The Year I Met You (20 page)

‘Please.’

‘Time is getting on. You’re not getting any younger. Tick tick tick, you’ll need to start making those kids soon.’

Anger burns within me again. You have the knack, I’ll give it to you, for relentlessly prodding at people’s weaknesses. ‘I don’t want children,’ I say, disgusted by you and knowing I shouldn’t respond, but I can’t give you the benefit of feeling like you’re winning. ‘I’ve never wanted children.’

‘Really,’ you say, interested.

‘That’s an awful shame,’ Dr Jameson says, and I want to get up and walk away from these two men who suddenly feel what I do or don’t do with my body is any of their business. ‘I see older women regret that decision. You should think about it, consider it deeply,’ he says, looking at me as if I’d just shot those words out of my mouth without giving the matter any thought.

I’ve always known that I didn’t want children. Ever since I was a child, I’ve known.

‘There’s no point in me regretting something now that I might not regret later,’ I say, as I always say to people like Dr Jameson who come out with exactly the same thing he said. ‘So I’ll stick with my decision, since it feels right.’

You are still looking at me, but I avoid your eye.

‘Did the Lennons say goodbye to you?’ I ask you.

You shake your head.

‘Why didn’t they say goodbye to us?’ I ask nobody in particular. ‘You and I were standing in my garden when they called to every single door. They walked straight past us.’

You snort, swirl your whisky around in the glass. You’ve barely drunk anything since I sat down, which is good because your children are in the house, for their one night of the week with Daddy and you’re outside, drunk.

‘Why would they say goodbye to you? You’re hardly the neighbour of the century. Two months of digging to help get over some kind of psychotic break …’

I can feel myself rising and I know I shouldn’t. It’s exactly what you want, to stir things up so that everyone around you explodes – apart from you. Hurt people hurt people. But I can’t help it, I’m hurt too. ‘So what does a fired DJ do then? Are there other stations lining up at your door?’

‘I haven’t been fired.’

‘Not yet. But you will be.’

‘They’ve extended my gardening leave for an as yet undecided amount of time,’ you say, with a mischievous twinkle in your eye. ‘So it looks as if we’re stuck here together. You and me.’

Something twigs in my head. Snaps, more like. I have realised something and I feel the heat of the anger burn through me.

‘You’ll still be able to go to the station next week though?’ I ask.

‘No,’ you say slowly, lifting your eyes from the whisky to meet mine. ‘They’re planning to restructure the station. I will not be setting foot in that place until they tell me what’s happening with my job.’

‘But you promised my sister you’d bring her on a tour.’

You study me to see if I’m serious, then when I don’t smile or laugh or respond you bang your glass down on the table, which makes both Dr Jameson and I jump.

‘You honestly think I give a fuck about your sister right now?’

The anger explodes inside me, runs around my veins like a poison. Everywhere. Hate. Anger. Repulsion. Rage.

‘No, I don’t actually.’

I feel Dr Jameson look at me, sensing something in my voice that I feel but that you don’t hear.

‘I’ve got three kids in there. And a wife that I’d very much like to come home to me. They are what I’m concerned about right now.’

‘Are you? Interesting. Because it’s now two-fifteen in the morning and you’re drinking whisky in your garden when you should be inside with them. But responsibility isn’t something that sits that well with you, is it?’

I should probably stop, but I can’t. All I’ve heard all week is Heather’s excitement about visiting the radio station. Every single day. Non-stop. She’s been researching it. She can reel off the station’s entire schedule, who works on what show and at what time, she’s been looking into the producers’ and researchers’ names. Every day she’s called me to tell me. The last phone call she made was to tell me she might stop working in the solicitor’s office that she has always loved so much to try to work in the radio station, if Mr Marshall would help her. It was as if she could sense my disapproval of the entire thing. But it wasn’t that I disapproved; I was reticent, hesitant to fully go with the flow because I was afraid that something like this would happen. That just made her try to sell it to me even more, trying to make me see how much she cared, showing her excitement so that I couldn’t step in and cancel it. My rage is bubbling very close to my skin, I can feel it about to erupt.

‘Your wife has left you, you’ve lost your job, your kids can’t stand you—’

‘Shut up,’ you mutter, shaking your head and looking down at the table.

I decide to keep going because I want to hurt you. I want to hurt you like you hurt me all those years ago. ‘Your kids can’t bear to be around you—’

‘SHUT UP!’ you shout suddenly. You pick up the glass and hurl it at me. I can see the hatred in your eyes, but your aim is atrocious and I don’t even need to dodge the missile. It flies past me and lands on the ground somewhere behind me. I don’t know what you’re going to do next. Take aim with something larger, like the chair you smashed through the window, or maybe your fist, like you did with your son – only this time it wouldn’t be accidental.

‘Now now,’ Dr Jameson says, in a loud whisper. He is standing up, as we all are now, and holding his arms out to keep us apart, like a boxing ref, only the length of the table keeps a distance between us anyway.

‘You crazy bitch – how dare you say those things,’ you hiss.

‘And you’re a drunk,’ I say, swallowing the last word as the courage leaves me and the sadness and terror creeps in. ‘Sorry, Dr J, but he promised my sister. He should keep his promise.’

I turn then and leave them, my body shaking from head to toe with rage and fright. I don’t bother to collect the flask of tea and mugs, wondering as I walk away from him if at any moment a flask or mug will fly through the air and smash against the back of my head.

17

As an assignment for school whilst studying Greek mythology, we were asked to write our own versions of the Achilles story. We were then asked to read them out loud, and as one by one my classmates read their stories, actual stories of people through history, leaders brought down by their weaknesses, I realised I’d misinterpreted the brief – but not misunderstood it. I wrote about a witch who hated children because of their cruel hearts, for the hurtful things they would say about her favourite cat. She plotted to catch them, kill them and eat them, but the problem was she was afraid of lollipops and it seemed that every time she came near a child, they would have a lollipop in their mouth which served as a sweet protective forcefield around them. Word of her fear spread and soon all children carried lollipops with them, holding them out at her, sticky and sweet, waving them in her face so that she was so repulsed she had to run away and hide from children for ever.

I got a C+, which was annoying, but more embarrassing was the way the children laughed as I was reading it, some thinking it was a deliberate joke to annoy the teacher, most just thinking it was stupid. The reason the teacher gave me a C+ was not because I had misinterpreted the assignment but because he thought I’d failed to grasp the meaning of the story. Lollipops could not be the witch’s Achilles Heel, he told me, they were something she feared but did not bring about her downfall. He never gave me the opportunity to respond – this didn’t happen in school, you were either understood or not – but it was he who was wrong, not me, because it wasn’t the lollipop that was the witch’s weakness, it was her cat. In her effort to protect her cat she ended up being cast off from the community and alone for ever.

I wrote that story when I was ten years old. I knew then what I only face up to now, in this moment, which is that Heather is my weakness. Any row, misunderstanding, failed relationship, or possible relationship that was never given a chance can without exception be traced back to a reaction, a comment, remark, or something relating to Heather. I couldn’t associate myself with a person who betrayed arrogance or ignorance, whether innocent or not, toward my sister. One sideways look at Heather and they were immediately ruled out. I never engaged in a discussion of their thought processes or core beliefs, I didn’t have the patience or the time for that. Boyfriends. Dad. Friends. I cut them all out. I don’t know if it’s how I’ve always been or if it’s because Mum is gone and I’m behaving in a way that I think she would want me to. I have a memory, a feeling that she was as protective of Heather as I am, yet I have no actual memories or examples to corroborate that. For the first time, it occurs to me that my actions have been dictated by something that has absolutely no substance, it’s totally unjustified. This rocks me.

Feeling horrendous after the spiteful things I have said to you tonight, I nevertheless force myself to block it all out. Sleep comes easily, because my mind does not like the alternative of facing up to what I said. My last thought as I fall asleep is to wonder if the witch’s cat would feel happier if the witch was less protective of her. After all, what use is the witch’s discontent to her?

I park around the corner from my aunt Jennifer’s house. My plan is to drive here, park and then my plan is all out of ideas. I debate whether to go inside or not. Do I know what I’m doing with Heather, with
everything
, or do I not? Big question, when I’d once felt so sure. From inside the car I stare at the house, my mind racing and empty at the same time. My plan is to get out of the car and then my plan is all out of ideas.

There is never any need to ring Aunt Jennifer in advance of a visit. Her house is one of those homes that’s always busy with her four children coming and going, plus their spouses and children, all equally unannounced, and now that she fosters children there are often people there that I don’t necessarily know. It has always been that kind of a house, and I had always felt welcome there – just as well, because I had nowhere else to go when Mum was sick. It was always the deal that if and when Mum died I would move in, but then the Kevin incident occurred, which tainted my view of the house, tainted my relationship with Kevin and over time tainted my relationship with Jennifer.

I can see how it was a great stress for her at the time, losing her son and the niece she was promising her sister would be safe with her. She hadn’t exactly lost us, we were right there, but when Kevin moved away I still couldn’t bring myself to settle in the house and I decided to live on campus in Limerick University, a fresh break from everyone, a fresh start for me. I saw Heather every second weekend. I settled in with friends and we created a family of our own, and I allowed myself to be mollycoddled by friends’ families for festive weeks. Heather was happy in the accommodation Mum had set up for her before she passed away, and on family occasions she would stay at Jennifer’s and Dad would come over to eat and catch up with Heather like it was the base for their relationship. It all worked fine for everybody, including me, and while it was all happening I created a mother for Heather in my mind that I don’t know necessarily existed by giving her ideals that I don’t know she actually held.

I slowly walk towards the door. My plan is to walk to the door and then my plan is all out of ideas.

‘Jasmine,’ Jennifer says, surprised to open the door and find me there.

She has red hair, dyed, and it’s been in a pixie cut for as long as I can remember. She wears earthy tones, wishy-washy greens and tans in crushed velvets, long hippy dresses with leggings underneath, shoes that always have thick soles like hovercrafts, big chunky necklaces. Her lips are always the same colour as her hair, though hers is more mahogany than my fire-engine red.

‘Isn’t this a lovely surprise? Come in, come in. Oh, I wish I’d known you were coming, I would have told Fiona to stay. She’s gone to Mass with Enda. I know, don’t look at me like that, nobody in this house has been to Mass since Michael’s wedding, but Enda is making his communion this year and they’re encouraged to go so that he doesn’t walk in looking like a tourist. Apparently the kids can play at ten a.m. Mass. If they keep thinking like that, the Catholic Church won’t have a free pew.’

She ushers me in to the kitchen, which should feel the same as before, should make me feel some sort of connection to the past, but it has been completely altered.

‘My sixtieth birthday present,’ she says, noticing as I take in the new extension. ‘They wanted to send me on a cruise. I wanted a new kitchen. What has my life come to?’ she says jovially.

I like that it is different; it immediately puts me in a new place, away from the memories of years gone by. Or at least it helps me see them in a different light, from a different angle, less of an active participant in it and more of an observer as I try to figure out was it over there, or over there, and is this where the bean bags would have been.

‘I can’t stay long,’ I say as she settles down, a pot of herbal tea between us. ‘I’m meeting Heather in an hour. We’re going to build a water fountain in my garden.’

‘How wonderful!’ Her face lights up and I can see the surprise.

My plan is to tell her what’s on my mind and then my plan is all out of ideas.

‘I’ve come to see you because … I’ve been doing a lot of thinking recently. I’ve had a lot of time on my hands, as you know.’

‘Good thing for you.’ No sympathy. I like that.

‘I’ve been thinking about Mum. Well, I’ve been thinking about a lot of things,’ I realise out loud. ‘But I’ve specifically been thinking about how she was with Heather.’

I register her surprise, but she keeps it in check. I’m sure she was expecting me to talk about Kevin.

‘There are some blanks.’

‘I’ll help you if I can,’ she says.

‘Well, it’s vague. How was she with Heather? I mean, I know she was protective, of course, she was. I know she wanted Heather to be independent, set up a good life for herself, but I don’t know how she
felt.
What was she afraid of? Did she ever talk to you about Heather? Did she confide in you? Like what did she want to keep Heather away from? Heather is really spreading her wings now – she always has,’ I acknowledge. ‘She has a boyfriend.’