‘Yes, Iris,’ I say, so there can be no doubt.
‘What about her?’ The urgency is gone from his tone. He thinks this is one of my worrying about nothing scenarios.
‘Well, she’s … talking about going to Switzerland. She says she’s going to a place where she can … it’s a clinic. In Zurich. They help you to … you know … end your life.’
‘What?’
‘Iris is going to Swi—’
‘No, Jesus, I heard what you said, I just … what the hell is she doing that for?’
‘Well … she says it’s to do with her MS and—’
‘But there’s not a bother on her. She’s not even in a wheelchair.’
‘That’s why she wants to do it now, she says. While she still can.’
‘That makes no sense whatsoever.’
‘Look Brendan, there’s no time to explain. The boat is leaving in …’ I check my watch. ‘… an hour and a quarter, and—’
‘Boat? What boat?’
‘The boat to Holyhead.’ It was a mistake. Ringing Brendan.
‘But she’s going to Zurich, you said. Why would she—’
‘She doesn’t fly. You know that.’
Brendan makes a sort of snorting noise down the phone. ‘So she’s going to kill herself, but she’s taking the boat just in case the plane crashes? Jesus, even for Iris, that’s crazy.’
‘Don’t say that, it’s—’
The sound of a foghorn wails through the air, startling me.
‘Where are you, Terry?’
‘I’m … I’m at Dublin Port.’
‘What are you … Jesus Christ, you’re not thinking of going with her, are you?’
‘Of course not. I mean, probably definitely not. It’s just … she’s by herself and …’
Crackling on the line now, then a door – Brendan’s office door – being firmly closed. When he speaks again, his voice is louder. Clearer. As if he is pressing the receiver hard against the side of his face.
‘Terry, listen to me now. She’s not going to go through with it. This is one of her notions. Like that time she said she was going to trek through the Sahara Desert.’
‘She did trek through the Sahara Desert.’
Brendan pauses, takes a deep breath.
‘Look, Terry, you’re needed here. Work is crazy at the moment with the Canadians landing. And there’s Kate. We need to be in Galway for her play next week.’
‘I know that, but—’
‘And what about Anna? She gets so stressed at exam time. And these are her finals.’ I want to tell him I know all that. I am her mother. These are the things I know. Like Anna being stressed and her skin being bad. I’m positive she’s not applying the cream I got for her eczema as regularly as she’s supposed to.
‘The best thing to do is go home, Terry. I won’t work late tonight. I’ll do my best to be home in time for dinner. We can talk about it then.’
I picture Brendan, arriving home from a hard day at the office and no dinner on the table and the washing still hanging on the line in the back garden. Anna brought a week’s worth over yesterday, and I promised her I’d …
THINK.
I think about Iris.
Say I went.
I can’t go.
But say I did.
Could I persuade Iris to change her mind? I’ve never persuaded anyone to do anything. I couldn’t even talk Brendan out of having the vasectomy after Anna was born.
‘Terry? Terry? Are you there?’ I hear the bristle in his voice, straining to get back to his important meeting.
‘Yes.’
‘So I’ll see you tonight?’
‘Well, I …’
‘Terry, this is nonsensical.’
‘I have to go.’ I hang up.
I’ve never hung up on Brendan. Ever. It’s true that we rarely communicate by telephone, but still, I’ve always held a civil tongue in my head and allowed him to finish his sentences and said my goodbyes before disconnecting the call.
Outside the terminal building, people stand and smoke or punch buttons on their phones or search for something in their handbags or stare into the middle distance.
There is no sign of Iris. The boat is leaving in – I check my watch – seventy minutes. And you have to check in thirty minutes before departure. Giving me forty minutes to come up with something.
THINK.
Everything Brendan said is true. Apart from Iris having notions. Iris has plans, not notions.
‘Do you think your mother will be back soon?’ I look at Dad. Without his dentures, his cheeks are hollow. He looks old. And cold. And so thin. When did he get so thin?
‘Yes,’ I say. I wish it were true. Mam would know what to do. She would have advice although she offered it only when it was sought. Even then, she maintained that people never really wanted advice, just someone to listen to them.
I think about Iris, sitting on the boat, her long fingers drumming the armrest of her chair, anxious to be off, regretful that things did not go according to plan. If they had, I would not have read her letter until next week, and by then, it would have been too late.
But it’s not too late.
Not yet.
THINK.
I ring Celia Murphy, my next-door neighbour, who has a key for our house. She gave me her front-door key, so I felt I had to reciprocate. I mind her cats when she goes to those juicing seminars in Scotland, and she gives us pears from her tree in the autumn, although none of us like pears. I stew them with ginger and brown sugar and put them in Tupperware containers in the freezer. The freezer is full of Tupperware containers of stewed pear. I don’t know why. My mother hated waste. Perhaps that’s it.
‘Celia? It’s Terry, I … No, nothing’s wrong, not a thing, sorry to disturb but, I … well, I need a favour and …’
Celia launches into a monologue about her cats, Fluffy and Flopsy. One of them is sick. I can’t make out which one. When she pauses for breath, I attempt to divert her.
‘Oh no Celia, I am sorry to hear that, hopefully the vet will …’
She’s off again. I grip the phone harder, dig it into my ear. ‘Listen Celia, sorry to interrupt, but I need your help. It’s urgent.’ I’m not quite shouting, but the silence that follows has a sort of stunned quality. I rush into it.
‘It’s just … well, I’m filling out paperwork for Dad and I need his passport. And eh, mine too. No, no, nothing serious, it’s just … just some paperwork, they’re always looking for something or other, these nursing homes. You’ll find them in the middle drawer of the sideboard in the dining room. Could you … Oh that’s great. Thank you. No no, there’s no need for you to bring them to the nursing home. But you’re so kind to … I’ll … I’ve ordered a taxi to collect the passports. Yes. Yes, that’s what I’ve done, I’ll … Sorry Celia the line is bad, I’d better go, yes, bye, bye, bye, thanks, bye, bye, thanks, bye.’
I hang up. If I stop and think about