M Word, page 18
‘When did they tell you this?’ I went.
‘A few hours ago.’
‘A few hours ago?’
I felt like belting her, chucking the toys out, yanking a scream routine from my throat.
‘I didn’t want to tell you on the phone.’
Those first few minutes I was numb and cold and hot and dreaming and alive. I was alive. I was the one.
Things quickly went weird; I felt a calmness stroke my body. I knew I should’ve been in a heap on the ground or retching my guts up, but I wasn’t. Looking back, I was immersed in shock, like being submerged in water; desperately wanting to breathe but, also, trying hard not to.
‘How can it be true?’
‘It’s true, Maggie. It’s all true.’
We stared at our carpet. The well-worn pattern. I sank into our tattered couch, imagined snow falling over my head. Beautiful. Consoling.
My neck swelled with grief, but I didn’t cry. I’d so many questions it was hard to prioritise.
‘What time did Moya’s Aunt Jean phone?’ I went.
‘Around half four.’
‘What time did she die?’
‘I didn’t ask that.’
I didn’t even know what I was asking, didn’t register any of the replies. I was filling the space with noise and nothing else. Mean, who gave a shit what time she died? She died and that was all about it.
‘It’s a mistake, Mum.’
‘No, it’s true, love.’
‘It’s a mistake. Moya didn’t mean anything – she didn’t mean to actually die …’
‘I know this is hard …’
‘She was crying for help, or attention, that’s all.’
‘Well, of course she was.’
‘She didn’t mean to die.’
‘I’m sure she didn’t.’
‘She didn’t.’
‘You’re calmer than I thought,’ Mum went.
‘What do you want me to do – slash the cat? Punch holes in the walls? Sit here crying like a pure banshee? That what you want to see?’
We didn’t have a cat.
‘No, I just mean—’
‘What’s the point? What will that change? Will it make me feel better? No, it won’t.’
‘I agree.’
Mum returned her gaze to the carpet.
Calm?
That was a laugh.
I’d take myself out into the back garden and smash my head against the washing pole. You self-serving bitch, Maggie. You didn’t even try to help Moya hunt down those pricks who abused her character, did you? You sat on your hands doing heehaw and dreaming of a life beyond her, didn’t you? Admit it. It’s OK, she can’t hear you; she can’t point the finger.
Some mate!
I’d slam my skull off that washing pole until it cracked like a coconut. I condemned her too, I did. The smug, sanctimonious me called her those things as well; it’s true, I did. Told myself I was better than her, that I’d never let some guy control me the way she had, that I was too clever and astute to allow my name to be targeted like hers. That I was superior to everyone in this shithole. I abused her as much as anyone else had.
I sat there wishing I could reverse time, even just for a day. That was all I’d need to dilute the damage. One day. I’d start by telling her how much I loved her, how much she meant to me, that I was nothing without her. And to show her what a best mate was for, I would concoct a plan, a grand plan, to hunt down all those comedians who’d ever put their hands on a smartphone or computer.
But the only thing I’d control over was my head against a washing pole. That, I could achieve.
God, it was sore.
Amazing the things that go through your brain. I wondered what music would get me through it. Elliott Smith, definitely; Laura Veirs, maybe; Iron & Wine, yes. Basically, my dome was fizzing.
‘I want to be alone, Mum,’ I went, getting up from the couch.
‘You going to be OK?’
‘Think so.’
‘Sure?’
I left her sitting there.
I didn’t have the courage to stab or slash that night, but my right hand knew exactly what to do with itself; it had an instinctive life of its own.
I twirled and looped strands of hair around the fingers, jerked tight until I could feel my head stinging and nostrils burning. Then the weirdest thing entered my thoughts: Maybe I’ll just start speaking to her. Who’ll know?
I vowed to keep her with me, to not lose her. We could still do great things together. We could still conquer. And, when I was thinking this, Larry was on my lap, gawping up at me. This manky lamb that I’d had since I could remember was possibly going to save me.
‘I’m making tea, want a cup?’ Mum went, peeking her head around my door.
‘That won’t help.’
‘Maybe we can watch something on TV?’
As if that was going to remove my aching.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ I went.
She squashed her lips together and left.
I heard her whistling an Elton John song while waiting for the kettle to boil. Mum slurped her tea like a gumsy old woman.
We watched Banged Up Abroad. I wanted to put my foot through the screen. These pair of clowns had got caught red-handed smuggling cocaine out of Peru and didn’t stop whining about the shit treatment they’d received. Sympathy levels zero.
The avalanche in my head melted away.
When Banged Up Abroad finished, Mum turned to me. ‘It’s OK to cry, you know.’
‘I’m too sad to cry.’
‘We’ll get through this.’
‘Yeah.’
Grand Designs
I’m happy to spend time with Mum, doing daughter stuff, whatever that is. Mostly means sitting in the house gawking at brain-melt TV, fighting hunger pangs and listening to her munch tablets. Ian’s part of this shebang as well, although I think he’d rather she was chewing cod liver oil capsules and injecting herself with goat cum instead. Pure health freak; I can’t be doing with all that positivity and mindfulness guff. But, know what? Some of it is rubbing off on her. She doesn’t really care too much for Dinner Date or Don’t Tell the Bride these days.
‘I know a place that’ll be good for you, Donna,’ Ian goes.
We’re glued to these arrogant dickheads building dreams on Grand Designs. He interrupts:
‘I’ve done a little bit of research. It could be soothing to escape the humdrum for a few days.’ Mum doesn’t answer; she’s staring at the stunning new build on the screen. Total house jealousy.
Ian scrolls through his phone.
‘It’ll be peaceful – just us sharing space with nature,’ he goes.
‘And you enjoy fresh air, Mum,’ I go.
‘Love it,’ she goes.
‘Who doesn’t love fresh air?’ Ian goes. ‘It’s the soul’s wine.’
‘I prefer Buckfast,’ I go.
We all laugh.
He calls it a retreat, but we all know it’s a few days of filth. ‘Retreat’ sounds religious, but Ian assures us it’s an environment to recharge and re-engage.
‘You can’t put all your faith in doctors. We can try things that work in tandem with them,’ he goes.
What, like eighty-three positions in a mucky weekend? I know your game, Ian.
Mum looks at his phone.
‘It does look nice,’ she goes.
‘Eating well, thinking well, being well – what’s not to like?’ Ian goes as a kind of sales pitch. ‘These retreats can completely detox and rejuvenate your immune system and reboot your cognitive circuit.’
‘She’s not a desktop, Ian,’ I go.
‘No, but you get the idea?’ he goes.
‘What do you think, Mum?’
Grand Designs has been booted into touch now that we’ve seen the money shot.
‘I’m up for anything, Maggie,’ she goes, without taking her eyes off the phone.
Don’t say that to him, FFS.
‘You should both totally go.’
She gives me a sharp sideways glance.
I park my issues until I go to bed; can’t have her knowing what a bag of shit I am.
Truth: I get tight-chested and frightened when I’m not in her company. I’m trying to shake off the worry, at seeing her in the same light as Moya. I know that’s not going to happen, deep down I know it, but the dark cloud is still there. It shades me.
Mum probably thinks I’m sorted, that she and Ian can simply bolt for a weekend and I’ll be happy with the walls and an empty fridge. That I’ll potter about for the weekend: studying, listening to tunes, rehearsing or busting Davis’s chops about something that makes me want to kill him stone dead.
But other thoughts creep in, a drip-drip effect. Before you know it, you’re sitting on the edge of your bed with blood on your limbs, wishing you could run away without taking anything with you, not even your name. You find yourself doing mad shit like praying to places and people you don’t actually believe in, praying to the things you’ve previously sneered at.
I want Mum to go on a break. It’s not her fault that I’m in this wind tunnel of mental fuckery.
She’s not the one to blame.
Mum calls to make sure I’m not having a swinger party, prattling on about things I haven’t the foggiest. Proper gobbledygook. But I try.
‘You having fun?’ I go.
‘It’s terrific – just spent a few hours in the hyperbaric chamber.’
COME AGAIN?
Helps build immune systems, apparently.
Then there’s this cracker:
‘And yesterday I spent the day in total silence.’
‘What, no talking?’
‘Nothing for the entire day.’
‘Sounds … amazing.’
‘It’s like a deep cleansing of body and soul.’
RIGHT, CAN YOU PUT MY MUM BACK ON THE PHONE?
‘I just use shower gel,’ I go.
Place Ian found is somewhere up in the Highlands; got it on Groupon. Just the biz for any health-freak perv. I know his game: blast her with seeds, do a bit of heavy breathing before getting his leg over. And, all the time, so she’s not allowed to speak for part of it. Bloody men!
‘Practically giving it away,’ he’d said.
‘Are you liking it?’ I ask her.
‘I am. I’ve been thinking about things more positively. My mind seems freer,’ she goes.
‘Right.’
‘And I’ve bags of energy.’
‘That’s great. Are you missing home?’ I try not to sound like a pleading needy daughter.
‘It’s lovely here. I feel strong.’
‘You’ve got to try anything, haven’t you?’
‘You have.’
‘What’s tonight?’
‘There’s a meditation session we’re going to.’
‘Sounds a hoot – can I come?’
It’s bizarre having her gone; can’t say I like it. I need my mum. I miss her smell, her presence. This independence lark isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. At least all the blinds and curtains are open and wide.
I look out of the living-room window and think about sending Davis a message. God, the gaff is so quiet. What would I write? How could I tell him that I’d love it if he came here?
Mags, I’d have a party if I were you, know that.
But you’re not me.
Thankfully.
That’s nice.
Well, look at you, pure misery guts.
And whose fault is that, Moya, eh?
You can’t go through life blaming me for everything in your head.
No, I know.
So …
So?
So, go buy a crate of vodka, phone up your two and a half friends and wreck this joint. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.
Sake!
Sake.
On the other side of the road some guy in a hard hat and high-vis is erecting scaffolding on the house across. He’s about the same age as Mum. Random workman getting on with life, without a care in the world. I wonder if Mr Scaffolder has touched agony; if he’s smelt the torture of loss. An agony and loss so traumatic that breathing becomes a chore; when you stop seeing the beauty that surrounds you, when you can no longer hear music, taste food or sleep peacefully. If so, has he ever wanted to remove his hard hat and hurl himself off the scaffold? Why can’t the man outside the window have our life instead? Who’s the decision maker?
A4
Anna sits muted, wondering what the hell’s in front of her. It’s the first session since my hush-hush visit to A & E; more than a bit mortos.
While Mum was away it hit me hard: think I need Anna more than ever. I dragged myself up. Anyway, here I am.
‘Sorry for just turning up like this,’ I go. ‘I know I should’ve called beforehand.’
‘You’re here now,’ she goes.
What, no ‘sweetie’? No ‘love’?
‘I am.’
‘And?’
My tongue won’t work.
Maybe I resent Anna cos she knows too much; she knows more than anyone else does, and usually before everyone else does. Way I see it, she revels in knowing things; nosy old bint. I don’t mean that. Truth: I need her to know everything.
‘Are you coping?’ she goes.
‘Yeah.’
‘And art school? How are you getting on with that?’
‘Fine.’
SPEAK, FFS.
‘It’s OK to open up.’
‘I’m trying to, Anna,’ I go.
I can tell I’m pissing her off. I’m pissing myself off. It’s like I’m back to how I was just after the Moya thing: full of boiled blood and superiority. The leader of the don’t-fucking-annoy-me brigade. Anna doesn’t need me channelling this; she could end our teeth-pulling exercise at any minute.
Please, just one ‘sweetie’ or ‘love’. Something. Anything.
She leans her eyes towards me.
‘Listen, Maggie, they phoned from the hospital and asked me to come get you, remember?’
‘Yeah,’ I go, completely affronted now.
‘We had to pretend that it wasn’t a self-harming incident, but we both know the truth, don’t we?’
‘Yeah.’ I can’t look at her.
‘And that’s something you don’t want to admit to – you’d rather we forget all about it and begin our normal banter again, true?’
‘Yeah.’
My ego and pride have been completely crushed. I feel her words drill into my brain.
‘It’s time to address it, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t know.’
Come on, Mags.
You shouldn’t be here.
I practically live here. YOU’RE the one who shouldn’t be here.
Anna seems riled; I’m thinking she’s going to pull the plug on our sesh.
‘Look at me, Maggie,’ she goes.
She locks me in her stare.
‘We kept that self-harming incident to ourselves. I didn’t compromise my professionalism and I certainly didn’t invite myself into knowing that information. You were reaching out and you asked for me, not the other way around. But my job is not to judge, so I won’t do that. Now, unfortunately your mum is going through what she’s going through, and progressing well by all accounts. She called out to me because she was worried about you – that’s why I was at your house. She doesn’t want everything to hit rock bottom. You’ve done something completely irrational and dangerous, so please do not insult my, and your own, intelligence by sitting there pretending that everything is fine when we both know that’s not the case.’ She leans back into her relaxed position with a get-that-right-up-you expression on her face. ‘Don’t we, sweetie?’
MIC DROP!
‘Sorry, Anna,’ I go. It’s the only thing I can muster. ‘I probably shouldn’t have called you.’
‘Who else should you have called?’
‘Don’t know.’
Come on, say it?
Say what?
Ghostbusters.
‘Mmm.’
Never seen Anna like this; so hard, so un-Anna. Probably her true self coming out, and what I’ve witnessed up to this point nothing but an act. Bit like life itself. Bet she thought our sesh after the A & E incident would’ve been all about making breakthroughs and connections. Me clamming up has made her change tack. I’m such a disappointment.
Anna takes a sledgehammer to the silence; she bends down, picks up a pile of papers from the floor and leafs out an A4 sheet. I recognise it straightaway. The spontaneous writing I did for her. My song lyrics from ages ago. Whatever. Why hasn’t she binned it?
‘Now, let’s talk about this, shall we?’ she goes, A4 flopping about in her hand. ‘It’s fairly autobiographical, isn’t it?’
‘A little bit, yes,’ I go, feeling reprimanded. ‘Not all of it though.’
‘I’m not here to judge. Remember that,’ she goes in a judgemental tone. Then she reads, ‘“Girl, I’m coming to join you …”’
‘You don’t have to pure read it out, Anna.’
‘Explain it to me.’
‘It’s just how I was feeling at the time,’ I go. ‘I wanted to write a song for my band, nothing else. OK, I lied, it wasn’t that spontaneous – I worked on it.’
‘Do those feelings still remain, Maggie?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Some of these phrases are alarming.’
‘It’s just creative writing really,’ I go. ‘A song.’
‘I think what it is is honesty.’
‘What’s wrong with honesty?’
‘Can I ask you something? You don’t have to tell me, but I think truth is quite important here, as we’ve both conceded.’
‘What?’
‘Are you still harming yourself?’
I don’t know what to say or how I should say it. So, I say nothing. But Anna doesn’t get it; she just doesn’t get it. The harming switches my mind to docile mode. Numbs me. And, one person’s harming is another person’s soothing. So there! Maybe the question should be: am I still soothing myself?
I brush my thighs with my index finger, not knowing how to react. I pick at my purple nail varnish until some of it falls on to my lap. I flick the flakes to the floor. She makes me feel ashamed. And I am. I hate the person I’ve created. But these emotions aren’t present at the time of the action, are they? No, they come afterwards.
