The Year I Met You (15 page)

‘It’s fine, she would have found out anyway. Better it came from me first.’

In fact it didn’t, but I think what you mean is that it came from your
side
and I’m unsure as to how I’ve found myself on your side when every night I watched you banging on the doors, locked out, I was willing her not to let you in.

‘Where are Amy and the kids staying?’ I ask, as we walk down the road.

‘Her parents’ place.’

‘Is she coming back?’

‘I don’t know. She won’t talk to me. Those sentences you heard were the most she’s said in days.’

‘She wrote you the letter.’

‘I know.’

‘You should read it.’

‘That’s what she says.’

‘Why don’t you read it?’

You don’t answer.

‘Here.’ I hand you the letter. You look at it in surprise for a moment, then take it and stuff it in your pocket. I don’t believe you will read it, but at least I have given it to you. My part is done. I feel a little relief, but I’m not content my job is done. You haven’t even opened it.

‘Are you going to read it?’

‘Jesus, what is it with you and this letter?’

‘If I was given a letter by my wife who’d just left me, I’d want to know what it says.’

‘Are you a lesbian?’

I roll my eyes. ‘No.’

You chuckle.

‘I’ve noticed you’re not working,’ you say. ‘Time off or—’

‘I’m on gardening leave,’ I cut you off, before I hear whatever offensive term you’re about to use.

‘Right.’ You smile. ‘You know that doesn’t actually mean you have to do your garden.’

‘Of course I know that. What about you? I read that you lost your job.’ I say it bluntly, harshly, and you look at me and study me in that confused, intrigued, insulted way that you do when I snap at you, which is often when I remember that I don’t like you.

‘I didn’t lose my job,’ you say. ‘I’m on leave – gardening leave, too, as a matter of fact. Only, unlike you, I’ve decide to sit in mine.’

‘Moonbathing,’ I say.

You laugh. ‘Yeah.’

Heather and I always called it that when we were younger: lying out under the moon. The thought of Heather reminds me of my views on you and I clam up. I know you notice the change in me, the way I go from hot to cold with you within seconds.

‘It’s only temporary though, the leave. Pending an investigation into my conduct,’ you put on the formal voice.

I read between the lines. ‘You’re suspended.’

‘They’re calling it gardening leave.’

‘For how long?’

‘One month. You?’

‘A year.’

You suck in air. ‘What did you do to get that?’

‘It’s not a prison sentence. I didn’t
do
anything. It’s so I don’t work for the competition.’

You study me in the long silence it takes me to gather my composure. ‘So what are you going to do?’

‘I have a few ideas.’ I say. ‘It’s good to have the year to think about them.’ I do not believe one word of what I have just said. ‘What about you?’

‘I’ll go back to it when I get the all-clear. I have a radio show.’

I look at you to see if you’re joking, but you’re not. I’d have thought you would assume everyone knows who you are, that you wear your name on your chest like a badge of honour – though I’m unsure as to where the honour would lie – but you’re not joking. You have not assumed that I know who you are. I like this about you, and it makes me dislike you more. You can’t win.

‘I’m aware of your show.’ I say this in such a disapproving voice that you chuckle in that chesty, wheezy cigarette laugh.

‘I knew it!’

‘You knew what?’

‘That’s the reason you are the way you are with me. Uptight. Edgy. Always on the defensive.’

If my friends were to describe me, these are not the words they would use. I am taken aback to hear myself described as such. I don’t like it that someone would think that of me, and for some reason I don’t want you to think that of me, though that is exactly how I have portrayed myself. I had forgotten that you wouldn’t know this isn’t how I always am; you wouldn’t understand the effort I have to make, deviating from the real me in order to be positively rude to you. My friends would say I’m a free spirit; I always do my own thing, never dance to the beat of anybody else’s drum, never have. They might say I’m headstrong, stubborn, at the worst, but they would only know the free-and-easy side of me, whereas you bring out the worst in me.

‘You’re not a fan.’

‘You better believe I’m not a fan,’ I say, hot-headed again.

‘Which one insulted you?’ You pop a nicotine gum into your mouth.

‘What do you mean?’ My heart pounds. After all these years, we are actually here, at the point where I can explain. Here we are. My mind works overtime to find the words to explain how you have hurt me.

‘Which show? Which issue? What did I say that you didn’t agree with? You know, I have an instinct for listeners who hate the show. As soon as I walk into a room, I can tell whether someone’s a fan or not. My sixth sense. It’s the way they look at me.’

Your arrogance disturbs me. Trust you to take a negative – people hating you – and turn it into a positive. ‘Maybe it’s you and not the show,’ I say.

‘You see, that’s the kind of thing I’m talking about.’ You smile and click your fingers. ‘
That
kind of underhand comment. It’s not me, Jasmine. It’s the show. I lead the discussion. It doesn’t represent my personal views. I invite guests on air for the debate.’

‘You stir it up.’

‘I have to. That’s what gets them calling in. Gets the debate going.’

‘And you think these debates are necessary?’ I say. I’ve stopped walking and we’re standing face to face outside Steven’s house, where the lawn has disappeared beneath a mass of flowers and gifts, teddy bears, candles and handwritten cards. ‘It’s not as if your show does anything to educate people about the facts. All you do is invite a bunch of lunatics on to vent their oppressive, racist, uneducated opinions.’

You look at me seriously. ‘Every person, every voice on there is real. They represent what real people in this country are thinking. I think people need to hear that. It’s no good spending all your time with your politically correct friends, thinking the world is a wonderful open and understanding place, only to turn up at the voting booths and suddenly discover it’s not. Our show gives everyone a voice. As a result of our show, some of these issues have been discussed in the Dáil: bullying, same-sex marriage, we’ve closed down dangerous nursing homes, crèches …’ you start to list things off on your fingers.

‘You seriously think you’re doing the country a service?’ I ask, flabbergasted. ‘Surely that only applies if it’s a decent debate. Not when it’s idiots who are half drunk, or high, or who’ve escaped a lunatic asylum. Allowing those people to air their opinions is a good thing? They should be silenced, if anything.’

‘Good idea, Kim Jong-un. Free speech bad,’ you say, clearly annoyed.

‘Perhaps you should invite him on your show – give the man a chance to share his fine opinions. Anyway, from what the newspapers are saying, it sounds as if your show isn’t coming back on air,’ I say, chin high in the air and walking up the pathway to the front door, hoping that will silence him, that I can get the last word in. My final bitchy, defensive, edgy, uptight comment.

‘Oh, it is. Bob and me are like that.’ You hold up your crossed fingers. ‘Bob’s head of radio, he’s been with me since the start. He’s only doing this to follow procedure. Wouldn’t look right if he didn’t. When a show gets as many complaints as we did, you have to go through the motions.’

‘You must be so proud,’ I say, pressing the doorbell.

‘I really must have pissed you off something good,’ you say, your breath close to my ear. When I look at you, your eyes are twinkling mischievously. It occurs to me that you like it that I dislike you, and in a sick way, I do too. Disliking you has given me something to focus on. Disliking you has become my full-time job.

Suddenly the door opens and a woman with red eyes, a red nose, crumpled tissues in hand answers. She recognises you straight away, seems delighted and honoured to find you at her door, and quickly ushers you inside. This baffles me – don’t people hear what I hear? You are gentlemanly enough to let me enter first.

Inside, the kitchen is filled with people standing around engaging in long silences that are occasionally broken up by small talk, reminiscing and nervous laughter. The table is overflowing with food: lasagne, cakes and sandwiches that neighbours have dropped by. We are shown through to the living room, where a man sits alone in an armchair staring out the window. The walls are filled with professional studio photographs of the young family: black-and-white portraits of Steven, Rebecca and Lily. Mummy and Daddy in black polo necks against a white backdrop, little Lily in a pretty white dress, glowing under studio lights like an angel, showing a big smile with tiny teeth. One of Lily holding a lollipop, one of Lily twirling, one of Lily laughing, one of Lily sticking her tongue out while Mummy and Daddy look on, big smiles on their faces.

I recognise Steven from the photos and as someone I see regularly around the area, in the supermarket, butcher’s, jogging along the bay …

‘Matt,’ he says, standing up and offering you a hug.

‘I’m so sorry, Steven,’ you say, and you both hold the hug for a long time. Close badminton buddies. I look around and then stare at the floor awkwardly while I wait.

‘This is my neighbour, Jasmine. She lives around the corner, on my street.’

‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ I say, offering my hand, which he takes.

‘Thank you,’ he says solemnly. ‘You’re a friend of Rebecca’s?’

‘I … No … Actually …’ I feel silly. I’m not sure where to start. Perhaps this was a mistake. I’m not sure. The responsibility I felt earlier has waned and now I feel like an intruder. The woman who answered the door is in the room too and all eyes are on me. ‘I saw them both yesterday afternoon at three p.m. In the Marine Hotel.’

He looks confused. He turns to the woman. She looks confused.

They both look at me. They don’t believe me.

‘I’m not sure they were there …’ he says, frowning.

‘Lily was having a hot chocolate. “Hot choc stop,” she called it.’

He smiles, covers his mouth and chin with his hand and sits on the arm of the chair.

‘She was in great spirits. Rebecca couldn’t stop laughing. I could hear her as soon as I walked into the lobby. Lily was trying to make a toast.’

He looks at the woman, who I now understand to be his sister; I can see the likeness. ‘Because of the party last week, Beth,’ he says, and she nods happily, her eyes filling. Steven looks back at me, his face open, gentle, eager for more to come from my mouth. You are watching me too and that is slightly off-putting, I don’t know why you make me so nervous, but I try to ignore that you’re there and speak only to Steven. The more I look at him, the more I see the resemblance to Lily in his blonde lashes and his elfin face. So I stand there, a complete stranger in his home, and I tell him about her toast, about her many toasts, about the conversation she and her mother were having, about the conversation I had with her. I tell him every single thing that I can remember. I stress the laughter, the happiness, the utter joy of their last hour together before they got in the car and began the journey to visit Rebecca’s parents on that stormy day. I tell it because I would want to know.

Steven absorbs it all, almost as though he’s in a trance yet taking in every word I’m saying, studying me as I say it, probably trying to figure out if I’m for real, hoping that I am, then eventually believing that I am. He watches my eyes, my lips, and when he thinks I’m not looking runs his eyes over me. And then when I’m finished there is silence and it probably seems to him that they have been killed again, as they go from being present to suddenly gone. His face crumples and he breaks down. I freeze, not knowing what to do, wanting to comfort him but knowing it’s not my place. His sister steps in instead. You pat him on the shoulder and leave the room. I follow, feeling like a spare part, feeling awkward; my every move is mechanical, I’m convinced I’ve made a mistake in coming here and sharing what I shared, but I’m not sure. I want you to reassure me, but at the same time I don’t want reassurance to come from you.

Once outside, you discard the nicotine gum and light a cigarette. My face burns crimson as we walk and you don’t say anything the entire way home. When we stop outside my house, you look at me and maybe you sense my inner turmoil, or maybe you see my discomfort, or perhaps my face is a picture of the despair that I feel, because your eyes linger for a moment, your handsome face studying mine, soft, caring, still curious and studious as it always is, trying to figure things out, as if I’m a puzzle, but a humorous one.

You stub out your cigarette. ‘I’d have wanted to know too,’ you say. ‘That was nice.’ You reach out and squeeze my shoulder.

I realise I’ve been holding my breath the entire way and finally release it. The relief I feel surprises me;
you
have done that to me, you count to me, but this jars with what I have always felt about you.

‘Jasmine!’ A familiar voice breaks into my thoughts and I spin around to see Heather sitting on my front porch. She stands up and makes her way over to us.

My head swirls as I realise that you are about to come face to face with the person I have tried to protect against you all of my adult life.

13

One Sunday a month Heather’s circle of support meets. We have had these meetings ever since she was a teenager; in fact, Mum was the person who set all this up and even while she was undergoing treatment she continued to attend, no matter how sick she was. Even when I was a teenager and had better things to be doing with my time, she insisted that I come along. Although I didn’t appreciate it at the time, I am now glad that I did, because when Mum passed away I knew exactly how things were run and what direction they needed to go in. Person-centred planning is a group of people who meet together regularly to help somebody achieve what they would like to do in their lives. Heather is in charge of who she wants to invite and what she wants to talk about. We talk about Heather’s PATH – Planning Alternative Tomorrows with Hope – we talk about her dreams, how she could achieve these dreams, what is going on in her life and what are the next steps she needs to take. We talk about making her dreams a reality.