Pack Up the Moon (13 page)

something with someone else. I had slept with someone. That was a start and, who knows, the next time I slept with a guy I might even stay the whole night. I had choices; I was a nineties woman. A weight had been lifted. That night I called Ron and told him I thought it was a bit too

soon for me to be seeing someone. He was nice about it, but the call was short.

Anne was devastated. I think she had my future entirely planned and this meant she had to go back to the

drawing board. Clo asked me if it would be OK if she had a go at him, before laughing her ass off — the way she always did when she found herself funny. And so I was single after three brief weeks. I felt like a sixteen-year-old again and it made me smile.

One Year and Counting

And then it was March again. I woke on the morning of John’s anniversary having not really slept. Nine o’clock, my mother called. I knew it was her so I let the machine pick up. I stirred my coffee as the machine beeped.

“Emma, it’s your mother. Pick up the phone. I know you’re up. Emma!” Silence. “Your father told me you weren’t planning on attending John’s memorial Mass. What are his parents going to think? I know you’re in pain, love, but you’re an adult and you can’t… Look, everyone will be expecting you. Buck up, darling. I’ll call you in an hour.” She hung up.

I knew she was right, but I had convinced myself that I was sick. My head ached. I didn’t want to go, but she was right: I was an adult. I didn’t feel like one. I told you before that grief is selfish by its very nature. At funerals we cry for ourselves, for our pain, our loss, our suffering and it doesn’t go away after a week or a month or even a

year. The problem is that after a certain amount of time it’s unacceptable to be selfish and therefore unacceptable

to grieve. I missed being allowed this luxury but again she was right. I had responsibilities. I went to the toilet and vomited. I threw my guts up and swore I’d never drink a bottle of vodka on my own again. I showered and was dressing when Sean called. He let himself in, having interrogated Noel on the whereabouts of my spare key. I came down the stairs and he was making coffee.

“Rough night?” he asked.

It appeared that I looked like shit.

“You could say that,” I replied and sat waiting for him to serve me.

“I told you I wasn’t going to the service,” I said a few minutes later, annoyed that no one appeared to have taken any notice of my decision.

“Yes, you did,” he agreed, while I watched Leonard chase his tail — wondering how it still held so much interest after all this time. “I knew you’d change your mind,” he said, wiping the counter where he’d spilled some milk.

I scoffed. “Just because I’m dressed doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind.”

He smiled and looked at my puffy face, which I was attempting to hide with my hands. “Yes, it does. Besides, your mother made me come. The woman actually threatened violence ill showed up without you. Tough old bird, your ma.”

I smiled. He was right: she was a tough old bird, and besides I knew they were right. I had to go. This was not a choice that I could make. John’s parents had understood my decision not to attend the inquest but this was different.

“I take it that I should put on some make-up then.” He nodded. “It wouldn’t go astray!’

I headed up to my bedroom and sat at my vanity table. I picked up a photo of John and me. We were laughing. He had his arm around me and he was whispering something

into my ear. I wished I could remember what it was. Of course I was always going to the memorial; I had just been acting like a dick. How could I not go? How could I not remember him on this day? I put on my make-up and kissed the photo.

I can’t believe it’s been a year.

I came downstairs and Sean was waiting with my coat. He applauded.

“Let’s go,” I said and he was right behind me.

*

Noel celebrated the Mass. Afterwards we all congregated in John’s parents’ house. Music played; people drank and remembered .him. We laughed and enjoyed one another. My mother sang a song and John’s father accompanied

her on his out-of-tune piano. John’s mother and I talked for a really long time. She told me about the things he used to do and say as a toddler and I told her how John

and I were together. Sean and Richard sang “Willy McBride” and Clo told jokes, while Anne and Noel debated on the divorce bill.

I lay in bed that night contemplating the day I’d been

dreading. It had been lovely because for the first time in a year everyone who lost John remembered him together, with warmth and humour and it was fitting and right.

***

I was lost in a vast garden surrounded by exotic flowers

set in green soft sand. I regarded my surreal surroundings, paying particular attention to a burning bush glowing in

the distance. Unsure of where I was or what I was doing I headed towards the purple sun dangling above a spidery

tree because for some reason it appeared familiar. As I walked, leaves appeared to spring from the knotted branches of the tree. I wasn’t afraid; it was too warm to be scared. Suddenly I was climbing a hill — my eyes still firmly fixed upon the purple sun that now appeared to spin before me. The hill levelled out under my feet and as I approached the

now flowering tree a gentle breeze brought it to life. Blue poppies danced between the thick foliage that continued to

crawl along the cherry-pink branches. The purple sun hopped as though it was a ball being bounced by an unseen

but mighty hand. Suddenly it was flying towards me. I didn’t duck. Instead I caught it and threw it back.

John caught it and smiled. “And I thought you had a fear of flying balls.”

He was grinning and, as he walked toward me, he threw the sun over his shoulder. It bounced once before returning to where it had previously hung.

We were standing together gazing at one another under

the bright purple light and it all felt perfectly normal.

“Where have you been?” I asked as though he’d just returned from a night out.

“Around,” he said smiling.

“I’ve missed you.”

“I know. Can you believe it’s been a year?” He was grinning the way he used to when we were kids and he

thought he knew it all.

“It’s a nice day,” I said for no good reason.

He looked around and nodded in agreement. “Yeah, it

is.”

“I still love you,” I said casually.

He laughed and his eyes seemed to light up. “You always will.”

I laughed. He had always been bloody arrogant. “I had sex with someone else,” I admitted, a little ashamed. “How was it?” he asked unperturbed.

We were walking together, but I kept stopping just to gaze into his familiarity.

“OK. Mostly it was crap.”

He nodded, accepting that we didn’t have to talk about it. We were so close but we didn’t touch.

“I thought I wouldn’t see you again,” I said.

“I’m always here.”

I looked around. “Where?”

“Wherever you want me to be:’

“Bullshit, you’re dead:’

“You know what I mean.”

And he took off, leaving me to lag behind. I called out. He didn’t answer. Determined, I caught up with him and noticed the foreign foliage disappearing around us. The green sand led us to a blue poppy tree. He sat and motioned for me to join him. We looked out of the purple vista which was becoming a background to a virtual game

of Pacman, like the one we used to play for hours on end.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

John stopped and looked at me seriously. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said but then of course that’s what he would say.

“If …” I whispered sheepishly.

He was laughing again and seeing his wide smile and

big eyes reminded me of how we used to be.

“If ‘if’ was a donkey we’d all have a ride.” He laughed at himself and I could feel him take my hand.

I was surprised that I could feel his form, his strength and his pulse. I squeezed hard and he returned the squeeze.

“Where to now?” I laughed.

“Click your heels,” he said. He smiled and my heart began to break.

“I’m dreaming,” I said, catching the single tear that fell and splashed into my open hand.

John looked around and grinned. “You always did have a big imagination.”

“But it feels so real. It’s you. I know it’s you.” I nudged him and he fell against the tree.

“I have a confession,” I said after a time.

“You’re falling in love with someone else,” he said, smiling.

“What?” I screamed, devastated. My confession had to do with his mother and our lack of contact. “I am not!” I shouted. “Who the hell do you think you are to tell me what I’m feeling?”

“Only you could have an argument with a dead man.” He laughed.

“Only you could be dead and yet so bloody

annoying,” I responded and then suddenly it was funny so we both laughed, but I was still sad that he thought I could love someone else. He must have known that, I wasn’t ready for him to know that so he distracted me by

holding my hand and whispering memories and then we

sat together silent and comfortable for the longest time. I felt the time pass and in my heart I knew it was time to

leave.

“I should go,” I sighed.

“I’ll catch you down the road,” he said getting up.

He extended his hand and I held on as he pulled me

up. I pulled him in tight and we hugged like old friends or family would at an airport. I could feel his heartbeat and his breath on my shoulder.

“You will,” I whispered without tears or fear or sadness or regret.

I pulled away and gave a final wave and then he was

gone.

Me in love with someone else! As if! What an asshole! And besides it’s still all my fault no matter what he says.

Sex, Lies and Videotape

A little over one month after John’s anniversary it

occurred to me while I was putting out washing that Noel

was the only one of us who appeared to have been

fundamentally changed since John’s passing. I wasn’t sure how he had changed, but then I never claimed to be sensitive. I didn’t know that the woman I had met all those months ago was the reason for this change; I really was so wrapped up in my own world. While I lurched from one day to the next so did my brother. His new world was as exciting and pleasurable as it was terrifying and guilt

riddled.

After that night, they had met again and it was during this meeting that they both admitted their feelings for one

another. They also both realised that a relationship was out of the question. They agreed that they were adults and, although they both admitted to their loneliness, they decided that friendship was their only recourse.

This worked well for a few months, the only problem being the more they knew about one another, the more they confided in one another, and the more they saw each other, the more difficult it became to deny the heat that they generated in one another. Noel had never felt this before. As a teenager he was too shy to bother with girls. As a young adult he was so desperate to become a priest

that he had no time for women, but now he was just like the rest of us working for a living and going home to

nothing. He had the confidence that comes with being a man and the time to think about nothing else.

Early on he had visited the bishop to seek guidance

from a man who could share his agony and counsel him. It didn’t work out as he had hoped. The bishop had been kind but firm. He gave little of himself away, nor did he empathise.

“You made a vow,” was his argument. “Like marriage, in good times and in bad. You are a priest.”

Noel agreed. He knew what he was but he desperately needed to hear something else, although he wasn’t sure what.

“What can I do? How can I get back to being the priest that I was?” he asked, praying the old man had an answer.

“Don’t see her anymore.”

That was it. That was the great solution to Noel’s desperation. Noel thought about it. “I can’t. I love her.”

He left the bishop’s home realising for the first time

that he was in love and when he called to her house later

that night it wasn’t to say goodbye.

They had been sleeping together for six months. He

had never felt so many highs and lows in his sheltered

world before love. He prayed endlessly and listened for God’s word, but no words came. He had a life now, one outside God and the Church, and it was real. This woman was real. She would wrap her arms around him and keep him safe in this unsafe world. She would kiss him tenderly when he wept and she would give him the kind of

pleasure that he had never known. He was happier than he ever had been in his life and it was tearing him apart.

How could I not see it?

*

Richard was desperate to move to his new country home

in Kerry. Anne really didn’t want to go. She was a city girl at heart. As usual Richard would get his own way. The plan was give and take. Unfortunately for Anne, our friend Richard wasn’t used to giving so much as taking. Clo, Sean and I went to their home to help them pack for their move

to Kerry. Sean brought beer, but there was little time to drink it. The movers were on their way and very little was boxed up. Anne was turning into her mother, shouting orders at her husband while cleaning every available surface, terrified to be remembered by strangers as “dirty”. Clo made her a cup of tea. We got to work, boxing, marking, asking stupid questions like, “Where does this go?” to which Anne or Richard would shout, “In a bloody box!”

I walked around their empty house and it was weird. We couldn’t actually believe they were going ahead with

it. When everything was boxed away, Anne made lunch and we ate silently in their empty kitchen. It felt like a funeral.

“I can’t believe you’re really going,” I said for the fifth time.