Pack Up the Moon (2 page)

we were lying in one another’s arms looking up at the fag

stains on the blue nylon tent, wondering what all the fuss

was about

Clo had warned me that practice made perfect. We

managed it four times before we returned to our respective

parents, proud and full of secrets.

Five seconds.

I wasn’t ready. I felt sick, praying it was stress-related

and not morning sickness.

Oh fuck. What will I do? I don’t want to be a mother. I

don’t want to be a wife. I don’t want to feel like I’m my mother

before I’ve lived. I want to do things, I’m not sure what. I

want to experience different places, I don’t know where. I’m not

ready.

I hadn’t mentioned to John that my period was over

two weeks late nor had I mentioned that I had bought a

pregnancy test. I wasn’t used to keeping secrets from him

but I was sure that I was right not to involve him in this.

Why worry him?

The problem was I wasn’t sure if he would be worried.

He smiled when my mother teased us about marriage and

babies. He’d take time in a supermarket to stop and smile

at a dribbling child, while I would push through the

throng, impatient with everything bar getting what we’d

come for and leaving.

Two seconds.

He would be excited, I could feel it in my bones. Worse

than that, he would want the baby. There would be no

furrowed brows or tearful decisions to be made. There

would be excitement and planning and books and baby

clothes. My stomach started to hurt.

I’m not ready.

My hands were shaking as I turned the stick.

Please don’t be blue, please God, don’t be blue!

My eyes were closed although I don’t remember

voluntarily closing them. I sighed deeply and this reminded

me that I was a smoker so I lay the stick down and ran to

my bedroom to grab a packet of cigarettes. I returned and

lit up. I inhaled deeply, determined to enjoy what could

be my last cigarette for a long time. My intention was to

finish the entire cigarette before unveiling my future.

However, this plan was obliterated by the sound of John’s

key in the front door. I hastily put the cigarette out by

dousing it in cold water with one hand while waving

madly with the other in an attempt to dissipate the smoke,

which seemed to billow around the confined space. I could

hear his footsteps make their way upstairs and towards my

hideout. I was out of time.

“Emma!”

“I’m in here!” I called, a little too shrilly.

He attempted to open the door. I watched helplessly,

hiding the stick up the arm of my jumper. It was locked.

I sighed with relief.

“Why’s the door locked?” he asked suspiciously.

“I always lock the door,” I lied, hoping he’d momentarily

lose his memory.

He didn’t.

“No, you don’t,” he said, still pushing down the door

handle.

“John,” I said sternly, “can you just give me a bloody

second?” I could hear him walk toward the bedroom. He

was mumbling something about me being a bitch when I

had my period.

I wish.

I sat back down and turned over the stick. I looked at

it for the longest time. I closed my hand over it and then

I looked again. I bit my lip, hurting myself in the process.

I opened my fingers again, revealing a gloriously white

window. Not a hint of blue. I moved to the window to

ensure maximum light. Nothing. It was clear. No blue line.

I had my life back. I wasn’t pregnant. I wasn’t even a little

bit pregnant. I was just late and I had a party to go to.

Thank you, God!

*

When Richard’s grandfather died at the age of ninety

one, he left a very large portion of his estate to Richard,

making him extremely wealthy. To this end it was decided

that there would be a party to celebrate, an “inheritance

party”. Anne was initially concerned that it would be in bad

taste.

“He was a very old man, who died after living a great

life full of love and achievement. Why would having a

party to celebrate your good fortune be disrespectful?” I

had asked her.

“It’s been so long since we’ve had a party,” was John’s

contribution to the cause.

“Besides, my granddad had a great sense of humour. He’d love the idea,” Richard intoned, desperate to enjoy their new fortune.

“It’s a fantastic idea! We can celebrate his life and the fact that our good friends are loaded,” Sean insisted.

Eventually Anne succumbed and so it came to pass

that the day I discovered I would not bring a new life into

the world was the day that my world changed forever.

*

I thought about writing to you for such a long time. I never actually dreamed I’d get around to it, but when I did, it seemed so easy. Memories are absurd things. Some are vague, some crystalline, some too painful to recollect and some so painful it’s impossible to forget. Happy times are remembered with warmth and laughter, recalled as an anecdote in the pub, exaggerated for the crowd. The really good ones keep you company on an otherwise lonely

evening. The clearest memories are of those occasions when you experience great highs or lows. It’s the emotion the situation inspires that you remember. That feeling of incredible exultation or terrible despair enables your brain

to note the details that normally pass you by like the

colour of someone’s shirt, a hand gesture or how warm or cold it was.

You can recall the creases caused by the smile on a

loved one’s lips or the way tears crept from their eyes. But pain is hard to put into words and in life there is always

pain. It’s as natural as birth or death. Pain makes us who we are, it teaches us and tames us, it can destroy and it can save. We all have regrets — even Frank Sinatra had a few

Some tragedies are of our own doing and then sometimes

things happen that are out of this world’s control and

when it happens, it can take our breath away.

Happiness is a gift. It washes its warmth over us and reminds us of beauty. It should never be taken for granted. I should never have taken it for granted. That thin blue line represented happiness. I didn’t know that it would later represent something that I would never get back. But then I wasn’t ready.

Space-Hoppers, Cigarettes and Lipstick

My little drama concluded, I was now in the bath trying to wash St Fintan’s secondary school away. Despite my good fortune I was in a bad mood and not looking

forward to the party that I had partly instigated. The door unlocked, John entered and his grin suggested that my earlier outburst had been forgiven.

“Can I wash your back?”

I told him to piss off.

“Will you wash my back?”

I gave him the fingers.

“Ah, the little bastards gave you a hard time,” he laughed.

“Don’t call my students little bastards!” I admonished.

“Why not? You do. Besides, when they piss you off, I have to live with the consequences, so I feel I have a right.”

He was right.

“Alright, I’ll allow you to cheer me up,” I grinned.

“That’s good of you,” he said, kneeling on the floor and playing with my bath water, his eyes glinting.

I melted. “OK then. Get in but don’t push me into the taps,” I warned.

His clothes were off almost before I got to the word

“taps”. He sat in behind me and we lay in the warm water, his arms around my gloriously empty stomach and the water sloshing over the side. I let some out, leaned back and asked him how his day went. He responded by telling me about a fantastic psychological test that he had

pulled off the net and I was instantly sorry that I’d asked.

“It’s great — I’ve got to do it on you,” he threatened.

I looked around at him. “That’s sexy,” I said.

“It’s great — it’s a laugh. But you’ll need some paper.” “I’m in the bath,” I pointed out while trying to get comfortable.

He started to wash my back. “It’s very telling,” he said ominously.

I told him that, after six years, I was under the impression he knew everything there was to know about

me. He smiled smugly.

“There’s always more, Em. Sometimes we don’t even know ourselves. Like for instance, until yesterday I didn’t know that I could eat two Big Macs, a large fries, six chicken McNuggets and a chocolate milkshake in one sitting

without feeling sick.”

“Christ,” I said, “that’s disgusting.”

He nodded his head in agreement. “That’s me, baby,” he laughed with his arms in the air.

*

Later, he arrived into the bedroom with a piece of paper and a pen.

“John, I’m trying to get dressed here.”

He put the pen and paper on the dressing-table. “Come on, it’s just a few tests. Ten minutes tops. I want to try it out before the party.”

I couldn’t believe it. “You’re not planning on doing this at the party?” I asked incredulously.

“Ern, it’s a laugh,” he said unconvincingly.

So I picked up the pen anyway, knowing I had no choice.

“Make this quick. I have to blow-dry my hair,” I warned. He pulled out the instructions from his briefcase and

started reading. “OK, pick a colour and write it down.” I thought for a second and wrote.

“OK, name three things that you associate with that colour.”

I thought for another few seconds and then wrote

down three words.

“Have you got it?”

I nodded yes.

“What colour did you pick?”

“Red.”

“Good, now what are the three words?” He was grinning smugly

I read my words aloud: “Space-hoppers, cigarettes and lipstick.”

“What?” he asked, obviously perturbed. His grin faded and he was looking at me funnily

“Space-hoppers, cigarettes and lipstick,” I reiterated. “I heard you the first time. It doesn’t make any sense — you’re doing it wrong.”

I couldn’t believe it and frankly had had enough of his

poxy game. “What the fuck do you mean I’m doing it wrong?” I screamed over my hairdryer. “It’s a psychological test. You asked me to pick three words that I associate with red and I picked them. How can that be wrong?”

Bewildered, his hand reached for his forehead and it became obvious that he was fighting the urge to scratch

his head. “How do you get space-hoppers, cigarettes and lipstick from the colour red?” he yelled.

I was struggling with a newfound cow’s lick and not

having the laugh that had been promised, but, as I had anticipated that laughter would not be the outcome of

John’s little game, I just answered him in the hope that he’d leave me be.

“When I was a kid my space-hopper was red. I smoke Marlboro, the packet is red, and my favourite colour lipstick is red. It’s that simple.” I turned up the hairdryer.

“Well, that just doesn’t make any sense,” he mumbled, rereading the page.

Then he shouted something about the three words and

how they were supposed to describe how I saw myself. He was clearly disturbed with my answer, so in an effort to relieve his pain I turned off the dryer and thought for

a minute.

“Maybe it’s revealing that deep down I’m a chain

smoking space-hopper who likes red lipstick. That’s

amazing. You’re right. I’ve really learned something about

myself.” I was laughing now, but he remained perplexed.

“When we did it in the lecture hall it worked really

well. You must be mentally challenged, Em. I swear it

works with everyone else.” He crumpled the page and threw it in the bin.

As he left the room I heard him mutter, “Fucking space-hoppers!”

*

By the time John and I reached the party it was in full

swing. The hall door was open and there was a couple sitting on the stairs kissing. As we passed them, John made a huge wet kissing sound. Fortunately they didn’t seem to hear it. We headed straight for the kitchen, where Sean was already sitting at the table skinning up a joint. John plonked down beside him, while I went looking for Anne and Richard and found them in the sitting-room. Anne was busy making sure the assembled crowd was having a

good time while Richard was throwing alcohol down his

throat like it was a gaping hole that required filling.

There was a big homemade sign hanging over the

fireplace with the words “WE’RE IN THE MONEY” printed on it. I smiled when I saw it and told Anne I liked her style. She, disgusted at her husband’s sense of humour, asked me not to remind her while attempting to keep her

back to it.

The music was loud, people were standing about chatting, some were dancing and all were drinking. I didn’t really know most of them, they were the workmates of the two hosts, so I returned to the kitchen to find the two lads bleary-eyed and John choking.

Sean looked at me and smiled stupidly. “Have a drag,” he said.

So I did and I felt the back of my head blow off. “Sweet Jesus! I need a hat.”

They both laughed and Sean told us how a friend of

his had posted a sample selection of differing strains of

cannabis from Amsterdam. The little plastic bags were name-tagged and accompanied by a menu. We were busy being sincerely impressed when Anne burst into the room

with an empty tray. She took one look at us.

“Oh lovely, what a pack of wasters! You’re only here five minutes and look at the state of you!”

I smiled at her. Anne was Den Mother. John used to say that she was born an adult. She was the one we all relied on to be sensible and she never failed to deliver.