Paula Spencer (16 page)

It's drink-pain. Half-seven in the morning. A drink would help. Just the one.

That's the worst part. The honesty of it. A drink would help. There's no arguing. Thirteen months, two days – she can feel die certainty.

Leanne wakes up.

—What're you doing? Ma?

She's looking under Leanne's bed. She's stretching, hoping her fingers will touch a bottle, a can.

—Ma?

Her fingers expect it.

She hears the creak. She doesn't look or stop. Leanne's getting out of the bed. She has to step over Paula.

—What are you doing there?

She feels the hands on her shoulders. She shrugs them off. She pushes an elbow back. She pushes her other hand further under the bed. Her face is pressed into the side of the mattress.

—Mammy?

She feels something. It goes from her fingers. She's pushed it away. She stretches further. It hurts. Her face cuts into the bed frame. She has it. A can. She has it.

She has it.

She pushes back, against Leanne's legs. She makes space for herself. She puts the can to her mouth. She knows, but she does it.

It's empty.

She can taste it, dried, on the lip of the can. She can taste – it's nothing. Nothing there to lick.

She pushes back, into Leanne. She wants to hurt her, to knock her over. Get her throat, get at her eyes.

—Have you anything else?

—No.

—Fuckin' liar.

—I don't.

She grabs Leanne's legs. She feels them bend, Leanne's weight falling on her. She's shouting. No words – she's grunting. Leanne falls over her head. She's stuck between the bed and Paula, half on Paula's lap. She's hissing, gasping. She's terrified. The bitch. The selfish —

Light.

A change; the angle.

The door has moved.

It's Jack.

She tries to stand. Paula's stuck. Leanne is on her lap. Her feet under her arse – they're twisted, and numb.

It screams through her now.

Jack —

It's always there but sometimes – now – the shame is enough to kill her.

She hits Leanne. She thumps her; she feels it in her hand.

—Get off me!

He's outside, on the landing. He might be – he is.

She pushes.

The shame.

She pushes Leanne off her lap. There's no weight in Leanne. She isn't fighting back. Paula doesn't care. She has to get up. And downstairs. She can start again. Put on the kettle. Start the day.

She feels wet on her hand. She feels teeth.

Leanne bites her. Nips her. Like a pup they once had, before Jack was born. Like a warning.

The teeth are gone. Leanne is coughing. Paula can't see her. She's right under the bed.

Paula puts her hands on the bed and pushes back. She gets her feet from under her. She watches Leanne crawl out. She can't see her face.

She leans to the side. She can see out to the landing. Jack isn't there. There's no shadow or breath.

—Jack?

God, God, let him be asleep. He's such a deep sleeper. If a drink was put in front of her now she wouldn't want it. She wouldn't take it.

She's over it. She's grand. She's embarrassed – Leanne is sitting up – she's mortified. But she's grand. Her breath, she's puffing – she's sweating – her forehead is soaking, her neck. Just give her a second chance.

They're knee to knee, like two little sisters, playing on the bedroom floor. It's ridiculous.

—Sorry.

—Okay.

—Sorry.

She means it. She thinks she does. She'll get up in a sec. She'll look into Jack's room. He'll be asleep. She'll go back downstairs. She'll put his waffles in the toaster. She'll make her coffee. She'll make tea for Leanne.

The can is beside them on the floor. A can of Dutch Gold. The shine is off the tin. She can see a dent. It's been empty a long time.

—Are you drinking again? says Leanne.

Again.

Paula hates that fuckin' word.

—No, she says.

—But — ?

Leanne nods at the can.

—You got there before me, love, says Paula. —Thanks.

If that sounds malicious she couldn't care less. She knows what's happening.

Her mammy's protector. Leave my mammy alone.

Can a child ever stop? Paula can't face it. It's so fuckin' horrible. The shame; sweet Jesus.

Leanne will stop drinking now. She won't touch another drop, so she can look after her mammy. She has Paula where she wants her. Where she knows her.

The house isn't big enough for two alcoholic women. One needs to look at the other, from a height, from a depth. They both need the love that's given to those who hate themselves. Jesus, it's poison. It's only beginning.

She breathes in. She breathes out.

Is this the way she'll save Leanne? Find a bottle and put it to her mouth. Pull back her head. And Leanne will be saved.

—Leanne, she says.

—What?

—I'm not going back.

Leanne says nothing.

—You woke up in time, says Paula.

—It was empty, an'anyway.

—I'd've kept looking. I'd have gone out.

—There's nowhere open at this hour.

—You know what I mean, love.

—Yeah.

—It's not going to happen.

She wants to see Jack.

She stays where she is. She makes sure her knees are touching Leanne's.

—Mad, wha'.

Leanne nods.

—I'm grand, says Paula.

Leanne nods.

—Thanks, says Paula.

Her legs are killing her. She hasn't sat like this in years.

—I'm fine, she says. —Do you believe me?

What happens now?

Leanne nods, two sharp nods.

Will Leanne go on the rampage? Jesus, the shame. It swims through her all day. A shark. Waiting for blood. Relaxed and smug, never hungry for long.

—I have to get up, says Paula. —My arse is killing me. Jack must think we're mad.

—Nothing new there, says Leanne.

It hurts. It's not meant to, but it does. Jack knows. Jack
knows.
Jack has grown up knowing. Jack smells her breath, every day. Every morning, every lunchtime. Jack checks. Always on his best behaviour, always at the ready.

—Anyway, says Paula.

She gets ready to stand.

—Jesus.

She can't get up. One of her legs is dead. She's so confused, she doesn't know which one. She laughs; it's not funny. She puts out her hand.

—Give us a hand.

She feels Leanne's hand. She feels the pull, the strength, the rough skin.

She's on her feet. She shakes the leg. The left. She laughs.

—Yoga, Leanne.

—What about it?

—What's it like?

—How would I know?

—Would you be into it?

—Don't know, says Leanne. —Maybe.

—There might be classes, says Paula. —Will I find out?

Leanne shrugs.

—I suppose so; yeah.

—Mad, isn't it? says Paula.

Leanne nods.

—One minute I want a drink. The next, I want to go to fuckin' India.

—I'm sure there are classes nearer than that.

—Will I put the kettle on for you?

—Yeah; thanks.

—This is mad, says Paula. —I can't cope with it. Pretending. I'm sorry I hit you. I'm sorry.

Leanne gets it right. She says nothing.

—Can we talk about it later? says Paula.

Leanne nods.

—Okay; yeah. Will I stay at home?

—No.

—Okay.

—I'm grand.

Jesus. She's grand. Nothing to it.

—See you downstairs.

—Okay; yeah.

Jack isn't asleep. He isn't in bed. He isn't in his room.

He heard it all. He must have. She can still feel Leanne's skin in her hand.

She hears a footstep. He's in the kitchen.

—Hiya, Jack.

—Hi.

He's having his cornflakes standing up. He doesn't look at her. The elbows of his jumper are nearly gone. She can see the white of his shirt.

—D'you want your waffles?

—I'm grand, he says.

Jesus Christ, they're all fuckin' grand.

—Won't take a minute, she says.

Please, please God.

—Okay.

He's in no hurry to escape. He mustn't have heard. The day has started. She'll run to work. She'll run all the way.

But there's no work. It's Tuesday. That empty house in Clontarf; it's not hers to go to. She doesn't have a new one yet.

She takes the waffles from the freezer. There are eight left in the box, and three more days to payday. She's two waffles ahead. She'll leave them to Jack in her will.

She drops them into the toaster. One of them sticks to her finger, the cold. She has to shake it off. She puts the finger into her mouth. She presses down the toaster's lever.

—There, she says. —What sort of a day have you, Jack?

He shrugs. She takes back one of the spare waffles and puts it aside for Leanne. To my loving daughter, Leanne, I also leave a waffle. There'll be no fighting at the funeral.

—The usual, says Jack. —Nothing much.

—Same ol' shite, she says.

She's trying too hard.

He smiles. He shrugs.

—Did I tell you about that house being empty, when I went there a few weeks ago? she says.

—Yeah.

—Did I?

—Yeah.

—Mad.

—Yeah.

—Can you imagine it? Coming home from work or something. And finding the house empty.

Of course, he can. He probably expects it, every day of his life.

—Maybe you'd like it that way, she says.

He smiles – he shrugs.

—You'd cope, she says.

Why is she doing this? Leave him alone.

—Did you hear Leanne and myself up there?

Leanne and myself. Not Myself and Leanne. She's blaming Leanne.

—It was my fault, she says.

He says nothing.

—It was stupid, she says. —It was nothing.

She hears Leanne on the stairs.

—It's grand, she says.

The toaster pops. Jack's looking at his bowl.

—Okay?

He nods; he doesn't look.

—I'm fine, she says. —Okay?

—Okay.

It's horrible, cornering him like this. But it's the only – it's the right way. She's sure of that. No hiding.

—It's hard, she says.

He nods. He still isn't looking.

She puts the waffles on a plate.

—But I'm grand, she says.

Leanne walks in.

She's forgotten the kettle, Leanne's tea.

It's hard.

Leanne looks twitchy. She's pulling at her top, pulling her hair. She's never still.

Paula says nothing. She gets the kettle and brings it to the tap. She empties the old water, fills it with new. She brings it back and turns it on.

—Did you hear about that woman? she asks the two of them.

—What woman? says Leanne.

—In America, says Paula. —It was on the News.

—What about her?

—She's on a life-support machine.

—I know how she feels.

Jack laughs.

What a strange fuckin' day. It's swinging all over the place.

—And she's been like that for fifteen years.

—Jesus.

—Yeah, says Paula. —Anyway. D'you want a waffle, Leanne?

—No; thanks.

—Sure?

—Don't like them.

—Did you hear about it, Jack?

—Yeah, he says. —We did it in Religion.

—What do you think?

Leanne rescues Jack.

—What does he think about what?

—Well, her husband wants the machine turned off.

—Yeah.

—But her parents want her kept on it.

—After fifteen years?

—Yeah, I know. But it must be hard. Anyway, it's gone to the courts and everything.

—And what happened?

—Well, the Congress or something, the Senate, passed an emergency law and I'm not sure what that's about. But it's real American. You know. All over the telly. People with placards, screaming and roaring.

—It'd be the same here, says Leanne.

—Would it?

—Yeah. The Pro-Lifers and that. They're mad cunts.

—Ah, Leanne.

—Well, they are.

—What do you think, Jack?

He looks at the clock. He's afraid of being wrong. He doesn't want to upset her. It's why he's such a good kid. He's afraid to be anything else. He's grown up minding Paula. He's her slave. She knows it now.

—Well, says Paula. —All I'll say, if it happens to me I want you to turn off the machine.

—Where's the fuckin' plug?

That's Leanne.

Paula laughs. They're all laughing, all able to look at one another. It's mad. It's the best moment of her life. It probably is. She looks at Jack and Leanne, still laughing. She can wipe her eyes. It's all fuckin' mad.

Her mother's hands are twisted and savage. It's the same at every corner of her body. She's shaking. She never stops shaking. And she's shrunk. She's a small woman now, much smaller than she used to be. She sleeps in a bed downstairs. She hasn't gone upstairs in more than a year. She never goes out. She can't. She won't.

But it's not her body. It's the whinge. It was never there before. Paula can't stand it. This is the first time she's seen her since just after Christmas.

Her mother is furious, but not at Paula – not just at Paula. She's spitting at everything. Young people, old people, the country, the world. Her daughters, her sons. She smacks the huge, red knuckle of her wrist. She wants to hurt herself.

There are clear moments, like now. They're longer than moments. They're long enough to fool Paula. She wonders if her mother is playing with them. Fooling them all.

—That's a lovely-looking day out there, says her mother.

She's looking out the window.

—Yeah, says Paula. —It's a real spring day.

Whatever that is.

—The flowers coming up.

—That's right, says Paula.

—It's my favourite, says her mother. —I was never mad about the summers. But spring. I often thought it would have been great to live somewhere where it was really cold in the winter. Russia or Canada. Just to wait for the spring. The heat and the flowers. Wouldn't that be nice, Paula?

—Yeah, says Paula. —It would. The winter, though.

—Oh, I know, says her mother. —But that mightn't be too bad either.