Rainy Days & Tuesdays Read online

  I go to bed, slightly drunk, just after midnight. The sea air has left me exhausted. Daisy and Lily are tucked up in the spare room and I lie down and fall immediately into a deep sleep. My dreams are weird. They basically involve me and Aidan in a host of weird and wonderful situations, each one with him walking away from me at the end.

  After a while I wake and am aware that he has got into the bed and has snaked his arm around my waist. I know he is still awake because he isn’t snoring or farting or generally taking up three-quarters of the bed. I don’t know how to react. I think I have forgotten how to tell him thank you and yet I’m not even sure I want to say thank you. I mean, he is supposed to love me. Why am I being so grateful about it? And yet he went to the effort of telling me about it, in writing – using a pen and everything. And he didn’t even phone me first to ask where the pens were kept!

  I decide the best plan is to pretend to be asleep. I let out a snore and hear him sigh and turn over in the bed to face away from me. I wonder if I’m pushing him away already but I’m too tired, and too drunk, to think straight. I fall back asleep and strangely dream that I’m Floella Benjamin and he is Humpty.

  Chapter 5

  When I wake up the bed is empty beside me. I gaze at the clock and see it has gone eight-thirty. In the distance I hear the sound of Aidan and Jack playing downstairs. Lily and Daisy are chattering to themselves and I wonder how I’ve managed to sleep through all the commotion. I must have been much more tired, or more drunk, than I thought.

  I stay in bed, stretching out and allowing myself to wake up slowly, allowing my brain the rare opportunity to engage before I get up. I remember yesterday, that fabulous day at the beach, the warm sandwiches, the water, the glass of wine and then the letter.

  I remember Aidan putting his arm around me and then turning away and I try to make sense of what I’m feeling but it’s not happening. I say a silent prayer, thanking the Big Man upstairs for Daisy and Lily being downstairs as I know Aidan and I can’t get into any deep and meaningful conversations over the bacon baps that always make up our Sunday morning breakfast.

  Slipping out from under the covers I walk to the mirror and take a good look at myself. My hair is wild mass of frizz – a combination of tossing and turning all night and the sand-and-salt combination of our day at the beach. My skin has that sallow quality about it, born of too many glasses of wine. My pyjamas are a wrinkled mess and I look fatter than usual.

  Sighing to myself, I start to run the shower, shouting downstairs that I’ll be down in ten minutes. I let the water rush over me, waking me up and quelling the uneasiness that is rising in me, which I’m not entirely sure isn’t just the product of the over-indulgence the day before.

  Lathering on the luxurious shower gel from Lush, I take a deep breath and start to realise that Aidan and I are going to have to talk today. I wash my hair, climb out of the shower and set about finding the perfect outfit in which to discuss my failings and the current unhappy state of my marriage.

  I get into my jeans and I pull a T-shirt over my head. Towel-drying my hair, so that my curls sit loosely and shiny, I pull the worst of the offenders back in a scarf. Slipping on some mules and emptying the contents of a trial pack of Beauty Flash Balm onto my sallow face, I start to feel human again. If it wasn’t for the clawing sense of anxiety so clearly visible in my eyes I would look, for all intents and purposes, distinctly happy.

  Going downstairs, I stop in the doorway and pause for a moment at the sight of my two boys playing together, smiling and laughing. At the end of the kitchen, where the big squishy sofa sits, Daisy is supping a bottle of Lucozade while Lily smooths her hair. It looks like a lovely role reversal. Surveying the scene, you would almost think Daisy and Aidan were together and Jack and Lily were their perfect 2.4 children. I’m sure it’s not wise to imagine your best friend and your husband together in a romantic clinch however, so I shake the thought from my head and say hello. I find it strange making eye contact with Aidan. It’s bizarre – we know each other inside and out. We have shared every moment of the last eight years together and yet, with this revelation that he is tired of trying to make me happy, I wonder if we know each other at all. He glances up at me and instinctively pours me a cup of coffee – milk, no sugar – the way I always take it. He presents me with a bacon bap – the bacon crispy and smothered in red sauce the way I always take it and he mumbles something about me looking nice. I glance up, and realise the emotion I’m feeling most of all with my husband at the moment is shyness. I smile at him, nervously, sure I’m feeling a slight nervous twitch in my eye and then I turn to give Jack a huge kiss as he sits in his high chair munching at grapes.

  It’s an hour before Daisy leaves. Just before she leaves she hugs me and whispers that I should call if I need anything. I wonder if she senses something is up and I half-expect that my phone will beep to life with 101 text messages throughout the day, demanding to know just what is going on. Then the door is closed and we are alone, except for the ever-increasing demands of our toddler.

  “My mum is going to take care of Jack this afternoon,” Aidan announces. “I thought we could go for a drive and maybe stop for lunch somewhere.”

  I nod. It’s so totally unlike him to make plans of any description that I know he is pretty serious about this.

  “We’ll leave in about an hour,” he says, before lifting a giggling Jack and taking him into the nursery to get dressed.

  Sitting on the sofa, I listen to the slow ticking of the clock and wonder how the day will pan out. I wonder if we can manage to talk things through. I wonder if he will listen to me.

  ❃ ❃ ❃

  There is a gorgeous place in Donegal known as Mamore Gap. To give directions is fairly simple. You drive into the middle of nowhere, take a turn left, go up the biggest, scariest hill you have ever seen and hey presto – instant picture-postcard scenery! I love it there. It feels like a million miles from nowhere. I could never drive there on my own – the roads are too steep and the potential for a Grace Adams special, i.e. a fecking disaster, is much too great. But inevitably, any time I find myself there, staring out over the North Atlantic, I feel a mixture of exhilaration and perfect peace.

  For some bizarre reason known only unto God the weather remains lovely. We have driven almost in silence, listening to the radio, and then, when we lose the signal as you inevitably do halfway up a mountain in the back of beyond, we put on a CD. I’m impressed with Aidan’s awareness that I love this place but when he pulls the car over at one of those specially designated vantage points, I start to feel the butterflies kick in.

  “So . . .” I say.

  “So . . .” he replies.

  We sit in silence for a bit longer.

  “I suppose you want to talk about things,” I push on, desperately trying to break the ice.

  “I thought it might help,” he answers.

  “I’m not sure what you want me to say or do.” “Just tell me what’s wrong with you.”

  “I didn’t actually realise there was all that wrong with me till quite recently.”

  He does one of those sarcastic snort things that really, really annoy me.

  “Well, I didn’t,” I answer, feeling myself slipping over to the very dangerous defensive zone.

  “You can’t tell me you’re happy,” he says, turning his head and staring at me full in the eyes.

  For a moment I wonder if it is a question or a statement. “I’m happy enough,” I respond.

  “You used to laugh more,” he says, turning his gaze away, staring out to sea. I’m about to answer when he interrupts, “You used to be, oh I don’t know, just more confident. More self-aware, more settled. I don’t know what’s changed in you, Grace, but I feel as if you’re walking under a big dark cloud and I can’t for the life of me figure out what the fuck is making you so unhappy.”

  “I still laugh. I still smile. I’m great with Jack.”

  “But what about me? Why aren’t you great with me? Or
with work? What happened to your ambition?”

  So my job isn’t good enough now. Is that what we’re getting at?

  “I can’t be ambitious any more. I have a baby to consider.” “Bollocks!” comes the reply. “You lost this confidence before you had Jack. You lost this confidence a long time ago, Grace. First I blamed myself. I thought, well, it’s because she wants a baby. And then we had a baby. But were you happy? Like fuck you were!”

  I bristle at his use of the word ‘fuck’, because I know that means he is really annoyed. If he wasn’t totally pissed off, if this was just a regular chat between husband and wife, he would have used the word ‘feck’ instead.

  He is on a roll now though. “I’m not saying you don’t love Jack but you treat each day as a chore. You wake up tired, you go to bed tired. You never want us to do anything together.”

  “You’re never there,” I counter. “You work every evening – when are we supposed to find time together?”

  “So it’s my fault now, is it? Grace is unhappy because Aidan is a shit husband.”

  “I didn’t say that. Stop putting words in my mouth.” “Well, tell me then. Tell me what is making you so sad, so angry, so fucking unbearable these days?”

  Tears spring to my eyes. He is shouting at me. Aidan never shouts. He is as gentle as a church mouse and I’m trying to find the words to tell him what he needs to hear, what he has to hear and I’m trying to reach out and beg him to stick with me through this but all the time I’m fighting this rage that is building up inside of me. I turn to him, trying to hold in my sobs and blurt out: “I don’t know, Aidan! I don’t know!”

  He sighs, switches on the engine and we drive home in silence.

  Pulling up outside the house, he tells me he is going to get Jack and orders me to pull myself together by the time he comes back.

  When I was in labour, when I thought I was literally going to be torn apart, when I was begging for death or, at least, an epidural that worked, my midwife told me it was time to get angry. She told me I was to get angry with the pain and use that anger to get through this trial and succeed in having my baby. By Christ, did I get angry! Only problem was, for a long time after, I forgot to get un- angry again.

  And when that anger did subside, when it faded to nothingness, it was replaced by an overwhelming sadness. I felt, and I don’t know why, a grief – the loss of me, Grace. The loss of what motherhood should be like, the loss of that dream that I’d always had that being a mammy would be perfect and wonderful and I would never have to question my feelings for that little bundle of love I called my child. I felt empty, like I could do what I needed to do but I couldn’t feel any of that love and joy it was my right to feel. Surely my months of pregnancy, my hours of labour, my bringing this gorgeous boy into this world entitled me to be happy?

  I couldn’t look myself in the face. I couldn’t say I felt like a mother. I couldn’t accept the compliments heaped on my child because I was a fraud. I was a failure. I didn’t swan through my pregnancy enjoying this most natural of states. I didn’t even bloom. Well, I did for three hours one day before the heartburn hit again and I threw up.

  And when I was giving birth to my much-wanted, much-needed child, I begged for someone else to take care of that birthing process for me – to cut my child from me, to suck him out, to beam him up – whatever the fuck it took to make the pain stop.

  But the pain is still here. I can feel it now, pushing through, and maybe, just maybe, it is time for me to get angry again. To get angry with that pain, to push it aside, to tell it to piss off and leave me alone and let me be me. Let me be a mammy.

  And I’m angry now. Angry for all the times I’ve cried when I should be laughing. Angry for all the times I felt lonely in a crowded room. Angry for the Size 20 trousers in the wardrobe when I used to be a 14. Angry for not standing up for myself when I knew I was right. Angry for all the chocolate bars I ate to try and make me happy again. Angry for not demanding to be listened to. Angry for pushing Aidan and Jack away when the thing I wanted most in this entire world was to pull them as close as humanly possible and never let go.

  And I’m throwing things. I can hear my shouting and grunting and I can see plates smash on the floor – those fecking ugly plates I’ve kept using just to keep my mother- in-law happy. And I’m tearing up those stupid books the so-called parenting experts sent me. I’m going through the photo albums and tearing out any picture where I’m with Jack and I don’t look happy, because how dare I not smile in the presence of such innocence?

  And then the tears come. I run upstairs, spurred on by some force I’m not quite sure of and I throw some clothes in an overnight bag. I leave my mobile sitting on the hall table. Scribble a note saying that I love Jack and I’ll be back tomorrow and I jump in the car – my body heaving with sobs, my ribs sore from the exertion of all the squealing I’m doing – and I start to drive.

  ❃ ❃ ❃

  Two hours later I find myself in a hotel room somewhere that is two hours away from Derry. I’m seated on the edge of the bed, gulping down wine straight from one of those eeny bottles from the over-priced mini-bar. It’s still light, but the clouds have rolled in a bit and I sense it could start to pour down with rain soon. I hope it does. I want to climb under the duvet, drink all the alcohol in the mini-bar and play raindrop races (a Daisy Cassidy special) with myself. I want to watch the rain stream down the windowpane, washing away all this hurt.

  I realise that Aidan is not going to be all that happy when he comes in with Jack and finds our best, though admittedly ugliest, crockery smashed over the floor. I realise it might look more than a little bit loony that I’ve left my phone behind and scribbled a quick note. Chances are he is thinking I’ve topped myself and for a brief moment I start to think it would be quite wonderful to fake my death, move somewhere exotic – like a Caribbean Island – and start again with a whole new identity. I would call myself Lola and sell cocktails from a hut on the beach and have a faraway look in my eyes. The locals would love me and some tall, strapping man by the name of Carlos or Jesus (pronounced Hayzuss) would seek to make Messeeez Lola smile again.

  But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t leave Jack, my little munchkin. I couldn’t walk away from him. (Well, obviously I could – I just did, didn’t I? I just left him with a note that he can’t even fecking read because he is only two. What kind of a shitey mammy am I?). And I couldn’t leave Mammy and Daddy. They would hunt me down and kick my arse from one end of the exotic white sand beach to the other. They tried hard enough to have me in the first place – they wouldn’t tolerate me faking a walk into the Foyle.

  I’m aware I’ve fucked up. I’m aware my histrionics are neither big nor clever and that Aidan will not be impressed – but I can’t deal with this right now. I just need time to clear my head, time to work out what is going on without seeing that disappointed look in Aidan’s eyes, without Jack clinging to me, without my mam phoning to give advice, without Daisy wondering if I’m okay.

  It has started to rain, so I climb under the covers – still fully clothed – and stare at the windowpanes. I’m watching the raindrops run down the glass, seeing them pool together and gather strength in their unity, running faster down to the windowsill. I once heard my mammy tell Lily that is what family and friends are like. We come together in friendship, get stronger and run ahead with ourselves. I thought it was a lovely analogy. Lily just said that the bigger raindrop was hers and that she won the race.

  I’m not sure how long I lie there, just watching, but I know that every ten minutes or so I tell myself I really should just phone home and tell Aidan I’m fine, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I feel too tired, too tired to lift the phone, punch out the numbers and describe how I feel. Too tired to think. So I lie a little longer and see the light fade in the sky. Slowly I drift off to sleep – waking to a dark room, a sore head and a heavy heart.

  I reach for the light and see it has gone midnight and I start to feel guilty ab
out what I’ve done once again. I don’t know how to make amends. I’m not sure where to start, but I realise I’m a grown-up and I have to do something. So I do what any self-respecting twenty-nine-year-old would do: I pick up the phone and dial that all too familiar number.

  “Hello,” I manage to say.

  “Hello, Grace?” an anxious voice answers.

  I take a deep breath. “Mammy,” I answer, before breaking down.

  “Where are you, Grace?”

  “I’m not sure. A hotel, somewhere past Letterkenny.” “Find out, ring me back and I’ll come to you,” she says, before hanging up.

  Thank God for mammies. I know Mammy is going to make it all right.

  Once we have ascertained where I am and how to get there, Mammy assures me Aidan is more worried than angry and she says she will phone both him and Daisy to let them know I’m alive. She says my daddy has been saying the rosary for me and sends his love and she tells me she will see me soon.

  I lie down and close my eyes again, and fall asleep quickly, sleeping soundly until the ring of my phone lets me know the mammy person has arrived.

  ❃ ❃ ❃

  I have a strange relationship with the woman who gave me life. She is my best friend in so many ways, but she doesn’t take any shite. She isn’t like Daisy, who tells the truth but at least tries to sugar-coat it. Mammy tells it like it is and if I don’t like it then, as she would say, I can lump it.

  But even with her quirky and often questionable advice, her brash way of getting the message across, she loves me and would, I know, in a heartbeat lay down her life for me. She almost got arrested when I was getting bullied at school. I remember the day vividly when she marched screaming into the playground and threatened to ‘bust the arse of any wee shite who hurts Gracie!’.