Tears burned my eyes for the fourth time that day, which was considerably less than the day before.
She looked at me, her eyes glassy. “I really miss him, Em!” She was crying. “I feel sick all the time and I don’t know what to say.” She continued, like a torrent: “I should have some insight or wisdom because of my dad, or maybe it’s because of his death that I know there is
nothing I can do to make this any better. I wish I could say the magic words. I wish I knew them. I should, but I don’t.”
I was so relieved. I sat on the couch beside her. I told
her that everything was going to be all right and we hugged.
Suddenly we were having our first real post-John
conversation. She told me about a wealthy client of hers who kept sending her flowers. She talked about Sean, how he had become withdrawn and of her fears that he
was smoking way too much hash. He had promised her that he’d stop, but she wasn’t sure whether he was just saying it to get her off his back.
She told me that two weeks previously Anne had missed
her period and did a pregnancy test in Bewley’s cafe, but it turned out negative. I couldn’t believe that Anne hadn’t told me.
“Well,” she said, “with everything you’re going through …” she trailed off and thought for a second, then continued unabated, “Which is something we’ll all stop doing.”
We both smiled. She got comfortable in her chair.
“Em, in the spirit of openness, there is just one more thing!’
“What?” I smiled.
“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.
Chapter 7
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
She looked at me, her eyes glassy. “I really miss him, Em!” She was crying. “I feel sick all the time and I don’t know what to say.” She continued, like a torrent: “I should have some insight or wisdom because of my dad, or maybe it’s because of his death that I know there is
nothing I can do to make this any better. I wish I could say the magic words. I wish I knew them. I should, but I don’t.”
I was so relieved. I sat on the couch beside her. I told
her that everything was going to be all right and we hugged.
Suddenly we were having our first real post-John
conversation. She told me about a wealthy client of hers who kept sending her flowers. She talked about Sean, how he had become withdrawn and of her fears that he
was smoking way too much hash. He had promised her that he’d stop, but she wasn’t sure whether he was just saying it to get her off his back.
She told me that two weeks previously Anne had missed
her period and did a pregnancy test in Bewley’s cafe, but it turned out negative. I couldn’t believe that Anne hadn’t told me.
“Well,” she said, “with everything you’re going through …” she trailed off and thought for a second, then continued unabated, “Which is something we’ll all stop doing.”
We both smiled. She got comfortable in her chair.
“Em, in the spirit of openness, there is just one more thing!’
“What?” I smiled.
“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.
Chapter 7
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
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