Pack Up the Moon Page 8

  “Jesus, Miss, I only said bleedin’!”

  The class laughed.

  “I’m warning you, Declan. Why are you stabbing James?”

  He sighed a sigh very much like my own. The class laughed again. “It was more of a poke, Miss. He won’t let me look into his book.”

  I asked him where his own book was.

  “I forgot it.”

  This was the third time in a row.

  “Where are you going to be after class, Declan?”

  A groan. “Talking to you, Miss.”

  “That’s right,” I agreed. “Peter, take it from the top.”

  I heard Peter mumble, “Jesus,” but let it go. Life’s too short.

  After class Declan approached me.

  “Where’s the book? And please don’t tell me you forgot it because I didn’t get much sleep last night and I’m liable to do something serious.”

  He nodded. “OK but don’t go mental.”

  He waited for me to agree, but eventually realised I had no intention of making any promises, so he continued. “I sold it to Mary Murphy for a tenner,” he admitted, smiling.

  “You sold your copy of Romeo and Juliet,” I repeated.

  “Yeah,” he grinned, “for a tenner.”

  “And what do you propose using for the rest of the year?” I enquired, genuinely interested.

  “I can pick one up, second-hand, for a fiver in town tomorrow. That’s called a profit, Miss. I learned that in Commerce.”

  He was grinning again. I was battling not to.

  “Declan.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “Close the door on your way out.”

  He beamed. “I knew you’d understand.”

  I smiled. I couldn’t help it. “Oh, I won’t be able to give you a lift this afternoon. I’m taking a half-day.”

  “No problem. Have a nice weekend.”

  I watched him leave and I was glad I knew him. Teachers should not have a favourite student and, if asked, I would never have admitted that he was mine.

  I was clearing my desk when Eileen, the science teacher, came to the door.

  “Emma, there’s a call for you in the staff room.”

  I didn’t take much notice. “OK, cheers, I’ll be right there.”

  She stayed. I looked up.

  “It sounds urgent.”

  I got flustered. Urgent meant something bad. Someone could be dead. My heart started to beat faster, my ears ringing.

  I ran to the staff room and picked up the phone.

  “Hello,” I said urgently.

  “Hello, this is Nurse O’Shea. I’m calling from Holles Street Hospital.”

  “Yes,” I managed, praying I’d be able to hear her over my beating heart.

  “Your friend Clodagh Morris has asked me to call you. I’m afraid she’s had a miscarriage.”

  No one was dead and I thanked God in my head.

  “I’ll be right there,” I told her and hung up.

  I sat down as Eileen came in.

  “Is everything OK?” she asked.

  I smiled an exhausted smile. “My friend just had a miscarriage.”

  She sat down beside me. “Oh, that’s awful. The poor girl, was she trying long?”

  I looked at her. “Trying to have a miscarriage?”

  She looked at me oddly. “No, trying for a baby.”

  I was embarrassed. “Sorry, I misunderstood you. Can someone take over my classes? I really should go.”

  “Of course,” she smiled.

  I got up to leave.

  “I suppose this means you’ll have to put off your shopping trip,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I nodded.

  “Oh well, another time,” she smiled and waved me off.

  “I hope not.”

  * * *

  I met Seán in the hospital car park. We walked in slowly, neither of us sure what to say. Clo was sitting in Outpatients. She looked drawn. A pregnant woman was tending to the crying toddler sitting next to her. Seán and I sat either side of Clo. She smiled at me but her eyes were puffy.

  “I was always a cheapskate,” she said.

  I grinned. I didn’t know what else to do. Seán took her hand and told her that it wasn’t meant to be.

  She laughed bitterly. “I wish I knew that before we shelled out on the plane fare.”

  She had cramp. I told her that I’d call a nurse, but she said it wasn’t bad enough for painkillers.

  “You’re both being so nice to me. I feel like a cheat. I was going to get rid of it. It was my choice and now it’s gone and everyone is being too nice.” She started to cry and the toddler joined her.

  “When you come out you can stay with me for a while, just until you get back to yourself.” I wasn’t inviting her: I was telling her.

  She told me no and that she’d be fine. She just wanted to go home. I understood, but I was disappointed because I really wanted to mind her, just like my parents had wanted to mind me all those months ago. Seán told her that Anne and Richard were on their way.

  She was annoyed. “Oh for God’s sake, they must have been halfway to Kerry! There’s no need for all this.”

  Seán laughed. “I think Anne is using it as an excuse to come home and I know I used it as an excuse to get out of a particularly boring lunch meeting.”

  “Besides they can go to Kerry anytime. The house isn’t going anywhere,” I offered.

  “I don’t want people making a fuss. I feel rubbish enough.”

  Her lip was trembling and I wanted to cry for her, but being fully aware that it wouldn’t be the greatest help in the world, I bit down on mine. Seán decided to change the subject.

  “I still can’t believe they’re thinking about moving there.”

  “I know,” I agreed.

  “Kerry. Weird.”

  “Whatever floats your boat,” Clo noted.

  We agreed.

  “I’ve never been to Kerry,” I mused.

  “Me neither,” said Seán.

  “Maybe it’s nice there,” Clo said wistfully.

  “Yeah,” I agreed and then we sat there, silent, until the nurse approached to let Clo know she could go home. We walked her to her car, hugged her goodbye and waved her off.

  As we walked to my car, Seán remarked that I looked sad. I was sad. I admitted that when I’d got the call I had panicked, thinking that someone was dead, and that I was so relieved when I found out what it was. It was only when I walked out of the hospital that I realised someone had died and, whether the baby that Clo was carrying was wanted or not, whether she miscarried or had an abortion, something that was alive inside of her last night was dead today and that was sad. He put his arm around me and told me we’d all be fine and I knew we would, but for that moment I wasn’t thinking about us.

  * * *

  That evening I went to Confession because Confession was still the best place to chat to Noel. There wasn’t a queue. There never was. Usually, it was just the same two old ladies. I waited for them to confess their sins and tried to imagine what two “auld ones” could get up to that was so bad that each week they’d have to seek absolution and spend so much time doing it. When the last one came out I entered the box. It was cold and the pew was hard on the knees. I briefly wondered if it was fair to have it be so hard considering the majority of those who knelt on it were over sixty. Noel slid back the little sliding door that revealed the grille which separated saint from sinner.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey, Em, we’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he grinned.

  “Well, if you’d ever pick up your phone I wouldn’t have to kneel to chat to you.”

  “I thought you were going away for the weekend?”

  “Change of plan,” I said. “Clo had a miscarriage today.”

  His eye twitched. It always twitched when he was surprised or not sure what to say.

  “It’s OK,” I said. “She wasn’t ready to have a baby.”

  “Maybe God w
as listening,” he said.

  I laughed bitterly like Clo had done before me. “I doubt it. He never listened to me.” I knew I was opening a debate which I normally steered away from with Noel, because I never wanted to hear what he had to say about God and I didn’t like to fight with him, but today I wanted to hear what he had to say, just so I could tell him to shove it and maybe make myself feel a little better.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I asked.

  “Go on,” he said tentatively, sensing that I was looking for a fight.

  “OK. How do you know He exists?”

  “Who? God?” he asked, playing for time.

  “No, Santa,” I replied sarcastically. “Of course God.”

  “I just do,” was his reply.

  “Not good enough,” I challenged.

  “OK, it says so in the Bible.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “That’s it? It says so in the Bible?” That’s why he gave up his entire life? “OK, let me ask you this. What if it was discovered that the Bible was just another made-up novel written thousands of years ago by some guy who smoked a lot of pot? Would you believe in God then?”

  He laughed. “Someone would have to smoke a lot of pot to come up with that story.”

  “Be serious,” I begged.

  “OK, Em, I will,” he told me. “The Bible is just the guide. God is a feeling I have inside. He’s part of my soul.”

  He smiled and I wondered if he was smoking pot.

  Obviously sensing my dissatisfaction, he continued, “OK, you don’t believe in that. But what about all the people who have experienced miracles? What about the people who have seen Our Lady?”

  That’s easy, I thought to myself. “A hell of a lot more people claim to have been abducted by aliens and they’re called lunatics.”

  I was pleased with my argument but he laughed.

  “I’m serious, Noel. Do you ever worry that you’re wasting your life on someone who doesn’t even exist?”

  He stopped smiling and became pensive. I wished he would just pick a fight, but he wouldn’t.

  “My job is to help people. How can that be a waste of my life? God’s in all of us, Em.”

  Was he trying to convince himself or me? I thought about it for a minute.

  “You’re such a sap, Noel.”

  “Indeed,” he agreed.

  “I better go.”

  He waved while I attempted to stand on brokens knees.

  I sat in the empty church for a while, looking around me. Religious statues lined the walls, the Virgin and Child being the most prominent. I looked towards the marble altar surrounded by golden gates. The stained glass window depicted Jesus, bloody and dying, his mother at his torn feet, looking desperately toward heaven, and I took a moment to appreciate its macabre beauty.

  A long time after that, Noel reminded me of that day and admitted that while I was enjoying the view he was inside his little box crying.

  Chapter 11

  Ron the Ride

  Seán was staying over in the spare room a lot, especially since Christmas.

  Anne noticed.

  “So what’s going on?” she asked casually over coffee in a packed coffee shop.

  “Nothing,” I replied.

  She didn’t accept “nothing”, believing Seán’s visits were more to do with me than with transport difficulties. I didn’t want to talk about it.

  “How long has it been, Em?”

  I was confused. “How long has what been?” I asked, pissed off. I really just wanted to have a cup of coffee.

  “How long has it been since you’ve had sex?” She whispered the “sex” bit.

  I thought to myself, I’ll pretend not to hear her, but I knew she’d scream the word if she had to.

  “Does it matter?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  I sighed at her the way I sighed at my students. She was aware but didn’t care, as she felt the matter had to be addressed. It was just over ten months since John had gone, so therefore it seemed to me that it was obvious I hadn’t slept with someone in over ten months.

  “Since John, of course,” I answered, irritated that I had to state it. “Ten months.”

  “Ten months, Em!”

  “So?”

  “Em,” she said seriously, “you turned twenty-seven years old in October.”

  “You promised you would ignore my birthday,” I moaned, trying to change the subject. I had spent my birthday pretty much the same way I had spent Christmas, under my duvet. I began to wish I was still there.

  “And I did ignore it,” she said, shaking her head from side to side.

  “That includes not mentioning it and besides you sent flowers,” I argued.

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “So, what are you saying?” came my weary reply.

  “So, he’s not coming back.” She sounded a little sad, as though saying it made John’s disappearance a little more real.

  “I know,” I agreed.

  “Maybe you should try to get out there.” She was smiling at me, like that would make her advice easier to take.

  “Get out there! You think just because it’s a new year I should forget him?” I said in disbelief.

  “No, of course not – nobody is forgetting what you and John had. But – I know this sounds harsh – he’s gone and he’s not coming back and you are twenty-seven and alone and we all –”

  “Who are ‘we’?” I asked, annoyed.

  She didn’t answer quickly enough.

  “You were talking about this behind my back!” I said.

  Her smile faded. I almost heard her think, Oh shit!

  “Who’s ‘we’, Anne?”

  She thought for a minute before answering. “Richard, Clo and Seán,” she blurted out.

  My mouth fell open. “Oh my God! You had a fucking conference.”

  She was fumbling for words now. “That is not the case and you know it. We’re just worried.”

  It was obvious to me that these people had fuck all to worry about if the big topic of conversation was my getting laid. I was hurt.

  “My sex life is private, and it’s not for you to discuss!” I was whisper-shouting.

  “Look, it wasn’t planned. It’s just that Richard knows this solicitor – he’s really nice and he’s been single for over a year and …”

  I stopped listening. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe that she thought it was OK to be having this conversation with me, here in this stupid packed coffee shop.

  “So, you see, that’s how the conversation started and Clo and I really feel it’s time to move on.”

  I had missed the middle bit. Shit, they were talking about me behind my back and that was enough. I couldn’t believe that Clo and Anne were discussing my sex life with Seán and Richard. It was humiliating.

  “Well, actually Seán was pretty quiet,” she admitted. “He does spend a lot of time in your place. Is there something we should know?”

  “Nothing’s going on between Seán and me. He was John’s best friend,” I said, disgusted at her lack of consideration.

  “OK,” she brightened. “So you can meet Ron.”

  I looked at her and repeated, “Ron?”

  “Yeah, Em, the solicitor.”

  I wanted to tell her to piss off, but after she talked for a long time, I found myself agreeing to meet a guy called Ron. It appears I was lonelier than I thought.

  * * *

  A week later I’m in my bedroom getting dressed to go out on a date at eight with Ron. My first date since I was sixteen. I had bought a dress, but decided I didn’t like it. Clo and Anne were there, as helpers and spectators. They were drinking vodka and arguing whether red or black was a better choice of colour. I was a nervous wreck, like a bad flyer facing a long-haul flight.

  “What if I hate the sight of him?”

  “You won’t,” said Anne.

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s a ride,” she r
esponded.

  “He’s a ride?” asked Clo.

  “Yeah,” said Anne.

  “So why have you never set him up with me?” Clo challenged. We laughed and she smiled at herself. “Anyway, just as well, I’m off men,” she reminded us.

  We knew and wondered how long it would last.

  It was nearly time for him to call. Clo and Anne were giddy on vodka and I was two minutes from a serious case of the runs.

  “Where’s Richard?” Clo asked Anne.

  “Oh, he’s out with Seán,” she responded.

  I hadn’t mentioned my date to Seán. I wasn’t quite sure how he’d take it, being John’s best friend. It made me nervous.

  “Does Seán know I’m going on this date?” I asked, trying to appear casual.

  “Yeah, I’m sure Richard mentioned it,” Anne replied while fixing my hair like I was a two-year-old.

  “Is that a problem?” asked the ever-vigilant Clo.

  “No,” I responded, lying. “It’s fine.”

  The doorbell rang and I wanted to vomit.

  “Answer the door,” Anne prompted.

  “Right,” I agreed. “You’ll stay in the kitchen. I will leave with Ron.” I could barely make myself say the name Ron. “And then you will go home and not be here when I get back.”

  They both agreed to those terms so I opened the door and greeted my blind date.

  “Hi, I’m Emma,” I said.

  He smiled. “Ron Lynch. Sorry I’m late.”

  It was one minute past eight.

  “You’re not late,” I pointed out while grabbing my coat.

  I needed to get him out fast before Clo lost her resolve and attempted to check him out like my mother had done with John all those years ago. “Let’s go.”

  “OK,” he smiled.

  We left and I walked down the path to his sports car thinking, Jesus, Ron is a ride.

  The curtains twitched as we took off and I knew that Clo was giving Anne a hard time for not introducing Ron to her. We sat in silence, occasionally turning our heads to smile at one another. He asked me if I wanted to listen to some music.

  “Great,” I said over-enthusiastically.

  “Any requests?” he asked and I thought it a bit stupid seeing as we were in a car.

  How much choice could he have? But I remained polite. “What have you got?”

  “What would you like?”

  I really didn’t care. “Bruce Springsteen,” I said.