Moving On

Mother

Mother

THE LAST TIME SHE’D SLEPT THERE WAS THE NIGHT of Joan’s wedding, seven years ago. The wallpaper was the same, strutting peacocks against pale blue that she’d been allowed to choose at the age of fourteen, when her father had decided both girls’ bedrooms needed freshening up.

The dressing table, the wardrobe, the armchair and the bookshelves were still there. The frilled bed linen, the yellow rug by the bed, the stain on the floorboards under the window where Claire had dropped a bottle of nail varnish remover once.

She found places for her things and Juliet’s as best she could, the opening of drawers and the hanging of clothes reminding her cruelly of moving in with Leo. She recalled how happy she’d been as she’d installed her belongings in his home, how sure that she’d found the man to spend the rest of her life with.

So many of her belongings were still in his house – her books, her portfolio, her summer clothes – and some of Juliet’s stuff too. Tell him to pack it all up , Maggie had said, and bring it to my house. I’ll store it in one of the bedrooms; it’ll be fine there . Keep in touch , she’d said, let me know what’s happening . I’ll get temp work for a while, so I’ll be free to come back to you, whenever that is . Maggie, her rock.

She opened the cabinet above the bathroom sink and saw bottles of pills that were new, all with her mother’s name on them. She left her things in her toilet bag and propped it on the end of the bath.

You didn’t have to come , her mother had said, but the fire had gone out of her voice, and already Ellen fancied her face looked thinner. I wanted to come , she’d replied, and it was only half untrue.

The days passed, and life settled into its new routine, with tears never far away. She wept for her mother, and for herself and her situation, and for her children who would not after all grow up under the same roof as both their parents. Tears ambushed her at every opportunity, and the opportunities were many.

The sight of Juliet sitting on her grandmother’s knee like she belonged there, thumb plugged in her mouth as her grandmother read The Tiger Who Came to Tea in a slow, careful voice.

The knobs of her mother’s spine pushing against paper-thin skin as Ellen helped her to get dressed each day.

The sound of the racking cough at night, every night, from the bedroom next door. The way her mother looked at Ellen when Ellen came in to help her sit up for some water. The mouthed, barely audible Thank you after she’d sipped.

There was no reconciliation, not as such. No big emotional scene, no apologies or professions of love, nothing that would make it into a Hollywood story. But as the weeks passed, Ellen was aware of a persistent chipping away of old hurts and resentments, a small calmness settling into the place where they’d been.

When she reached the stage where she could put it into words, she wrote to Danny and told him everything. He wrote back.

Oh God. I am so beyond sorry. What a nightmare time for you. I wish I was there to help. Sending long-distance love. Hugs to your mam. Sorry, sorry, sorry. xxx

A week or so later a small box that weighed practically nothing was delivered to the house with her name on it. Inside she found a beautiful silk square, light as a wisp and big enough to wrap around herself twice, and the colour of Californian skies.

My favourite shade of blue , she’d told him, as they’d flown along the highway under glorious sunshine with the roof of his car down, on the way to Palo Alto and his wedding. How was that only a few weeks ago? It felt like another lifetime.

He would never have cheated on her. She knew that without question. At the bottom of the box she found two packets of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. With you in spirit, old friend – love D xx she read in the card that had a hummingbird on it.

Juliet was taken in by a local playschool, where she quickly made friends. Ellen also put her name down in the same primary school that she and Joan had attended. She’d felt obliged, in case they were still there when the time came for her daughter to start school in September.

In case Juliet’s grandmother was still alive then.

Every day she grew weaker, every day there was less she could do, but still she insisted on getting up and getting dressed each morning, even if it was only to make her torturously slow way down the stairs on Ellen’s arm, to move from her bedroom to the chair in the sitting room that had always been hers.

And inevitably, the time came when she couldn’t manage the stairs, so Ellen borrowed a fold-up bed from a neighbour for Juliet, and Seamus came from Cork to help Ellen dismantle the bed in Joan’s room that Juliet had been using, and reassemble it in the dining room that hadn’t been used in years. When they had dressed the bed Seamus carried his mother-in-law downstairs, and seeing her so limp and wasted in his arms, Ellen again fought tears.

Frances came and went during this period, staying a few days each time, doing what she could for the sister who should be outliving her. Joan arrived from Cork for a few hours whenever she could get away, ordering Ellen out for a walk or to her bed for a nap.

Every so often, Ellen would remind herself that she hadn’t yet told her sister about the encounter with their father, or the existence of Iris. Events had taken over, and the time never seemed right for the conversation. Still, she must find an opportunity.

Claire phoned weekly from London. ‘Thinking of you,’ she said to Ellen. ‘Wish I could do more.’

She did more. She sent chocolates and bath salts and toys from London. She had bouquets delivered, and a silk pillowcase for Ellen’s mother. She got her own mother to call to the house with the homemade brown bread Ellen used to love.

And Leo rang twice weekly, every Sunday and Wednesday at five o’clock. It had been the only condition he’d put on agreeing to let Juliet go to Ireland, but Ellen would have given him the number without his asking, because she didn’t want her daughter, or their next child, to grow up without a father. She wouldn’t let that happen to her children.

She still loved him. Love, she discovered, didn’t have an off switch. Despite what he’d done it was still there, lodged stubbornly within her, pressing up against the anger and the disillusionment and the pain. As she and Juliet had taken a taxi to the airport she’d felt a huge sense of loss. It was as if he had died, or part of her had.

When the phone rang at the appointed time each week she answered, and they had a brief, agonising exchange of words.

How’s your mother?

She’s weaker.

Sorry to hear it. How are you?

. . . I’m managing.

Please come back. I’m so sorry, Ellen. I miss you. I love you.

Here’s Juliet , she would say then, because she couldn’t cope with that, couldn’t cope with anything emotional between them.

Lucinda had been wonderful. You can take leave of absence , she’d said, and we’ll use you on a freelance basis, if you’re agreeable. I can email you briefs, and we can discuss on the phone, and see how we go.

Email had been spreading across the globe, so Ellen had invested in a computer and Danny had guided her through signing up for her first email account, and she grabbed whatever time she could to work. It wasn’t ideal. Her internet connection was weak, and documents from Lucinda could take a long time to load up. In addition, she missed the brainstorming and the buzz in the studio where ideas were born every day.

Meanwhile, her second pregnancy moved through its stages, interrupting precious sleep with jabs of pain and insistent urges to pee, causing her to drag her way through the days with aching back and swollen feet and heartburn. It would all be worth it, she told herself. She would love this child every bit as much as she loved Juliet.

One evening she had an email from Danny.

News . All going well, Bobbi’s going to make me a father in November. Thinking of you a lot, wish we weren’t so far apart. Hoping you’re coping. Hold on, pal. It won’t stay bad, I promise you. xx

She emailed her congratulations. She must look to the future, as he was doing. She must find a way to be happy again.