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American man’s mouth hangs open at the sight of my hairdresser with a large pair of scissors and ten inches of hair dangling from his hand. He turns to his and grabs the scissors before he makes another cut. ‘Do not,’ he points, ‘do that to me!’
Mullet man sighs and rolls his eyes. ‘No, of course not, sir.’
The American starts scratching his left arm again. ‘I must have got a bite.’ He tries to roll up his shirtsleeve and I squirm in my seat, trying to get a look at his arm.
‘Could you please sit still?’
‘Could you please sit still?’
The hairdressers speak in perfect unison. They look to one another and laugh.
‘Something funny in the air today,’ one of them comments and American man and I look at one another. Funny, indeed.
‘Eyes back to the mirror, please, sir.’ He looks away.
My hairdresser places a finger under my chin and tips my face back to the centre. He hands me my ponytail.
‘Souvenir.’
‘I don’t want it.’ I refuse to take my hair in my hands. Every inch of that hair was from a moment that has now gone. Thoughts, wishes, hopes, desires, dreams that are no longer. I want a new start. A new head of hair.
He begins to shape it into style now and as each strand falls I watch it drift to the ground. My head feels lighter.
The hair that grew the day we bought the cot. Snip.
The hair that grew the day we picked the nursery paint colours, bottles, bibs and baby grows. All bought too soon, but we were so excited … Snip.
The hair that grew the day we decided the names. Snip.
The hair that grew the day we announced it to friends and family. Snip.
The day of the first scan. The day I found out I was pregnant. The day my baby was conceived. Snip. Snip. Snip.
The more painful recent memories will remain at the root for another little while. I will have to wait for them to grow until I can be rid of them too and then all traces will be gone and I will move on.
I reach the till as the American pays for his cut.
‘That suits you,’ he comments, studying me.
I go to tuck some hair behind my ear self-consciously but there’s nothing there. I feel lighter, light-headed, delighted with giddiness, giddy with delight.
‘So does yours.’
‘Thank you.’
He opens the door for me.
‘Thank you.’ I step outside.
‘You’re far too polite,’ he tells me.
‘Thank you,’ I smile. ‘So are you.’
‘Thank you,’ he nods.
We laugh. We both gaze at our taxis queuing up waiting, and look back at one another curiously. He gives me a smile.
‘The first taxi or the second taxi?’ he asks.
‘For me?’
He nods. ‘My driver won’t stop talking.’
I study both taxis, see Dad in the second, leaning forward and talking to the driver.
‘The first. My dad won’t stop talking.’
He studies the second taxi where Dad has now pushed his face up against the glass and is staring at me as though I’m an apparition.
‘The second taxi it is, then,’ the American says, and walks to his taxi, glancing back twice.
‘Hey,’ I protest, and watch him, entranced.
I float to my taxi and we both pull our doors closed at the same time. The taxi driver and Dad look at me like they’ve seen a ghost.
‘What?’ My heart beats wildly. ‘What happened? Tell me?’
‘Your hair,’ Dad simply says, his face aghast. ‘You’re like a boy.’
EIGHT (#ulink_7efa60ce-4c70-5cb8-9501-9e1020fbece3)
As the taxi gets closer to my home in Phisboro, my stomach knots tighter.
‘That was funny how the man in front kept his taxi waiting too, Gracie, wasn’t it?’
‘Joyce. And yes,’ I reply, my leg bouncing with nerves.
‘Is that what people do now when they get their hairs cut?’
‘Do what, Dad?’
‘Leave taxis waiting outside for them.’
‘I don’t know.’
He shuffles his bum to the edge of the seat and pulls himself closer to the taxi driver. ‘I say, Jack, is that what people do when they go to the barbers now?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Do they leave their taxis outside waiting for them?’
‘I’ve never been asked to do it before,’ the driver explains politely.
Dad sits back satisfied. ‘That’s what I thought, Gracie.’
‘It’s Joyce,’ I snap.
‘Joyce. It’s a coincidence. And you know what they say about coincidences?’
‘Yep.’ We turn the corner onto my street and my stomach flips.
‘That there’s no such thing as a coincidence,’ Dad finishes, even though I’ve already said yes. ‘Indeedy no,’ he says to himself. ‘No such thing. There’s Patrick,’ he waves. ‘I hope he doesn’t wave back.’ He watches his friend from the Monday Club with two hands on his walking-frame. ‘And David out with the dog.’ He waves again although David is stopping to allow his dog to poop and is looking the other way. I get the feeling Dad feels rather grand in a taxi. It’s rare he’s in one, the expense being too much and everywhere he needs to go being within walking distance or a short bus hop away.
‘Home sweet home,’ he announces. ‘How much do I owe you, Jack?’ He leans forward again. He takes two five-euro notes out of his pocket.
‘The bad news, I’m afraid … twenty euro, please.’
‘What?’ Dad looks up in shock.
‘I’ll pay, Dad, put your money away.’ I give the driver twenty-five and tell him to keep the change. Dad looks at me like I’ve just taken a pint out of his hand and poured it down the drain.
Conor and I have lived in the red-brick terraced house in Phisboro since our marriage ten years ago. The houses have been here since the forties, and over the years we’ve pumped our money into modernising it. Finally it’s how we want it, or it was until this week. A black railing encloses a small patch of a front garden where the rose bushes my mother planted preside. Dad lives in an identical house two streets away, the house I grew up in, though we’re never done growing up, continually learning, and when I return to it I regress to my youth.
The front door to my house opens just as the taxi drives off. Dad’s neighbour Fran smiles at me from my own front door. She looks at us awkwardly, failing to make eye contact with me each time she looks in my direction. I’ll have to get used to this.
‘Oh, your hair!’ she says first, then gathers herself. ‘I’m sorry, love, I meant to be out of here by the time you got home.’ She opens the door fully and pulls a checked trolley-bag behind her. She is wearing a single Marigold glove on her right arm.
Dad looks nervous and avoids my eye.
‘What were you doing, Fran? How on earth did you get into my house?’ I try to be as polite as I can but the sight of someone in my house without my permission both surprises and infuriates me.
She pinks and looks to Dad. Dad looks at her hand and coughs. She looks down, laughs nervously and pulls off her single Marigold. ‘Oh, your dad gave me a key. I thought that … well, I put down a nice rug in the hallway for you. I hope you like it.’
I stare at her with utter confusion.
‘Never mind, I’ll be off now.’ She walks by me, grabs my arm and squeezes hard but still refuses to look at me. ‘Take care of yourself, love.’ She walks on down the road, dragging her trolley-bag behind her, her Nora Batty tights in rolls around her thick ankles.
‘Dad,’ I look at him angrily, ‘what the hell is this?’ I push into the house, looking at the disgusting dusty rug on my beige carpet. ‘Why did you give a near-stranger my house keys so she could come in and leave a rug? I am not a charity!’
He takes off his cap and scrunches it in his hands. ‘She’s not a stranger, love. She’s known you since the day you were brought home from the hospital—’
Wrong story to tell at this moment, and he knows it.
‘I don’t care!’ I splutter. ‘It’s my house, not yours! You cannot just do that. I hate this ugly piece of shit rug!’ I pick up one side of the clashing carpet, I drag it outside and then slam the door shut. I’m fuming and I look at Dad to shout at him again. He is pale and shaken. He is looking at the floor sadly. My eyes follow his.
Various shades of faded brown stains, like red wine, splatter the beige carpet. It has been cleaned in some places but the carpet hairs have been brushed in the opposite direction and give away that something once lay there. My blood.
I put my head in my hands.
Dad’s voice is quiet, injured. ‘I thought it would be best for you to come home with that gone.’
‘Oh, Dad.’
‘Fran has been here for a little while everyday now and has tried different things on it. It was me that suggested the rug,’ he adds in a smaller voice. ‘You can’t blame her for that.’
I despise myself.
‘I know you like all the nice new matching things in your house,’ he looks around, ‘but Fran or I wouldn’t have the likes of that.’
‘I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry I shouted at you. You’ve been nothing but helpful this week. I’ll … I’ll call around to Fran at some stage and thank her properly.’
‘Right,’ he nods, ‘I’ll leave you at it, so. I’ll bring the rug back to Fran. I don’t want any of the neighbours seeing it outside on the path and telling her so.’
‘No, I’ll put it back where it was. It’s too heavy for you to bring all the way around. I’ll keep it for the time being and return it to her soon.’ I open the front door and retrieve it from the outside path. I drag it back into the house with more respect, laying it down so that it hides the scene where I lost my baby.
‘I’m so sorry, Dad.’
‘Don’t worry.’ He seesaws up to me and pats my shoulder. ‘You’re having a hard time, that I know. I’m only round the corner if you need me for anything.’
With a flick of his wrist, his tweed cap is on his head and I watch him seesaw down the road. The movement is familiar and comforting, like the motion of the sea. He disappears round the corner and I close the door. Alone. Silence. Just me and the house. Life continues as though nothing has happened.
It seems as though the nursery upstairs vibrates through the walls and floor. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. As though like a heart, it’s trying to push out the walls and send blood flowing down the stairs, through the hallways to reach every little nook and cranny. I walk away from the stairs, the scene of the crime, and wander around the rooms. It appears everything is exactly as it was, though on further inspection I see that Fran has tidied around. The cup of tea I was drinking is gone from the coffee table in the living room. The galley kitchen hums with the sound of the dishwasher Fran has set. The taps and draining boards glisten, the surfaces are gleaming. Straight through the kitchen the door leads to the back garden. My mum’s rose bushes line the back wall. Dad’s geraniums peep up from the soil.
Upstairs the nursery still throbs.
I notice the red light on the answering machine in the hall flashing. Four messages. I flick through the list of registered phone numbers and recognise friends’ numbers. I leave the answering machine, not able to listen to their condolences quite yet. Then I freeze. I go back. I flick through the list again. There it is. Monday evening. 7.10 p.m. Again at 7.12 p.m. My second chance to take the call. The call I had foolishly rushed down the stairs for and sacrificed my child’s life.
They have left a message. With shaking fingers, I press play.
‘Hello, this is Xtra-vision, Phisboro calling about the DVD The Muppet Christmas Carol. It says on our system that it’s one week late. We’d appreciate it if you could return it as soon as possible, please.’
I inhale sharply. Tears spring in my eyes. What did I expect? A phone call worthy of losing my baby? Something so urgent that I was right to rush for it? Would that somehow warrant my loss?
My entire body trembles with rage and shock. Breathing in shakily, I make my way into the living room. I look straight ahead to the DVD player. On top, is the DVD I rented while minding my goddaughter. I reach for the DVD, hold it tightly in my hands, squeeze it as though I can stop the life in it. Then I throw it hard across the room. It knocks our collection of photographs off the top of the piano, cracking the glass on our wedding photo, chipping the silver coating of another.
I open my mouth. And I scream. I scream at the top of my lungs, the loudest I can possibly go. It’s deep and low and filled with anguish. I scream again and hold it for as long as I can. One scream after another from the pit of my stomach, from the depths of my heart. I let out deep howls that border on laughter, that are laced with frustration. I scream and I scream until I am out of breath and my throat burns.
Upstairs, the nursery continues to vibrate. Thump-thump, thump-thump. It beckons me, the heart of my home beating wildly. I go to the staircase, step over the rug and onto the stairs. I grab the banister, feeling too weak even to lift my legs. I pull myself upstairs. The thumping gets louder and louder with every step until I reach the top and face the nursery door. It stops throbbing. All is still now.
I trace a finger down the door, press my cheek to it, willing all that happened not to be so. I reach for the handle and open the door.
A half-painted wall of Buttercup Dream greets me. Soft pastels. Sweet smells. A cot with a mobile of little yellow ducks dangling above. A toy box decorated with giant letters of the alphabet. On a little rail hang two baby grows. Little booties on a dresser.
A bunny rabbit sits up enthusiastically inside the cot. He smiles stupidly at me. I take my shoes off and step barefoot onto the soft shagpile carpet, try to root myself in this world. I close the door behind me. There’s not a sound. I pick up the rabbit and carry it around the room with me while I run my hands over the shiny new furniture, clothes and toys. I open a music box and watch as the little mouse inside begins to circle round and round after a piece of cheese to a mesmerising tinkling sound.
‘I’m sorry, Sean,’ I whisper, and my words catch in my throat. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’
I lower myself to the soft floor, pull my legs close to me and hug the blissfully unaware bunny. I look again to the little mouse whose very being revolves around eternally chasing a piece of cheese he will never ever reach, let alone eat.
