There’s a uniform for grieving. I don’t think I’ve ever thought of it much before, but now, standing in front of my wardrobe trying to find suitable items in black to wear over the coming days, I realise that it exists.
I glance down at my stomach, still loose and flabby following Lily’s birth five and a half months before. It’s hard now to remember it swollen and tight. It’s hard to imagine the smiling, wriggling baby lying on her play mat beside me ever living inside me.
I find a simple shift dress, loose and forgiving, which I’d worn to a friend’s granny’s funeral, and decide it will do for now. Thick black tights, flat shoes and the grey cardigan from the back of the door complete the look.
I wonder if I should put make-up on. I don’t think I’ve worn make-up since Lily was born, but the black clothes will make me look even more washed out. I resolve to put on a little but not too much. I pull my hair into a loose ponytail, aware that it is still falling out in clumps. The joys of a post-pregnancy body.
I wish we didn’t have to go through this process. The Irish wake. Two days and nights of mourning over a coffin sat in our house. Several days of making sure he’s not left alone, bowing to tradition and superstition. Several days of handshaking and nodding and passing around cups of tea, snifters of whisky for the ‘oul fellahs’, before we can bury him and I can start to bury so much more.
I wish we could leave him in a funeral home. Visit only when we want to – if we want to. Keep a distance from it all. I wish I’d never have to think about Joe McKee again.
I glance at the clock. It’s twelve thirty. We’ve said we’ll be back at the house by two. There will be furniture to be shifted. Someone will have to go to the community centre and see if we can get a loan of some chairs for visitors coming to the wake and a tea urn to keep the fresh cups coming. There will be sandwiches to make …
I feel overwhelmed and sit down on the edge of the bed and focus on Lily, who seems to be enraptured with the discovery that she has feet.
The bed dips as Alex sits beside me and takes my hand. ‘We’ll get through it,’ he says and I lean my head on his shoulder.
‘Do you think people will think we’re awful for not having the wake here?’ I ask, looking around me.
‘In a boxy two-bedroom new build with a tiny baby to mind? No, I don’t think people will.’
I take a deep breath. ‘I know I shouldn’t care what people think, but I do.’
‘Do you think any less of Ciara for not offering to hold the wake in her house?’ Alex asks.
I shake my head. Of course I don’t. But that’s different. Ciara is different. No one would expect it of her, even though she was his biological daughter. Me, though? I’ve been told for the past two decades that I’m so lucky that Joe stayed to look after me. That I must owe him a debt of gratitude.
Those people don’t know the truth, though.
I glance down at Lily again on the floor. Her eyes meet mine and she breaks into one of her heart-melting smiles. I feel a wave of emotion rise up in me and I start to cry, immediately annoyed at myself for not holding it together. I can’t fall apart – not at this stage. I just have to get through the next few days, then this whole ordeal will be over.
‘I’ll put some soup on,’ Alex says. ‘You need to eat something, keep your strength up. I’ll take this little madam with me too, so she doesn’t distract you further.’
He reaches for our daughter and lifts her tenderly into his arms. Her smile is instant, her head curling in against his chest. His love for her is so pure it makes my breath catch in my chest. I reach over and stroke the soft, fair, fluffy hair on her head. I know I’d do anything to protect her. To keep her safe.
The phone rings downstairs. It has been ringing all morning and each time I have jumped. I’m tired and it’s too loud. Too shrill. The voices on the other end of the line too false. More wanting to know the gossip than genuinely sympathising. The news hasn’t taken long to spread. It never does. Not in Derry. I want to pull the landline out. Most people I know don’t have them any more anyway.
I hear the low tone of Alex’s voice as he answers. His words muffled and indistinct through the closed door. I hear his feet on the stairs, watch the door for him to open it and impart whatever news he has. So and so sends their sympathy. If there is anything they can do, et cetera, et cetera.
But his face looks different when I see him. It’s as if he has faded in the few minutes we’ve been apart. He is pale. Looks shaken. I don’t like this. It reminds me of his face last night, when I saw him on the stairs.
He takes my hand. I fight the urge to pull it away. I know, just know, something is wrong.
‘That was the undertakers,’ he says. ‘There will be a delay with bringing Joe’s remains back.’
‘Why?’
‘He didn’t say exactly. Just that something had come up.’
An uneasy feeling washes over me. ‘And you didn’t ask what exactly?’
‘He said they just needed to check some things. That’s all.’
I bite my tongue. It won’t endear me to Alex if I say what is going through my mind, which is that there can’t be much to check given that it’s pretty clear he’s dead.
‘Did he say how long?’ I say instead.
‘No.’ Alex shakes his head. ‘He said he’d be in touch.’
‘Well, what are we supposed to do?’ I snap. I feel fidgety. If I have to endure his wake, I’d rather get on with the enduring. I’d rather get to the ‘moving on’ part.
‘Do your best to relax, maybe. Enjoy the calm before the madness of the wake starts.’
I immediately dismiss that idea. There’s no way I can relax. Not when I don’t know what is going on. There is no calm and there never has been when it came to Joe.
‘Maybe I’ll go over to the house anyway. Get a head start on things. No doubt Ciara will be there already,’ I say.
The thought of her poking around the house I grew up in makes me uncomfortable, even though it’s a long time since it felt anything like a home to me.
‘It’s not a competition,’ he says gently.
The rational, adult part of my brain knows that. Another part of me thinks that it is very much a competition and always will be between Ciara and me.