M. Hyland - Carry Me Down

‘What would you like to do?’

‘Anything. Maybe go into Grafton Street or to the zoo.’

‘Maybe tomorrow.’

‘You used to want to do things. You used to want to go to the sea and go for drives.’

‘And I will again. I’m just a bit weary with this cold.’

‘You’ve never had such a bad cold before. And colds aren’t meant to change people and make them so different.’

‘Well, I’m older now.’

I want her to stop talking about being old. I want to break the vase on her bedside table and knock the lampshade over and drag her by the arm onto the floor and change her back to who she used to be.

‘Who cares?’ I say. ‘Let’s go to the zoo or get the train to Dún Laoghaire. And when we get home, maybe there’ll be a film.’

‘Maybe tomorrow. I might feel better tomorrow.’

‘Why don’t you say definitely tomorrow and then you’ll definitely feel better?’

‘All right. Definitely tomorrow. We’ll catch the train to the sea.’

I go to sleep and in the morning I remember the dream I had about me and my mother. We are on a cruise ship and we’re very happy together, on our way to Niagara to see Ripley’s Museum.

We sit near the porthole in our cabin on the top deck and watch while a man dressed in green overalls loads our suitcases onto a chute and we watch the suitcases slide down.

But the chute becomes narrower and some of the suitcases slide down too fast, fly into the air, and drop into the water. People scream and cry but the man in the green overalls laughs. ‘Some will miss,’ he says. ‘Some will miss.’

Then I see my suitcase, a small blue one with a leather strap, and I am nervous as I watch it slide off the chute. But instead of flying into the water to be lost forever, the case comes towards me. It flies through the porthole window and lands softly on my lap.

I feel happy. I don’t know what happened to my mother’s suitcase in the dream but it doesn’t seem to matter.

I make tea and take it to the bedroom. She’s awake; sitting up in bed, more or less the way I left her yesterday, wearing a pink cardigan over her nightie, staring at the wall.

‘Room service,’ I say. ‘Did you order a cup of tea?’

‘Aren’t you sweet?’ she says. ‘I’d love a cup of tea. Why don’t you sit with me a while?’

She drinks her tea and I lie down next to her. ‘What will happen if you can’t ever sleep again?’ I ask.

‘God help me, if that happens.’

‘So, we’ll go on the train to the sea today?’

She puts her arm around me. ‘My darling, I think at the moment there’s more chance vampire bats will take up drinking hot milk.’

She laughs at her joke, but I don’t want to laugh. ‘Are you saying no?’

‘That’s not what I said,’ she says. ‘This isn’t a good time. It’s a very bad time.’

She has cold blood like my father. And her hair, it’s not only grey at the front, near her temples and her ears; grey strands hang down near her eyes, and it’s greasy and dirty hair too. Dirty and grey.

I wait for her to finish her tea and when she puts the cup down on the bedside table I take a pillow from behind my head and rest it on my knee. I don’t talk, and neither does she. I put the radio on to drown out some of my thoughts.

‘Turn that off,’ she says and, like most of what she says, it is as though she hardly cares, as though what happens next is none of her business.

I turn the radio off, get back into bed, and hold the pillow on my lap.

‘You’re taking up too much room there, John. Can’t you move to the other side of the bed?’

I move across and, without my weight in the middle of the mattress, her body rises up, as though it were something light and plastic in the water. I must be much heavier than she is.

‘That’s better,’ she says as she presses her fingers to her temples. ‘But I’ve got a rotten headache. If only I could sleep. If I could sleep then we could be happy again.’

‘You’d be yourself again? You’d be happy again?’

‘I don’t know, but I’d give anything.’

I wait for her to take two sleeping pills and, when she lies down on her side, I lie down too, and stroke her back.

‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘It soothes me to have you here. Maybe I’ll sleep now.’

I leave her and go to the living room. I want to be calm, but I don’t know how. I sit, then stand again. I fidget and pace. I try to sit but I can’t. At three o’clock I go back to her, to see if she is sleeping. But she doesn’t sleep. She is sitting up, fiddling with the seam of her torn nightdress.

‘Come and sit with me,’ she says. ‘I feel shattered. I’m in pieces.’

She lies on her back. I get on the bed and lie next to her. She is quiet and her breathing is soft. I take her resting hands and fold them across her chest and I look at her. She is still and peaceful now. But I know she’ll soon wake.

I climb on top of her. My legs straddle her stomach and hips and I want to stay here and look down at her calm face, but she moves and groans.

To stop her moving, I take the pillow and put it over her face and then I lay down on her, on top of the pillow, and I make myself heavy. When she stops moving, I put my head on the pillow. We are both sleepy now.

Suddenly she kicks. She kicks against me and her arms fly at my face. I am surprised by her violence, surprised by her strength. The pillow muffles her cries and moans but still I wish the radio could be turned on to drown out the awful noise.

With all my strength, I press down hard on the pillow and I hold her arms down with my hands and fight against her kicking. When, at last, she stops struggling, I take myself off her body and look at her: She is calmer again; she is prettier.

I get up off the bed. It is over.

* * *

But my feet are cold. Why are they so cold? I need socks. Something to keep them warm. Why are they so cold? What is wrong with my feet? I go to the drawer to find some socks. I must think about what I will do next, but my feet are so cold. I search in the drawers for warm socks. I cannot think.

I hear a rattle, a scraping noise, a faint but constant sound, somebody outside running a coin along the wall? I stop still and now I hear it, louder and clearer, the sound is in the bedroom. I close the drawer and as I straighten to stand I realise she is coughing.

I turn to face her. Her eyes are open and her hands are on her neck. I watch until she stops spluttering. I watch until she looks at me.

‘Mammy?’

She lifts herself from the bed, puts her feet over the side, and stands, her arms held out, her hands up as though to stop me coming towards her.

‘Did you try to smother me?’ Her voice is uncaring, calm. ‘Is that what you tried to do?’

‘No, Mammy. You just went to sleep. You had a nightmare.’

She doesn’t look at me, takes her dressing gown from the back of the chair and leaves; out to the hallway.

I follow her.

‘Get out of my sight,’ she says.

She walks into the living room and I follow her.

‘Get away from me,’ she says, her hands held out in front of her breasts.

‘But why? What’s wrong?’

I move towards her, but she backs away and stands hunched in the corner.

‘Holy Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.’

‘Why are you praying?’

‘Because my son tried to smother his mother. Oh, God. Smother his mother! Smother his own mother!’

‘You said you wanted to sleep.’

‘I didn’t say I wanted to die. You could have killed me.’

‘But you didn’t die. I love you, Mammy. Won’t you stop crying?’

I move towards her and she backs away.