Marian Keyes - Watermelon (7 page)

Dad would be getting up in an hour to make breakfast for himself and Mum. He would deal with the mess, we reasoned. He liked to do things, we agreed. He needed to feel needed.

We slowly climbed the stairs, our arms around each other, and I fell into bed, feeling sleepy and relaxed and calm. Anna spent a few minutes gazing in wonder at Kate and then insisted on getting the two helium balloons (which she had misappropriated from the party she had been to, along with the bottle of wine) and tying them onto Kate's bassinet. Then Anna kissed me good-night and tiptoed out of the room. I went straight into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Kate woke me fifteen minutes later screeching for her breakfast.

I fed her and then staggered back to bed.

Just as I was drifting back to sleep I heard Dad getting up. A few minutes later I heard him pounding up the stairs shouting to my mother, "Your daughters are drunken pups!" (They were always her daughters when they lost jobs, didn't go to mass, stayed out late and dressed indecently. They were his daughters when they passed exams, got degrees, married ac-

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countants and bought houses.) "Drinking all night and lying in bed all day! Am I supposed to clear up the mess in the kitchen?"

Dad had obviously discovered the remains of our little party.

Mum wailed plaintively, "Oh no, they've found the drink again. I thought they'd never find it out under the oil tank. Now I'll have to find a new place to hide it."

After a while this commotion died down. Just as I was hoping against hope that I might catch an hour or two of sleep, someone started ringing at the front door. Naturally, this was quite alarming because it was only seven-thirty in the morning. I heard Dad open the door and engage in conversation with a man's voice. I strained to hear what was going on. Could it possibly be James? I felt such a surge of hope that it nearly hurt.

Then there was the sound of Dad running up the stairs. He shouted to my mother, "There's a madman at the front door with a shoe. He wants to know if we own it. What'll I do?"

There was a perplexed silence from my mother.

"I'm going to be late for work with all these interruptions this morning, you know," Dad told her, as if it was her fault.

I started to cry with disappointment. It wasn't James at the front door. I knew exactly who it was.

"Dad," I called tearfully. "Daaaaaad!"

He stuck his head around the door. "Morning, love," he said. "I'll be with you in a minute. I'll make you some tea. It's just that there's a lunatic downstairs and I'd better get rid of him first."

"No, Dad," I told him. "He's not a lunatic. He's a taxi driver. Wake Anna. I bet it's her shoe."

"Oh, so she's finally bothered to come home, has she?" shouted Mum from her room.

Dad went off to Anna's room muttering "I might have known Anna would be involved in this."

Anna was duly roused. And it turned out that the man at the front door was the taxi driver who had dropped Anna home in the early hours of the morning. When he'd finished his shift he found a shoe in the back of his car. And was now

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traveling, in the manner of Prince Charming, to all the houses of the young women he had delivered home during the night, trying to match the shoe to the young woman. Anna was indeed his Cinderella.

Anna gave effusive thanks. The taxi driver left. Anna went back to bed. Dad went to work. I closed my eyes. Kate started to cry.

So did I.

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Wet and windy and miserable. For the first two weeks that I was home it rained every day. Apparently it was the wettest February in living memory.

I would wake in the middle of every night to the sound of the raindrops cracking and spattering at the window, drumming and pounding on the roof.

The weather made everyone miserable. Luckily I was suicidal anyway.

In fact, the weather made me feel slightly better. It seemed like Fate's way of evening up my miserable life with everyone else's happy life, if you know what I mean.

Anna and Helen lounged moodily around the house, staring longingly out the windows, wondering if it would ever stop.

Mum talked gloomily about building an ark.

Dad tried to play golf while up to his knees in water on a flooded golf course.

I spent hours just lying on my bed, staring at nothing, Kate beside me, while the rain poured down outside, steaming up the windows, turning the garden into a quagmire.

My mother would bounce into my room each morning and fling back the curtains on another gray, sodden day, and say, "Well, what's on the agenda for today?"

I knew that she was only trying to cheer me up. And I tried to be cheerful. It was just that I was so tired all the time. She would then offer to make me my breakfast, but as soon

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as she left my room I would drag myself over to the window and close the curtains again.

I didn't neglect Kate. Really, I didn't.

Well, maybe I did.

To my eternal shame Mum brought her to the doctor for her check-up. Mum drove to the supermarket and bought mounds and mounds of dis- posable diapers and baby formula and talc and bottle sterilizer and everything else that Kate needed.

In fairness to me, I didn't abandon Kate entirely. I did take care of her in lots of ways. I fed her and changed her and washed her and worried about her. Sometimes I even played with her. I just couldn't seem to do anything that involved leaving the house for her.

Getting dressed was such a huge undertaking that I never managed it. On the rare occasions that I did get out of bed I put one of Dad's golfing sweaters on over Mum's nightgown and wore a pair of hiking socks. I would genuinely intend to get dressed for real. But later.

"As soon as I've fed Kate," I would say.

But after that I would be so exhausted that I would have to lie down for a while and read a few lines of an article in Hello magazine.

After lying down for a while I might have to pee. I would spend about half an hour trying to summon the energy to go to the bathroom. It was as if I were made of lead.

Once I got to the bathroom it was all I could do to stagger back to bed again.

"I'll just lie down again for five minutes," I would promise myself, "and then I really will get dressed."

But by then it would be time to feed Kate again.

And after that I would have to lie down again, just for five minutes....

Somehow I just never got around to it.

If only I was left alone to sleep forever I would be all right. That's what I thought. But people kept bothering me.

I was lying in bed one afternoon (I don't know why I say "one after- noon"--it's not as though it wasn't a regular event) when a Neanderthal- looking young man carrying a hammer strolled into the room.

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My initial reaction was that I had been cooped up too long and had started to hallucinate.

Then Mum burst in all breathless and anxious.

It turned out that the young man had come to install a baby intercom between my bedroom and the living room. Mum had watched him like a hawk downstairs but when she had gone to answer the phone he had es- caped and made his way to my room.

Mum rushed over and forced me out of the bed as though it was the middle of the night and she was a group of secret policemen who were about to take me away and torture me. I still have her finger marks on my arms. My God, but she'd be lethal with an electric cattle prod. You see, she thought that I might give the intercom man impure thoughts if he had to work in close proximity to me while I was still in my nightgown, so it was a matter of acute urgency to get me moved as quickly as possible.

In addition to my displacement troubles with the intercom man, Helen never gave me a moment's peace. Most mornings she would stand in the bedroom doorway and look at me lying prostrate on my bed, and bellow, "Your breakfast is ready. And last one down the stairs is a big fat smelly pig!"

In an instant she would be gone, thundering back down the stairs to the kitchen, while I limply tried to tell her that I was a big fat smelly pig already. Therefore her challenge meant nothing to me.

Well, I was big and fat, that was for sure. Very watermelonesque. Well, at least I had been when I arrived in Dublin. I couldn't be certain now as I hadn't looked in a mirror or tried on any clothes since the day I left my apartment in London.

I was most certainly smelly. There was as much chance of me climbing Mount Everest as there was of me washing my hair.

I did have the occasional bath, but only because my mother organized the whole thing.

A combination of persuasion and coercion.

She would fill the bath with steaming and fragrant bubble bath so that I would smell of kiwifruit and papaya. She would put huge soft towels on the heated towel rack for me. She would offer me a loan of her lavender body lotion (ugh, no

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thanks). She would threaten to report me to the authorities for being an unfit mother. Kate, she told me, would be put in a foster home.

So I would have a bath every day or so.

Grudgingly.

But perhaps I wasn't a pig. I honestly couldn't remember the last time I had eaten anything. I was never hungry. The thought of eating something scared the life out of me. I knew that I wouldn't be able to. I felt frozen. As if my throat was blocked up and I wouldn't ever be able to swallow any- thing.

I couldn't believe that this was happening to me--I'd always had a very robust appetite. When I was pregnant, it was better than robust, more like steel-reinforced. I spent my teenage years praying desperately to be anor- exic. I never lost my appetite, no matter what the occasion. Exam nerves, job interviews, wedding day jitters, food poisoning--nothing short of death made the slightest difference to my ability to eat like a racehorse. Whenever I met a thin person who would trill, "Oh, silly old me, I simply forget to eat," I would stare with ill-concealed bafflement and bitterness, feeling unglamorous and lumpy and bovine. The lucky bitches, I would think. How could anyone forget to eat? I had an appetite--what an untrendy and shameful thing to have.

Because when the world ends and we have shuffled off our mortal coils and we're all in Heaven and time ceases to exist and we are pure of spirit and have eternal life, which we will spend contemplating the Almighty, I will still need a Kit Kat every morning at eleven o'clock.

But I would console myself with the thought that these skinny people were probably lying through their teeth. They were really raging bulimics or taking amphetamines or having liposuction every weekend.

The days dragged on. Sometimes I would get out of bed and take Kate downstairs to watch a soap opera with Mum. I would have a cup of tea with her and then I would go back to my room.

Helen continued to plague me. Three days after the baby intercom was installed she tiptoed very elaborately into the room. "Is that on?" she mouthed, pointing at the intercom.

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"What?" I asked crossly, looking up from my copy of a magazine. "No, of course it's not on. Why the hell would it be? Kate is here and so am I."

"Fine," she said, "fine, fine." With that she doubled over with mirth. She sat on the bed, shaking with laughter; tears ran down her face. I sat and stared at her with ill-concealed distaste.

"Sorry," she said, wiping her eyes and trying to assemble herself. "Ahem, right, sorry, sorry."

"What's going on?" I asked as Helen sat up straight.

"I'll show you now," she promised. "But you're not to make any noise."

She went over to the intercom and switched it on and started to say things into it in a croony, singsongy type of voice. "Anna," she crooned, "oooooohhhhhh, Aaaaaaannnaaaaaa."

I stared in fascination. "What on earth are you doing?" I asked.

"Shut up," she hissed as she turned the intercom off. "I'm giving Anna a psychic experience, d'you see?"

Still the rain bucketed down. The canal burst its banks. Roads were impass- able. Cars were abandoned in flooded lanes. I heard about all these things from other people, as I never left the house.

I thought about James all the time. I would dream about him. Lovely dreams where we were still together. And when I woke up I would forget, for a few minutes, where I was and what had happened. I would be bathed in a gorgeous warm fuzzy happy feeling. And then I would remember. It was like being kicked in the stomach.

I had heard nothing from him. Absolutely nothing. I really had thought that after a week or so he would contact me. Just to see how I was or at least how Kate was. I couldn't believe that he had no interest at all in Kate, regardless of me.

The saddest thing of all was that he didn't even know her name was Kate.

I rang Judy when I'd been back in Dublin about five days. I asked her if James knew where I was and held my breath. Hoping and hoping that she would say that, no, he didn't

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know. That would at least explain why he hadn't contacted me. But she said, sadly, that James did know. Then, though it tore me apart to do so, I asked her if James was still with Denise. Once again, she said yes.

I felt, not that I was crying inside, but that I was bleeding inside. Bleeding to death.

I thanked Judy, and hung up the phone. My hands shook, my forehead sweated, I felt sick at heart.

There were times when I felt that James really would come back, sooner or later. That he had loved me so much that he just couldn't stop loving me overnight. That it was just a matter of time before he appeared on the doorstep, distraught with remorse, beside himself with guilt, wondering if it was too late to reclaim his wife and child. And, in that case, that it might be an idea to get out of bed and wash my hair and put on some makeup and wear some decent clothes in honor of his imminent arrival. But then I remembered what a contrary bastard Fate is. The more hideous I looked, the higher were the chances that James would arrive out of the blue.

So I stayed in the nightgown, the golfing sweater and the hiking socks. I wouldn't have known what lipstick was if it jumped up and bit me.

I often felt like calling him. But it always happened in the middle of the night. I would be gripped by terrible panic at the enormity of my loss. But I had no idea how to contact him. I hadn't been able to humble myself sufficiently to ask Judy for the phone number of the apartment he was sharing with Denise. I could have called him at work during the day, but the anxiety and the desire to talk to him never really came upon me in the daytime. I was really very glad about this. What good would calling him do? What could I say to him?

"Do you still not love me? Do you still love Denise?" To which he would reply, "No to the first question, yes to the second. Thank you for asking. Goodbye."

Time passed. Slowly, very slowly, my feelings started to change. The landscape of the desert changes very gradually as little breezes lift grains of sand and move them, sometimes a few feet, sometimes miles and miles, so that at the end of the day, when the sun sets, the face of the desert is completely

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different from the landscape it had in the morning when the sun rose on it. In the same way, tiny little changes happened in me.

But they were nearly too small for me to notice them as they were hap- pening.

It wasn't so much that the lead weight of hopelessness had left. But something else had arrived. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together and give a warm welcome to Humiliation.

Yes, I started to feel humiliated.

What took you so long? I can hear you saying.

Well, sorry, chaps, but I had a major backlog of Loss and Abandonment in my in-box.

A little twinge of humiliation at first. An odd little feeling one day when I wondered how long Judy had known about James and Denise. That feeling expanded like a balloon until humiliation was nearly all I felt. I smarted with it. I was raw with it. My soul blushed with it.

Who had known that James was having an affair? I wondered.

Had all my friends known about it and talked about it among themselves and agonized about telling me?

Did they say things like "Oh, we can't tell her now, not when she's pregnant."

Did they look at me with pity?

Did they thank God that at least they could trust their husbands or boy- friends?

Did they say to themselves, "The one thing Dave/Frank/William would never do is have an affair. He mightn't do any housework/give me enough money/ever discuss a problem, but at least he wouldn't be unfaithful."

Did they look at me and sigh huge sighs of relief and say, even while feeling guilty, "I'm so glad it's her and not me."

I was so angry. I wanted to shout at the world, "You're wrong! I thought I could trust my husband! I thought he was too goddamn lazy to have an affair. But he did have one. And so could Dave/Frank/William."

When I thought about Denise I cringed. When I thought about herself and myself exchanging pleasantries about the weather and me compliment- ing her on how well she was looking and telling her how my pregnancy was going and thinking

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that she was so sweet and nice, when all the time she was having sex with my husband and making him fall in love with her, I wanted to travel back in time and grab myself by the scruff of the neck and drag myself, protesting, away from the conversation with Denise and admonish myself, like a mother to a naughty child, "Don't speak to that horrible woman."

And then I wanted to get Denise and beat the living daylights out of her.