Pack Up the Moon (9 page)

She didn’t know.

“When it’s another guy,” I went on, “one I’m not friends with, well, then the graphic images are entertaining but with Sean — I can see him. It’s embarrassing!’ I was lying — that wasn’t it, but I didn’t know what was and what I’d said made sense.

“But John was my friend and you still filled me in on

the gory details. I don’t get embarrassed.”

Shit, she was right.

“Yeah, I know, but when we met we were all kids. God, if I didn’t tell you about him I couldn’t tell you about anything.”

She was smiling at my inexperience.

“Anyway, I’m a prude. Deep down.”

She laughed. “You are such a prude!”

“Alright, no need to bang on about it.” I was smiling but, deep down, as well as being a prude I was a little disconcerted.

What is my problem?

The Priest, the Stranger and the Unwanted Child

We hadn’t gone out together as a gang since that night. Anne decided it was time. She decided bowling was an easy option. I wasn’t so sure. I hated bowling. Anything that involved a ball and throwing caused me anxiety, although at least whilst bowling nobody would be actually

throwing a ball at me, so I conceded. Clo was delighted, she being adept at pretty much any sport she tried. Also she felt it was a great way to introduce the rest of us to

Mark.

“It’s perfect,” she announced. “Three and three, we can have a match. Girls against guys.”

Mark would take John’s place, filling the gap that he had left. My heart sank into the pit of my stomach, making me want to vomit. It must have been reflected in my twisted facial expression.

“I’m sorry,” she offered, realising what she had said. “Don’t be silly,” I replied while fighting the urge to

throw up. Life goes on and she was right: without Mark the teams would be uneven. She was so excited at the prospect of actually going out with someone long enough

to introduce him to her friends, who the hell was I to ruin it for her?

“I’m really happy for you, Clo,” I said.

“I know you are,” she smiled.

“I don’t mean to be a miserable cow.”

“I know you don’t.”

“I bloody hate bowling.”

“I know you do.” She was laughing.

“I’m really crap.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Remember the time John threw a basketball to me in

fifth year?”

“It hit you in the face, knocking you out.”

“I ended up with a big fat lip for five days.”

“And your nose hasn’t been the same since.” “Jesus!” I immediately felt the shape of my nose. She was still laughing. “Joke, Emma.”

I laughed, embarrassed that I had been so easily fooled. I had wondered often if grief had made me a little thick. This notion had now been confirmed.

*

Clo and I entered the bowling alley together; Anne and Richard were already practising in lane two. Sean was buying his dinner, which amounted to a hotdog and a bag of crisps. Clo spent her time clockwatching, wondering where Mark was. It was only five minutes after the stated meeting time, but she was used to being let down and the

concern on her face made me pity her. Ten minutes later a man entered and she instantly jumped to her feet, smiling and waving as though she hadn’t a care in the

world. Mark. He was attractive in a kind of upper-classSampson-haired-thick-neck kind of way. If he’d have bulked up he could have been a gladiator. He waved and pointed toward the cafe indicating that he was getting a

drink. She waved him on, happy to now be able to concentrate on the match ahead.

Anne was busy attempting to brush up on her bowling

skills but unfortunately for her she was as rubbish as I was. Clo suddenly realised that by playing with the women she

was on a losing team and Clo hated to lose.

“I was thinking, why don’t we mix up the teams?” she asked innocently.

“No way,” Sean said while wiping mustard from his chin.

“Why not?” she whined.

“Cause Em and Anne are rubbish,” Richard noted before bowling a perfect strike.

“It’s supposed to be fun,” Clo said with audible disgust, but the lads weren’t buying it.

“Then you won’t mind playing with the girls.” “Crap,” she muttered under her breath.

Mark arrived back with minerals for everybody. We all took turns to shake his hand and welcome him into our

little world. He seemed nice.

The game was over and the lads had beaten us hands

down. Clo was attempting to take it all in good spirits,

especially as she had managed to have the best game. Mark had been the weakest link in the men’s team. He seemed embarrassed by his failure in the eyes of strangers, but his humiliation was eased early on when I had

managed to drop the ball on my foot twice. I bloody hate bowling.

We went to the nearest pub. The others were celebrating a great game while Anne and I celebrated the

fact that the great game was over. It was one of those huge super pubs, with three floors, and yet it was packed on a Thursday night. We pushed our way past college students drinking shots while a rubbish rock band played

in the background. We headed to the second floor where Enya sang about an “Orinoco Flow”, whatever the hell that was. There were seats and a girl to serve drink.

“Standing around screaming at one another over a shit

rock band while gulping down shots versus Enya and a

seat, that’s the difference between your early and late twenties,” noted Sean while making himself comfortable in an armchair.

“Yeah, we’re getting on,” Richard added before waving at the waitress.

The women stayed quiet, not wishing to discuss the aging process.

Clo needed the loo and I followed, afraid I’d get lost if I attempted the journey myself. It wasn’t until we were coming back that I recognised my brother sitting in a corner

with a woman. I waved and walked over while noticing he was downing his drink and making a “let’s finish up” gesture to his company. Clo was behind me when I reached the table.

“Hey, stranger,” I said smiling, happy to have bumped into my brother in a super bar of all places.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he said a little too exuberantly.

“We were bowling,” I said, waiting for an introduction to the woman who was keeping her eyes fixed to the

floor.

“You bowling?” he laughed.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Hi, I’m Clo.” Clo held out her hand to the stranger we were now both wondering about.

“Hello. It’s nice to meet you,” the pretty stranger said, briefly looking up. Obviously we were interrupting something.

“We were just about to leave,” said Noel.

He stood and the stranger following suit.

“Sean and Richard are over there,” I said, pointing into the middle distance. “Why don’t you join us for a drink?”

“I can’t. I have work to do,” he said without meeting my eyes.

“Right.”

The stranger had her coat on.

“Well, I’ll see you at the parents’ on Sunday,” I said. “Yeah. OK. See you on Sunday.”

The stranger said bye and they walked quickly out of

the premises, leaving Clo and me standing watching them leave.

“What was all that about?” Clo asked suspiciously. “Probably a parishioner who needed advice,” I guessed. “Does Noel meet a lot of parishioners in the pub?” “It’s as good a place as any,” I said, totally convinced. “OK,” she said, totally unconvinced.

I laughed. “He’s a priest, Clo.”

“He’s a man, Em.”

“You have a sick mind.”

“I suppose I do.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t know Noel. He didn’t have any girlfriends before becoming a priest — he’s definitely not going to go there now.” I was laughing at the absurdity of

it.

She smiled. “She did look stressed out.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “She’s probably going through a separation or has cancer or something.

“Grim,” she said nodding. “I don’t know how he handles

it.”

“I know,” I agreed but I hadn’t a clue.

*

Sean was dedicating himself to becoming the new face of

the male magazine world. He wrote funny, engaging articles about topics he couldn’t care less about and it paid

his bills. His somewhat limited spare time was devoted to writing about things that did matter to him, which nobody got to see. I worked hard with my classes and every now and then I even went out, but truthfully life seemed a little empty. My friends and I stayed close, clinging to each other more than ever, our loss making us more careful with our friendship.

It was late on a Friday evening five months after John

died. I was lying on the couch, watching TV. The doorbell rang; it was Clodagh. I knew immediately something was wrong because, normally perfectly turned out, she arrived at my place looking like she had been dragged through a

hedge. She greeted me with the words “fucking asshole” and her mascara was halfway down her face. I presumed she had had a fight with Mark, but I was only partly right. She hobbled into the kitchen and it was only then I

noticed one of her heels was broken. She ordered a coffee and plonked herself down on the counter stool, flipping off her shoes one foot at a time while holding her head in

her hands.

“Did you have a fight with Mark?”

“You could say that.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s not the end of the world.”

I would like to note in my defence that before John’s

death I would never have uttered such a platitude, but once you hear enough of them it’s hard not to. Anyway, her response was in the form of a dirty look.

“Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. Tell me what’s going on?”

She was looking at the carpet, which could have been cleaner. “Mark and I have broken up.”

I couldn’t believe it — they had seemed to be getting on so well. “Why?” I asked.

“We had an argument.”

She paused. It was like pulling teeth.

“And?” I encouraged.

“We had an argument over me being pregnant.”

She looked up from my dirty carpet and I nearly fell

off the chair.

“You’re pregnant?” I managed to blurt out. “Surprise,” she said in a sarcastic tone. There were tears in her eyes.

I didn’t know how to react to the news, so I concentrated

on attacking her ex-boyfriend. “That bastard, what did he say?”

She sighed. “He basically said that if I was, it had nothing to do with him.”

I was choking on outrage. She just looked tired. “Why do I always go for such total pricks?” she enquired. I was asking myself the same question. “I don’t know,

Clo,” was all I could muster.

“Fuck him, Emma! OK? Fuck him! He’s no longer my problem. This,” she pointed to her stomach, “however, is.”

I hugged her, remembering the day I’d dreaded the blue line, remembering that hours later John was dead and I was alone. It really could be worse. I knew that now. I didn’t say anything. I’d never told anyone about the day my boyfriend died. It was too painful. Somewhere in the back of my mind I realised that if I had been pregnant I

would be full term by now. I’d still have a little part of him. But this wasn’t about me.

“I’m going to have an abortion,” she said.

“Because of Mark?” I had to ask.

“No,” she answered categorically. “I’ve known about this for over a week. I’ve being doing a lot of thinking and if that prick had let me finish before launching into his

I’m-not-ready-for-commitment speech, I would have told him the same thing.”

It’s funny: a year ago if Clo had known that she was pregnant a whole week before telling me I would have

been pissed off, but now I understood.

“You’re sure?” I had to ask.

She smiled weakly. “Obviously, I’ll have to go to London. Will you come?”

Of course I was going. “I’ve wanted to go to London shopping for ages.” I looked at her, waiting for a response.

“I knew you’d be there for me,” she said, relieved.

We moved into the sitting-room and talked about

stupid things and after a while we were giggling and

laughing. Our joint desperation reunited us; our trepidation for our futures, our quest for answers and our fears reduced us to the children we once were. We were forced to confront our pain and together we laughed in the face

of it.

Clo had her mouth full of apple-pie when she started

to laugh loudly.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Mark,” she laughed.

I was starting to giggle again. “What about him?”

She looked up at me, still laughing. “When I told him and he was being an asshole about it, I got really angry and said —” She laughed again and covered her mouth. “Oh no! It’s too bad.”

She had my undivided attention. “What? What did you say?” I enquired urgently.

“Well,” she began, “he asked what I was planning to do about my little problem.”

I wanted to find him and punch him in the face.

She continued. “I said: ‘What do you want me to do? Squat down and scream “get out”?—

We roared with laughter and we continued laughing

until she cried. She cried for a long time that night, but she knew she was doing the right thing and I knew no

matter what happened I’d be there for her. She stayed over

and we planned our trip to London. That night became a turning point. It was the first time that I managed to forget about myself for a whole evening — well, almost a whole evening.

A Trip’ , a Miss and Confession

I woke up to the phone ringing by my bed. I fumbled for the receiver, dropped it and while retrieving it noticed the clock read 6.30 a.m. I sank back into my pillow with the phone to my ear.

“Hello,” I said into the duvet.

It was Anne. “Hi, just giving you a wake-up call.” She was in the car heading towards Kerry and I could