No Way to Say Goodbye (33 page)

“Pity,” she said.

“Sorry.”

“Can’t win them all,” she said cheerfully. “Is Ivan still seeing that hotel girl?”

“No.”

“Right,” she said. “Well, watch this space! After all, every dog has his day!” She laughed uproariously. She waved and she was gone.

He turned away to find Mary standing behind him. “You shouldn’t be here,” he told her.

“I’m going straight home to bed.” She still felt weak.

“How’s Penny? Any word?”

“She’s still hanging in there but they won’t let me talk to her.”

“It’s not unusual. It’ll work out.”

“I know I’ve seen you but I miss you,” she said.

“I miss you too.” He looked sad.

“Maybe you could come for your dinner tomorrow?”

“We’ll see how you are.”

He seemed distant and she didn’t want to push it. “OK,” she agreed, and then she, like Paula, was gone.

Penny was allowed to make one phone call at the end of a very long week. It had begun with urine and blood tests that revealed Penny hadn’t a moderate dependence but was a high risk for delirium tremens. She didn’t know what the doctor was saying – it was all Greek to her.

“The DTs,” he explained, and went on to outline what she might be in for over the next three to four days. He mentioned confusion.

I think I’m already there
.

Agitation was also possible.

Stop drumming your fingers, Penn
.

Disturbances of memory came next.

Not necessarily a bad thing
.

Hallucinations. He ticked his page again.

Just another Saturday night
.

Fever appeared on the list.

You give me fever.

The doctor informed her that she might experience high blood pressure and/or seizures.

“My grandmother died of a stroke,” she said.

“We’ll be keeping a close eye on you,” he promised.

The headache started on day two, and it was worse than any hangover she’d ever had. The fever kicked in that afternoon. Her heart-rate increased and she felt nauseous and dizzy.

“You’re doing really well,” the nurse said.

“Easy for you to say,” she said, to both of the woman’s heads.

Day three was even tougher. She lost track of time. Her eyes leaked something that felt like pus and her body shook. The seizure took hold that evening but Penny was so out of it she had to be told about the incident rather than having any memory of it. By day four she was over the worst. She still had the symptoms but they were milder and the IV fluids and tranquillizers were helping. She had been allowed out of her bed on days four, five and six.

Now, a week on, she sat in a hospital corridor dialling a number she hadn’t dialled in a long time. She figured she’d have to leave a message and was quite surprised when her mother answered. “Hello,” she’d said breezily, as though she’d expected a call.

“Mum,” Penny said, “it’s me, Penny.”

“Penny! It’s been an age, darling. How are you?”

“Fine,” she said.

“Good,” her mother replied. “Your father was only talking about you last week, saying we should all get together soon. There’s a Law Society function in a few weeks and we’ve got a spare ticket.” She laughed. “There’s a few tasty treats attending, I don’t mind saying!”

“I’m not looking for a man,” Penny said.

“Of course not – let them look for you. Right? How’s all in Kenmare? I really am sorry we got rid of the house but who knew then that bloody prices would soar?”

“Mum.”

“Yes, dear?”

“I’m an alcoholic,” Penny said, for the third time that day.

“What?” Her normally unflappable mother sounded a little flustered.

“I’m in a hospital in Dublin.”

“Good God!”

“Mum?”

“Yes?”

“Do you love me?”

Her mother took a moment to answer. As a solicitor, she was trained to absorb all the information in a case before she responded. “Is this our fault?” she asked.

“No. It’s mine. I just want to know.”

“Of course I do. You’re my child. I may not be Mary Poppins but I love you with everything in me.”

“Mum?”

“Yes.”

“Can we try to talk more?”

“Absolutely.” Her mother sounded a little shell-shocked.

“Good,” Penny said, relieved.

“Do you want us to come and see you?”

“No, but thanks for asking.” She smiled to herself.

“I love you. Your father loves you.”

“Thanks, Mum,” Penny said. She put down the phone and went back to her room.

In the short time Norma had been home she had slipped back into the centre of Ivan’s life, ably assisted by her children. Her intention was not to get in the way – on the contrary – but her mere presence had already ended his burgeoning relationship with Sienna. Norma had been upset by this news but he had told her it had nothing to do with her homecoming: the relationship had simply run its course. He had known that Norma living under his roof, roaming the corridors in a nightgown and making breakfast while his new girlfriend was ringing the bell, like a kid wanting a friend to come out and play, was never going to work. But he had asked his wife to stay because that was best for his kids.

His mother watched Ivan’s wife entwine herself into the fabric of his life and worried for her son. She asked Norma to join her for a coffee in Jam on the pretext of catching up. Norma was no fool and prepared herself for her mother-in-law’s interrogation over tea and scones.

“I see you’re doing his washing now?” Sheila said, having witnessed Norma separating Ivan’s dark from white smalls.

“Well, I might as well, seeing as I’m doing my own and the kids’.”

“He’ll miss that when you go.”

“I’m sure he’ll cope.” Norma smiled.

“I wish I was. He had a nice thing going with Sienna.”

“He said it had run its course.”

“He lied,” his mother said. “Norma?”

“Yes?”

“He has strong feelings for that girl. He might even love her but he would still take you back in the morning.”

“You’re so sure?”

“He’ll do what he thinks is best for his family. I’m his mother, and I know.”

“What do you want me to say?” Norma asked, taken aback.

“Say you’ll do nothing to hurt him. The first time I’ll forgive, the second I won’t,” Sheila said, and smiled at a passer-by.

“I won’t hurt him,” Norma promised.

“Good. I’ll hold you to that.”

Mossy was frying steak and onions when the bell rang. Sam stood at the front door, nervous and a little shaky.

“You look like a dead man,” Mossy said, without concern.

The door swung open and Sam followed him inside. “I’m wondering if you have anything to buy,” he said.

Mossy lit a cigarette and resumed cooking. “Be specific.”

“Drugs.”

“I thought you were clean,” Mossy said, turning to stare at him.

Sam’s legs were threatening to give way. He sat down on a hard chair with his head in his hands. “I am. I just haven’t been sleeping. I need to sleep,” he said, in a voice that almost begged.

“I don’t sell,” Mossy said.

“Please,” Sam muttered.

Mossy took his pan off the heat. He ran his fingers through his hair, taking time to scratch his head. “All I’ve ever done is hash,” he said.

“OK,” Sam said.

“I don’t feel good about this.”

“It’s just hash. I want to sleep.”

“I’ll give you enough for two joints and then you’re on your own.”

“Thanks.”

Mossy cut a small piece from his stash, took out some papers and two cigarettes. “I suppose you know how to roll?”

“Yes.”

“Right so,” Mossy said. He handed Sam the contraband.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Mossy said. “We both know you’re fucking yourself up.”

Sam left without another word.

Mary lay on the sofa with Mr Monkels’s head on her lap. She had drifted into sleep during
That ’70s Show
but woke an hour later with panic rising. Everything within her told her to go next door. She lifted Mr Monkels off her legs. He moaned and moved to take up the entire sofa.

She knocked on Sam’s door but received no answer. She knocked on the window and still nothing. She knew Sam was inside and every fibre of her screamed that something was wrong. She went back into her own home. In the kitchen she opened the french windows. She fetched a chair and dragged it outside. She placed it against the wall and levered herself over and into her neighbour’s garden. The back door was open. She slipped into the empty kitchen. She went to the sitting room but he was not there. Upstairs, his bedroom door was open, but the room was empty. The bathroom door was closed. She tried to open it, but it was locked.

“Sam!” she called.

“Go away.”

“No!”

“Please go away!”

“Come out!” she said.

“I can’t,” he said. She heard him flick a lighter.

“Sam, please don’t give up!”

“I’m not strong like you.”

“I’m not strong like me! Please come out!” She sensed his terror – and that he wanted to tell her something desperately but didn’t know where to start. She sat on the floor, leaning against the door. “Just tell me,” she said, after the longest time.

“I can’t,” he said, as though he’d been expecting the question.

“Why?”

“Because you’ll hate me.”

“I’ve never told anyone this.” She took a deep breath. “I wanted to have an abortion,” she said. “That night on the mountain I told Robert I was pregnant and I wanted an abortion. He wanted to keep it. We argued and he died. When I woke up full of baby, I hated it. I wished it would die. Every day in that hospital and through rehab and right up until he was born I wished my son would die.” Tears streamed from her eyes. “And then he did die… Do you hate me?” she asked.

“No. That wasn’t your fault.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

Sam was silent for a minute or two, but Mary waited and her patience paid off. “It was the night I overdosed,” he said.

She sat perfectly still, afraid that the slightest stir would stall the tale.

“There was this dealer, a guy I knew from school. I’d bumped into him a few weeks before. He was a junkie too. He sold to feed his own habit. He was a
loser
! He’d said he’d fix me up if I ever got stuck. My guy had been lying low. I didn’t want to use him. I fucking hated him but I was desperate. I went to his place. He lived in some shithole in the Bronx on the third floor. It took a while to make the stairs. I hadn’t banged up in a while.”

Sam was talking to Mary from the bathroom floor in a little cottage in Ireland but right then he was in a dank apartment block on 233rd Street. He was walking up the stairs, his legs aching. The damn lift was broken, which was typical. He had an abscess on his foot at the point where he injected. It burst on the second floor.
Fuck!
He got to the third and smelt piss. He felt sick but he knew if he could make it to 56C he’d be OK. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He was pissed as the asshole had sworn he’d be waiting. He knocked again, harder and with urgency. He would have broken the door down but suddenly it swung open.

He entered a room. The kitchen merged with the bedroom, which was also the sitting room. The bathroom was a tiny cubicle off the kitchen. He knew it was the bathroom because of the shit stench coming from it. The guy was sitting on the sofa with his back to him. Sam called from the door. He noticed the paint peeling down the walls and the frayed furniture from a different era, which didn’t meld with the large-screen TV and hi-fi system in the corner. He called again but the guy just sat there. He closed the door behind him. He was annoyed that the fucker thought it OK to ignore him.

Then he was facing him. The guy’s skin was a translucent blue against deep purple lips. A needle was stuck in his arm, which was bent and ready to receive. The elastic was tight around his forearm. His eyes were open and he was hunched as though the end had come in a second.

Sam took a chair and sat close to absorb every detail, as though the dead man was some sort of macabre museum piece.

“Oh, my God!” Sam heard Mary say. He hadn’t spared her the graphic details. Why should he? He wanted her to know. She needed to know what a rotten degenerate he really was. She deserved a fair chance to run.

“After that I robbed him of his stash. I closed the door good and tight and left him to rot.”
No more than he deserved
.

“Jesus!” he heard her mumble.

“But just as I was leaving I heard something. I could have sworn I heard him take a breath. It was barely audible and there was no movement when I stared back at him – but I was sure I heard something. An hour or two later I was choking on my own vomit in my Manhattan penthouse.” He spoke as though the story had ended.

“I don’t understand.”

“I lived. He died. What’s not to understand?”

“Why didn’t you call an ambulance?” she asked.

He laughed as though she’d told a joke. “Why would I?” he asked bitterly.

“But if he was still breathing?”

“Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t.” A tear slipped down his face.

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

“I was a drug addict in a dealer’s apartment.”

“Why did you leave him to rot?”

“Because that’s what he deserved!” he shouted.

“Why?”

“
Because I wanted him dead!
”

“Why?”

“I despised him.” He got up and walked to the bathroom door.

“Why?”

He leaned against the door.

“Why?” she repeated.

He opened the door and she fell back a little. “You know what the worst thing is?”

“No,” she whispered.

“When I left him I had a fucking smile on my face.” He walked past her and into his bedroom.

“Why?” she called.
Tell me!

He turned to her. “You don’t understand. I’m so full of hate, Mary, I rattle with it. Fucking Topher!” He mumbled the last words and fell onto his bed.

She flushed the joint and pocketed the lighter. She sat on the floor at the end of his bed.

“Go home.”