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THREE
HOLLY
My family and I are dotted around the kitchen table, silently sipping coffee we don’t want. I stare out the window, but I don’t see the garden outside; I’m too busy replaying old memories in my head. I concentrate on my last visit to the farmhouse before Nana’s diagnosis. I think it was late summer. Nate and I were on our way to Mayo for a weekend by the sea, and we popped in for a chat with Nana on the way. Nana made tea and scones, like always, and the three of us sat at this very table as Nana shared some of her old stories with us. I’d heard all the tales countless times before, but I’m so full of regret right now that I only offered her half my attention because I was anxious to get back on the road. Nate, on the other hand, listened carefully and asked lots of questions about the past. At the time, I thought he was humouring her, but looking back, I think he was genuinely curious about her life in a time before mobile phones and email.
A gentle knock on the kitchen door pulls me back to the here and now. The door creaks open, and Marcy’s head appears in the gap.
‘Marcy,’ Mam says, standing up as the gap widens and Marcy shuffles into the kitchen.
‘Coffee?’ Ben asks, trying to slide out from his position wedged between the table and the kitchen wall.
Marcy shakes her head gently. ‘No, thank you, Ben. I’ve had plenty already.’
Ben plonks back down and returns to staring into his cup full of cold coffee that he never drank.
Marcy and my mother stand still and look at each other for a moment as if Marcy is telling Mam something without words. I wish I understood. I wish Marcy would speak. And I wish Mam would sit down again; she looks as if she’s about to fall over. I find myself sliding to the edge of my chair, just in case, ready to catch her.
I guess Marcy and my mother are around the same age. They both have a low-maintenance sense of style and silver strands run through their hair – although my mother definitely has the lion’s share. But where Marcy is short and heavyset, my mother is tall, taller than a lot of men I know, and slim.
It can’t be more than a couple of seconds before Marcy speaks, but the wait feels endless.
‘Annie is calm now,’ Marcy says. ‘The morphine is helping.’
‘How long does she have?’ I blurt out suddenly.
Mam shoots me a disapproving glare. And my father says my name the way he used to when I was a kid and he was scolding me for doing something naughty.
‘Sorry.’ I swallow, apologising to spare my parents’ feelings, but I’m still desperate for an answer.
‘Don’t be,’ Marcy says. ‘You’d be surprised how often I hear that question. I wish there was something I could tell you, Holly, but I’m afraid there really is no definitive answer. Everyone is different. Your grandmother is a fighter. That much I do know. She’s going to do this on her terms.’
‘But we don’t have long, do we?’ I continue.
‘Holly. Stop it,’ Dad protests. ‘Not in front of your mother.’
‘Leave her, George,’ Mam cuts across him. ‘She’s right to ask. Maybe we should know. At least that way we can make arrangements.’
This timeIglare at my mother with narrowed eyes. I know she means the funeral.Christ! We can’t really be having this conversation.
‘I’ll sort all that stuff, Mam. Don’t worry,’ Ben says, looking up.
This is normally the point in our conversations where I’d joke and call my brother a lick-arse for trying to be the favourite. But not today. Nothing is funny today.
I don’t say anything more. Marcy hasn’t given me the answer I wanted. The answer that this is all a big mistake and Nana just has the flu and will get better in a few days. I don’t want to discuss anything else.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, pushing my chair back.
The legs squeak as they object to sliding against the marble floor tiles. Everyone watches me as I stand.What the hell?I make my way out the back door without looking back and without saying another word.
Instinctively I find myself in the old chicken shed at the end of the garden. It smells funny. Nana hasn’t kept chickens here in more than twenty years, but I swear I can still get the whiff of cornmeal and the scent of fluffy yellow feathers of newly hatched chicks. I press my palm against my chest and take a deep breath but I’m met with icy air that makes me cough. It can’t be past six p.m., but it feels like the middle of the night.Christ, I hate January.It’s dark down this end of the garden and I’m too far away from the house for the light shining out the kitchen window to reach.
I remember how Ben and I would hide out here, way past our bedtime, content that no one would find us in the dark. It’s different now. I’ve become all too acquainted with trying to hide in recent weeks. But grown-up problems aren’t as easy to get away from.
I drag my phone out of my trouser pocket and use the torch app to help me see what’s around me. I notice countless missed calls and texts from Nate, but I ignore them. He probably wants to discuss me dashing out of the office when we have a major presentation for an international client tomorrow. We don’t discuss anything except work these days. At first, I thought it was better than not talking at all, but I’m finding it harder and harder to pretend we’re just colleagues. I miss the man I thought was my soul mate.
I find an empty metal bucket and turn it over to sit on top. It’s freezing and ridiculously uncomfortable, but I don’t get back up. I fold my arms across my chest to keep warm and hunch over until I’m almost curled into a ball. Heavy, salty tears trickle down my cheeks as my body heaves and groans. It feels good to let it all out. It also feels so horribly bad and painful that I’m not sure I can cope.Oh, Nana.
‘There you are,’ a voice says.
