Chapter 21 #2
‘It’s okay, Mum,’ she said gently. Sweeney might not have been ready to forgive in the past but, looking into her mother’s eyes, seeing her obvious regret and contrition, she was now. ‘You lost the love of your life. And you missed him.’
‘You,’ Connie said, her voice wobbly, her eyes glassy, ‘are the love of my life.’
Her mother’s words hit Sweeney right in the place she’d papered over all those years ago so she could just get herself and her mother through another day. She swallowed against the thickening in her throat. ‘Grief is hard.’
Her mother nodded. ‘Yeah, it is. On everyone. And I’m so sorry I privileged my pain and grief over yours.’
Sweeney sucked in a ragged breath. Her nose itched as tears burned in her eyes. With her heart open to forgiveness, this apology was a balm to the jagged wound left behind by her suppressed childhood grief. ‘I get it, Mum. I really do. It’s really okay.’
And it really was. It hadn’t been, but today—finally—it was. It had been a shitty time, and grieving people weren’t rational.
Standing, Sweeney took the three paces to her mother, who also stood. They were crying as they embraced. Not the deep wrenching cries of raw, new loss but the quiet, bittersweet tears of sorrow and regret.
‘I love you, Sweeney,’ her mother whispered, hugging her tight, her voice deep and husky with emotion. ‘And I’m so very, very proud of you.’
‘I love you, too, Mum.’
Sweeney wasn’t sure how long they embraced but she wasn’t in any hurry to leave the comfort of her mother’s arms. It felt good—cathartic. Like the mum hugs of old.
‘So, you’re not mad at me anymore for flaking out those three years?’ Connie asked when they finally eased apart, her hands finding her daughter’s and holding tight.
Sweeney opened her mouth to deny the claim then shut it again because, deep down, in a place she’d never wanted to acknowledge, she had always been a little …
resentful. Angry that she’d had to be the adult in their household.
When all the other teens had been out there living their lives, pushing boundaries—going to parties, getting drunk, getting boyfriends—she’d been cooking and cleaning and forging notes to her teachers.
She’d been prodding her mother to eat, to get up, to shower, to go to work.
And maybe that resentment was the real reason she’d stayed away from Ballyshannon.
‘No.’ She probed the taut, tight space where the anger had resided to find it gone. Time and distance and finally confronting her true feelings had slashed a huge gash in the space, letting it all out. ‘Not anymore.’
Her mother’s smile wobbled a little and she blinked furiously but she didn’t cry again. She was relieved, though; Sweeney could feel it in the sudden easing of tension in her mother’s body. The sag of her shoulders, the relaxing of her grip.
‘I don’t suppose that extends to the fake engagement thing?’ Connie asked, her gaze mischievous in what Sweeney guessed was a deliberate attempt to lighten the mood.
‘Oh no.’ Sweeney gave a half laugh. ‘You’re still on the hook for that.’
Connie grinned, her eyes shiny with happiness and unshed tears. ‘Fair enough.’
The bell dinged over the door outside and Connie squeezed Sweeney’s hands. ‘I’ll get it. Do you want to start with that lot over there?’
Sweeney glanced at the bric-a-brac section. A jumble of items took over the entire top of an old Formica table as well as underneath. ‘Sure.’
The beaded curtain clattered quietly as her mother passed through and Sweeney heard Marjorie Weaver’s voice.
Ugh. Of course. Ducking out of sight of the curtain, she made her way to the stack of assorted household goods, unsure of where to start on the pile of junk—her mother preferred pre-loved—that seemed precariously stacked.
Like a Jenga tower, ready to collapse should the wrong piece be removed.
Just on a cursory inspection, Sweeney could see several boxes of old books, a toaster, an old-fashioned vase, a handheld electric mixer with only one beater, a decades-old turntable, a drawer that contained what must be hundreds of marbles, a pile of old towels and a triffid-like light fixture straight out of the seventies.
God alone knew what lay beneath. A partridge in a pear tree?
Connie returned a few moments later in another clatter of beads, just as Sweeney was about to open a plush velvet drawstring bag.
The big things had been a tad overwhelming so she’d figured she’d start small.
The bag was quite posh, although not heavy, and she wondered if it might contain jewellery.
The shop seemed to sell a lot of second-hand necklaces, rings, watches and brooches.
‘What did the busybody want?’ Sweeney asked as she looked over her shoulder at her mother.
Connie smiled as she neared. ‘Just checking in to see if there’s been a date set yet.’
Sweeney rolled her eyes. ‘Of course.’
Her mother laughed, but it morphed quite quickly into a frown as she saw what Sweeney was holding. ‘Ooh, careful of that,’ she said. ‘You might want to wear gloves. I got a selection of butt plugs in a bag like that once.’
Sweeney dropped the bag. ‘What?’ She blinked at her mother. There really should be a law about sixty-year-old mothers saying butt plugs. For a moment she didn’t know what to do or say, then she laughed, thinking about how that moment must have gone down. ‘Oh my god, what did you do?’
Connie opened a plastic bag of clothes as she said, ‘We scrubbed them, soaked them, washed them, repackaged them and put ’em on the shelf.’
Sweeney blinked again. Good god. ‘Whaaat?’
Connie shrugged. ‘They were an excellent brand. I googled it. And people who can’t afford new ones need butt plugs too.’
This particular conversation was not one she’d ever pictured having with her mother. And she was pretty sure that butt plugs didn’t come in anywhere on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. ‘Okay …’
‘I mean,’ Connie continued as she shook out a pair of jeans, ‘do you know how much a good butt plug costs?’
Sweeney blinked a third time. She was starting to feel like one of those old-fashioned, creepy dolls with the blinky eyes. ‘No … do you?’
‘Expensive.’ Her mother nodded. ‘And we sold them in two days to—’
‘Nope.’ Sweeney jumped in, interrupting sharply, holding up her hand in the universally recognised sign for stop for the love of god STOP! She did not want to know who might be innocently walking around town with a plug in their ass.
It could be freaking Marjorie for all she knew!
*
After donning gloves, the bag contents were revealed to be several sets of decorative dice—praise the lord. They were quite beautiful, and Sweeney was surprised anyone would part with them. But then, people apparently parted with sex toys, so what did she know?
Still, the biggest surprise of the day was not the revelation that her mother knew the brand names and pricing structure of the butt plug market. That came about twenty minutes later, when she’d cleared enough stuff to reveal a stunning discovery.
Sweeney gasped as she picked it up. ‘Oh my god.’
‘What?’ Connie asked, looking over her shoulder.
Turning to face her mother, Sweeney held up the item, still not quite believing what she was brandishing. A gleaming canary yellow chamber pot.
Betty Hitchin and her bloody water!