M. Hyland - Carry Me Down

‘No!’ I say. ‘I don’t want you to tell me a story about a mouse in Gorey.’

‘I know you don’t mean that, John.’

I don’t answer. I can’t speak.

‘Bye now, John.’

‘Wait. Can you see if there’s a letter for me? I’m expecting a letter from the Guinness Book of Records .’

‘I’ll call you again if there’s anything there. All right?’

‘Are you sure no letters have come for me?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘All right.’

‘God willing, everything will work itself out. Pray for me now, like a good boy, and pray for your mother and father too. And for yourself, if you can spare the time.’

I hang up without saying goodbye.

I tell my mother what my grandmother said and she looks upset, but she says nothing. She wraps her hand around her cup of tea.

‘What will we do?’ I ask.

‘It’s gone cold,’ she says.

‘Don’t you care? Aren’t you angry?’ I ask.

‘There’s no point.’

‘I’m going to school now,’ I say.

But I don’t go to school. I open and close the front door then go quietly to my room and sit on my bed. A half an hour later, my mother bursts into the room without knocking.

‘I thought you went to school,’ she says.

‘I did,’ I say. ‘But they were going on an excursion and I didn’t have a note from you so the teacher sent me home.’

She frowns. ‘You’re a poor liar for somebody who calls himself a lie detector.’

I’m angry again. My neck hurts and swells. It’s hard to breathe. I move my feet and put my hands in my pocket and stare at her. ‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ I say.

‘Tomorrow. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life.’

Is she trying to provoke me with another one of these dumb expressions?

‘I might watch the telly now,’ I say.

‘I might go to bed,’ she says.

‘Again?’

‘I didn’t sleep at all last night. I’m very tired.’

‘Why can’t you sleep?’

‘I don’t know.’

I walk away and sit on the settee. Instead of turning on the television, I fold forward and rest my head on my knees and make my knees jump up and down. I want her back so much. I want her to be the way she was before. She can’t stay the dull and dumb way she is now. This is a problem that must be solved before it’s too late.

There’s a comedy on the television, but I can’t enjoy it. My mood is like it was the night in the caretaker’s shed with Brendan; now, like then, there is no escape, and because there is no way to be distracted, and I am alone, it is as though I am exaggerated, and notice everything. I am too alive; too much of myself, all blown up.

I hear knocking at the door, and I get up and open it, but there is nobody there.

I thought it could be him. It would make sense for him to come back now.

I sit on the floor, close to the television screen, but bad memories come. They are the strangest kind of memories, things I thought I’d forgotten. I remember the time I was on the toilet at Brendan’s house. I was in there for a long time because I was constipated. Brendan was standing outside, waiting. I could hear him shuffling his feet and sighing. Finally he said, ‘Hurry up’, and I said, ‘I’m doing a big plop.’

I don’t know why I said I was doing a big plop. I had to stay in the toilet like a prisoner until I stopped being red in the face. I couldn’t see the humour in it, but he kept laughing and ran around the house telling his sisters what I said. He teased me about it all day.

I remember this and turn red even though there’s nobody in the living room. It is as though my brain has decided to run its own dark film with the volume on high; a film of bad thoughts, of bad memories, and every thought is worse than the one before it, and nothing will stop the film from running.

I hear ringing at the door and go to it.

There is nobody there.

I call out. ‘Hello?’

Is it him?

‘Hello?’

I go back to the living room and turn the volume up and the television is much louder, but my brain is stronger and I can’t control it. I go to the kitchen. There’s nothing to eat, no milk, bread, biscuits or Weetabix.

I go to my mother’s bedroom so I can take a few coins from her purse for the shops. I open the door quietly. She is awake, sitting up in bed, her back against the headboard, and staring at the wall.

‘I thought you’d be asleep,’ I say.

‘I couldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s been seven days now,’ she says. ‘Seven days and only a few hours of sleep. I’ve had it. Can you believe it? Your mother’s had it.’

There are tears rolling down her face, but she doesn’t make a crying noise.

‘What do you mean you’ve had it?’ My knees buckle and I almost fall.

‘I used to be beautiful. But I’ve had my last beautiful day. I didn’t even know when it was. Was it last month or last winter? Was it my last birthday or the one before?’

I fold my arms to have something to do with myself. I don’t know why she’s talking about the way she looks. She is not ugly and she is not old.

‘My last day of looking beautiful is gone and there was no warning. And it has gone for good.’

She reaches for the glass of water by the bed and takes a small sip. Her lips are dry and bits of skin are flaking and peeling from them.

‘And one day soon it won’t matter what kind of mirror I look in, it won’t matter what the light is like, bright or dark, I will look old.’

‘But you aren’t old,’ I say. ‘You’ll never be ugly. It’s just that lately your hair is messy, and a bit grey.’

‘Come here to me for a minute.’

‘No,’ I say. I don’t feel like being close.

‘Do you miss your da?’

‘Sort of.’

‘I spoke to him today. I told him I forgive him, but he says he won’t be coming back. He says we have humiliated him. He says he has been annihilated.’

‘Why don’t we go to Gorey, then?’

‘We’re not welcome there.’

‘Yes, we are.’

‘No. We are not. We are not welcome there.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we have brought shame to the good name of your father’s family, and that will never be forgiven.’

‘It was the truth. Would you prefer I didn’t tell you? I was protecting you.’

She laughs. A strange laugh, like a bark or a dark cough. ‘Protecting me from what? Syphilis? Gonorrhoea?’ She laughs again. ‘Look at you. An eleven-year-old in the body of a grown man who insists on the ridiculous truth and who has got into a bad habit of lying.’

I walk over to the bed and she straightens up and pulls the covers up to her neck.

‘I’m not a liar. He is,’ I say. ‘You used to say that trust matters more than anything.’

‘I care about avoiding misery wherever I can. I think that’s all anybody cares about.’

‘That’s a dumb thing to think.’

‘Of course it is. But pain is much harder on the mind than ignorance.’

‘You’re stupid,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know you were so stupid.’

‘Maybe I am. Why don’t you make yourself a sandwich?’

‘There’s no bread,’ I say and leave the room without remembering to take the money.

I don’t go to school the next day. I stay at home and eat some spaghetti from the saucepan, and creamed rice out of the tin, and watch television most of the day. I go to the shops downstairs to buy some bread and tea. I bring my mother a pot of tea and a plate of toast and, when I tell her I’m worried about her not being able to sleep, she tells me not to worry for her, that she has a cold, a bad cold, that’s all.

‘But you never sleep. And you’re tired all the time. Can’t you get out of bed? Let’s go out and do something.’