The Last Days of Rabbit Hayes (20 page)

‘You cry all you want to,’ Grace said.

‘I’m done,’ Rabbit said, then asked the question that was on everyone’s mind. ‘Juliet?’

‘We need to tell her, Rabbit,’ Molly said.

‘Davey’s organized a meeting tomorrow at Ma’s to talk about who’s going to take her and, don’t you worry, everyone wants her,’ Grace said.

Rabbit nodded and bit her lip. ‘Davey did that?’

‘He was very assertive,’ Grace said.

‘Good for him.’ Rabbit addressed her mother: ‘Can we wait just another day before telling her?’

‘Of course.’

‘If I get worse . . .’

‘I know, love,’ Molly said.

‘OK.’

They fell into silence again. ‘“Ma, Ma, I think I’m dying,”’ Grace repeated, with a big grin. ‘Jaysus, Ma, another classic.’

Molly looked at Rabbit for a signal. Rabbit’s grin was enough. ‘The other day I told her the bath was big enough to drown in,’ Molly said sheepishly.

Rabbit and Grace were laughing when Juliet popped her head around the door. ‘Where are the boys?’

‘They’ve been in and gone,’ Grace said.

‘Oh,’ she said, coming in and taking a seat by her mother. ‘Quick.’

‘But memorable,’ Rabbit said, and Grace laughed.

‘All right, yous are all acting strange but that’s OK. It’s been a strange day,’ Juliet said.

‘I heard,’ Rabbit said, and squeezed her daughter’s hand. ‘I bet it’s a good story.’

‘Oh, it’s a story,’ Juliet agreed, much to her mother’s enjoyment.

When everyone had gone home, Rabbit lay in bed attempting to make peace with her imminent demise. She wasn’t angry or even that frustrated. She wasn’t scared or worried. She wasn’t bitter or vengeful. She was just sad to leave the people she loved most, especially her daughter. She had fought for so long, but finally she knew that she couldn’t go on. It was hard to have to say goodbye to life, with its ups and downs and all the things that made it beautiful. Marjorie was on her mind. She wished her friend was in a happier place and in a relationship. Rabbit’s death wouldn’t hit so hard if she had someone’s shoulder to cry on. She briefly daydreamed about bringing Davey and Marjorie together; it would be a fairy-tale ending of sorts. Rabbit pops her clogs and Davey pops the question; they’d adopt Juliet and live happily ever after. She laughed to herself as she remembered Sister Francine’s stark warning to her when she was sixteen and had dared to admit her scepticism in religion class: ‘It’s easy to turn your back on the Lord when the going is good, but wait till you’re on your deathbed, my girl. Then you’ll go looking for Him and I hope it won’t be too late.’ The way Sister Francine had said ‘I hope it won’t be too late’ implied not only that she hoped it
would
be too late but that she’d be disappointed if it wasn’t. Sister Francine had been pushing eighty back then, so she was long dead.
Pity. I’d love to give her a call and tell her I’m dying and still not looking for the Lord, so screw you, penguin. We can all be bitchy, Sister F
.

When she looked back on her life, she had no regrets. Well, maybe a few, but overall she had done her best, and she wouldn’t change anything, except maybe leaving for America when Johnny had told her to go. Maybe if she had stayed, things would have worked out differently, although, either way, by the time she got on the flight to JFK she had lost him anyway. The things she regretted were in the future she’d never have. She regretted not being around for Juliet, never finding another love and not finishing the book based on her blog. She regretted not putting more money away for Juliet’s education and basic needs, and leaving the burden of that on her family. She wondered why she wasn’t angry. It was all so unfair. Maybe it was because she was so tired.

‘Have you any pain?’ Jacinta asked, changing her patch.

‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

‘You’re coming in and out.’

‘I was mean to you last night. I’m sorry,’ Rabbit said.

‘No, you weren’t.’

‘I was rude.’

‘You were in agony. I’ve had to deal with way worse than you,’ Jacinta said.

‘How long do I have left, Jacinta?’

‘It’s hard to say.’

‘Not long, though.’

‘Probably not.’

‘But it’s hard to say.’

‘Exactly.’

‘I have no pain,’ Rabbit said.

‘Good,’ Jacinta said. ‘Sleep well, Rabbit.’ But Rabbit was already gone.

4 December 2009

S Is for Shitting Yourself

I haven’t been writing for a while. Chemo has a way of making death seem like a holiday. So here’s a list of my side effects in alphabetical order: abdominal pain, acid reflux, bruising, chest pain and chills, dry mouth and diarrhoea. Nothing in the Es, so moving on to F: flu-like syndrome and fatigue; nothing I through L, but under M, memory loss, mouth sores, then numbness, skip O, pain under P, rash under R, skip to V for vomiting and finishing off with W for weight loss. X, Y and Z are letting the side down. Other than that, chemo is a breeze.

Juliet’s being great. She’s reading about cancer foods on the net and insisting that we juice. We produced a green concoction that made her throw up through her nose last week, and when she stopped gagging and crying, she said, ‘Ma, at least you’re not vomiting alone.’ The thing is as bad as it gets – and, trust me, with constant heartburn, bad breath, vomiting, shitting yourself and forgetting where the clean pants are kept, it gets bad – but I’ve never felt alone. My mother is on the phone morning, noon and night, and when she’s not on the phone, she’s in my house, cleaning, cooking and giving out about deaf Annie next door.

‘Who in the hell watches daytime TV at that level? There’s fucking discos that are quieter than that auld one’s sitting room.’

She’s banged on the wall a few times and threatened Armageddon, but if deaf Annie heard her she doesn’t let on, she just waves and smiles and shouts about the weather every time they pass each other on the street. Grace is always here, and when my mother isn’t cleaning she is. She tries to cook and it’s appreciated (mostly by nextdoor’s Husky and deaf Annie’s three cats). My dad has learned to text just so that we can talk even when my buzzing head aches too much to speak. Davey Skypes and sends care packages from various spas around the world. The last one was from India and smelt of rotten eggs. It’s in the garden shed only because it’s too expensive to throw out but definitely not expensive enough to try.

Marjorie is my light relief: she flits in and out, never outstays her welcome and always knows what to say and do, even if it means her saying, ‘I don’t know what to say or do.’ Sometimes she sings me a little song she’s made up on the journey over. She’s funny, funnier than she knows. I wish she’d find someone. Juliet is my constant.

I may be sick to my stomach, exhausted and absolutely terrified, but I am definitely not alone.

MOLLY LIKED TO
walk when she couldn’t sleep, while Jack favoured lying there, eyes wide open, staring. He could have been mistaken for a dead man if he hadn’t been a sniffer. Jack sniffed a lot. It was a tic and/or a habit he’d had since he was a child. The amount of sniffing was directly linked to how much pressure he was under. If there was a world record in sniffing, Jack Hayes would probably break it overnight. Molly put on a coat and walked around the green in front of her house, around and around, until darkness faded into light and Pauline Burke came out of her house in her dressing-gown and slippers, holding two mugs of hot tea.

‘You’re freezing.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Your slippers are soaked in dew and you’ve either got snot or an icicle at the end of your nose.’

Molly rubbed it off and stared at the offending item. ‘I think it’s just dry skin.’

‘Come inside. I’ve got a fry on,’ Pauline said, taking her old friend’s arm and dragging her in. After thirty years, Molly knew that Pauline wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Once inside Molly realized how cold she was. She started to shiver so violently that Pauline covered her with a blanket and insisted on bathing her feet in hot water.

Molly sat quietly, cradling her mug in her hands, while Pauline got on with the business of making a fry-up. She turned the radio on to an early-morning light-hearted breakfast show. Daylight streamed through the kitchen window and Pauline’s dog, Minnie, ran around in circles, then jumped up and down at the back door. Pauline opened it and the dog bounced outside, barking at the birds and the world. When she placed the cooked breakfast in front of Molly it came with a warning: ‘I want to see at least half the plate cleared.’

Molly sighed deeply, but she didn’t argue. She was hungry even if she felt suddenly so tired that raising the fork to her mouth would be a mammoth task.

‘I’m glad you managed time to get your hair done,’ Pauline said.

Molly put her hand to it and patted it down. ‘They did it in the hospice.’

‘That was good of them.’

‘It’s a nice place.’

‘So I’ve heard. Now eat your sausage.’

Molly ate her sausage.

‘I think we’ll go away in September. I’m thinking about France because it’s so handy to get to and the weather will still be warm but not too hot. You know I hate the heat,’ Pauline said.

‘I can’t,’ Molly said.

‘Of course you can.’

‘I’ll have Juliet to consider,’ Molly said.

‘So you’re taking Juliet?’ Pauline asked, sounding surprised.

‘Of course I am. Who else will?’ Molly said.

‘Jesus, Molly, it’s a lot to take on at your age.’

‘Davey’s holding a meeting about it later today. I don’t know why he’s bothering, but I suppose it’s his way of doing something.’

‘How long?’ Pauline asked, in a voice just a little above a whisper.

‘Not long,’ Molly said, without a trace of a tear.

‘What can I do?’ Pauline asked.

Molly looked from her half-eaten breakfast to her feet soaking in warm water. ‘You’ve just done it, old pal.’

Pauline stood up and cleared away the plates. As she was passing her friend, she paused to kiss her lightly, then went to the sink. ‘We’re going to France, old woman,’ she mumbled to herself, loud enough for Molly to hear her.

The first time Molly laid eyes on Pauline she was standing on the Hayes doorstep with a bloody face, and a small crying terrified boy under each arm. It was a winter’s night in 1980 and Molly and her family had just moved into the area. Pauline was hysterical. ‘Please, please, let us in! He’s going to kill us all!’

It was then Molly realized that the man who was threatening Pauline was coming across the green, waving something that looked like an old man’s walking cane. Jack wasn’t home and the man was huge, strong, aggressive and possibly insane. She didn’t think twice. She ushered Pauline inside and shut the door before he reached the gate. She bolted it top and bottom and stood right back when his balled fists banged against the wood with such force she was afraid the whole front of the house would fall in on them. The kids started to scream, and Pauline tried to shush them, but she was so frightened and so injured that they only roared louder.

Between the screaming and the banging it wasn’t long before Grace and Davey were marching down the stairs in their pyjamas, rubbing their eyes and wondering what was going on. When they saw the bloodied woman and the screaming kids in their hallway, Grace sat on the stairs and cried, and Davey ran to his mother. The man was shouting blue murder.

‘What’s his name?’ Molly asked Pauline.

‘Gary.’

Molly sat her son beside his sister on the stairs, then walked to the door and banged on it as aggressively as he was doing. ‘We can both beat the door, Gary,’ she said.

That stopped Gary in his tracks. Aside from the crying children, it was quiet enough for everyone to work out their next move.

Gary spoke first. ‘I want my wife and kids.’

‘Well, you can’t have them.’

‘You open this door or you’ll be sorry.’

‘The guards are on their way, Gary,’ she lied.

‘I am the guards.’ He sounded smug and proud of himself.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘so that’s why you think you can get away with beating a woman and terrifying little children. You’re the big I am.’

‘You don’t speak to me like that!’

‘Or what?’

‘Or I’ll come in through your fucking front window.’

She could hear him walking away from the door and towards her sitting-room window. Without thinking, she unbolted and opened her front door and slammed it behind her. He turned in time to see her pick up the stick he had dropped, which he had used to bang on the door. He walked towards her slowly – he was probably as shocked as she was that she had locked herself outside with him, but those windows would have cost a fortune to replace, never mind the impact a lunatic coming through the front room would have on her kids. She could hear them screaming inside.

‘What are you planning to do with that?’ he asked her, looking at the stick.

She daydreamed about shoving it through his mouth. ‘I’m going to lean on it while I tell you to fuck off.’

‘Really?’ He seemed almost amused. He wasn’t shouting now: he was intrigued.

She leaned on the stick. ‘Go home, Gary.’

‘And what if I don’t?’

‘When your friends roll up, I’ll tell them what you’ve done to your wife, and even if they cover for you at least some of them will judge you as you should be judged. When you’re all gone I’ll put in a call to my uncle, the Garda commissioner, and I’ll make sure he knows just what kind of a man you are.’ She was lying but he didn’t know that. He left without a word or his big stick.

Pauline and the kids stayed over that night. It was the first of three similar incidents before Pauline finally had the strength to boot him out. When she did, their local priest at the time, Father Lennon, called to the house to talk her into allowing her husband home. Maybe he would have been successful in his guilt trip if Molly had not come to the door as he was pointing out how Pauline had ‘made her bed’. Molly had no time for Father Lennon. He had proved himself unworthy of her respect when she had witnessed him taking money from a sober, contrite Gary’s pub stash to pray for his tortured soul after he had beaten Pauline so badly she was in hospital for two weeks. The money Father Lennon took was the equivalent of a week’s wages, and at the time it was clear that the man didn’t provide for his own family. Pauline and her boys were half starved, and if it wasn’t for her ability to sew, they would have been in rags. The priest had shoved it into his pocket and told Gary he’d pray that they’d be reunited in harmony or some such rubbish. Jack had had to hold Molly back in the corridor at the hospital where Pauline lay battered and broken.