I didn’t catch on straight away. ‘For what?’
‘We wanted to wait to tell you today. A Happy Birthday surprise!’ Mam continued and then she started to cry. Big fat tears splashed out of her eyes. I jumped up, worried.
‘Mam!’ I cried, and threw myself into her arms. ‘Oh Mam, what’s wrong with you?’
Eli pulled his headphones off. ‘Mam?’
‘What are you blathering on about?’ she replied. ‘These are tears of happiness, you eejits. Your dad and I have a surprise for you both. You tell them, John. I’m an old fool, can’t stop crying, I’m that happy.’
‘No you tell them, Mary,’ Dad replied, looking a bit emotional too and they grabbed a hold of each other, half laughing, half crying.
‘What are we like?’ Mam said to Dad and they laughed some more.
‘Oh for goodness sake, will one of you tell us?’ I screamed and Eli shouted, ‘Yeah!’
‘There’s no need to shout,’ Mam said, sniffing. Then her face broke into the biggest smile. ‘We’re all going to Florida.’ And she and Dad started to bounce up and down on the spot like demented kangaroos.
‘You mean, we’ve saved enough?’ I looked at each of them and Dad’s eyes glistened with tears or excitement, or maybe it was both. Mam moved backwards and Dad moved forwards in a way I’ve seen them do ever since I can remember. In one fluid moment, her back was nestled against his chest, his two arms were wrapped around her. And even though Eli and I were now dancing around the table like eejits, even though it had been years since we’d done that together, I kept looking back at them, and their eyes never left us. It was perfect. Another of those moments locked in my head and heart forever.
For hours, we all tripped up on our words, babbling on about our holiday in paradise, that it was finally becoming a reality.
But the very next day, the first of what would be several holiday curve balls were thrown our way. Now, looking back, I wonder, was the universe telling us, as loudly as it could, that our family shouldn’t travel. That we should be content with our lot in Ireland, where it was safe and fun and full of loving banter.
I wish we’d listened to the universe. But I’ll get to that in a bit.
It was a blustery and cold evening. Home from school, we’d done our homework and now Mam had us out in the garden picking up rubbish. Our recycle bin had tipped over in the wind and my mood was as sour as the stench of milk in the carton I had just retrieved from a ditch. The garden was scattered with bread wrappers, empty tins and newspapers that were turning to mulch from the damp. My main concern was that someone I knew might go by and see me picking up said litter.
‘It would be just my luck that Faye Larkin will go by.’ I moaned, chasing a Cadbury’s Time Out wrapper up the garden.
‘Never mind Faye Larkin, grab that wrapper before it flies in next door. We’ll be the talk of the parish! Someone might even report us!’
‘It’s not fair. And look at him!’ I pointed to Eli, indignation making me furious. ‘Eli is doing NOTHING!’ I finally caught the wrapper and flung it into my black sack, before it could escape again. I bet Faye Larkin had a servant who does stuff like this.
I looked back at Eli and once again he was faffing about, doing feck all. Making sure Mam wasn’t looking, I flung an empty tin of baked beans at my brother, my aim perfect. It clipped his head.
‘Ow!’ he yelped and I feigned surprise. He threw daggers at me and complained, ‘Mam, she did that on purpose.’
‘As if. Gosh Mam, that wind is really picking up,’ I said, poker-faced. I had to suppress a giggle when I noticed a trickle of tomato sauce sneak its way down the side of his face. Serve him right for being as much use as a chocolate teapot.
He had this stupid tool he’d created, which he insisted on using to pick up the rubbish. He’d fashioned it out of a broom handle and some tongs. Not one of his better creations. Wiping the sauce from his face, he mouthed at me, ‘You’re dead.’
Ha! As if I’m worried about him. Bring it on brother, bring it on.
‘A tortoise, blindfolded with one leg, would be quicker at picking up rubbish than you,’ I moaned.
But Mam shushed me, ‘Don’t stifle his creativity. He’s a dreamer, our Eli. Leave him be.’ She smiled at him, as he unsuccessfully tried to pick up the beans can with the tongs.
Gobshite.
So Mam and I picked up the rubbish that Milo’s scooper left behind and soon the garden was clear, thus saving our blushes from the neighbours.
‘You know what, your dad is fierce late,’ Mam said as we sat on the porch step, drinking a glass of water. ‘I didn’t notice the time. He should be home by now.’
And then, as if she’d summoned him, he walked around the corner of the house, into the back garden, sweat staining his shirt and dripping down his face. It was rare we ever saw him looking that dishevelled.
‘The car only blew up. About a mile down the road.’
Mam rushed to him and he continued, ‘I swear it started to rattle, then smoke appeared out of the bonnet. It exploded like a fecking fire cracker, gave me a right start, I can tell you.’
The next day, confirmation came that the car was not repairable. The engine was, as Dad said, ‘only fecked.’ Mam and Dad spent a lot of time whispering in their bedroom. Then they asked us to sit down in the good sitting room for a chat. That never bode well, in our experience.
Eli cottoned on to the subtext first of all, ‘there’s not going to be a holiday, is there?’ He might be a dreamer, but he was clever.
Mam looked at Dad and they both sagged. It was as if someone had pricked them both with a pin and the air was leaking out of them, making them crumpled and worn.
Maybe I didn’t want to believe what was unfolding, or maybe I just wasn’t as quick as Eli, but I clung to hope and cried, ‘don’t be silly. We’re going to Florida this summer. Aren’t we, Dad?’
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, realisation came crushing down and I knew that we were going nowhere.
STELLA
Derry Lane, Dublin, 2014
‘Here you go.’ Matt placed a tray on the bedside table. Stella glanced at its contents: a pot of filter coffee, her favourite mug, and toast, buttered liberally with a small pot of orange marmalade beside it. Guilt food.
Her abdomen ached as she tried to ease herself up to a sitting position.
‘Are you in pain, my darling?’ he asked, reaching out to caress her cheek.
She pulled away, his touch added insult to her injuries.
‘Don’t be like that,’ he pouted, pouring coffee for her. His defiant stare challenged her, but she remained silent.
Matt forced a smile, ‘I’ve told you I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to fall.’
Fall? He shoved her so hard her body actually lifted into the air, falling hard against the living-room cream-leather sofa.
‘You pushed me.’
He looked at her, shocked by her tone. ‘Now now, don’t be a drama queen. It doesn’t suit you, Stella. It was an accident.’ His eyes dared her to go along with the lie. The pain in her side, his favourite place to kick, her weak spot, protested loud. Liar, liar, you cruel, nasty liar.
He