I’m all cried out. I think the last time I cried like this was the day Mam left – or maybe on my birthday, when I opened her presents. And today she made me cry again.
Dad and I had sausage and mash for lunch, which we often do on Sunday. I must say mash is one of the few things that Dad gets exactly right, all buttery and fluffy. And I always cook the sausages now, and make sure they’re the same colour all over.
And all the way through lunch, I kept checking the clock on the wall, waiting for two o’ clock to come. I didn’t say anything to Dad about it, because we still don’t really mention Mam that much.
Anyway, we were just finished, and I was thinking about whether to have ice cream for dessert, or a slice of the lemon cake that Marjorie sent over the other day. I had just decided that I’d better have a bit of both when the doorbell rang.
Straightaway, I knew it had to be the surprise. I jumped up and ran to the front door, and flung it open.
And then I nearly fainted.
I actually had to grab on to the side of the door, because I thought I was going to slide down to the floor if I didn’t. I could feel my face getting cold.
And Mam said, ‘Hi Liz,’ and smiled a bit nervously at me.
She looked pretty much the same as I remembered. Her hair was a bit longer, but still the same colour red. She hadn’t any new holes in her ears, but she was wearing a chunky orange cardigan I’d never seen, and grey jeans, and a silver bracelet that jangled when she lifted her arm to tuck her hair behind her ear.
And suddenly I really, really wanted Dad to be there.
And then finally, after about a million years, Mam stepped towards me, and at the same minute I moved towards her, and we met somewhere in the middle, and she still smelt the same, and I’m pretty sure she started crying a second before I did.
And she was saying something about missing me, and telling me she was sorry, so sorry, and I was saying nothing, just hanging on to her as if I’d never let her go.
And some time during the past year I’d managed to grow as tall as her. And I just kept hanging on and hanging on.
And when we managed to stop crying at last, when she was dabbing at my eyes with a tissue and telling me how pretty and grown-up I’d got, Dad appeared. He was quiet, but very polite. He invited Mam in, and we all sat down at the kitchen table, and Mam gave me a pink South Park t-shirt and a new box of watercolour paints.
She didn’t bring anything for Dad, which wasn’t surprising, but still a bit embarrassing. He didn’t seem to mind though. He made coffee, and Mam looked surprised when he gave me a cup, but she didn’t say anything.
After a bit of talking about nothing – the flight home, Granny Daly, the weather in San Francisco – Mam asked if I wanted to go for a walk. I looked at Dad, because it all felt a bit weird, but he just nodded and said he’d wash up and see me later.
Outside the house I looked for Mam’s red Clio, but the only car around was a green Micra. Mam told me she’d sold the Clio before she went away, and the Micra was just rented. I know it was only a car, but I felt a kind of stab when she said that – another bit of our old life that was gone forever.
I wondered if Marjorie was looking out as we walked past her driveway. I wondered if she’d seen Mam getting out of the green car.
It’s funny to think that Mam and Marjorie used to be pretty friendly, once upon a time.
Anyway, we walked to a little park about ten minutes from the house. Mam seemed a bit quiet on the way, so I told her about Bumble and Catherine Eggleston, and about secondary school, about Henry the pizza delivery boy, and about Ruth Wallace going into hospital for an operation on her legs, and about Dad’s disastrous birthday dinner. I didn’t talk about the things I really wanted to:
2. Chris Thompson
3. How to kiss boys properly.
And I certainly didn’t ask the questions I was dying to ask – how long she was staying around, and whether she was thinking about moving back to Ireland. I was afraid to ask, in case the answers weren’t the ones I wanted to hear.
When we’d walked about halfway round the park, Mam said, ‘Let’s sit for a minute,’ and when we’d found a bench near some bare-looking trees she took hold of both my hands and told me that she and Dad were going to get a divorce.
And even though it wasn’t such a big surprise, even though I’d pretty much stopped hoping that she’d ever come back home, even though I knew deep down that things could never be the same again, it still sounded horrible when she said it. Horrible and empty and – finished. As if a big sign saying ‘The End’ had suddenly appeared in front of us, like in the old films.
Except that it wasn’t a bit like that really, because in the old films people always lived happily ever after.
Luckily, there weren’t too many people around to see me crying again, just one old man on another bench who didn’t seem to notice, and a couple of little kids who stared at me until their mother called them over.
On the way back from the park, Mam answered the questions I’d been afraid to ask. First she told me she’s staying with Granny Daly for three days, which was all the time she could get off work. And then she told me, very gently, that she wasn’t planning to move back home for a while yet, but that maybe I could come out and visit her in the summer.
So I had to be happy with that. Funny that the thought of going to America doesn’t make me all excited like I thought it would. Maybe when she’s back there, it will.
When we got home, she collected her bag from the house, and then she and Dad said goodbye in that same sad, polite way, and I walked back out to the rented car with her.
She hugged me tightly, and whispered that she’d miss me so much, which of course started me crying all over again. I waved until the green car was out of sight, and she hooted the horn as she drove around the corner. I felt so alone, standing there on the path. So empty and alone.
And then I walked back into the house, and I could still smell Mam’s almondy smell in the hall, and Dad called out that he was in the sitting room, so I went in because I didn’t want to be alone.
We watched some old black-and-white movie on TV that had a lot of hats and singing in it, and we finished off Marjorie’s lemon cake, and afterwards Dad gave me €20 to buy myself something nice next time I was in town.
We didn’t talk about the divorce. What was there to say?