Chapter 54
The marbled purple bowling ball rolled down the lane, veered off to the side, clipped the edge of a pin and disappeared into the black beyond.
The pin teetered, steadied itself and stood still.
I turned to look at my teammates; Mr and Mrs McCoy shrugged in a better luck next time kind of way.
My mum and dad, our opponents, made the same gesture before Dad got up, rubbing his hands together.
‘Right, here comes the pro,’ he said with a wink, collecting his ball. Dad had been bowling just as badly as me and only happened to feel like a pro because Mum, his teammate, had turned out to be a surprisingly good bowler and was racking up all the points.
‘It’s alright,’ said Mrs McCoy when I sat down beside her, ‘none of us are naturals.’
‘Except that mother of yours,’ said Mr McCoy, ‘she’s ruthless.’
Mum noticed the three of us staring at her.
‘What?’ she said.
We burst out laughing.
‘What?’ she said again, laughing along with us in a confused way.
‘Would you stop with the laughter? You’re putting me off my game,’ Dad said, jokingly, in mid-bowling pose. ‘The Big Lebowski needs his focus.’
He drew the ball back and swung. When it left his hand it quickly veered into the right-hand trench and shot straight down into the darkness with not a single pin disturbed. We all erupted in laughter and Dad turned to take a bow as we applauded him.
It had been Mum’s idea to go bowling. It seemed inappropriate when she first mentioned it but I came round to the idea the more I thought about it.
‘Sometimes we need to create a bit of a lifeline for ourselves,’ she’d said. ‘And, at times like this, sometimes we need to offer one to others.’
I’d been managing to speak to the McCoys on the phone on a daily basis since regaining some energy and engagement with the world again. They’d barely left the house since the funeral.
I wasn’t sure how the suggestion of bowling would go down when I mentioned it to them, but they rang back the next morning to see if that night would suit.
So, thanks to Mum, we met at the bowling alley and it somehow seemed like the right place to be when we were there.
Us all full of so much grief. Maybe that’s why we threw those balls with such force and with so little care for scores.
It was only when we sat down in one of the dining booths after the game and ordered soft drinks that we realised none of us had looked at the screen to see who the winner was.
‘Well, I don’t think we need any evidence,’ said Mr McCoy. ‘The champion’s quite clearly that baby-faced bowling berserker over there,’ he said, nodding at Mum.
‘Baby-faced what?’ she said laughing.
‘I don’t know,’ said Mr McCoy, ‘just came out of my mouth – what’s a berserker anyway?’
‘No clue,’ Dad said. ‘But sounds appropriate – no wonder she was the one that wanted to go bowling so badly.’
‘Been practising all this time,’ said Mum sarcastically, flexing her muscles. ‘Just needed some unwitting victims.’
We all laughed.
‘But no, thanks for the boost,’ said Mrs McCoy. ‘We needed something because, I’m speaking for both of us here, self-compassion – not our forte.’
‘No one’s forte, Emma,’ agreed Mum.
‘Well, we are doing a wee bit of self-compassion, though,’ said Mr McCoy. ‘I’ve been joining Emma on the weekly support group meetings.’
‘Did I or did I not tell you to go from the beginning?’
‘I know but we couldn’t have both went because one of us had to be … had to be at home.’
They looked at each other and Mrs McCoy reached across the table and took her husband’s hand.
‘Well, there’s a few couples who’ve lost a child that attend … I didn’t think that’d be us,’ she said.
‘But to be amongst those who understand,’ said Mr McCoy, ‘really helps, really does.’
‘And we wanted to say to you, Brendan,’ said Mrs McCoy, ‘if you wanted to come along some Thursday evening you’re more than welcome.’
‘There’s actually a wee fella just started attending, his brother recently suffered an injury,’ said Mr McCoy. ‘He’s a bit younger than you but he has a great head on his shoulders, great wee personality.’
‘Yeah, actually, I think that’d be good,’ I said. ‘It’d be good to have that support, wouldn’t it?’
Mum and Dad nodded.
We sat in the booth talking until all the bowling lanes were empty and the music was turned off and staff began putting chairs up on tables for the floors to be cleaned.
If it was a scene from a film then it would be as if the camera shooting it was slowly stepping away from the five people in the red leather booth, moving further and further away watching them as they shared some smiles, said some quiet words.
Everything would get smaller and smaller but you’d still be able to see those five people clearly; heads bowing every now and again, hands reaching across to touch the backs of other hands, arms around shoulders and backs being rubbed.
Then the camera would be so far back that you could see the whole of the bowling alley; empty.
Then those five people, really far away by now, would stand, gather their things and leave together as one.
After they’re gone, the camera doesn’t move and stays watching as a staff member comes to the empty booth and clears the glasses and wipes the table clean and goes behind the counter to flip a switch and the lights go out and the scene fades to black.