Pack Up the Moon (7 page)

“Please stop wearing John’s deodorant. It smells like shit on you and it’s weird.”

“Point taken,” I agreed, sad but relieved. “To tell you the truth, it gives me a rash.”

We sat in silence, listening to the stereo, and after a while I asked her if she still thought about her father. She thought for a minute before she answered.

“Every now and then,” she said, before going on to tell me that, although he had been gone a long time and she hadn’t really known him, once in a while she’d see someone walking down the street or she’d find a picture of him or see

a re-run of a show that her mom said he’d liked and when

she did it made her smile. It wasn’t much to hold on to but it seemed to be enough. She told me that her mom said the pain goes. I recalled my vague memory of her crying in her bunny slippers and the doctor taking her screaming mother

upstairs all those years ago. I still couldn’t imagine the pain in my chest ever subsiding, and somewhere deep down I didn’t want it to. She was right, she didn’t have the magic words, but what she did say helped a lot.

The Bodyguard and the Graveyard

John was dead six weeks. I had promised Clo that I would visit Sean, but I had been putting it off. I was thinking about him as I drove home from school. Declan was sitting beside me in the car searching through my tapes

and slagging off my taste. I was attempting to stand up for myself, but failed miserably when he pulled out Meatloaf and held it up.

“You’re not serious? Meatloaf? He’s cack.”

I couldn’t deny it but of course I tried.

“He’s great. It’s a great album, full of songs that …” I had nowhere to go and it was obvious. I gave in. “OK, fine, he’s cack,” and tried to explain that it was a phase.

“Really?” he said, still holding up the tape. “What phase was that? The vomit phase?”

I laughed but stopped suddenly when he pulled out

the soundtrack to The Bodyguard.

He shook his head from side to side and I nodded,

embarrassed. Nothing was said as we both knew there was no defence. I dropped him to his door. He got out of the car.

“Hey, Miss, tomorrow I’m going to introduce you to some real music.”

He legged it up the path and I made a mental note to

buy Paracetamol.

*

I was sitting at home alone. Clo was on a date with Mark, the client who kept sending her flowers. Anne and Richard were at some fundraiser and I was bored. I picked up my keys from the coffee table and played with them for a few

minutes before grabbing my coat and heading for the

door. As I approached, the doorbell rang. I opened it instantly. Sean was standing there.

“Hi,” he said and then he noticed I was holding my coat. “You’re going out. I’m sorry, I should have phoned.”

I was really happy to see him. I smiled and told him that I was on my way to see him. He brightened and came in. I made coffee and he sat at the counter. He was uncomfortable and apologised for his distance. I told him it was OK, that I understood.

“I did phone a few times but when —”

“I know,” I interrupted and put his coffee down in front of him, trying not to spill it, but my hand was shaking slightly. I sat opposite him and continued. “I just needed some time. It was selfish —”

“No, that’s not true!”

But I was determined to make things right. “You lost him too …”

I wanted to continue and apologise, but he took my hand and squeezed it.

“I was afraid I’d lost both of you,” he said.

“Me too,” I stammered.

Neither of us mentioned the mistaken kiss. It was too complicated, too embarrassing, too sad and too pathetic. Neither of us spoke about our guilt, but it was impossible to ignore it as it was painted into every facial expression.

If I hadn’t gone back inside for the lighter. If I hadn’t leaned down to kiss him. If he hadn’t told me I was beautiful. If I hadn’t dawdled, too embarrassed to move. Our lips met and John had died.

Sitting together was strange, unfamiliar. All that had gone before was dead and buried with John. We had to find a new way to communicate. I was no longer Sean’s best friend’s girlfriend. I was just me and of course we had a bond, the kind that is built up over time. We’d shared so much throughout college and now our adult lives, but I’m not sure either of us knew if it was enough to hold on to. We would have to start again with one another, a new playing field. Our comfy and safe flirtation was now behind us, our link now missing.

I made tea and we sat in silence.

“I was drunk,” he said after a long time.

Oh God, he’s talking about it.

“We all were,” I said after a time.

“I shouldn’t have kept you,” he mumbled.

“I can’t talk about it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”

He was welling up. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t bear to see him broken. I wanted to hug him but couldn’t.

What would John think?

“I heard a good joke the other day,” I said hopefully. He wiped his tears and looked at me strangely. “Yeah?” he said.

“Yeah,” I agreed, hoping I’d get it right.

“Go on then,” he encouraged.

“A young girl is lying in her bed in the Rotunda hospital. The old nun comes up to her and asks her for the name of

her newborn baby’s father. The girl says she doesn’t know his name. The nun is puzzled and asks her why not and the girl says, ‘Listen, sister, if you ate a can of beans would you know which one made you fart?”

Sean laughed. I smiled. It was funnier when Declan told it.

“Who told you that?” he asked.

“A kid from my class — you’d like him. He reminds me of. .” I didn’t finish.

He smiled.

He looked tired. Black circles ringed his brown eyes making them unusually dull. His skin looked dry and sore, hidden under three days of stubble. He’d lost weight, so much so that his clothes looked big on him. He scratched at his new growth absentmindedly.

“Do you want to go and visit him?” he asked. “I can’t,” I said. “Not yet.”

Over our fourth cup of coffee the void was closing. We managed to find our neutral ground. We spoke about a movie coming out and the actor who had been caught

with his dick in a prostitute’s mouth. Somehow this led to a conversation about a nasty case of crabs he’d picked

up a few years ago.

“I thought my dick would fall off,” he confessed. Somehow Sean with an itchy dick amused me. “Did you tell John?”

“Yeah.”

“He never said anything.”

“I made him swear,” he said.

“So where’d you get them?” I asked, delighted by the diversion.

“Candyapple.”

“Brian!” I exhaled.

“Yeah, Brian,” he laughed.

He stayed until after nine. We watched an episode of The Bill together. It was nice watching TV with someone. When he was at the door I asked him to take care of

himself and stop drowning his sorrows in drink and drugs, and to eat. He maintained that he was already on the road to recovery. I wasn’t so sure. We hugged and it wasn’t weird. We agreed to look out for one another because we were

friends.

I had lied. I was ready to see John. In fact, I had planned to go to the graveyard the very next evening and

I needed to be alone. I had bought a little rose bush to plant. John wasn’t a particular fan of roses but it looked pretty in the shop. It was Doreen who gave me the idea. She maintained that sometimes it helped to have

something to do. I thought it was a good idea and even if I hadn’t, she had me in the car and on the way to the garden nursery before I could back out.

“When in doubt dig a hole,” she said, while Elton John sang about a rocket man on the radio. “I saw Sean on Grafton Street. the other day. He looks terrible.”

“He’s fine.”

“Oh, I don’t know — he was drinking a lot during the funeral. You’d want to watch him.”

I was concerned, but didn’t mention that Clo had the same fears.

“I’m sure he’s fine, Dor. We all have our ways of coping.” “Getting locked isn’t coping, darlin’.”

“He said he was taking care of himself.”

“I hope so,” she said, patting my knee.

“Me too,” I mumbled.

*

It was raining again. I was walking around in circles trying to find John’s grave. I found myself walking across strangers’ resting places in an attempt to shorten the journey. The reality of what I was doing only dawned on me when I

tripped on a wreath on the grave of a woman named

Mary Moore. I jumped off.

“Sorry, Mary, I didn’t think.”

I walked on, using the moss-filled pathway that surely

would be my own end. I’m going to slip and break my sodding

neck. I bitched at myself for wearing high heels. As if John would notice.

Eventually, after checking nearly every gravestone in Section D, I found him. It was weird. Suddenly I was standing alone in front of a sodden pile of soil covering a

box and in that box lay John, his fair hair still spiked with gel the way he liked it. His eyes closed, his beautiful face relaxed, his mouth a thin line. I didn’t know what to do. It was like a job interview where the interviewer refuses

to speak. I stood in the rain for a long time. I could feel

my trousers sticking to my legs. The pointed toes of my leather high-heeled boots were curling.

Damn, I love these boots. I shouldn’t think. about hoots. I’m here with John. Concentrate.

Doreen had been right: the tree was a fantastic idea. The rain had softened the ground. I took the little garden shovel from my bag and began to dig a hole and while I

dug I found chatting easier. I no longer pretended that he was still here. I chatted as one would to a dead person. I was over the denial. I was mostly over the anger and I had bargained enough in the hospital to last a lifetime.

“Doreen’s worried about Sean. So is Clo. I think Anne is too — she mentioned him twice yesterday on the phone. He’s been drinking a lot, smoking too. I told Dor he’d be fine, but I’m not sure.” I was having difficulty, having hit rock. “Clo’s fine. She’s met someone — his name is Mark. He works in a garage. Apparently he’s very attractive. I haven’t seen him yet. He sounds nice. I hope it works out.”

I stopped talking for a moment to concentrate on

levering the rock out of its comfy spot. “Got ya!” I was talking to the rock. I fit the rose bush into the hole I’d just created. It fitted perfectly. Now all I had to do was cover it over and, bingo, a lovely rose bush.

“Anne thought she was pregnant. She wasn’t. She says she’s glad. I think she’s upset though”. I felt a pang of guilt. I hadn’t been ready but that’s all over now.

The tree was suddenly lopsided.

“Crap!” I tried to straighten it, catching my finger on a thorn. “Ow! Stupid bloody tree!” I began removing some of the soil while pushing at the tree gently. “Noel’s quiet these days. He’s kind of distant. I think he feels guilty,

God turning out to be a total bastard and all.” I could hear John laughing in my head. “He’s different since you left, but then I suppose we all are.”

The tree began to right itself. I held it while packing the soil around it to ensure it held.

“I’m fine. That doesn’t mean I don’t miss you. I miss you all the time. Wasn’t there a song called ‘Without You I’m Nothing’? Maybe it was a book, or a film. I can’t remember. Anyway, without you I’m nothing. I’m fine though. But I’ve no idea where I’m going or what I’m doing. Jesus, I’m not even sure if I know who I am. It doesn’t matter though. I’m fine.”

The earth felt solid around the rose bush. I stood up to survey my work.

“It looks good. I bet it’ll be lovely in the summer. I’m thinking about putting fencing around your grave. You wouldn’t believe the amount of people who walk on the

graves around here.”

I left soon after. I hadn’t cried. I hadn’t even moaned — well, not really. I had been strong. It was a good thing to do. I was a survivor just like my dad had told me I’d be. I walked to the car with my shovel in hand.

I’m terrified.

Mania

For three months my mother and Anne were vying for

the world record in how many times a day they could

phone me. Eventually after I threatened to cut my phone line, they stopped. It was time to pick up the pieces and move on, but the problem was there was still the issue of the driver.

A simple blood test had revealed the driver to be sober, unlike his victim. An inquest revealed that the driver had been going at a reasonable speed but when John, drunk and stoned, had stepped out in front of him, he was unable to brake because the brakes on the car he had had

serviced that day were faulty. A further investigation was leading to a possible conviction for the mechanic who

had supposedly serviced the car. I didn’t know who these people were and I didn’t want to. I wasn’t like those people you read about, desperate for justice. How could the imprisonment of some unknown mechanic make up

for a life? I didn’t feel the need for redemption through someone else’s misery. It was easier to convince myself that it was just a random, terrible accident.

My mother was confounded. She felt that I couldn’t move on until the person responsible had paid for their

crime. I felt I couldn’t move on unless I let go of recriminations or maybe I felt John and I were as responsible

as the mechanic, the driver. We all had our part to play.

The driver did not feel like I did. The driver did not want to leave well enough alone. He needed to communicate. He needed John’s parents and me, the girl who he had watched cry over the dying man, to know that he was so very sorry. He had spoken to John’s mother at the inquest. He managed to shake John’s father’s hand, but I had not gone and he desperately needed closure.

I picked up the letter from the mat inside my front

door. It had probably been there a week before I bothered to lean down to retrieve it and the various bills and bloody