Pack Up the Moon (6 page)

“Oh my God! What have you done to yourself?”

He sat staring into the middle distance, drawing deeply from a cigarette, and she wasn’t sure if he was merely ignoring her or if he was even aware that she had entered. She walked to the bathroom in search of a face cloth. She slipped on vomit and then gagged.

“You’ve turned into Shane McGowan!”

She cleaned her shoe as best she could and closed the

door as she left the bathroom. She approached him slowly, afraid to make any sudden moves. When she eventually reached him he didn’t stir. She knelt a safe distance in front of him, afraid to reach out, and slowly she attempted to make contact.

“Sean … Sean … Sean …”

Nothing.

“It’s me, Jackie,” she said, nodding and pointing to her own face.

“I know who you are. I’m not blind,” he drawled, concentrating on the floor.

“So look at me,” she challenged.

He didn’t want to. He couldn’t remember ever giving her keys and he was annoyed at himself. He didn’t even really know her.

“Go away.”

“I know you lost your friend, but this is ridiculous.” She was pointing around the room and it made him dizzy.

“So leave,” he managed, before sinking further into The Lotus.

“I’ll leave when you shower, change your clothes and dump those fucking bottles.”

Her intervention was not welcome.

“Just go,” he pleaded.

“I can’t.”

“Get out of here,” he moaned.

She wasn’t budging. He used all the strength he could

muster to be as threatening as he possibly could be.

“Get the fuck out of my house! I don’t want you. I

have nothing to say to you. I don’t even like you.” He picked up a bottle and swallowed the dregs. “You’re just upset,” she said calmly as she stood up to

regain some power. “You’re just drunk.”

He looked up at her glassily, sneering at this stranger, who on reflection was not even that attractive. If she didn’t want to leave he’d make her want to.

“I am drunk and you’re a whore.” He lit another cigarette, satisfied she would be soon gone.

“You fucking asshole,” she observed. “You’re the flicking whore. You’re the one can’t make a relationship work, so don’t put your fucking shit on me,”

He didn’t care enough to answer.

Tears were spilling from her eyes. “I wanted this to work but it takes two.” She was moving to the door.

“Haven’t you forgotten something?” he said, closing his eyes, relieved.

She turned and looked around, confused.

“My keys.”

She threw them on the glass table, knocking a can full

of sodden butts onto the floor. He didn’t look at her again. She left, slamming the door. He opened his eyes and the tears that had refused to come for so long ran

freely.

Acceptance

Anne and Richard suffered like the rest of us. They felt disbelief, anger, depression and guilt but they also had each other and in one another they retained the security

and hope that the rest of us had lost. When Richard felt overwhelmed, Anne was right by his side. When Anne found it unbearable, Richard was holding her tight. They missed their friend but thanked God they had one another.

One week after their inheritance party they sat together

on their couch holding on to one another and watching

John make his groomsman speech at their wedding. He was tugging at his tie and grinning while his hands

involuntarily shuffled telegrams.

“I’m not going to keep you long …” A pause. He grinned. “Unlike Anne’s ma.”

The assembled guests laughed on cue. The cameraman panned to Anne’s mother laughing and feigning

embarrassment while mouthing, “Oh stop!”

The action over, the cameraman returned to the speaker. “I’m just going to read a few greetings from people

who didn’t care enough to come.”

Again the guests laughed. Anne in her wedding dress was smiling widely. Richard was wiping his eyes, grinning at his new wife.

Four years later Anne was watching her dead friend on

screen and crying in the arms of her husband. They held

each other, watching John as he lined up to kiss the bride, laughing and making smacking noises with his lips. Waving them off, hugging them and spinning them around, intoxicated by their joy. They cried but they laughed too. They couldn’t help it; he was funny when he wanted to be. They told stories of when he was smart and when he was stupid. They talked about his bad habits and his favourite sayings. They recalled the good times and some of the bad. They remembered him well and in doing so they achieved acceptance.

The Bear, the Rabbit …

I woke up on Friday morning. John was dead a month. I hugged his pillow, which still smelt of him because I’d made sure to spray it with his aftershave when I’d eventually

washed it. It was still early and I didn’t have to be in school for a few hours so I tried to sleep but my body refused to

co-operate. I was wide awake for the first time since the accident. I kept closing my eyes, but they burned to open. Frustrated I sat up and really wanted to cry, but my eyes remained dry. After several attempts I gave up and crawled out of bed. I sat in the bath on my own, playing with the taps with my toes, but that got boring pretty quickly. I lay there remembering John’s arms around me. I remembered our fist kiss on the wall outside my house, his look of sheer delight the day I produced a packet of condoms in

the schoolyard, our time in America, our home, our dreams, his face, his smile, his eyes, his heart and still no tears.

What the …?

I felt sick. I wanted to cry for him because crying was all that I had left and now it would appear that even that

had been taken away. It wasn’t fair.

“Fuck this!” I screamed to the shower curtain. “Fuck the lot of it!” I roared. “Fuck you, God!” I yelled to the ceiling.

Not content with fucking God out of it, I attacked the rest of his family.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you bastards!”

Then I moved on to Allah and Buddha just in case and

in the end Judas even got a mention.

“Why?” I begged. “Why did you take him, God, you greedy bastard? Why couldn’t you let him live?”

Not surprisingly, I didn’t get an answer, but as I got out of the bath I slipped and for a fleeting second I

though it might be retribution so I gave the ceiling the

fingers and mumbled, “You’ll have to do better than that, fuck-face!”

After that I made my way around the house being

careful to check that all electrical appliances were safe

before using them.

*

It was the last class of the day and my students had been

on their best behaviour since my return. When I entered the classroom, instead of chaos, I was met with silence. The smart-asses weren’t being smart, the chatterers were silent and the swots were slow to raise their hands to share

their knowledge. I was subdued and fragile. My pain was naked and it had a rippling effect on all who witnessed it, including my students, and I felt bad for them. Grief filled

every room that I entered like a fog that only lifted when

I left. It was the last class of the day, I was teaching history to First Years and we were concentrating on The

Reformation. I asked Jackie Connor to read a paragraph on the Lutheran Church and switched off. I was staring out the window at two pigeons’ heads butting one another on

the school roof when I heard Rory McGuire calling me.

“Miss? Miss? Are you OK?”

I emerged from the haze and smiled at him. “I’m fine, Rory. Why do you ask?”

He looked around at his classmates whose eyes were

cast to the floor. He cleared his throat. “Well, Miss, Jackie finished the paragraph five minutes ago.”

I felt tears spring to my eyes and I looked towards the

ceiling and God.

Oh fucking great, this morning I begged you to let me cry and nothing. Now in front of twentyfive teenagers, you fucking…

I didn’t finish the thought. Instead I tried to pull myself together. “Does anyone have any questions?” I asked cheerfully.

The class remained silent.

“Right. Good. OK.”

I looked on my desk for the book, but I couldn’t see it. I must have appeared panicked because Jane Griffin in the front row handed me hers.

“Here, Miss, we’re in the middle of the page.”

I smiled at her, embarrassed. “Thank you, Jane.”

I looked at the book but reading was difficult. I kept telling myself only ten minutes to the bell, but then my heart started racing and my palms began to sweat. I wondered if I was having a panic attack.

Pull yourself together, I told myself again. I tried to concentrate, but finally I gave up and asked David Morris to read the next paragraph and while he did, I prayed that it would take us to the bell. When it eventually rang the entire class exhaled and they almost ran from the room. I sat at my desk with my eyes closed and my head in my

hands, taking refuge in the darkness. I hadn’t noticed that Declan Morgan had remained sitting at his desk. I heard someone say “Miss” and I looked up.

“Declan, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were still here. What can I do for you?” I enquired, without meeting his eyes.

Declan was looking straight at me. “I just wanted to say that I was sorry about your fella. It was a terrible thing that happened to him.”

His kindness threw me. I was touched and I desperately wanted to cry again. “Thank you,” I managed.

He got up to leave and then he stopped. “Miss?” “Yes, Declan?”

“Can I tell you a joke?”

I smiled despite myself.

He dropped his schoolbag on the ground and walked

up to me. “There was a bear and a rabbit taking a shit in the woods. The bear turned to the rabbit and said: ‘Hey, Rabbit, does shit stick to your fur?’ The rabbit said, ‘No,’ so the bear wiped his arse with the rabbit.” He smiled as though to ask, “Do you get it?”

I should have admonished him for his bad language

but instead I laughed and when he saw me laughing, he laughed.

“That’s a great joke,” I said.

“I know,” he grinned and he reminded me of John as a teenager. He turned to leave.

“Declan!” I called involuntarily.

He stopped.

“You live down the road from me, don’t you?” I enquired.

“I do.”

“Would you like a lift home?” I asked.

He smiled. “Only if you let me drive.”

I laughed while advising that there was no way in hell. He waited for me while I collected my things and for a

few minutes everything was normal. Declan opened the door for me.

“Thanks,” I said gratefully and we both knew that I meant it.

*

That night Clodagh arrived with another stew from her

mother.

“How long is she going to keep making me stews?” I asked her.

“Not long. Another six months or so,” she answered, smiling.

I put it in the freezer on top of the stew and lasagne

she had made me the week before.

Clo sat at the counter and continued, “She just wants to help, Em.”

I nodded and I wished I could feel normal again. I turned to her, smiling. “One of my students told me a joke today — it was very funny.”

She looked surprised. “Tell me.”

“Well,” I began and paused, realising that I couldn’t remember it. “It was about a bear shitting on a rabbit or something. It was really funny,” I said lamely.

“A bear shits on a rabbit? It sounds hilarious,” she smiled. “Jesus, Em, we really need to get you out.”

We laughed and it was the first time we had enjoyed a

second together since the accident. The fog was dissipating and I thanked Declan in my head once more. Later we sat in the living-room with coffee and I asked her how Sean was. I hadn’t seen him much since the funeral He had called

around a few times, but I pretended I was out and hid behind the curtains, watching him walk down the road. I couldn’t face him and now it seemed like he couldn’t face me.

“He’s fine,” she said, but she was a brutal liar.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she replied.

It made me angry. “I wish you’d talk to me!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she answered, hurt.

“Stop freezing me out. John’s dead, not me. Why can’t you just talk to me like you used to.” Tears burned my eyes for the fourth time that day, which was considerably less than the day before.

She looked at me, her eyes glassy. “I really miss him, Em!” She was crying. “I feel sick all the time and I don’t know what to say.” She continued, like a torrent: “I should have some insight or wisdom because of my dad, or maybe it’s because of his death that I know there is

nothing I can do to make this any better. I wish I could say the magic words. I wish I knew them. I should, but I don’t.”

I was so relieved. I sat on the couch beside her. I told

her that everything was going to be all right and we hugged.

Suddenly we were having our first real post-John

conversation. She told me about a wealthy client of hers who kept sending her flowers. She talked about Sean, how he had become withdrawn and of her fears that he

was smoking way too much hash. He had promised her that he’d stop, but she wasn’t sure whether he was just saying it to get her off his back.

She told me that two weeks previously Anne had missed

her period and did a pregnancy test in Bewley’s cafe, but it turned out negative. I couldn’t believe that Anne hadn’t told me.

“Well,” she said, “with everything you’re going through …” she trailed off and thought for a second, then continued unabated, “Which is something we’ll all stop doing.”

We both smiled. She got comfortable in her chair.

“Em, in the spirit of openness, there is just one more thing!’

“What?” I smiled.