I hide in my room,
Donal showing up unexpectedly,
suiting himself.
He murmurs a lot,
about Marla’s unusual tidiness,
the cups in the right cupboards,
her hair, smooth instead of nesty.
Forget it, he says
over the noise of rugby.
You will anyway.
But I didn’t know, Donal.
If I’d known I would have bought a card.
Maybe I did. Let me look.
Seriously, sit down.
I try to be a good mother.
Sometimes Mary hides things, I think.
She’s here all the time hiding things.
Mary?
Can you zip it?
Am I a bad mother?
Donal, talk to me,
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
Donal? Is Mary safe?
Or maybe I’m thinking of Louise.
Is Louise all right?
Louise is fine, Mum.
She’s had a baby.
And she’s my daughter.
No. Granddaughter.
And how is Mary?
How’s my Mary?
Something bangs. A long silence.
Jesus, Mum, Mary’s dead.
How many times do you want me to tell you?
It’s been years. You have to stop.
I can’t keep breaking the news like this.
Oh, don’t cry.
He turns up the TV,
shuts her out.
I tiptoe into Marla’s room,
take the cellophane-wrapped card
from her dressing table,
drop it
into the
wastebasket.
The calendar pinged a reminder last week.
I bought the card from the pound shop,
golf clubs on the front,
Happy Birthday, Son.
But he isn’t getting it.
Donal isn’t getting any Happy Birthday.