true. Sully told me and Damo. Sully is Damo’s big brother. He’s in the army and he tells me and Damo loads of stuff.
Sully isn’t his real name. His real name is Jacob, I think, but everyone calls him Sully, on account of his surname which happens to be Sullivan.
It’s Sunday, which means we have to go to the graveyard. Faith likes going there on Sundays. I don’t know why. I don’t like going. It’s always really cold there, even if it’s warm everywhere else. Faith says, ‘Wear an extra jumper.’ She’s in the attic, looking for Mam’s rosary beads. She says she wants to put them on the grave. Mam got the rosary beads from her grandmother, who lived to be a hundred and one. I swear to God. She got a hundred pounds from the President of Ireland because she was so old.
I don’t think the beads are in the attic but Faith says she’s looked everywhere else.
I asked Mam if Santa would still come to you if you didn’t believe in him. She said she thought he might. She said even if you didn’t believe in him, he’d still believe in you. Adults say weird things.
Last year, Dad came to the house for a couple of hours on Christmas Day but I reckon he won’t be able to make it this year, because of the baby. Dad says he has to be there for that. I will be a half-brother. A half-brother means that Celia is not my mam.
Faith says that Mam can hear me and see me and when the sun shines, that’s Mam, smiling. Faith is my sister but she’s an adult. That’s because she was born a long time ago.
There’s a bit of cobweb in Faith’s hair when she climbs down from the attic. She’s got papers in her hand. I ask her if she found the rosary beads but she shakes her head and says, ‘Go and tidy your room or something.’ She doesn’t even look inside my room to see if it’s messy.
I pick up the clothes on my bedroom floor and put them all in the linen basket. Then I go and call for Damo.
He says, ‘Look at this,’ when he opens his front door. He sticks his tongue out and pushes the tip of it into his nose. He can make his eyeballs shoot up inside his head too.
I wish it were Wednesday. I’d be going to lifesaving class after school, if it were Wednesday. I might be getting my brown badge next week, if I know all the answers.
I check the calendar. It’s 16 October. Four months. Four months since the accident. Four and a half, I suppose. And only three months since Thomas left. It seems a lot longer than that.
Not seeing Thomas is like giving up cigarettes. I’ve never given up cigarettes but I imagine it would feel like this. There are triggers. Triggers that make me think about Thomas, and maybe even wish he was here. Like I’d wish for a cigarette if I hadn’t had one for an hour or so.
Stress. That’s a trigger. When I feel stressed, I think about Thomas. That’s probably why I’ve been thinking about him so much lately.
Or, oddly, when I’m happy. When something makes me smile. Or even laugh. Something funny, I mean. Or weird. Or one of those strange road signs. Like BEWARE – BLIND PEDESTRIANS. Something that makes me feel sure that when I look at Thomas, he will be smiling too.
Four months.
That’s all it takes.
Four months for everything to fall apart.
I’ll be forty soon. January. That’s when. And Christmas to get through before that.
I’m nearly forty and I should be dead.
I should have died in a pile-up. The newsreader would have described me as a thirty-nine-year-old woman. A thirty-nine-year-old woman was killed this afternoon in an accident on the M1.
A thirty-nine-year-old woman. That would have got people’s attention. Would have given them pause. Might have prompted them to look up from their dinners, shake their heads, say something like ‘Tragic’, or ‘Such a waste’, or ‘You just never know, do you? When your time is up?’
That didn’t happen. Instead, I’m a nearly-forty-year-old woman who has been the victim, it seems, of a miracle. That’s
Sully isn’t his real name. His real name is Jacob, I think, but everyone calls him Sully, on account of his surname which happens to be Sullivan.
It’s Sunday, which means we have to go to the graveyard. Faith likes going there on Sundays. I don’t know why. I don’t like going. It’s always really cold there, even if it’s warm everywhere else. Faith says, ‘Wear an extra jumper.’ She’s in the attic, looking for Mam’s rosary beads. She says she wants to put them on the grave. Mam got the rosary beads from her grandmother, who lived to be a hundred and one. I swear to God. She got a hundred pounds from the President of Ireland because she was so old.
I don’t think the beads are in the attic but Faith says she’s looked everywhere else.
I asked Mam if Santa would still come to you if you didn’t believe in him. She said she thought he might. She said even if you didn’t believe in him, he’d still believe in you. Adults say weird things.
Last year, Dad came to the house for a couple of hours on Christmas Day but I reckon he won’t be able to make it this year, because of the baby. Dad says he has to be there for that. I will be a half-brother. A half-brother means that Celia is not my mam.
Faith says that Mam can hear me and see me and when the sun shines, that’s Mam, smiling. Faith is my sister but she’s an adult. That’s because she was born a long time ago.
There’s a bit of cobweb in Faith’s hair when she climbs down from the attic. She’s got papers in her hand. I ask her if she found the rosary beads but she shakes her head and says, ‘Go and tidy your room or something.’ She doesn’t even look inside my room to see if it’s messy.
I pick up the clothes on my bedroom floor and put them all in the linen basket. Then I go and call for Damo.
He says, ‘Look at this,’ when he opens his front door. He sticks his tongue out and pushes the tip of it into his nose. He can make his eyeballs shoot up inside his head too.
I wish it were Wednesday. I’d be going to lifesaving class after school, if it were Wednesday. I might be getting my brown badge next week, if I know all the answers.
I check the calendar. It’s 16 October. Four months. Four months since the accident. Four and a half, I suppose. And only three months since Thomas left. It seems a lot longer than that.
Not seeing Thomas is like giving up cigarettes. I’ve never given up cigarettes but I imagine it would feel like this. There are triggers. Triggers that make me think about Thomas, and maybe even wish he was here. Like I’d wish for a cigarette if I hadn’t had one for an hour or so.
Stress. That’s a trigger. When I feel stressed, I think about Thomas. That’s probably why I’ve been thinking about him so much lately.
Or, oddly, when I’m happy. When something makes me smile. Or even laugh. Something funny, I mean. Or weird. Or one of those strange road signs. Like BEWARE – BLIND PEDESTRIANS. Something that makes me feel sure that when I look at Thomas, he will be smiling too.
Four months.
That’s all it takes.
Four months for everything to fall apart.
I’ll be forty soon. January. That’s when. And Christmas to get through before that.
I’m nearly forty and I should be dead.
I should have died in a pile-up. The newsreader would have described me as a thirty-nine-year-old woman. A thirty-nine-year-old woman was killed this afternoon in an accident on the M1.
A thirty-nine-year-old woman. That would have got people’s attention. Would have given them pause. Might have prompted them to look up from their dinners, shake their heads, say something like ‘Tragic’, or ‘Such a waste’, or ‘You just never know, do you? When your time is up?’
That didn’t happen. Instead, I’m a nearly-forty-year-old woman who has been the victim, it seems, of a miracle. That’s
Similar Books
