Читать книгу The Things I Should Have Told You - Carmel Harrington - Страница 14

EVIE

AnnMurphy: Heard about your granddad. Soz. Hope you are ok and not too sad.

My first reaction is, yeah, right, like you care, Ann Murphy.

I re-read the instant message on Facebook for the third time, puzzled and suspicious. Genuine or fake? She’s never really spoken to me before, so why, all of a sudden, get in touch?

She’s not part of the whole bitch-parade in school. But she stood by and watched Martina and Deirdre make my life hell for the past year and did nothing. I decide to ignore it. Just like I’ve been ignoring all of the bullshit that’s been shared on Facebook about ‘E’ from so-called friends.

I rub my temples. I still have a nagging headache. I might have been given a clean bill of health from the doctors, but I don’t feel back to normal yet. It’s all a bit fuzzy still.

Pathetic. Nerd. Weirdo. Loser. That’s the usual tone of the messages I get on Facebook.

I shouldn’t care what they think. For the longest time I didn’t. Then all of a sudden it mattered what everyone thought. I suppose everyone has their limit and I reached mine.

I suppose I could just delete my accounts. But everyone is on Facebook, Snapchat and Instagram. The stubborn part of me thinks that it’s not fair that I should stop using them, when I’ve done nothing wrong. And if I do, surely that means they’ve won.

Maybe they have already won. Maybe when I let them talk me into that stupid dare I made myself into the very thing they called me – a loser. I feel so stupid and shamed whenever I think about that. I can’t tell Mam and Dad what really happened, they’d only freak. And they wouldn’t understand anyhow. Better that they think I was experimenting with alcohol and made a mistake. I’ve not told them about the bullying, I can’t just land all of this on them now too.

I wish Pops were here. I could talk to him, tell him about the message. I try to imagine what he’d say, but I can’t come up with anything. He’s only been gone a few days, but already it’s like his face and his voice is beginning to fade at the edges. I’m not ready to lose him. I just don’t know what to do.

Jamie peeps in the door. I’ve no privacy since Dad banned me from closing my door. It’s a joke, this house. My whole life is a freaking sideshow.

‘Get lost, Jamie,’ I shout and he backs away, but he looks relieved. I know what he’s doing. He keeps checking up on me to make sure I’m alive. He thought I was dead when he found me. And now he’s worried that I’ll die too – like Pops. I hope he knows I’m sorry. I hate that I’ve upset him. He’s just a kid.

He might run around like a Duracell bunny all day and I suppose you could be fooled into thinking he was fine. But at night I know he’s scared. That’s why he’s wetting the bed again. That’s when I get scared too. That’s when I can’t switch off. That’s when I think that my brain is about to explode.

I wish I could cry. But I just feel numb most of the time. Is that normal? Everyone else seems to be crying on and off every day since Pops died. But the tears won’t come for me.

Mam keeps asking me how I’m doing. But she doesn’t really want to know the answer. She just wants me to say, fine, then she can sigh with relief and move on. I wonder sometimes what she’d say if I answered her truthfully. What if I just said, hey Mam, there’s this pressure in my brain, in my stomach, in my hands and fingers that is building up so much that I think I’m going to explode. It hurts so much. Any minute now, boom, I’m gonna blow like a grenade.

I can feel their eyes on me all the time, watching me. I know they are worried. But I can’t cope. I just want to pretend it never happened. Problem is, I can’t get away from it. My mind has it all on loop and keeps going back over and over it all. That moment when I realised I was in hospital, I’ll never forget.

They think I’m asleep. I’m afraid to speak, afraid of what they will say to me. I’ve been so stupid. The doctor has a clipboard in his hand, all official-like. He looks tired. Like he’s not slept in days. I sympathise because I feel exhausted too. And I’m sore all over. What’s that about?

They all look super-serious standing side by side, facing the doctor. I know I must be sick, because I’m in hospital, I certainly feel crap, but their faces, all kind of grey and pinched, scare me. At least Jamie is asleep on a chair in the corner. I don’t want him to see me like this.

The doc sounds really cross, it makes the hairs on my arms stand upright. ‘Your daughter has more than five times the legal limit of alcohol in her system. Enough to kill a grown man. She’s lucky to be alive.’

His words hang in the air like an accusation and nobody speaks for the longest time. I close my eyes tight and for a moment wish that I’d died earlier on. I don’t want to hear any more about the mess I’ve made of everything. But the urge to look is too strong and I peep out through my eyelashes at the drama that is unfolding. Drama that I caused. Shit, shit, shit. I’m in so much trouble.

The shock has rendered them speechless. Mam has this weird look, like she is about to speak, but she can’t get the words out. I look at the doctor, trying to get a lead on what he’s about to say. Does his countenance have the look of one about to bear bad news? Maybe. What if I’m going to die? What if I’ve done serious damage to myself? Now that the thought takes root, I realise that I don’t want to die, I want to be back home in my bedroom, reading a book. I look at the door and for a second consider bolting for it. But I’m hooked up to drips. I’m not going anywhere.

‘She’s going to be okay, though?’ Mam pleads and I’m shocked by her tone. She sounds desperate. I think Dad is half holding her up.

The doc looks at his clipboard once more but doesn’t answer her straight away. I don’t like him very much. I think he’s enjoying the power of it all.

‘Give me another chance. Please give me another chance. Please don’t take our baby away,’ Mam mutters. I don’t think she realises that she’s speaking out loud.

Oh Mam, don’t cry. I’m sorry.

The doctor’s face softens a bit and he clears his throat, ‘She’s stable.’

I’m okay. Oh. My. God. I’m okay.

‘When will she wake up?’ Mam asks.

‘Any time now.’ He gives a brief smile, but as quick as it appears, the frown returns.

I realise I haven’t taken a breath for a long time because I feel a bit faint. I exhale, just in time to hear the doctor sharing, ‘Her alcohol blood level was 0.40. Do you know how many drinks that means Evie must have consumed?’

Oh boy, that doesn’t sound too good. They shake their heads in unison, their mouths lolling open. They look ridiculous and I feel awful, ’cos I know this is all my bad.

‘I was only gone for two hours. I don’t understand how she could have gotten into such a state in such a short space of time,’ Dad tells him.

Mam throws a look of disgust at him. My bad once again.

‘Evie said she wanted to stay at home and finish her homework, she didn’t want to come with us to the cinema. I’d promised to bring Jamie as a treat because he nailed that Irish test,’ he explains, looking like he could cry any minute.

Pops murmurs something to him. I can’t catch what it is. But it seems to help because he doesn’t start blubbering.

‘Will you shut up for a minute and let the doctor talk?’ Mam snaps. Shit, shit, shit. They’re going to start fighting again. I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should tell them I’m awake, to divert a row.

‘Mae,’ Pops snaps.

‘I’m sorry, we are all under a bit of strain right now.’ Mam does look sorry to be fair. ‘We had no idea that Evie drank. As far as we both know, she’s never had so much as an alcopop before in her life. How much alcohol are you talking about?’

‘Our best estimation is that your daughter had at least thirteen units in quick succession,’ he states.

Did I have that many? I can’t really remember how many I put into the glass. They kept telling me to put more in.

‘How the hell is that possible?’ Mam says to Dad.

I remember putting the gin and whiskey into the glass. Oh damn, I put some wine from the fridge in too. It tasted horrible. Like petrol. Only I’ve never tasted petrol, but I bet it tastes exactly like my stupid cocktail did.

‘As I said, she’s lucky to be alive. We’ll talk again tomorrow.’ He walks out, but not before I catch the look of reproach on his face. Thing is, I don’t feel so lucky right now.

‘I was only gone for two hours,’ Dad repeats and he walks towards me.

I’m so sorry, Dad. Don’t be upset. It’s not your fault. It was all mine.

‘We’ve gathered that!’ Mam says. Here we go again. Ding dong! Round nine hundred and nighty-nine between my folks.

I jump when Pops speaks, his voice raised in anger. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? This is not the time to throw punches at each other. You and Olly need to pull together. For Evie and Jamie, if you can’t do it for each other.’

I close my eyes quickly, before anyone notices that I am awake. Sleep, I need to sleep some more, I can’t deal with this. With them.

I still can’t deal with it all. It’s not fair. I hear people talking about getting ‘black-outs’ after they have drunk too much. Why can’t I black out that whole nightmare, then? I jump off the bed. I need to get out of this house. Damn it. I sit back down on the end of the bed. What’s the point? I’ve nowhere to go anyhow. No one to talk to. I’m all on my own and the loneliness hits me smack across my face.

Ping – another Facebook message.

AnnMurphy: You there? School was so boring for the last week. You didn’t miss anything. Mrs Byrne actually dozed off on the last day in class. Lol.

I grin, picturing the scene, and before I can psychoanalyse any further, I answer.

EvieGuinness: Lol! What about Kent, was she still in that foul mood?

AnnMurphy: Yep. She had a go at Shauna, proper lost it.

EvieGuinness: She’s gonna blow any minute.

AnnMurphy: Like a grenade.

EvieGuinness: Pow!

AnnMurphy: LMAO hey what you at?

EvieGuinness: Nothing.

AnnMurphy: Are you feeling better?

EvieGuinness: I’m fine.

AnnMurphy: I wanted to talk to you about what happened. I feel really bad about it.

EvieGuinness: I’d rather not discuss it.

AnnMurphy: K. But I’m sorry.

EvieGuinness: K.

AnnMurphy: I better go peel the spuds. Mam has been shouting for me to help get dinner ready for ages. Chat later?

EvieGuinness: I’d like that. Laterz.

‘It’s nice to see you smiling,’ Dad’s voice takes me by surprise. He’s standing in the doorway, watching. Damn it, I need to get them to let me close my door again. ‘You want something to eat?’

I shake my head and feel my smile slip away. Dad looks like he’s going to try persuade me to eat, but changes his mind and walks out. I’m so irritated with him and Mam right now. I don’t buy the whole happy families gig that they have been on for the past few weeks. For months it’s been obvious that they can’t stand each other. The truce since Pops died is about to end any day now. I can feel it.

As for Nomad, part of me thinks, well played, Pops. Nothing suits me better than to get away from all of this drama for the summer. What have I got to stay around for? I sneak a look at the list of ‘friends’ who are online on Facebook. Are any of them really friends? Did any of them stand up for me when I was getting bullied? I don’t think so.

I look for Luke. Nope, he’s not there. The only person I want to see, but it appears that’s not the case for him. One perfect evening with him, and then he disappears off the face of the earth. Have Martina and Deirdre been spreading rumours to him about me? I thought he was different. I thought he really liked me.

Yes, we should go on this trip. It’s what Pops wants and I’ve nothing to stay here for. Although, how the hell I’ll cope living so close with my crazy family, I don’t know. At least here I can disappear to my room. Sometimes I wonder how we’re even related. I’ve always felt a little different to them. I’m not saying that to be dramatic and I don’t mean it in a bad way. We all kind of look alike, but we don’t like the same things. Dad calls me the family’s resident geek.

Pops used to say, ‘The people who make fun of geeks, usually end up calling those same geeks “boss” one day.’ Pops always knew what to say to make me feel good. I picture being Martina or Deirdre’s boss one day. I’d make their lives hell. See how they like it having someone on their case morning, noon and night. Ha!

Pops was a geek too. That’s why we got on so well. But now he’s gone and I’m all on my own. Who’ll buy me the Guinness Book of Records Annual now? I can’t remember a year when he didn’t buy it for me and we’d spend hours poring over it, checking out the new entries. A pain stabs me with the realisation that we will never do that again.

‘Time to check out the family annual,’ Pops would joke every time. Pops had me convinced for the longest time that the whole thing was named after us. We swore we’d do a record attempt one day together.

Another pain of regret. My bad, Pops. I should have made us do something when you got sick. I should have thought about you instead of all of the stuff going on in school and online.

I should have … damn it …

I pick up the 2015 album and flick through it to try and stop the should-haves driving me demented. I love reading about the crazy things people do to break records. At a guess, I would say that for almost every day of my life since I was seven I’ve read about at least one new record. Some are much cooler than others. Some are downright weird.

‘There’s nowt so queer as folk,’ Pops always says. Said. It’s past tense now. I bite my lip till I taste metallic blood. It works and I hold my own record for being the non-crying Guinness family member.

I come to the bookmarked page, the last thing I ever read to Pops. The day he died, I told him all about this guy from the Czech Republic. A dude called Fakir something or other. Anyhow, he only decided to break the record for the most days being buried alive. Why anyone would want to do that baffled us, but I was fascinated by the actual doing of the feat. Yep, Pops, you’re right. Nowt so queer as folk.