Thanks for the Memories

o s e y o u r e y e s a n d s t a r e into the dark. C My father’s advice when I couldn’t sleep as a little girl. He wouldn’t want me to do that now, but I’ve set my mind to the task regardless. I’m staring into that immeasurable blackness that stretches far beyond my closed eyelids. Though I lie still on the ground, I feel perched at the highest point I could possibly be; clutching at a star in the night sky with my legs dangling above cold black nothingness. I take one last look at my fingers wrapped around the light and let go. Down I go, falling, then floating, and, falling again, I wait for the land of my life. I know now, as I knew as that little girl fighting sleep, that behind the gauzed screen of shut-eye lies color. It taunts me, dares me to open my eyes and lose sleep. Flashes of red and amber, yellow and white, speckle my darkness. I refuse to open them. I rebel, and I squeeze my eyelids together tighter to block out the grains of light, mere distractions that keep us awake, but a sign that there’s life beyond.

But there’s no life in me. None that I can feel, from where I lie at the bottom of the staircase. My heart beats quicker now, the
2 / C e c e l i a A h e r n

lone fighter left standing in the ring, a red boxing glove pumping victoriously into the air, refusing to give up. It’s the only part of me that cares, the only part that ever cared. It fights to pump the blood around to heal, to replace what I’m losing. But it’s all leaving my body as quickly as it’s sent; forming a deep black ocean of its own around me where I’ve fallen.

Rushing, rushing, rushing. We are always rushing. Never have enough time here, always trying to make our way there. Need to have left here five minutes ago, need to be there now. The phone rings again, and I acknowledge the irony. I could have taken my time and answered it now.

Now, not then.

I could have taken all the time in the world on each of those steps. But we’re always rushing. All but my heart. That slows now. I don’t mind so much. I place my hand on my belly. If my child is gone, and I suspect this is so, I’ll join it there. There . . . where?

Wherever. It; a heartless word. He or she so young; who it was to become, still a question. But there, I will mother it. There, not here.

I’ll tell it: I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m sorry I ruined your chances, my chance—our chance of a life together. But close your eyes and stare into the darkness now, like Mummy is doing, and we’ll find our way together.

There’s a noise in the room, and I feel a presence.

“Oh God, Joyce, oh God. Can you hear me, love? Oh God. Oh God. Oh, please no, good Lord, not my Joyce, don’t take my Joyce. Hold on, love, I’m here. Dad is here.”

I don’t want to hold on, and I feel like telling him so. I hear myself groan, an animal-like whimper, and it shocks me, scares me. I have a plan, I want to tell him. I want to go; only then can I be with my baby.

Then, not now.

He’s stopped me from falling, but I haven’t landed yet. Instead t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
/ 3

he helps me balance on nothing, hover while I’m forced to make the decision. I want to keep falling, but he’s calling the ambulance and he’s gripping my hand with such ferocity it’s as though it is he who is hanging on to dear life. As though I’m all he has. He’s brushing the hair from my forehead and weeping loudly. I’ve never heard him weep. Not even when Mum died. He clings to my hand with all of the strength I never knew his old body had, and I remember that I am all he has and that he, once again just like before, is my whole world. The blood continues to rush through me. Rushing, rushing, rushing. We are always rushing. Maybe I’m rushing again. Maybe it’s not my time to go.

I feel the rough skin of old hands squeezing mine, and their intensity and their familiarity force me to open my eyes. Light fills them, and I glimpse his face, a look I never want to see again. He clings to his baby. I know I’ve lost mine; I can’t let him lose his. In making my decision, I already begin to grieve. I’ve landed now, the land of my life. And still, my heart pumps on. Even when broken, it still works.

p a r

t o n e

O n e M o n t h E a r l i e r

C h a p t e r 1

o d t r

a n s f u s i o

n , ” D r . F i e l d s a n n o u n c e s from B the podium of a lecture hall in Trinity College’s Arts Building, “is the process of transferring blood or blood-based products from one person into the circulatory system of another. Blood transfusions may treat medical conditions such as massive blood loss due to trauma, surgery, shock, and where the red-cellproducing mechanism fails.

“Here are the facts. Three thousand donations are needed in Ireland every week. Only three percent of the Irish population are donors, providing blood for a population of almost four million. One in four people will need a transfusion at some point. Take a look around the room now.”

Five hundred heads turn left, right, and around. Uncomfortable sniggers break the silence. Dr. Fields elevates her voice over the disruption. “At least one hundred and fifty people in this room will need a blood transfusion at some stage in their lives.”

That silences them. A hand is raised.

“Yes?”

8 / C e c e l i a A h e r n

“How much blood does a patient need?”

“How long is a piece of string, dumb-ass?” a voice from the back mocks, and a scrunched ball of paper flies at the head of the young male inquirer.

“It’s a very good question.” She frowns into the darkness, unable to see the students through the light of the projector. “Who asked that?”

“Mr. Dover,” someone calls from the other side of the room.

“I’m sure Mr. Dover can answer for himself. What’s your first name?”

“Ben,” he responds, sounding dejected.

Laughter erupts. Dr. Fields sighs.

“Ben, thank you for your question—and to the rest of you, there is no such thing as a stupid question. This is what Blood for Life Week is all about. It’s about asking all the questions you want, learning all you need to know about blood transfusions before you possibly donate today, tomorrow, the remaining days of this week on campus, or maybe regularly in your future.”

The main door opens, and light streams into the dark lecture hall. Justin Hitchcock enters, the concentration on his face illuminated by the white light of the projector. Under one arm are multiple piles of folders, each one slipping by the second. A knee shoots up to hoist them back in place. His right hand carries both an overstuffed briefcase and a dangerously balanced Styrofoam cup of coffee. He slowly lowers his hovering foot down to the floor, as though performing a tai chi move, and a relieved smile creeps onto his face as calm is restored. Somebody sniggers, and the balancing act is once again compromised.

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