32
Jack makes pasta when we get back while I bathe Ari. I don’t want to lie to him about Leonard. Not after the whole Tom Hanks-is-your-grandfather thing. Still, there’s a balance needed. I won’t tell him, for example, what I learnt when researching the mechanics of an overdose on the journey home. How the breath becomes dangerously slow and oxygen levels fall low enough that the heart starts having abnormal rhythms. With the lungs and heart barely working, brain cells begin to erode. Within four minutes, they’re dying.
I won’t tell him that it was Leonard’s time or that he’s in a better place now.
I tell him the only thing I know to be certain. I tell him Leonard is dead.
Ari plunges his toy pirate ship into the water.
‘But he wasn’t old,’ he says, raising the boat and watching the water cascade from the deck.
‘No, baby, but sometimes people aren’t old when they die.’
Ari furrows his brow. ‘Are you going to die?’
‘Some day. But I hope not for a very long time.’
‘Is Leonard in the sky with Simba’s daddy now? Will he talk to me from the stars like Mufasa? I think that would be a bit scary.’
‘No, love. You don’t need to worry about that.’
‘Can we bury him beside Margaret? They can look after each other and not be lonely.’
‘I think Leonard might have family back in America who’ll want him to be near them.’
‘Hey Mummy? When I see Leonard again, I’m going to tell him I miss him.’
I run my hand through my son’s wet hair.
‘I think that’s a lovely idea, Ari.’
~
After dinner with Myriam, Jack and I go to my room. Jack strips down to his underwear, me, a t-shirt, and we climb beneath the sheets. I lie my head on Jack’s chest, his arm around me.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘He was fine. He seemed so happy in his own skin, y’know? Like he’d life all figured out.’
‘I don’t think anyone has life all figured out,’ Jack says quietly, fingering a strand of my hair.
‘He could have talked to me. I know how crazy lack of sleep can make you.’
‘Did you ever talk to him about your insomnia?’
‘Well, no, I guess not,’ I say.
It’s a big club, us waking dead, but in the middle of the night when you’re staring at the shadows on the ceiling, it can feel like a membership of one.
‘The doctor said he was on benzodiazepines,’ I continue. ‘Did Leonard seem anxious to you?’
‘No. But I’d be surprised if he wasn’t unscathed by the past couple of years. Everyone’s damaged in some way. You do what you can to get through it.’
‘Are you? Damaged?’
‘Less so lately,’ he says, squeezing me tighter.
I trace his chest with my finger.
‘Did I tell you the owners have found a buyer for this place?’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. It means I’ll be in Dublin by the end of the year.’
‘How do you feel about that?’
‘I mean, business is slowly picking up – I had another booking there yesterday – but then we’re heading into low season and I’ll be forced to dip into our savings again. It’s good they’ve found someone to take over this place. It makes sense, Ari and me going back to Ireland.’
‘That’s not what I asked,’ Jack says.
I prop myself up on the pillow and rest my chin in my palm, staring down at him. With my other hand, I thread my fingers through his, my thumb lightly running over the cracked skin.
‘Nervous habit,’ he says, looking embarrassed. ‘I’ve been doing it since Dad got sick.’
I lift his thumb and kiss it. He looks at me, grateful. I want to kiss this hand forever.
‘I want to know everything about you,’ I say.
He laughs. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘What did you want to be when you were five?’
‘Taller.’
‘What scares you?’
‘Unchecked AI. Irish women throwing eggs.’
He shoots me a sly smile. Squirming, I hide my head in my heads.
‘The Dress,’ I say. ‘Was it white and gold or blue and black?’
‘White and gold, obviously.’
‘The correct answer is blue and black, but we’ll agree to disagree. Did you vote for Brexit?’
‘No. But I understand the people who did.’
‘Does Logan Sacks really have a seventeen-year-old’s rectum?’
‘He didn’t show me, if that’s what you’re asking. And were I able to verify his claim I’d be in jail. Can I kiss you now?’
‘One more question.’
He regards me dubiously. ‘Think carefully, Murphy. This is your final one.’
I tap my finger on my lips, remembering the condom in his wallet.
‘Did you sleep with Chloe?’
‘Sabrina’s niece? Why would you think that?’
‘You came, erm, prepared. In the car earlier.’
He smiles. ‘That’s been there since I separated from Helen. Should tell you all you need to know about the state of my love life. Are we done with the interrogation?’
He leans over to kiss my neck.
‘Final question!’
He groans.
‘Do you think it’ll work out?’ I say.
‘Do I think what will work out?’
‘All of it. The pandemic, the world.’
Us.
He pauses. ‘I think so, yes.’
‘Really? With glaciers melting at a record rate and Donald Trump telling Americans to inject themselves with bleach – you’re optimistic about the future of humanity?’
‘Not optimistic, hopeful. There’s a difference. Optimists think everything will be fine without their involvement. Hope is the belief that what we do matters, even if we can’t know how it will matter. Hope requires action. I’m hopeful, for example, that this grilling is nearing its end and I can kiss you know. But I’m not going to wait around for it to happen.’
He puts his hand on my cheek and pulls me into him, kissing me slowly and deeply. Flipping me over onto my back, he kisses my neck and clavicle. You’re so beautiful, he mutters, pulling my t-shirt over my head and cupping my breasts with his mouth. His lips move down my body, kissing my navel, my hip bone. He moves the crotch of my underwear to one side, touching me between my legs. I shudder. He moans. Jesus, Fiadh. His fingers are inside me now, his lips on my neck. He smells so good. I can’t think straight. I haven’t had this in so long. Haven’t wanted anything as badly as I want this. He pulls my underwear off and goes down on me, his tongue moving expertly around my clitoris. I’m going to come, I say breathlessly, arching my back. Not yet, he smiles, raising his head up. He moves up along the bed, spreading my legs wider, wrapping them around his waist as he pushes into me, his eyes locking with mine, telling me over and over how beautiful I am, how much he’s thought about this, his forehead pressed against mine. I want to ask him how he’s so good at this, how much practice he’s had, what this means, what’s next. But I’m all out of questions.