All We Have Lost (24 page)

That surprises me. ‘Thank you.’

‘My pleasure.’ He sits on the couch. Blows out a breath. Then he looks at me. ‘Were you scared?’

I nod. ‘You?’

He smiles. ‘Damn right I was.’

I find myself smiling. ‘I hope he’ll be OK.’

He thinks about that. Then, like he’s letting go, he says, ‘Me too.’ He clears his throat. ‘Because he’s ultimately a good person.’

‘He is.’

He looks at me significantly. ‘We all are.’

Admitting that is the biggest step of all.

‘I should probably stay tonight. In case he comes back.’

‘He won’t be back, Ian.’

‘No. But did you see the kids’ faces this morning when they saw me here?’

God. This is so hard.

‘Just for tonight,’ he says.

‘I’ll get the sleeping bag.’

I stare into the airing cupboard. Socks, vests, towels, sheets, clothes lie knotted up together. Messy. Not folded, not perfect. Yet somehow we manage. I think of Mum and the compromises she made, the patience she had, and how, in the end, she got what she wanted. She was not too big for a deal.

I go downstairs and into the kitchen. I find a pen and paper, then sit at the table. I start to write:

If you want to stay longer than a night, these are my conditions:

1. We live day by day. As friends.
   
2. We see someone. No expectations. No assumptions.
   
3. We parent fifty-fifty.
   
4. We communicate.
   
5. We discuss problems.
   
6. We listen.
   
7. We go out every Friday night. Just to talk and remember who we were.
   
8. Unless we decide to separate, we are still technically married. If you are EVER unfaithful, deal over.
   

I take a deep breath and stand.

In the sitting room, wordlessly, I hand him The Deal.

He looks at me in surprise, then reads in silence.

He puts the sheet of paper aside, then stands. He looks down at me for what seems the longest time, then takes me in his arms and squeezes me tight with gratitude. Then he says one word.

‘Deal.’ 

THE END

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###

'Come on, Mum,' Charlie shouts, racing up the path ahead of me, red lights flashing on the soles of his shoes.

He makes it to the door. Jumps to reach the bell. Misses. Tries again. And Again. I lift him up. He presses the bell. Continuously.

'Charlie, enough,' I say, pulling him back and popping him down.

Still, no one answers.

'Where is she? She's taking aaages. Ring again, Mum.' He starts to hop.

'It's OK, she knows we're coming.'

It's another minute and even
I'm
thinking of ringing again when the door finally opens.

Everything stops. Even noise. I'm not breathing. Inside, organs hammer into each other.

It's him. It's been five years. But it
is
him.

Have I the wrong house?

No, I checked the gate.

Right house. And he looks at home.

Debbie Grace. My God – his daughter!

His, 'Hello?' is a question. He has no idea who I am. Something at least.

'Hi. I'm calling for Debbie? I'm Jenny. This is Charlie.'

'Oh, hello. Yes. Yes, of course. I'm sorry.' He scratches behind his ear. 'I'd forgotten about the baby-sitting. I hope you weren't waiting long. I thought you were one of Debra's friends. The door's usually for her.' He holds out his hand.

And I have to do it – shake it, touch him. I survive and die at the same time.

'Simon Grace. Simon. Come in, come in.'

Charlie bursts past him. The smell of steak wafts through the warm September air.

'No, it's fine. Thanks. You're eating. We'll wait in the car. Come on, Charlie. Charlie!'

'I was just finishing up. Come on in. Please.'

'Honestly, we're fine. Thanks. It'd be handy to have the car turned, ready to go.' 

He looks as if he's trying to work out whether I'm being polite or honest.

'Just hold on a minute, then,' he says. And he's gone, pounding up the stairs, calling, 'Debra! Jenny and Charlie are here. Come on.' He disappears.

Charlie heads for the stairs.

'Charlie, come here. You can't just go into people's houses you don't know.'

He stops, turns, still holding the bottom rung of the banisters.

'I know Debbie,' he says simply.

'Yes, but this is her father's house. And you don't know him.'

'I do. His name's Simon.'

I sigh, check that no one's coming, march over, pick him up and head back to the porch. 'We'll wait here,' I say firmly.

He knows I mean business.

We wait in silence. And I think about how little he has changed, Simon Grace. Still that same preoccupied look, as if you're disturbing him but he'd hate you to know it. He's taller, leaner than I remember. A bit neglected? Although, stubble at this time of day is probably standard for someone so dark. I remember his face with a tenderness that's alarming and tell myself to get a grip. So what if his eyes are sad? So what if he looks strong and vulnerable at the same time?

There is lighter thunder on the stairs.

'I'm so sorry, Jenny,' Debbie rushes. 'I was just drying my hair. I didn't hear the door. Hi, Charlie,' she says, smiling, her voice higher when talking to him.

'Hiya, Deb!' He wriggles out of my arms and runs to her. Just before he reaches her, he stops. 'Is it OK if I go into your house?'

She smiles. 'Sure.'

He turns to me. 'Told ya.'

I laugh as if to say, 'kids'.

Debbie scoops him up and swings him round. He squeals in delight. She laughs, her sleek black hair lifting from her shoulders and moving through the air in slow motion. She has inherited his colouring – dark hair, pale skin. Her eyes are blue, though. She's the kind of girl you'd see coming through the gates of a private school on Dublin's south-side with a group of friends and a hockey stick. Her look says confident, healthy, well adjusted - everything you'd want in a baby-sitter. She settles Charlie on her hip, kisses his cheek and heads for the door. Reaching it, she turns, for the first time, to acknowledge her father, who is hovering politely.

'Why didn't you call me?'

'I did.'

'Not loud enough, obviously.' She turns to go.

'What time will you be back?' he calls after her.

She doesn't answer, so I say, 'About eleven. If that's not too late?'

'No. That'd be fine, thanks,' he says, then adds uncertainly, 'Seeing as it's a weekend night.'

'I won't be late.'

'Good, good,' he says. 'Do you have your key?' he asks Debbie.

'Yes,' she says impatiently, leaving without looking back.

'Goodnight, then. Enjoy yourself.'

No answer.

I smile goodnight, then turn to go. If Debbie's anything like I was at her age, his life is hell. Then again, her mum probably gets most of it. Mine did. You can tell he cares, though.

The door closes gently behind us and I suspect that Dr Simon Grace, paediatric oncologist, is relieved to be left in peace.
I'm
relieved – he didn't recognise me. It makes me realise just how much I've changed in five years. Back then, I was Little Miss Newshound, wonder-journalist, on her way up. Contact lenses, cropped, highlighted hair, fitted trouser suits, and heels, always heels. Uptight. Aggressive. Soulless. And her replacement? A single mum who does a bit of freelancing to pay the bills and keep her hand in; whose neglected hair has grown to her shoulders and regained its waves and natural colour, who'd like to have time for contacts but doesn't, so it's small, rim-free rectangular lenses. Suits have been replaced by jeans and hoodies, practical wear for someone who has no longer anything to prove.

Even our names are different
, I think, as I follow Debbie and Charlie up the path. He knew me as Jennifer Grey, the name I still write under. Everyone, including his daughter, knows me as Jenny Dempsey.

I smile at Debbie and Charlie as I zap open the car, a clapped-out mini that I love dearly. 

'Sorry about that,' she says.

I look at her. 'About what?'

'My dad.'

'What about him?'

'He's kind of anal.'

I laugh and open the back door for Charlie. He climbs into his car seat. I strap him in.

'Sit here, Deb. Sit here,' he shouts in my ear.

'Sure, Charlie,' she calls, giving me an isn't-he-cute smile as I get out of the way. She slides in beside him.  'Who's this?' she asks him, holding up his huge, bright blue, fluffy Muppet.

'Cookie Monster,' he says.  

'Oh my God. I love Cookie Monster.' She makes her voice growl when she says, 'Me love cookie.'

I smile. If her father could see her now.

I slot the key into the door of our apartment. On the other side, I hear the dog snuffling and barking, his nails tapping on the wooden floor, then door. I imagine the scratch marks he's leaving and try to hurry. He rushes out and springs up on Charlie.

'Down, Sausage, down,' Charlie says, with so much authority I have to stop myself laughing.

'Go on in, Debbie,' I say. 'The dog'll move out of the way.'

I turn off the alarm, while they go ahead.

'He's lovely,' she says, a little unsure, bending down to pat his head. You can tell she's not used to dogs.

Sausage isn't fussy. He'll take any attention he can get. He jumps to lick her face. She laughs but stands, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand.

'Wow, he's friendly. What is he – some kind of beagle?'

'Mixed-breed,' announces Charlie proudly.

Debbie throws me another isn't-he-adorable look.

'D'you want to show Debbie around, Charlie?'

'Good idea,' he says, grabbing her hand and taking off. 'Come on, Deb. We've a great telly.'

I follow them in.

Debbie turns. 'Cool apartment.'

I smile. 'My gran left it to me.' Otherwise I wouldn't be able to afford it. We're on the first floor of a three-story Georgian redbrick, on a wide, sleepy, tree-lined road. Its Glenageary location is upmarket. Or so I'm reminded, daily, by my editor, who holds it against me personally – or at least he pretends to. But whatever Jack might say, I'm not complaining. It's a great place to bring up a child. Safe, leafy and near the sea. The light is wonderful on the first floor, filtering in through ceiling-to-floor bay windows. A crystal hangs in each one, breaking the sun's rays into little rainbows here and there on the walls and furniture. The floors are wooden, hidden in places by brightly-coloured rugs. I've lived here since I became pregnant and my gran insisted I move in with her.

'You need a home, Jen, not just somewhere to stay,' she said, following it up with a sigh and a faraway look. 'Imagine, Jen – me, a great-grandmother.'

She was the first person who made me feel that my baby was welcome. I knew she'd make a great great-grandmother and started to call her, 'Great'.

She didn't object.

Objections are the specialty of my mother. When she heard I was pregnant, there was no talk of homes. There was no talk at all. Not as in conversation. Just a monologue. As if I didn't already know that a) I was single b) the 'child' was fatherless and c) my career would 'suffer'. It was her own career she was worried about, her 'profile', as an elected politician. Neither of us mentioned that.

Moving in with Great
was
great. She may have been my mother's mother but they were as far apart as A and Z. I've often (understatement) wondered how Great managed to create such a cold, power-hungry...enough of the adjectives...cow. I never asked if she regretted not being close to her daughter – as soon as I became a mum, I knew.

My mother's view of Great was one-dimensional. She was a potential source of embarrassment, a political time bomb. Great said what she wanted, when she wanted. If people didn't like it, 'then tough'. This made her very popular with me. She would die rather than ingratiate herself to strangers, trying to wangle a vote out of a Mass-goer. She was fun. And warm. Interested in and enthusiastic about everything. She was my mother's mother. In all but birth, she was mine. She should have lived forever.

When I moved in, she humoured my nesting instinct, not once objecting to having her wallpaper stripped and her walls painted white or her carpets ripped up and her floors sanded and varnished. She loved the transformation, whipped out her sewing machine and made bright covers for the sofas. Together, we went out and bought an indoor rainforest. Our new life was beginning. But all this industriousness was a ploy on my part, a distraction from the fact that I was going through pregnancy on my own. If I kept busy, I wouldn't miss having a loving hand rest on my stomach, sharing the movement. I wouldn't long for someone to say, 'That's not a man's name'. I wouldn't wish to hear, 'Yes, love. The Will is sorted, the pension's organised,' when I suddenly decided that everything needed to be safe, fastened down as though a storm was coming. I wouldn't look longingly at pregnant couples, holding hands, heads together, planning. It was hormones that had me thinking like that, I knew, but something had to be done to stop it – and that was work.

I tried resenting my son when they landed him gently on my stomach that ice-cold January day. But it was no use. I caved in almost immediately. How could I close my heart to this little man with the glassy blue eyes that bore into mine as though searching for something? This kind of love was something entirely new. It hit me with force, knocked me over and changed my life absolutely.

Maybe if he'd been difficult, I could have learnt to hate him. But crying just wasn't his thing. He smiled early. Slept through the night from eight weeks. It was as if he was trying to get me to love him. So I decided, 'That's it, I'm doing this right.' I listened to the experts. Breast-fed, cuddled, snuggled, tickled, laughed and chatted with the new man in my life. When my maternity leave was up, I couldn't go back. I met with my then editor, explained my position and waited for her to come up with a solution. Or fire me. It took her two weeks and some negotiation but her offer was like Baby Bear's porridge. Just right. Move from health correspondent to contributor, writing a weekly health page, from home. I took a salary cut which turned out not to be too extreme when reduced taxes were worked out. I was lucky. The timing was perfect. The editorial execs at the paper had been contemplating a health page – they couldn't remain the last of the nationals, albeit a tabloid, without one. Tough market. So she dived straight for their Achilles heel, then topped off their insecurities with an assurance that I'd developed a name for myself in health. It worked. I owe her.

Moving from news to features suited the new me, matching my shift in interest from breaking news to breaking wind. In-depth interviews, real people with real stories, what happened, how it affected them and how they got through it, meant more to me than brief news reports that became history, every day.

With the change from news to features came a change in editor. I wasn't too thrilled about that at first because I liked working for a woman. I knew Jack well through my ex-fiancé, Dave, who used to write for the paper, but I didn't know what he'd be like to work for. I was very polite and formal at first but, in time, we resumed our relaxed, comfortable relationship. It helped that he was easy-going and encouraging. He was even open to a little slagging, which is just as well because he gave enough.