To Love a Way of Life (13 page)

“You’re a good man,” Emma said.

“I want to be good for her,” he said. “And for you.”

“You don’t need us for that,” Emma said. “You’re naturally good.”

“But I want you,” Patrick said. “I want to be with you.”

Patrick brought his fingertips to Emma’s chin and tilted her face towards his. “Stay with me tonight,” he said.

Emma put her mug on the table, and stood. She took Patrick’s hand in her own and reached up to unbutton the top of her blouse.

“I’ll stay with you,” she said. He stood and Emma led him inside the house, grasping his hand.

***

E
mma felt a dampness on her stomach and decided to open her eyes. The sun was beating down on her and she saw the clean white sheets scattered around her body. There was a Stan-head resting on her belly. Smiling she looked over at Patrick and remembered their night before. She knew she should be tired but she was energised by the sunlight, and the clear and crisp breeze coming through the window, and her memories of the night before.

She stood, naked and walked to Patrick’s closet. She looked inside, she didn’t think he’d mind the invasion after what they’d done that night. Hanging up was four more of the white robes he had given her after her bath. She took one down and wrapped it around her, lifting the fabric to her nose and inhaling deeply the woody smell that imbued the robes from their time in Patrick’s bedroom.

“I’ll let you out,” she whispered to Stan as she took one more glance at the peaceful sleeping man in what was now her bed.

She could feel the transition on her feet as she went from the warm wood floor to the cool stone tiles, her skin tingled and it made her feel alive. Her feet padded against the ground as she walked to the kitchen door and let an eager Stan out.

“Good night?” Her mother asked from behind her. Emma hadn’t noticed her

Emma turned and smiled.

“The best,” she said. It really was, she felt the satisfaction with every muscle in her body as she yawned a morning yawn and stretched herself awake.

“I told you you needed more fun in your life.”

“It’s more than fun,” she said. Emma flipped on the kettle to make herself some breakfast tea. “Let me fill you in,” she said to her mother.

***

“A
re you sure you’re ready for this?” Patrick asked.

“Is Maia ready for this?” Emma asked. “I don’t want her upset.”

“She’s been demanding to see you for weeks.”

He clicked the pad on his laptop and she heard the little bit of static from the microphone on the webcam at the other end of the connection.

“Hi Patrick!”

“How’s my girl?” He said.

“Mom gave out to me, I got grass stains on my white jeans.”

“That’s what jeans are for,” Patrick said as he held up his knee to show Maia his own damaged denims. “So you don’t have green stained skin.”

“Mom says they won’t clean out.”

“Then you can wear them when you play in the grass again, we’ll get you more when you come to visit.”

“Only two weeks now,” she said. “I’m so excited. Is pony-camp booked?”

“You mean are they ready for your devilment?”

“Am I going to meet her when I’m over?” Maia asked. A change of subject.

“Do you want to meet her now?” Patrick said.

“What? Now? Yes!”

Patrick beckoned to Emma to sit next to him. He pushed up on the couch and made some room for her. As she sat he put his arm around her.

“Maia, this is my new friend, Emma.”

“Hi Maia,” Emma said.

“C
ome on, Maia” Patrick called. “We have to get going to Daniel’s”

“I’m ready,” Maia said.

Emma looked at Maia. She grew so much in the few months that passed when they were apart. She was now a young woman, almost a teen. She had forgotten her bras when she travelled to Ballyhane. They were so new to her they just weren’t on her mind when she packed. Emma remembered how awkward it was for her as a young woman, and she hoped she did better when she had brought Maia shopping.

The woman in the store thought Emma was her mother. And Maia didn’t correct her. She called her Emma, and she was ‘Patrick’s wife,’ but now Patrick was Dad, so that meant Emma was step-mom? Emma didn’t care to figure it all out. All she knew was that Maia trusted her, and Emma would walk through fire for her. Just like Patrick.

“What’s the party for anyway?” Maia asked.

“You know how Daniel and Peter are married?” Patrick said.

“Well, yeah,” Maia looked at him like it was the stupidest statement on earth.

“Up until now they haven’t really been married, they were ‘civil partners.’”

“But they call each other their husband?” Maia said.

“They love each other like husbands,” Patrick said. “Just like I loved you like a daughter, but you weren’t legally my daughter until the adoption papers went through.”

“You were always my Dad,” Maia said.

“Just like Peter and Daniel were always each other’s husband,” Emma said. “But the law didn’t agree.”

“The law can be so stupid,” Maia said.

Patrick laughed at the astute observation of a wizened twelve year old. “The law is the law, and sometimes it’s stupid,” Patrick said.

“There was a vote in Ireland a few months ago,” Emma said. “And it made it legal for Peter to marry Daniel.”

“But you said they were married.”

“They were sort of married, and they loved each other, but it wasn’t the exact same. The law said they were different to me and your Dad,” Emma said.

“That’s not fair,” Maia looked indignant.

“No, it’s not fair. But the law changed yesterday and Peter and Daniel are fully married now.”

“So this is a wedding?” Maia asked.

“Kind of,” Emma said.

“I should brush my hair again.” Maia said seriously, running off to her room.

“Is the car packed?” Emma asked.

“I’m just loading everything now.”

As Patrick walked out to the car, arms full of bags Emma made her way to the corner of the living room. She hated to wake him, she knew he’d make a racket but it was Peter and Daniel’s big day, and none of them were allowed to miss it.

Emma gently put her arms around little Michael and pulled him close to her breast. He stayed asleep. Maia thundered out of her room but slowed to a crawl when she saw Emma with the baby. She tiptoed over and rubbed his little hand.

“I can’t believe how small he is,” she said. “I’ll never get used to it. Can I be here for his birthday?”

“That’s for your Mom and Dad to decide,” Emma said.

Emma looked up and saw Patrick standing in the doorway, his face full of pride; his family.

M
eghan felt her anxiety rise. She couldn’t ignore it. Her stomach had just caught that little bit of nausea and a buzz surrounded her mind. Not her head, or brain, it wasn’t a physical feeling, it was her mind that was the issue. She could never describe it to her doctors, or anyone else for that matter. The best she could do was come up with analogies that never really captured how disorientating it was. It’s like being on edge, tension over something unknown, it’s like you’re trapped in the static from the TV. She didn’t think anyone could understand, not unless they experienced it for themselves. And she wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

Meghan ran down a mental checklist. She had 10 hours of sleep which was average for her. Everyone she texted that day had texted back, no anxiety over being abandoned then. She had no outstanding bills, thanks Mom. She checked the time, it was 4pm. She woke at noon. She had it. It was food that was getting to her, well the lack of it, she was sure of that. Meghan knew it was just normal anxiety, if she didn’t eat regularly, or get enough sleep, or drank too much coffee, or stayed up too late, or for too long it would hit. This was an easy fix, she’d made a giant pot of soup on Sunday and she’d just pop it in the microwave. Despite not having eaten she already felt a little better now she knew what was wrong.

After eating she felt much better; a spicy chorizo and sweet potato soup really hit the spot. She checked the time again, she was meeting Hayley at the archery range soon and she’d need to get going. She grabbed her equipment and coat and headed to the bus. There were no weirdos on it, which was good. Stress also set Meghan off. She hadn’t had a psychotic episode in over seven years, which is what schizophrenia was famous for. It was all the other symptoms that kept her back; depression, anxiety, sleep trouble. Unfortunately those issues were all too common in the world. She often talked about them with her internet friends. Though she rarely revealed she was schizophrenic, that might make her stand out amongst people who suffered anxiety. Sometimes she felt at the mercy of her illness.

***

H
ayley was waiting at the door by the range. She handed Meghan a new wrist guard.

“What do you think?” Hayley asked.

“I love the sunburst detail.”

“I’ve been planning it for a while, I sketched it loads and managed to carve it first time round.”

“Do you have a buyer for it?” Meghan asked.

“No. I’ve decided I’m going to sell them online. I know someone who will help me make a website.”

“Will that cost much?”

“He’s doing it as a favour. We’re meeting in Grant’s after the session, you should come along.”

Meghan didn’t want to commit. She knew her anxiety could flare up at any minute and she didn’t want to back out of another social event. She’d done it far too often and she knew it would annoy her friends, more annoying than replying “Maybe” to their frequent drinks requests.

“Let me see after I shoot some targets,” Meghan said. “If I do badly I’ll want to go home and sulk. If I do well it’s tequila slammers and fine whiskey all round.”

“You never do badly. You really should shoot in competitions.”

“You know I only like to practice here. I prefer shooting foam in the woods. Being one with nature and all that. I don’t enjoy the pressure at competitions.” Meghan said.

Pressure was not good for Meghan. She really hated that she couldn’t handle situations that everyone else managed to stride through with ease. The first few times she attempted archery even the soreness in her muscles raised sweats in her. Now archery was a relief, it soothed her, and distracted her from any worries, and she was good at it. She needed things to go well, or she’d retreat to the safety of some downtime in her apartment to recover.

Even that wasn’t good for her, it was far too easy to lock yourself in your home, and suddenly a week had passed and she hadn’t seen anyone. A lack of social communication would set her off as well. It was all such a tough balancing act. Everything in moderation, always calm and never wild. Some days she wanted to scream at the boredom in her life, scare it away and replace it with reckless abandon. That was just dream though, she knew she wouldn’t throw her health away but she’d have fun imagining weeks of partying.

Meghan drew her bowstring and released; a nine with her first arrow. Her troubles faded away as she concentrated on her stance.

***

W
alking into Grant’s Meghan was pleased she shot well. She fancied a drink and was relaxed after an hour of on form archery. Her friends were right, she was good at it. Hayley waved at someone as they went in the door.

“James, this is Meghan. I’ll get the drinks in.”

They all had a beer and soon they were sitting in the snug in corner.

“Meghan is an amazing archer. If she entered competitions I’d have her endorse my wrist guards,” Hayley said.

“Archery won’t pay the bills, and anyway I shoot for fun” Meghan said.

“So what do you do to pay the bills?” James asked.

“I’m between jobs at the moment, I got sick a few months ago and had to quit.”

“I’m sorry. I hope you’re feeling better.”

“I’m coping, I guess.” She said. “And thanks.” She didn’t feel thankful, not for nosy busybodies. 

Meghan’s attention was grabbed by the door slamming. Damn, that was fancy hair! She couldn’t take her eyes off it, it was too good. It was in a classic style, longish but not unmanageable nor verging into rocker territory. A side-parting, it swept back behind his ears, his fringe framing his deep blue eyes and strong cheekbones. Strong cheekbones? Meghan laughed at herself, eloping with a haircut, get yourself together woman.

He was quite attractive, his plain black t-shirt contrasted his milk-bottle white skin. The sleeves cut against his taut biceps. He was good looking, and stylish, sure but he was probably a dick.  A dick with a great butt, Meghan thought as he turned looking for someone. He glanced over at them and Meghan caught herself, she had stared at him the whole time he walked over. Was he annoyed at her?

“This is Aaron,” James said, “The only straight male hair stylist in the city.”

“You know that’s not true,” Aaron said.

“You’ve come out?”

“Only if you’ll have me.” He stood behind James and massaged his shoulders with real power. The moment lasted long for Meghan until he went to the bar to get a drink.

Meghan felt the tension in her own shoulders, she’d pay for a massage if she had the money. She spent her time writing poems. She’d get a phrase or sentence in her mind and the whole poem would flow from that. She’d open notepad on her computer and become engrossed in it for an hour; the right place for a comma, a word with the allusion she really wanted to emphasise, a sentence with a frenetic beat. She’d spend an age working on her words.

Supposedly schizophrenics had a different understanding of how they related to words, the tortured artist and all that, not that anyone read her poems. Word-soup was common during acute schizophrenic episodes, although not for paranoid schizophrenics like her. Meghan knew if she could frame the right sentence in her mind, with the right flow and sound, she could release all her troubled thoughts on a page. The problem was finding that first sentence. Sometimes it came to her in a flash but often she’d sit and wait for it to strike, to release from her mind.

She’d never be able to afford a massage, poetry books were not noted for being big sellers, so the one thing she was really good at would never fund a better lifestyle. She worried about jobs, she could never hold one down. The stress became too much after a while. She didn’t know how she’d survive in her internet friends’ countries. Social welfare didn’t make for an easy life here, but you could survive on it, with basic living. In those countries? She shuddered at the thought, their episodes seemed far more stressful than hers. More often than not her mother helped her out. Meghan wanted stability, it bothered her how reliant she was on others. If she could just achieve something with her life.