The One I Love (2 page)

Over the years Jane and I have had our disagreements. Her flagrant disregard for our rules regarding smoking on school premises and the Irish stew incident that led to a fire in the Home Economics room are only two of the episodes I could mention. As you are aware we’ve butted heads on many more occasions, especially when she came to school with purple hair or, indeed, during her thankfully short-lived Cure-inspired Gothic phase. This school has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to the presentation of its students but I must admit, though I was exasperated by her opposition and having to endure debate on many occasions, she conveyed her points ably and with admirable passion. The reason I mention this is that although our relationship as principal and student is chequered I feel it necessary to make it clear that Jane is a very clever girl, bright and articulate, and I have often thought that she could do anything she set her mind to, and in twenty years I have only thought that a handful of times. I am worried for her, Mrs Moore. She has lost her sparkle and her fight. The girl I knew and, despite our differences, have a great fondness for has all but disappeared.

Teenage pregnancy is terrible and absolutely not to be encouraged, but support is not the same as encouragement and with support Jane could continue her studies and fulfil her ambitions. Surely it is not the end for a girl such as Jane.

Please come and speak to me for Jane’s sake. Don’t leave me with no option but to expel such a talented young girl from our school.

Kindest regards,

Amanda Reynolds (Principal)

Jane finished reading the letter aloud and blew her blonde fringe out of her eyes while waiting on her best friend’s
response. Alexandra twirled her chestnut hair around her finger and stared at it in silence. After a few seconds she shrugged. “Jesus, who knew Reynolds had a heart?”

Jane felt like crying because her principal had responded to her crisis pregnancy with far more kindness and understanding than her own mother, who had had one tantrum after another since her condition had been revealed months previously. During her latest tantrum she had taken the time to mention how much money she had pissed into the wind by sending Jane to a private school and told Jane in no uncertain terms that her education was over because only a bloody childless spinster like Amanda Reynolds could possibly think that having a baby at seventeen didn’t mean the end of an academic career. She slammed the door on exiting the room, not once but twice for effect.

On that afternoon, and for the first time, Jane truly acknowledged the predicament she was in and how badly wrong her life had gone. She realized that she would miss her principal and she would miss school, as well as the opportunity to go to college. She’d miss her friends who, except Alexandra, had drifted away during her pregnancy, and she’d miss Dominic even though he was avoiding her and completely ignoring the fact that she was carrying his child. He couldn’t hide his pain from her. She recognized and identified with his haunted expression, and she loved him. Following an argument with his parents, who had dared to imply that Jane was a little whore, her mother had made it clear that if she saw him anywhere near their property she’d attack him with a shovel – and Jane’s mother did not make threats of violence lightly.

Once when Jane was seven a man had come to their
door. He was buying and selling antiques. Her mother said she wasn’t interested but he had spied an antique table in the hall. He had put his foot in the door and attempted to change her mind about doing business. She reiterated that she had no interest and told him if he didn’t remove his foot she would hurt him. He laughed at her. “No can do,” he said, and his foot remained in the door. She counted down aloud from five to zero. He continued to push his foot further into her hallway, all the while grinning at her foolishly. It was clear to Jane’s mother that this man believed her to be a stupid, incapable woman and that she would not or could not keep her promise.

When she reached zero she calmly reached for an umbrella she kept in the hall and, releasing the door, she pushed it, with full force, into his stomach. Startled, he bent forward, clutching his midriff. She then bopped him on the head not once or twice but three times. He fell backwards, she smiled politely, said good day to him, and left him winded and slightly dazed on her doorstep. Jane remembered the incident well because she had stood at the window watching the man sit on the step for what seemed like a long time before he was capable of getting up.

Her mother had joined her just as he was leaving. “Good riddance,” she’d said, with a genuine smile. “You know, Janey, there’s nothing quite like giving a smug, arrogant cock like him a good dig to cheer up a dull day.” So Jane knew that if her mother had enjoyed giving that cock a dig because he’d put his foot in her doorway she would definitely enjoy slapping Dominic in the face with a shovel for putting his cock in her daughter.

After Alexandra had read the letter a few more times and
lamented with Jane over her mother being a bigger bitch than Alexis on
Dynasty
, she opened the first of six cans of Ritz. Later, when Jane was drunk on one can and Alexandra was on her third, Jane compared her and Dominic’s plight to that of Romeo and Juliet. Alexandra threw cold water on Jane’s fanciful theory: “It’s like this, Janey,” she said. “Romeo didn’t get Juliet up the pole and then dump her at a disco.”

“I know, but his parents made him give me up and –”

“And anyway,” Alexandra said, with drunken authority, “as bad as your situation is with Dominic, you don’t want to be anything like Romeo and Juliet because
Romeo and Juliet
is a shit love story. Romeo was a shallow slut, Juliet pathetic and needy, their families were killing each other and they were in love one stupid day before they were married and then dead. Romeo and Juliet weren’t star-crossed lovers, they were knackers.”

“When you put it that way,” Jane said sadly.

“Can you believe Miss Hobbs only gave me a C in English? I may not be able to spell ‘apothecary’ but I have insight. That woman doesn’t know her arse from her elbow.” Then Alexandra threw up in Jane’s bin.

After that they talked about how Jane could win Dominic back but neither came up with a workable solution so they agreed that Jane should just wait it out.

“As far as I’m concerned he’s just a cock-artist, but I know you love him so it’ll work out,” said Alexandra.

“He’s more than a cock-artist,” said Jane.

“I disagree,” Alexandra said, burping Ritz.

“He’s the one,” said Jane.

Alexandra tapped her can. “He’ll come back, Janey. He’ll see you in school every day and he’ll miss you. Just give it
some time.” She stopped to throw up again, wiped her mouth and sighed. “That’s better. What was I saying?”

“Just give it some time,” said Jane.

“Exactly. And, anyway, you still have me.”

“I know.”

“You will always have me.”

“I know.”

“Even if I get science in Cork – because, let’s face it, I’m not going to get into UCD – you’ll still have me.”

“I’ll miss you,” Jane said.

“You won’t have to,” Alexandra promised. “I’ll be home every other weekend and you can come and stay with me.”

“I’ll have a baby.”

“Leave it with your mum.”

“She’s made it clear she’s not a babysitter.”

“She’s such a cow.”

“Yeah, she is.”

“I love you, Jane.”

“I love you too, Alex.”

They were interrupted by Jane’s mother, who was even drunker than Alexandra and determined to fight. “Go home, Alexandra.”

“I’m going home.”

“So go!”

“I’m going.”

“So get out!”

“Jesus, what’s wrong with you, woman? Can’t you see I’m trying to get up?”

Jane helped her friend into a standing position.

“See?” Alexandra said, with arms outstretched. “I’m off!” She wove through the corridor and walked out of the
front door. She turned to say goodbye but Jane’s mother slammed the door in her face.

Jane’s mother turned to Jane. “She’s not welcome here any more.”

“She’s my best friend.”

“Yeah, well, kiss your best friend goodbye.”

That was the last time Alexandra was in Jane’s house. Jane gave birth to a son two weeks later and, although they maintained a friendship for four months after that, when Jane became a mother and Alexandra went to college in Cork they lost contact. Over the next seventeen years Jane often thought of her friend and she missed her.

Leslie, 5 June 1996

Dear Jim,

It’s time to talk about Leslie. We both know she’s stubborn and cut off and we both know why. When I’m gone you’ll be all she has left in this world and I know it’s a big ask but please look out for her.

We’ve talked about you remarrying and you know I want you to find someone to love and to love you. I want you to have a great new life that doesn’t include overcrowded hospitals, dismissive doctors, overworked nurses and cancer. I want you to find someone strong and healthy, someone you can go on an adventure with, someone you can make love to, someone who doesn’t cause you anguish and pain. Every time I see your face it hurts because for the first time I see that, in loving you, I’ve been selfish and I understand why Leslie is the way she is.

Leslie is a better person than me. I know you’re probably guffawing at that as you read but it’s true. She’s watched her entire family die of cancer, and when we were both diagnosed with the dodgy gene after Nora’s death, she made the decision not to cause pain to others the way Nora caused pain to John and Sarah and I’m causing pain to you. Before cancer she was smart and funny, kind and caring, and she still is to me. Without her care I wouldn’t have coped. I know sometimes she calls you names but, trust me, she knows you’re not a monkey, so when she calls you an arse-picker, ignore it and be kind.

I thought she was being defeatist. I thought that we’d suffered enough as a family and that we’d both survive. So I made plans and fell in love and for a while we had a great life, but then that dodgy gene kicked in. Now I see you look almost as ill as I feel and I realize that my sister Leslie knew exactly what she was doing when she broke up with Simon and all but closed off. I watched her disappear from her own life. I thought she was insane back then but it makes sense now. She put the pain of others before her own. She watched John and Sarah suffer after Nora and she’ll watch you suffering after me, and although she pretends not to like you, she does, and it will hurt her and it will also confirm for her that she is right to remain alone, waiting for a diagnosis that may never come.

I’m her last family and friend. She hasn’t even let herself get to know her niece so when I’m gone she’ll have no one and that haunts me. Please go and live your life but all I ask is that, every now and again, no matter how rude or uninviting she may seem, call to her, talk to her, be her friend even if she fails to be yours, because she has been there for me, for Mum, for Dad and Nora, and I can’t stand the idea that after everything she’s been through she should live or die alone.

I know I say it all the time, and in all my little notes and letters about this and that, but time is running out and I need you to know that it’s been a privilege to be your wife and, although I feel selfish for all the pain I’ve caused you, I know I’ve brought happiness too, so hang on to that and forgive me because, even knowing what I know now, I’d love and marry you again. I suppose Leslie would say I was a selfish truffle-sniffer but I can die with that.

Yours,

Imelda

Imelda Sheehan died at eight o’clock on the morning of 12 July 1996. She was twenty-five years old. Her husband Jim was by her side, holding her right hand, and her sister Leslie was sitting on the opposite side of the bed, holding her left hand. They both felt her slip away at exactly the same time. For Leslie it was familiar: the ocean of grief inside her swelled and rose but she knew what to do: she remained still and allowed the pain to wash over her. For Jim it was so shocking: one second his wife was alive and battling to breathe, the next dead and silent. He let Imelda’s hand go and stood up quickly, so quickly that he nearly fell. He steadied and hugged himself. He stood in the corner of the room as the doctor and nurses approached to confirm time of death.

Leslie sat with her dead sister Imelda, holding her hand for as long as they would allow her to. Jim cried and his parents, brothers and friends made a fuss of him. Leslie sat alone and frozen. She knew that the physical pain, which made her heart feel like it was about to explode and her ears ring until she feared they’d bleed, would dissipate in time, just as the tide would turn and, with it, Imelda would drift further and further away until she was a distant memory. It only served to make her loss greater. Leslie had just turned twenty-nine.

Jim asked Leslie to read at the funeral but she refused. He asked her to sit beside him and in the first pew, when she’d attempted to sit at the back of the church. She told him she didn’t want to shake hands with the people whose hands she had shaken so many times before, but Jim was not taking no for an answer: she found herself sitting beside her brother-in-law with a heavy heart and the all-too-familiar swollen hand from those whose earnest sympathy had ensured they squeezed too tight.

When the priest asked if anyone would like to speak, Leslie stood up. This surprised her and those around her, especially Jim who hadn’t even been able to get her to do a reading. She found herself standing without reason. The priest asked her to come forward but her legs refused to comply with his request. He waited and the congregation waited, and Jim nudged her and asked if she was all right.
What the hell am I doing?
she asked herself, as she started to move towards the altar. But once she was on the altar and standing in front of a microphone the words came easily.

“I am the last of the five Sheehans,” she said. “Four days ago there were two of us, me the middle child, and Imelda the baby of the family. I should have been next, and not just because I was older but because Imelda was the strong one, the one who embraced life regardless and without fear. Over the years she’s run five marathons in aid of cancer. I didn’t even walk for cancer, not once – mostly I’ll avoid standing if I can.” She stopped to take a breath. There was a hint of a titter from the crowd. “She fell in love and married Jim, and she always planned to have kids. Imelda always made plans and that’s what I admired about her most because even when she was diagnosed with the
same cancer that had killed our grandmother, our mother and sister she still made plans. She froze her eggs and they bought a house and when she wasn’t in chemo she travelled. Even when she knew her life was coming to the end she still made plans. Little plans that don’t mean much to most, like ‘Tonight we’ll reminisce about the summer we spent in Kerry’ or ‘Tomorrow when the sun comes out we’ll sit in the hospital grounds and watch the people come and go and make up stories about who and what they are.’ She even planned her own funeral. She knew exactly what she wanted, the kind of coffin, the flowers, the priest, the prayers, the attendees. She asked me once if I would speak at her funeral and I said no. I’m sorry, Imelda, of course I’ll speak for you. I just was scared that I wouldn’t know what to say and I didn’t want to let you down. So I’ll just end by saying this: I miss my dad, my mum, my sister Nora and now I miss my Imelda and I’m so sorry because it should have been me, but I’ll see you all again and soon.”