Pack Up the Moon (17 page)

“Sweet Jesus!” I roared.

I moved closer to the mirror and took off my robe to examine myself more thoroughly. This revealed nasty red spots appearing before my eyes.

“Fucking great!” I sighed. “I’ve got The Pox.”

I remembered that my parents were away on a short

break to Edinburgh and I wanted to cry. The doctor arrived an hour later and confirmed I had picked up a

nasty case of chickenpox. One week’s solitary confinement and all the calamine lotion I could lay my hands on were

prescribed. He left and I stared in the mirror waiting for spots to appear on my face and praying that they wouldn’t. I phoned Clo and she laughed.

“It’s not funny,” I whined. “If I scratch I could be scarred.”

“So don’t scratch,” she advised, still laughing.

“That’s all very well for you to say,” I said. “My skin’s

crawling. I feel like Indiana Jones in The Temple of Doom.” She was silent for a second. “I don’t get that.” “What?”

“The Temple of Doom thing,” she said.

“You know, the spiders,” I said.

She didn’t know.

“You know, when all the spiders were dropping onto Indiana Jones and his girlfriend.”

“I think that was in the first film,” she said.

“Well, what was the first one called?” I asked.

“I can’t remember,” she responded after a moment’s thought.

I thought about it for a minute. “Me neither:’ I conceded.

Clo hadn’t ever had chickenpox so she couldn’t visit.

Anne was trying to get pregnant, so I was the last person

on earth she wanted to have dinner with. Richard wasn’t

a candidate on the same grounds. My parents and Noel

were away so I was alone and I really, really wanted to

scratch. I sat watching daytime TV, which made me depressed and bored. Boredom encouraged scratching. I made something to eat, but it stuck in my throat. After nearly choking I lay down on the couch and complained

to myself about having to work with teenagers. One of them had carried the pox germ into my class. Bastards.

*

I woke up to the sound of the doorbell. I panicked as any infected person would.

I stood behind the closed door and shouted, “Who’s there?”

“It’s Sean,” came the reply. “Let me in!”

“I can’t,” I whined. “I’ve got chickenpox.”

He laughed. “Clo told me. Let me in.”

“I can’t,” I whined again. “It’s very contagious.” “I’ve already had it!” he called back.

“But it could give you shingles,” I moaned.

“Emma, open the fucking door please!”

I opened the door. The light hurt my eyes. He stepped in. I looked up at him.

“Fine, but don’t blame me if you get shingles. Your brain swells and you die.”

He laughed, enjoying my flair for the dramatic. “Where did you hear that?”

I pointed to the brochures the doctor had left me. He picked them up and read. He smiled. “I think you’re a little hysterical.”

“Really,” I said snottily. “Well, if you had The Pox you’d be hysterical too.”

He laughed and I realised that despite his condescension

I was really glad he came.

“I brought videos, ice-cream and extra calamine lotion.”

My hero.

We settled into a movie. He made me wear mittens, so eating the ice cream was a challenge, but I made the effort, as it was the first food that didn’t induce dry retching. A lot of it ended up on my face, which I cleaned on my mittens.

“Very sexy” Sean laughed.

“Ha, ha,” was my only retort. I wasn’t able for much more; my illness had made wit a real challenge.

“No, really, you’re sitting there in flannel pyjamas covered in red angry little spots, wearing mittens with ice cream all over you. face. I am seriously turned on.”

He was grinning, delighted with his little joke. “Arsehole!” I was too sick to compete with his witty wonders. “Fuck oil”

“Good comeback — do you mind if I take notes?” he replied annoyingly.

I threw a pillow at him. “I’m sick. I have chickenpox. I could die,” I whined, seeking pity.

He burst out laughing. “You could die!” he repeated for his own pleasure.

It sounded a little hysterical when he said it. I tried to redeem myself. “It says it in the pamphlet,” I informed him plaintively. “Adults can get shingles, which in rare cases can end up with the aforementioned brain swelling and

subsequent death,”

He was still laughing. “You have chickenpox. You’re

going to feel crappy and itchy for a few days and then

you’re going to be fine.”

“Fine,” I agreed, “it’s possible I may not die, but I am very fragile so piss off with the teasing.”

“I wasn’t teasing,” he laughed. “You look stunning.”

I tried to keep a straight face, but when I noticed the large brown ice-cream stain on my pyjamas I gave in and

laughed. I was a bloody state and he was hilarious, the king of comedy, and I’m sure as attractive with The Pox as without it. Secretly I hoped he’d get it so that we could test the theory. He put calamine lotion on my back and made me cups of tea. We watched the film together and when I needed to go to the loo he helped me remove my

mittens. At ten he tucked me up in bed, ensuring my medications were lined up on my locker.

“Why are you still single?” I wondered aloud as he fluffed my pillow. “You’d make such a good boyfriend.” I snuggled up.

For the first time since I’d known him he blushed. I was instantly aware of the awkwardness, which hung thickly in the air like a fart in a lift full of strangers. I pretended that I was sleepy, not really sure what had caused the sudden change in atmosphere. He backed out of the room.

“Goodnight,” he said.

I closed my eyes, but I could feel him looking at me for a few seconds before he closed the door.

What’s up with him?

He stayed over and made me breakfast. I walked into the kitchen while he was preparing a tray. He was disappointed by my sudden appearance.

“I was going to bring you breakfast in bed,” he said. I smiled. “I’m feeling a bit better.”

I thanked him for coming over. He told me to sit down and handed me tea and toast. I sat while he toasted more bread.

“John’s dead one year, four months and two days,” I said out of nowhere.

He turned to face me.

“Really,” he said.

“Yeah. I used to know offhand, but lately I have to try to work it out,” I admitted.

He remained silent.

“Do you think he can see us?” I asked.

“What?” he replied.

I asked again. He said he didn’t think so.

“Why? Don’t you think it’s a possibility that he can see us?” I challenged.

“No. Em, I don’t want to think about that. I want to believe that he’s somewhere better than this,”

He sounded sad and I wondered why. Maybe it was a stupid question. I was just tired. I didn’t want to upset him.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. He probably is somewhere better. Why would he stick around?” I said, attempting to be cheery.

He turned back to his toast. “Someday you’ll let go of him, Emma. I hope it’s sooner rather than later,” he said, straightening in his chair.

I played with my toast. “Me too,” I said to the back of his head.

He left soon after that. His mood had changed and I was glad he was going as I was feeling sad and stupid. Of

course he didn’t want to hear about John first thing in the

morning. It was depressing. He missed his friend. That’s why he was acting oddly. He was moving on — that’s why he wanted me to move on. It all made sense.

Except it doesn’t.

*

Ten days later and feeling a good deal better I decided to visit

the grave. I hadn’t been in a long time. Time to check up on my tree and catch up. It was a crisp dry day in late spring. The trees were full and the air still. I was careful not to stand on anyone, instead sticking to the path that led me to the little tree I’d planted months before. It was blooming. Three red roses and two buds perfectly poised over the new

headstone upon which his name was written.

In loving memory of

John Redmond

1972-1998

Sleeping with angels

It was nice. His mother must have picked it.

I wish he were sleeping with me.

I sat down on the dry ground.

“Hey, stranger.”

Nothing.

“Sorry I haven’t been around in a while.”

Nothing.

“I miss you though!’

Nothing.

“Sean has been minding me. I had chickenpox. They’re

nearly gone. He’s been very good to me. I couldn’t have asked for a better friend. Do you have friends?”

Stupid question.

I looked up at the sky.

“I wish I could hear you just once, just to know you’re OK. The dreams are gone now. You used to come every night. I haven’t seen you for months. I wonder will I see you again?”

I stared at his headstone for an answer. None came and then it dawned on me. I couldn’t remember the sound of his voice.

Oh my God!

Tears started to pour out of my eyes, fat and loud like a leaking tap. I racked my brain but it was silent. Oh my God!

I ran from the graveside, no longer worrying if I was jogging on someone’s beloved. I got to the car and I was out of breath.

I can’t remember. I can’t remember!

I drove away as fast as I could. I was so ashamed.

How could I forget so soon? What is wrong with me?

I got home faster than I should have. Then I pulled apart my sitting-room, my kitchen and my bedroom until I found the answering-machine tape at the back of my

locker where I’d put it months before. I tore the current tape out of the machine and put it in as quickly as my

fingers would allow. I pressed play.

“Hi, you’ve reached six four zero five two six one. John and Emma are somewhere exotic so leave a message and if we like

you we’ll call you back.”

And there he was. Relief washed over me. I still had the tape: even if I couldn’t keep him in my head, I could keep him on tape. I thanked God for answering machines. I told myself everything was going to be OK, but it wasn’t. How could it be? I was a mess.

Jesus, why can’t I get it together?

The summer.had passed uneventfully and it was October, Friday the thirteenth, and my birthday to be exact. I woke up to my mother’s rendition of “Happy Birthday” followed by “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow”. I happily listened to her attempt. Although I was twenty-eight I was in good form. Why not? My friends and I were going to Paris for the weekend. I’d never been and I couldn’t wait. My bags were packed from the night before. I was alert and excited.

Leonard was a dead weight on my legs. I tried to move him, but Leonard was not co-operating. I gave up and lifted him to the side. He sighed like an old man disturbed by his grandchild. He flipped over with his paws in the air, waiting for his morning tummy rub. Once I’d removed his dead weight the feeling in my legs returned. In the shower I sang about love. I was going to Paris after all, I might as well get into the spirit. I was dressed and ready to go when Clo and Tom came to pick me up. We were

meeting Anne and Richard at the airport and Sean was

already in Paris. He had to interview a French rapper for an article he was doing on the global phenomenon that is

hip-hop. It wasn’t his area, but his colleague had come down with a nasty case of pneumonia and he was forced

to step into the breach. He was asked to follow this rapper for one week, kind of a week-in-the-life-of type thing. Once the rest of us discovered he would be staying in his

own apartment, it wasn’t long before we had arranged to use his free accommodation and my birthday as the

perfect excuse to get away.

We flew into a tiny airport surrounded by a lot of

fields. Not exactly how I’d pictured Paris. We were herded onto a bus which took another hour and a half to get into

the city, but I didn’t care. Tom and Clo were sitting down the back, locked in their own little world of romance and laughter. Anne and Richard sat opposite me. He was reading out passages of a guide to Paris while she took

notes of particular points of interest. I watched the road pass beneath us listening to my Walkman and looking

forward to seeing Sean. I had missed him all week. I hadn’t noticed how much I relied on him. Now that Clo had found her soul mate she didn’t have as much time for her

ordinary mates. Not that she wasn’t around — it was just that now she had someone to consider. Anne and Richard lived in Kerry. The last time I’d heard from Noel he was in South America picking fruit. Sean was single like me, so it made sense that we spent more time together. It had been a long week without him and I couldn’t wait to catch up.

He was waiting at the bus stop — conveniently placed

outside an Irish pub. Anne and Richard were the first to greet him. He was smiling and talking animatedly as I descended the steps. I was really looking forward to a hug, but when I reached the ground I realised the reason for

his excitement. He was introducing the blonde beauty beside him to our friends. She was a tanned, tiny-waist, knitted-top and perky-tits Frenchwoman, kissing Richard on both cheeks while he grinned and his wife stood back

smiling pleasantly.

Sean was busy so I went to collect my bag from under

the bus with a heavy heart. I wasn’t in the mood to hang around with the French despite my location. Clo emerged from the bus and descended the steps admiring the view

of this Paris backstreet wearing pink cashmere, sunglasses and lip-gloss: She could have been a movie star alighting from a private jet. Despite the month, the skies were blue but sunglasses were definitely not required. Tom was behind her carrying her handbag, make-up bag and her carry-on luggage which she had refused to put under the

bus. I suddenly realised I was surrounded by couples.