The Woman Who Stole My Life (12 page)

I’m in my office, on Twitter, when Jeffrey arrives home with some ‘mates’ – three young men who won’t look me in the eye. They go to Jeffrey’s room. The door closes firmly in my face and I know instinctively that they’re looking at online pornography and that soon they’ll be ringing for pizzas. It’s only a matter of time before the floor is littered with massive pizza boxes.

We are acting like normal people! I am immensely cheered!

Nevertheless, in the event of being offered some of their pizza, I cannot permit myself to eat it. It would be an excellent bonding exercise, but after Karen’s earlier cheerleading visit, I went out and purchased a fridge-full of high-protein food. I am committed to losing weight. As yet, I haven’t been able to throw my beloved Jaffa Cakes in the bin, but I’m working up to it. Soon, I will do it soon.

As I sit at my desk, I become aware of a low droney noise. Wasps, I think, suddenly fearful. Or bees, perhaps. A nest of bees. A hive … whatever they’re called. Please God, don’t let me have a bees’ nest in my attic.

The noise dies away and I tell myself I imagined it.

Then the droning starts again, louder this time. It sounds like they’re massing for an attack. Maybe the nest is attached to the outside wall; gingerly I open the window and stick my head out. I see no sign of any bees, but I can still hear the noise. They must be in the attic. I stare fearfully at the ceiling.

Who can I ask for help? Ryan is useless, and so is Jeffrey. Enda Mulreid would probably squeeze the life out of a bees’ nest with his bare hands, but I limit my interactions with Enda. He’s a good man, but I never know what to say to him.

However, there are some young men in the house right
now – perhaps some of the ‘mates’ are braver than Jeffrey. I should ask them to help. Yes, I will!

I step out onto the landing and hover outside Jeffrey’s room – I don’t want to barge in while they’re looking at the pornography. I’ll knock, I decide, then wait five seconds, then knock again. Yes, this is the best way to proceed.

But as I stand at Jeffrey’s door, I realize something dreadful – the droney noise is coming from in there. Maybe the bees had arrived because they heard pizza was on the way? Do bees like pizza? Or pornography?

Then I admit the dreadful truth – there are no bees in that room. Jeffrey and his mates are the ones making the noise. At a guess, I’d say they’re meditating.

This is a blow.

A bad blow.

A very bad blow.

‘No one ever said life was fair.’

Extract from
One Blink at a Time

‘… So if you look here,’ Ryan positioned the bill in front of my face and jabbed with his finger, ‘it says we’re €1.91 in credit. What’s going on there? And what am I meant to pay them?’

How could I explain that we paid a monthly standing order to our gas supplier to avoid being hit with big bills during the winter?

I’d always done the family finances, but as my time in hospital had mounted up – I was now into my seventh week – Ryan was having to wrestle with them.

I started blinking, trying to spell out ‘standing order’.

‘First letter?’ Ryan said. ‘Vowel? No? Consonant? First half of the alphabet? No? P? Q? R? S?’

I blinked but he didn’t notice.

‘T? V? W?’

Stop, stop!

I fluttered my lashes wildly to get his attention.

‘It’s T?’

No!

‘I missed it?’ He sighed heavily. ‘Okay, back to the start. Is it P? Q? R? S? Yes, S. Okay.’ He wrote it down. ‘Second letter. Vowel? No? Consonant? First half of the alphabet? No. Is it P? Q? R? S? T?’

I blinked and he missed it.

‘V? W? X? Y? Z?’ He stared accusingly at me. ‘It must be one of them, Stella! Jesus
Christ.
You can tell your Mannix Taylor that this is one shitty system. You know what?’ He crumpled up the bill and threw it on the floor. ‘Who cares? Let them cut us off.’

I couldn’t see the nurses sniggering but I
felt
them at it.

Poor Ryan. He was frustrated and confused and sick of it all. He’d had to go to the Isle of Man four times in the past two weeks, pitching for this new project, and he was exhausted.

‘I’m sorry.’ He took a breath. ‘I apologize. Jeffrey, pick that up and put it in the bin.’

‘Pick it up yourself. You threw it, you pick it up. Consequences, Dad, consequences.’

‘I’ll consequence you! Pick it the feck
up
!’

Another wave of nurse-sniggering moved across the ward. The Sweeney Family Show was proving quite a hit.

‘I’ll get it,’ Betsy said.

‘I told
him
to do it,’ Ryan said.

God, it was so embarrassing.

Jeffrey and Ryan locked themselves into a long stare-off and eventually Jeffrey broke. ‘Ooookay.’

He picked up the crumpled ball of paper, threw it at the nurses’ station and yelped, ‘Catch!’

Several nurses leapt back in exaggerated alarm and startled cries and tut-tuts reached me. I was mortified.

Jeffrey was getting worse; he was becoming more defiant and it was my fault. I’d abandoned him by getting sick and I needed to get home and be a proper mother to him.

As if I wasn’t already feeling deeply despondent, Ryan produced another piece of paper. ‘I’ve been looking at our bank statement. Why are we paying a tenner a month to Oxfam?’

I don’t know. To build wells in Ghana?

‘We could do with that money,’ he said. ‘Especially now. How do I stop it?’

I didn’t think he could. As far as I remembered it too was a standing order; it had been set up for a year. But I hadn’t the energy to even try to explain.

‘She doesn’t know,’ Jeffrey said, dismissively. ‘My turn now. Mom, do you know where my hockey socks are?’

 … But how would I know? I haven’t been at home in seven weeks.

‘Dad can’t find them,’ he said. ‘I thought you might know.’

But … but how could I? Even though it was mad, I felt guilty, because I
should
know. They could be in his drawer, in the washing machine, the tumble dryer, his kit bag, his locker at school, they could have got jumbled up with Betsy’s laundry. But I couldn’t blink all that – it would take the entire day.

‘Can I talk now, please?’ Betsy said, haughtily. ‘Mom, where’s my bunny rabbit onesie?’

I don’t fecking well know. Where did you last see it?

‘I need it,’ she said. ‘We’re going for a sleepover in Birgitte’s house and we made a pinky-promise that we’d all wear our onesies.’

Who was this Birgitte that she was going for a sleepover with? I’d never heard of her before. Had Ryan spoken to the parents? Had he checked that everything was –

‘And another thing,’ Ryan said. ‘The tenants in Sandycove have given notice.’

My heart sank. Our investment property was proving to be an absolute curse. We needed to rent it out so we could cover the mortgage payments but no one ever stayed longer than six months. I seemed to spend my life doing inventories and changing bank details and – toughest of all – trying to find tenants who wouldn’t trash the place.

‘What am I to do about it?’ Ryan asked.

 … Surely visiting time was up? But I’d noticed that the nurses had taken to letting my visitors stay for longer than the recommended fifteen minutes. I suspected that they were delighted that Mannix Taylor’s Blinking Code was proving to be such a burden to me.

Finally Ryan and the kids left and I was on my own once more. The funny thing, I thought, was that people paid fortunes to go on retreats where they weren’t allowed to speak or read or watch telly. They had to spend the whole time trapped with their thoughts and feelings, no matter how uncomfortable.

It was remarkably similar to what I was doing right here in my hospital bed and it really was a
colossal
pity that I’d never been interested in any of those soul-searchy kind of things.

I was jolted out of my thoughts by the sight of Mannix Taylor walking towards me. What was he doing here? We’d already had our daily session.

He got the pen and notebook from the sterilizer and he pulled up a chair.

‘Hello.’ He looked at me, lying motionless on my side, and said, ‘You know, the gas thing is that people
pay
for this kind of lark – silence, sensory deprivation …’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘They do it to get to know themselves.’

‘I WAS JUST THINKING THAT.’

‘And is it working? Are you, Stella Sweeney, getting to know yourself?’

‘I DON’T NEED TO KNOW MYSELF. I KNOW ENOUGH PEOPLE.’

He laughed. There was something about him – he was skittish, almost giddy. Something good must have happened.

‘It’s not very fair, though, is it?’ he said.

‘WHOEVER SAID LIFE WAS FAIR?’

I was getting much better at the blinking, or maybe he was getting better at reading me. He often guessed the whole word from the first letter. It meant I didn’t get tired so quickly and I could say more.

He noticed the book his wife had given me. ‘How are you getting on with this?’

Fantastic, as it happened. We were nearly at the end.

When Dad had first seen it, he’d started twitching with suspicion. ‘I’m not reading you anything till it has Joan’s imprimatur.’ He’d taken it away in his plastic bag and he’d returned with Joan’s blessing. ‘She says it’s well written.’

Then, of course, I assumed it would be dreadful.

But, to my great surprise, the book from Mannix Taylor’s wife was fun. It was a biography of an upper-class British woman who had caused a big scandal in the thirties by leaving her husband and running away to Kenya and having all manner of high jinks. Both Dad and I were gripped and entertained. ‘I feel sort of … 
wrong
,’ Dad had said. ‘For enjoying it so much. But if Joan says it’s okay …’

I blinked to Mannix Taylor, ‘BRING ANOTHER.’

‘Another what? Book? Okay, I’ll ask Georgie to pick out a few more for you.’

Georgie. So that was her name: Georgie Taylor. The Scandinavian-looking interior-decorator-stroke-child-psychologist. I’d been wondering what she was called.

‘Anyway!’ He really
did
seem in sparkling good form this afternoon. ‘Ask me what I’m doing here!’

As I began to blink, he said, hastily, ‘No, don’t! Figure of speech. Well, Stella Sweeney? How do you fancy a day out?’

What did he mean?

‘We’ve got the go-ahead for the EMG! This crowd will let you out and the other crowd will let you in!’

Oh!

‘How did I manage it? I won’t bore you with the details. There’s a clause … Ah, no, I’m not getting into it, the tedium would kill you and I’m bound by the Hippocratic oath to try to keep you alive. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that it’s a go. Your husband will have to sign no end of insurance papers, but basically we’re on.’

Hope rushed up through me. Finally I’d get some idea of how much longer this hell would last.

Suddenly Mannix Taylor became serious. ‘You remember what I said? It’ll hurt. As I told you, it’s actually better if it does; it shows you’re getting better.’

I had a memory of the lumbar puncture and I was filled with fear.

‘But it’ll be okay!’ He sounded like he was trying to cheer up a child. ‘We’ll go in an ambulance. We’ll put the blue light and the siren on and we’ll speed through the streets. We can pretend to be foreign dignitaries. We’ll have a great time. What nationality do you want to be?’

Easy. ‘ITA –’

‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Italian is too … Everyone wants to be Italian. Have a bit of imagination.’

The neck of the man! Every time I started to like him, he went and ruined it. I wanted to be Italian. I
was
Italian. I was Giuliana from Milan. I worked for Gucci. I got free things.

Mutinously, I glared at him.
I’m Italian, I’m Italian, I’m Italian.

Then, with an unexpected change of heart, I decided I wanted to be Brazilian. What had I been thinking? Brazil was where it was at. I lived in Rio and was a brilliant dancer and had a big bum but it didn’t matter.

‘BRAZ –’

‘Brazilian! Now you’re talking. And what about me? I’ll be … Let’s see. I think I’d like to be Argentinian.’

Fine with me.

‘You don’t think it’s a waste that we’ve both picked the same continent?’ he asked, suddenly anxious. ‘When we have the whole world to choose from? No,’ he said, firmly. ‘I definitely want to be Argentinian. I’m a gaucho from the pampas.’

With feeling, he added, ‘God, I fecking wish I was. I’d spend every day riding my faithful horse, rounding up cattle, no one to answer to, and at the weekends I’d go into town and dance the tango. With other gauchos,’ he said, his mood darkening. ‘Because there aren’t enough women. We have to dance with each other and sometimes when we’re doing the flicky leg moves, we accidentally get each other in the balls.’ He sighed. ‘But we don’t hold it against each other. We make the best of things.’

‘YOU’RE A NUTTER.’

‘Believe me,’ he said. ‘That isn’t news.’

My breakfast is 100g of salmon. I’d have been happier having nothing.

I am not a protein person. I am very much a carb person.

Despite my joyless breakfast, I commence work. Today will be a good writing day. Of this I am certain.

I need coffee.

I recommence work. I feel inspired, invigorated … Is that the post?

I get into bed with the newly delivered Boden catalogue and I peruse the pages with great concentration, assessing every item of clothing for its belly-reducing qualities.

The front door opens and slams shut. Jeffrey shouts, ‘Mom,’
and starts pounding up the stairs. I leap out of bed and try to look like a person who has been working diligently all morning. Jeffrey bursts into my bedroom, in a state of high agitation. He looks at my rumpled duvet and says, suspiciously, ‘What are you doing?’

‘Nothing! Writing. What’s up?’

‘Where’s your iPad?’ He holds up his phone. ‘It’s Dad’s karma project. It’s happening.’

I start clicking and together Jeffrey and I check things out. Ryan has uploaded sixty-three pictures of things to be given away, including his house, his car and his motorbike. Feeling sick, I scroll through the images of his beautiful furniture, his lamps, his many televisions.

‘Hey!’ I feel a surge of possessiveness as I recognize something of mine. ‘That’s
my
Jesus Christ figurine!’ A neighbour of Mum’s had given it to me when I was sick. It’s super-creepy. I hadn’t wanted it when Ryan and I separated, but now that it’s about to be given away to some random stranger, I do.

Ryan’s video has been watched eighty-nine times. Ninety. Ninety-one. Ninety-seven. One hundred and thirty-four. The numbers are mushrooming right before our eyes. It’s like watching a natural disaster unfold.

‘Why is he doing this?’ I ask.

‘Because he’s a prick?’ Jeffrey says.

‘Seriously?’

‘Maybe he wants to be famous.’

Fame. It’s what everyone thinks they want. The good fame, of course. Not the bad fame, where you throw a cat into a wheely bin and you get caught on CCTV and it goes viral on YouTube and you become an international pariah.

But the good sort of fame, that’s not so great either, certainly not as nice as it sounds. I’ll tell you about it sometime.

I ring Ryan. It goes straight to voicemail.

I ring Ryan. It goes straight to voicemail.

I ring Ryan. It goes straight to voicemail.

Jeffrey rings Ryan. It goes straight to voicemail.

Jeffrey rings Ryan. It goes straight to voicemail.

Jeffrey rings Ryan. It goes straight to voicemail.

I eat eleven Jaffa Cakes.

A new photo appears on Ryan’s site – his Nespresso machine.

Another new photo appears on the site; this time it’s a blender … Followed by three cans of tomatoes. A bread board. Five tea-towels.

‘He’s doing his kitchen,’ Jeffrey whispers. We’re frozen in horror as we watch the screen.

Here comes a frying pan … and … another frying pan … and half a jar of curry paste. Who would want half a jar of curry paste? The man’s a lunatic.

This is my fault. I should never have got a publishing deal and moved to New York. It should have been obvious that, at some stage, Ryan would do something to reassert himself as the true creative person, of the two of us.

More and more photos of his possessions are appearing with each passing second – a salad spinner, a toasted sandwich-maker, a collection of forks, a packet of Custard Creams.

‘Custard Creams?’ Jeffrey sounds dazed. ‘Who eats Custard Creams in this day and age?’

Ryan’s video has now been viewed 2,564 times. 2,577. 2,609 …

‘Should we go over there and stop him?’ Jeffrey asks.

‘Let me think.’

I lurch at my handbag, unzip the secret inner pocket, locate my one emergency Xanax and take half of it.

‘What’s that?’ Jeffrey asks.

‘… Ah … a Xanax.’

‘A tranquillizer? Where did you get it?’

‘Karen. She says every woman should keep a Xanax in the secret zippy pocket of her handbag. In case of emergency. This is an emergency.’

Karen rings. ‘Listen,’ she says. ‘There’s some weird shit going down with Ryan –’

‘I know.’

‘Has he lost his reason?’

‘It looks that way.’

‘What are you going to do about it? You’ll have to get him sectioned.’

‘How would I do that?’

‘I’ll ask Enda. I’ll call you back.’

‘Enda’s going to find out how to get Ryan sectioned,’ I tell Jeffrey.

‘Okay. Good.’

‘Yes. Good. That’s right. Good. We’ll get him nice and sectioned and everything will be grand.’

But I have a niggly suspicion that getting a person sectioned isn’t as easy as it sounds. And that once they’re sectioned it may be hard to get them un-sectioned.

I take the other half of the Xanax.

‘Let’s go over to his house and try to reason with him,’ I decide.

Ryan lives only a couple of miles away and both Jeffrey and I have keys.

‘How? You’re going to drive? You’ve just taken two tranquillizers.’

‘One tranquillizer,’ I correct him. ‘One. In two halves.’

But he’s right. I can’t drive, having just taken a Xanax. Something bad might happen.

‘Very well,’ I say with hauteur. ‘We’ll walk.’

‘And you’ll fall into a ditch. And I’ll have to pull you out.’

‘This is an urban area, there
are
no ditches.’ But my voice is starting to sound a little slurred. I might not fall into a ditch but ten minutes into the walk I might decide it would be delightfully pleasant to lie down on the pavement and smile beatifically at passing pedestrians.

‘Why must you take drugs?’ Jeffrey sounds angry.

‘I don’t “take drugs”. This is a medicine! Prescribed by a doctor!’

‘It wasn’t
your
doctor.’

‘A technicality, Jeffrey. A mere technicality.’

‘We need to talk to somebody sensible.’

We eye each other and even in my rapidly burgeoning Xanax-cocoon, I feel pain. I know what Jeffrey is going to say.

‘No,’ I say.

‘But –’

‘No, he’s not part of our lives any longer.’

‘But –’

‘No.’

The sound of my phone ringing makes me jump. ‘It’s Ryan!’

‘Give it to me.’ Jeffrey grabs it. ‘Dad. Dad! Have you gone totally nuts?’

After a short conversation, all on Ryan’s side, Jeffrey hangs up. He looks crestfallen. ‘He says it’s his stuff and he can do what he likes with it.’

Overwhelmed by my own incapacity, I eat three more Jaffa Cakes. No, four. No, five. No –

‘Stop.’ Jeffrey pulls the box away from me.

‘They’re my Jaffa Cakes!’ I sound a bit wild.

He holds the box above his head. ‘Can’t you find some other way of dealing with things? Instead of drugging yourself with Xanax or sugar?’

‘No, not right now, no.’

‘I’m going to meditate.’

‘Okay, well, I’m just going to …’

… lie on my bed and feel floaty. And retrieve another box of Jaffa Cakes from my ‘wall’.