My mother fumbles with the cap of the orange juice and it falls to the floor. She crawls under the table to retrieve it, letting out a small cry when she hits her head as she goes to stand up.
‘He’s gone back to Limerick,’ my father answers when she’s sitting upright again. ‘We’re paying good money for him to go to college and he already missed enough lectures yesterday. It’s time for him to grow up.’ He pushes his chair back, takes his suit jacket from the back and puts it on. ‘Thanks for that, Nora. They were delicious.’ He leans over to kiss her on the cheek. And as he leaves he grazes his hand against my neck, so lightly I could have imagined it.
‘What do you think of them?’ my mother asks me.
‘What?’
‘The scones. What do you think? I went back to an old Darina recipe.’ She leans back in her chair, reaching a hand behind her and grabbing a few of her old cookbooks from the island counter. ‘Speaking of which,’ she says, thumbing through the well-worn pages covered in sugar granules and flour, and stained with egg yolk, ‘I found this stuck behind the cover.’ She hands me an envelope. ‘It’s addressed to you.’
She looks down at the envelope and back at me, nodding her head as if to give me permission to open it. She looks happy. That is what I wanted.
‘I think I’m going to go upstairs,’ I say.
‘But you haven’t finished your—’
‘I’m not hungry.’
The smile on her face fades away. (I am glad.)
You were supposed to protect me, I want to say to her.
You were supposed to be on my side.
I want them both to acknowledge what I’ve done. I want them to tell me that I did the right thing, to tell me that they’re grateful, and that they’ll spend the rest of their lives making it up to me. Do you believe me? (Believe what? I can’t remember.) Did you ever believe that this wasn’t my fault?
*
I don’t ask them that. I will never ask.
Bryan has left my laptop on my chair, the lead wrapped around it to keep it shut. I place it on the vanity table, and sit down, turning the grubby envelope over in my hands, recognizing my own handwriting on the front beneath a dusting of flour. There’s a warning on the back in capital letters – DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 30TH BIRTHDAY – but I ignore it and slide my finger underneath the flap to open it, wincing as I give myself a paper cut. It’s an A4 page, folded in on itself about twenty times. I smooth it out, trying to iron away the creases, and as soon as I see it, I remember what it is.
‘It will be a time capsule of sorts,’ Ms McCarthy had told us as she wrote ‘Where Do I See Myself at Thirty?’ on the whiteboard. ‘I did it when I was in Transition Year myself, and I can’t wait to open my letter when I turn thirty.’ She added hastily that it wasn’t for years yet, and I saw Jamie elbow Ali, making a face at Ms McCarthy’s constant need to remind us of how ‘young’ she is,
It’s not that long since I was sitting in your seats, you know.
Ali’s shoulders started to shake. ‘What’s so funny?’ Ms McCarthy demanded, as J let out a guffaw of laughter, Ali breaking next, then Maggie and me, infecting one another with our giddiness. ‘Nothing,’ we spluttered, in gasping breaths, ‘Sorry, miss, sorry,’ another round of giggles tearing through my chest as she rolled her eyes to heaven and told us to cop ourselves on. We had finally calmed down when Jamie started again, a laugh scraping through her nose in a snort, which made Ali laugh out loud, and I had to bend over to pretend I was getting something out of my bag to hide my face. After a few minutes I sat up straight, turning away from the other girls and stared out the window to control myself before she could send us to Mr Griffin’s office. ‘Where do you see yourself at thirty?’ Ms McCarthy asked again, and as the sound of pens scratching against paper filled the room, I just knew that it couldn’t get any better than this.
I look at the letter. The words are smudged, the ink running in parts.
Married to a multi-millionaire, two kids – a boy called Harry and a girl called Hazel, a nanny to take care of them, a personal chef, a mansion, a cleaner every day
, and then down at the very end I’ve scrawled, as an afterthought.
And I intend to be really happy.
My fingers spasm, as if they’re too weak to hold the page any longer, and it drifts to the floor. I stare at it. It’s just words. Just words on a page.
I unwind the lead from around my laptop and open it, logging on to Facebook. I scroll down, photos of suntanned legs against a bone-white beach, Ladurée macarons, half-eaten pizza from Domino’s, status updates with multiple emojis and exclamation marks, everyone smiling, smiling, smiling. Everyone is so happy.
I intend to be really happy.
Sarah Swallows has uploaded seventy photos into a new album called ‘Graduation Ceremony’. I click through them, at the girls in their uniforms, hugging teachers, teary-eyed, one of Mr Griffin giving a speech in the hall. (I should be there.) Another photo, of Sarah with her jumper off, her shirt covered in scrawled signatures of every girl in our year (except for mine), then one of Sarah and Julie in Reilly’s pub, bleary-looking, thick black eyeliner smudged around their eyes. Now they’re back at Dylan Walsh’s
epic party, woohooo
, and there’s another photo of all of them, Sean and Eli and Maggie and Ali and Jamie and Jack and three or four other lads, holding plastic shot glasses up in salute at the camera. Maggie and Eli are holding hands. They must be back together.
(I wish I was there.)
I click on the inbox. It is full again, with countless messages telling me how disgusting I am, that I’m a liar, that I’m making everything up.
Slut, liar, skank, bitch, whore.
Maybe I am. I can’t remember it anyway.
Ah, yeah baby. You like that, don’t you? That’s a good girl. That’s a good girl.
I can’t remember, I said.
I open one email. There’s a photo of a pillow, and a link to a Wikipedia page.
Asphyxia
or
asphyxiation
(from
Greek
- ‘without’ and sphyxis, ‘heartbeat’) is a condition of severely deficient supply of
oxygen
to the
body
that arises from abnormal
breathing
. An example of asphyxia is
choking
. Asphyxia causes
generalized hypoxia
, which primarily affects the tissues and organs. There are many circumstances that can induce asphyxia, all of which are characterized by an inability of an individual to acquire sufficient oxygen through breathing for an extended period of time. These circumstances can include but are not limited to: the constriction or obstruction of airways, such as from
asthma
,
laryngospasm
, or simple blockage from the presence of foreign materials; from being in environments where oxygen is not readily accessible: such as underwater, in a low oxygen atmosphere, or in a vacuum; environments where sufficiently oxygenated air is present, but cannot be adequately breathed because of air contamination such as excessive smoke. Asphyxia can cause coma or death.
Just some helpful advice
, the email continues.
I delete it, and all the other emails too, until there’s only one left.
Hi Emmie,
I miss you. I know I’m not supposed to say things like that. It’s like I’m breaking some pact between us where I’m not allowed to ask you how you’re feeling, or tell you how I’m feeling. But I miss you. So there.
I met Bryan this morning when he was leaving for college. He was pretty pissed off, Em. Don’t be angry with him, but he told me what you’ve decided to do. I’m not going to tell you what to do and I’m really trying to understand your reasons for this decision even though every day when I see one of those fucking assholes, all I want to do is drive my fist through their face.
Sorry. I said this wasn’t going to be about me. I don’t want to make this about me. I just want you to be happy again, Emmie. I know you don’t think that’s possible at the moment, but it can be. I know it. Have I ever lied to you?
I wanted to tell you something. I don’t know if this makes you feel uncomfortable, and I’m sorry if it does, but I’ve been thinking of that night I called over to your house after we had heard about what happened. And you tried to kiss me, and I wouldn’t, and it wasn’t because I didn’t fancy you – let’s face it, I think we both know where I stand on that one – but I just didn’t want to take advantage of you. You were crying and everything was so crazy, and I didn’t want to make things worse. But I wanted to Emmie. Fuck it, I’m sorry, I’m probably saying all the wrong things – but I need you to know that. I should have kissed you on the trampoline the night of the party. We were nearly going to, weren’t we? Do you know what I’m talking about, or am I making a complete fool of myself again? I remember looking at you, and I just couldn’t believe how fucking beautiful you were, how it was possible for one person to be that perfect-looking, and I should have just gone for it, but I didn’t want to stop looking at you. I wish I had kissed you that night. I wish I had kissed you, and you had kissed me back, and we had decided to stay at home and watch TV with Jen and Bryan. You have no idea what I would give to have that night back again, to change everything that happened. I should have been there to protect you. I’m so sorry, Em.
Conor. x
I delete that message too.
I should have kissed him that night, on the trampoline. I should have kissed him, and we should have stayed in while the others went to the party. We could have watched a movie with Bryan and Jen, groaning when they went to bed and Bryan told us not to do anything he wouldn’t do. I should have taken my clothes off before him, and watched his face as he looked at me like I was the most beautiful girl in the world. I should have let him love me. We would have fallen in love. We would have decided to apply for college in the same city because we needed to be together, no matter what. We would have ended up getting married at twenty-two, ignoring everyone who said that we were too young, because we would have known the truth. We would have still been holding hands at eighty, telling people how we had grown up together, how we had been best friends, and how that friendship had blossomed into romance. ‘He always had a thing for me,’ I would tell my grandchildren, ‘but I made him wait.’ And Conor would wink and say, ‘You were worth it.’ I would have been happy.
I can never be with him now. I belong to those other boys, as surely as if they have stamped me with a cattle brand. They have seared their names into my heart.
I look at my reflection in the vanity mirror. How is it that two eyes, a nose and a mouth can be positioned in such varying ways that it makes one person beautiful, and another person not? What if my eyes had been a fraction closer together? Or if my nose had been flatter? My lips thinner, or my mouth too wide? How would my life have been different? Would that night have happened?
Candyman
, I mouth at the mirror.
Candyman. Candyman.
I close my eyes, waiting, hoping for a slash of a hook across my skin, scraping away my beauty. Making me new.
I blink, but it’s only me. I don’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
I make eye contact with the girl in the mirror. I stand up, pulling down the leggings, and take the hoodie off, watching that pale body standing there in just a bra and knickers.
I touch the girl’s breasts.
Fuck, Emma O’Donovan’s tits are tiny though. I thought they’d be way better than that.
I turn around.
Her ass looks good though.
‘Emma?’ My mother’s voice floats up from downstairs. ‘Emmie, where are you?’
‘In my bedroom.’
‘Come down, will you? I want to talk to you.’
I take a deep breath, then another one. In.
One. Two. Three.
Out.
One. Two. Three.
I get dressed, covering that body up.
I stare at my reflection.
I look normal. I look like a good girl.
‘Emmie?’ my mother calls again.
‘I’m coming,’ I say. ‘I’ll be down now.’
And I walk downstairs, dragging my mouth into a smile so that I can look normal. It’s important that I look normal now. It’s important that I look like a good girl.
Afterword
In both
Only Ever Yours
and
Asking For It
I decided to end the stories in rather bleak, ambiguous ways. I didn’t do this to be sensational or to emotionally manipulate the reader. I did it because I wanted to have an ending that was true to the narrative itself.
Some people who have read
Asking For It
found it frustrating that, ultimately, Emma capitulated. They wanted to see her fight, to demand justice for what had been done to her. I would have preferred to see that happen as well but, sadly, it just didn’t feel truthful. Our society may not appear to support sexual violence, but you don’t need to look very far past the surface to see how we trivialize rape and sexual assault. Sexual assault (from unwanted touching to rape) is so common that we almost see it as an inevitability for women. We teach our girls how not to get raped with a sense of doom, a sense that we are fighting a losing battle. When I was writing this novel, friend after friend came to me telling me of something that had happened to them. A hand up their skirt, a boy who wouldn’t take no for an answer, a night where they were too drunk to give consent but they think it was taken from them anyway. We shared these stories with one another and it was as if we were discussing some essential part of being a woman, like period cramps or contraceptives. Every woman or girl who told me these stories had one thing in common: shame. ‘I was drunk . . . I brought him back to my house . . . I fell asleep at that party . . . I froze and I didn’t tell him to stop . . .’
My fault. My fault. My fault.
When I asked these women if they had reported what had happened to the police, only one out of twenty women said yes.
The others looked at me and said, ‘No. How could I have proved it? Who would have believed me?’