kitchen.

We’re quiet for a moment. It is a comfortable silence, like we are both wondering if this will be the first of many breakfasts.

Still, there are things I have to know.

‘So. Do you live around here?’

‘Nope. Carnegie. I share a house with two of my brothers.’

The coffees arrive. His perfect long fingers curl around his cup. The cup is nestled in his right hand, resting against the fleshy pad of his palm like he’s holding a wine glass full of 1955 Grange. His left hand is over the top of his right, the fingers touching. I would give anything to measure those fingers right now, but I have no ruler or tape and besides I don’t think it would look cool. Seamus sips happily, but I loathe coffee. To drink it I add 5 sugars. Together with the pancakes I should be in a diabetic coma by noon.

‘What’s that like, sharing with your brothers?’

‘Shocking. They’re animals. It’s a temporary arrangement. One just broke up with his wife. The other is saving to go overseas. Soon I’ll be rid of them. I love them, but God, this is too much.’

The pancakes come, too fast. As I suspected: pre-made and heated in the microwave. A heart attack on a plate. Seamus eats like a starving man.

‘Two brothers. No sisters?’

He raises his eyebrows. His mouth is full of pancake. He holds up four fingers and keeps chewing. ‘Three brothers,’ he says, ‘one sister.’

‘Five of you? Wow. Pretty rare these days.’ I imagine five children playing hide and seek in an overgrown backyard. Climbing trees together. Backyard cricket, until one ball smashes the kitchen window and no one owns up. Running through the sprinkler in their underwear. Mum with a pitcher of cold orange cordial and five plastic cups. Dad, teaching each one how to ride a bike. I take a bite. The maple syrup is imitation.

‘Irish Catholics, remember? Either that, or the fact that my parents didn’t own a TV until 1978. The old man thought it was a fad. “I’m telling you woman, they’ll be stopping making these in twelve months, maybe less.”’ He drains the last of his coffee then wipes the foam off his lip with his knuckle. ‘The day my mother made him buy one was the saddest day of his life.’

‘What number were you?’ I lean forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on my hands.

‘I am the second son. My brother Declan is the oldest. Then Dermot, Brian and Kylie. She’s…a little slow. She still lives at home with Mum and Dad.’ He waves his empty cup in the air at Cheryl.

The café is starting to fill; smartly dressed women in designer jeans and peasant tops and beaded sandals. I don’t care; I am following the plan and all those shrivelled-up suburban women could only dream of having the night I had last night.

‘So, Declan, Seamus, Dermot, Brian…and Kylie?’

He shrugs. ‘We were here by then. They wanted to fit in.’

‘Were you close together? In age, I mean.’

His eyes narrow like he’s trying to see something a long way away. ‘Close in both ways. Mum had five under six, in a new country with no relatives, no friends and an accent that made her impossible to understand. Dad did his best, but he worked long hours and looking after children wasn’t a man thing back then. And Kyles needed a bit of extra attention.’

The five of them as toddlers, freshly bathed and wearing their jammies, sitting on the couch. Cuddled together smelling of baby powder and watching Disney on a Sunday night. Not like us, Jill and me. Two. Only two. Each of us in our own room, me reading and Jill playing with dolls.

‘Do you remember Ireland?’

‘Not a thing. You’d think I would; I was four when we moved here. I went back in my early twenties expecting some kind of revelation. I guess you always romanticise, think what your alternative life would have been. I might as well have gone to Mars. It was fun but I felt no connection whatsoever.’

‘Possibly a bit late to ask this, but…single?’

He laughs. ‘Single, yes. Definitely single.’

I wait.

‘I was in a…relationship. We broke up last year.’

‘Why?’

He laughs again. ‘“Why?” Jeez, Grace, don’t hold back. If you want to know something, just come right out and ask.’

I wait.

‘Look…I like my life. I like my job, I like my house. I like going to the football and having friends around for a barbeque. On Sundays I go surfing with some mates. Ashleigh…she was into personal development courses and goal-setting and self-help books…She’s going out with a property developer now. I hear they just bought a block of flats and a Subway franchise.’

I scan his hazel eyes; they remain unclouded. No frown. The mouth does not purse, the way some do when discussing their exes.

‘Date of birth?’ His second coffee arrives. Cheryl takes my cappuccino away without asking. It is half drunk and cold, congealing on top.

‘Into horoscopes, are you?’ He scoops a piece of pancake on his fork using his knife, then a blueberry, then dips it in the maple-coloured goo. He pops the little tower in his mouth. He doesn’t bolt it down like some men. He chews and tastes. I’ve managed about 35 per cent of 1 pancake. I’m still not hungry.

‘Let’s say I have an interest in numerology.’

‘Fifth of January.’ He wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin, despite there being no food there.

Capricorn. He doesn’t seem like an egomaniac. In my experience, Capricorns think they’re Jesus Christ. Or else Jesus Christ thought he was the son of God because he was a Capricorn.

‘1969, right?’

His fork freezes midway to his mouth. ‘How did you know that?’

Note to self: do not let new boyfriend think you are a stalker. I smile in a way I hope looks non-threatening. ‘You told me last week in the café that you were 38. Remember?’

‘Aah.’ Fork continues to mouth.

‘What was your home address when you were little?’

‘The house in Ireland I don’t remember. I was four when we left. Here, it was 23 Carpenter Street, Vermont South.’

Vermont South. I don’t go that far on my holidays. I’ll have to look it up.

At home in the bottom drawer of my bedside table I have a book that was a gift from my mother. It is a notebook with thin translucent pages and faint sky-blue lines. The cover is also blue, a heavy cloth that feels more like upholstery; a kind of a corduroy, but with small, fine ridges. I always remember numbers, but I rarely store them. But now I take out that book and write in it a list of numbers. Seamus numbers. I already have his phone number. I still need his current address, but I have 38, 5, 1, 1969, 4, 23. These I will begin with. Others, like the length of his index and ring fingers, and the number of ex-girlfriends, I will collect later.