This one's for the ladies.

Whenever I feel down, I remind myself that I come from a proud and illustrious line of beautiful women. 

I remind myself that Emmeline Pankhurst devoted her whole life so that I could have the same rights as men. 

I remind myself that I am the same dress size as Marilyn Munroe. 

I remind myself that before Theresa Bonner was my "wee granny", she beat a thug with a sword to near unconsciousness with her slipper, because he stole my dad's football.

 I remind myself that every incredible woman that I aspire to be like started out like me, and often felt criticised, undermined and even ugly. And this makes me feel strong, sexy and very very hopeful. 

This has been a hideous year, and sometimes I can't see life getting better. I'm sure you feel the same sometimes. 
But please, if this statement applies to you in anyway, remind yourself of one thing; it does not matter if you are intelligent, or slim, or successful, or indeed, none of these things. 

You are a woman, and so, you are already perfect. ♥

Madeline's Kids

Calgary hadn’t changed a bit. The mountains and lakes frightened me now just as they had done when I was a little girl. It seemed like I hadn’t seen this place in a lifetime. That was true enough, I thought. driving through Banff. It was a lifetime ago. We all had different lives then.

She had moved out not long after it happened, I heard, settling down in Panorama. I could understand why she would choose that place. Not because of the beautiful scenery, the peaceful atmosphere and all the other crap they printed on tourist brochures. Because you could get lost up here. Really lost. You could forget about people. And people, they could forget about you.

The frosty road wound further up the hill. I remembered sitting in the back seat of Dad’s Buick the weekend before we left, and we drove up this same road. Looking back, I don’t know why he did it. If he wanted to make a point about what she was making him leave, or he just wanted to say goodbye. He never said a word to any of us. Of course, now Lisa and me understand why he wouldn’t say a word to her. I used to think the road would just get swallowed up by the mountains. I couldn’t shake that thought as I pulled into her drive. The Rockies looked like black teeth, ready to snap down on me any minute. Her flaky red door was like a flaky red tongue. Full of lies. I still don’t know why I went there. Three weddings and five births between me and Lisa and we hadn’t invited her to one of them. Dad was there, but there was never a question of that. Lisa tells her three kids that their grandma died before they were born. I think she told both of her husbands the same story. I tapped the door gently, so gently that I was half wishing she hadn’t heard it. The door swung open automatically, as if she had been waiting, or she had seen me coming. She was nothing like what I’d pictured. Dad had told us she had set up with some hoi polloi, and I expected a fur stole or a string of pearls at the very least. She looked tiny, an Oilers T Shirt hung from her paper shoulders, and she wore no socks or shoes. I had recalled the hair as deep red; my own little girl has that same shade, so much so that at times Dad couldn’t bear to look at her. There were still strands of auburn hair in the long braid that hung to her hips, but her whole being had a general tone of greyness. Grey lips and eyes. Grey skin. The only colour was her stark yellow fingertips. I thought, she must still smoke “those damn rolled up smokes” that Dad hated so much.

“Hi Suzi-Q.” It sounded as though it hurt her to speak. I wondered how long it had been since she’s spoken to another human being.

“Hello…hi”, I said. I panicked. I didn’t want to call her “mom”. I’d only just got used to calling Tom’s mother “mom”. But then, I couldn’t remember her name, her real, first name. I had not seen this woman in twenty six years, but it never occurred to me that I had forgotten my own mother’s name. I suppose the last time I saw her she was “Mommy”. I never had to introduce Tom to her. I could see that she had noticed. She took a breath and ushered me in. The room was empty apart from one chair, a portable fire and a camp bed in the corner. She offered me the chair and crossed her legs on the floor in front of me. She seemed very limber, considering how old she was. How old was she? I was sure Dad was older. She must have been at least fifty.

“So what’s new, Suzi-Q? Do I have any grandkids?” She lit a cigarette and smiled as she said it. I’m sure it was supposed to sound droll and nonchalant, but there was bitterness. Her hands shook as I told her about Tom, Linda’s men, the names of my daughters.

“I had two daughters once.” The tip of her cigarette lit up her hollow face. She looked hurt. She was trying to hurt me back.

“Look, you invited me here, you were the one writing me for months. I’m here, aren’t I?” I wouldn’t, couldn’t look at her. Her smirking face made me hate her.

“Oh yes, here you are. It only took you thirty years, Suzanna.” I wished I hadn’t came to this place. She wanted to talk about it. She stuck her pointed chin up at me, and narrowed her eyes. She wanted to yell at me, and then hold me, and brush my hair and make me her eight year old daughter again. I would not make it easy for her. I would hear her side but I wouldn’t make it easy. I stood up and began pacing the big, empty room.

“Is this you being angry, Suzi? You’re not very good at it. You look like your Dad, just now.” I stopped at the window, staring at the mountains swallowing the door. I pictured the gaping whole sucking the place in, burying her alive.

“He’s told you a lot hasn’t he. Your Aunt Nic told me. Told you a lot about me. Did he sit you and Lisa down? When you were ‘old enough’? Did he tell you why you didn’t have a Mommy anymore? Can you remember my fucking name?” I opened and shut my eyes, making the jaws of the Rockies clamp down again. I tried not to listen. I tried not to want to listen.

“I don’t have to listen to this.”

“No, I suppose not. You’ll drive away again. Do you remember when he took you? You cried. You begged him not to, you know.” She stubbed the cigarette out on the wooden floor. I watched the smoke curl around her crossed legs.

“Please look at me, Suzanna. I didn’t ask you to come to fight. I just wanted you to know that I would have done anything, anything, to keep you. I didn’t think it would all play out like that.”
“Well, it did. You broke his heart, Ma.” My lips trembled around the words. I thought back to the day we left, and the way he drove so fast, and yelled at Lisa for crying. I remembered arriving in Vancouver and Aunt Nic trying to hug him. They talked all night when me and Lisa were sent to sleep in the den. I remembered Nic asking if perhaps he had been too hard on her, and hearing him drop a glass to the floor and storming out. He didn’t come back for two days, and when he did we moved to London. I was shocked when I realised that I hadn’t seen my Aunt Nic since that day either. I realised we had never spoken about my mother again, and I had never asked.

“He broke mine first, Suze. I know you don’t want to hear that, but he did. I couldn’t have explained to you and Lisa when you were so young. But I want to now. I don’t care if you don’t believe me. I just need to know that I told someone.” Her face twitched and crumpled, and she flicked the tears away angrily.

“Well, talk.”

I told him the day after Lisa’s sixth birthday, that I had been to the doctor. He knew right away that it wasn’t his. Michael had never been a stupid man, and he knew that I hadn’t let him touch me since New Year. I don’t claim that I had an excuse for sleeping with another man, but we both knew things wouldn’t be the same between us anymore. He was different now, he looked at me differently. He couldn’t see me as strong and bold or even pretty anymore, not since he held me down and hurt me like that. It would have ended soon. I like to think I would have left him soon anyway. I only wish I had done it sooner. I met Dean in the library, if you can believe that. We were only together three times, and it never really meant anything to either of us. We were both looking for a way out, or a friendly face. I didn’t try to explain it to Michael, I knew he couldn’t understand that. I just told him that I wanted to keep the baby. No one knew the guy, he had moved on, just a drifter. He was a lot younger. I said he wouldn’t come calling, looking for the kid. He didn’t even know. Michael listened, angry and hurt, but still listening. When I had finished, he slapped me once. Just once. It didn’t even hurt. We didn’t speak for a few days, and then he came round, and he held me like he did at our wedding. I was so happy I cried, because I thought things would be okay now. He took me and the girls a drive one afternoon. Lisa and Suzie were playing car games in the back, and he was singing along to the Beach Boys. I remember how peaceful he looked. God only knows what I’d be without you. I sang along with him. We dropped the girls off at his mother’s. I kissed her cheek when I saw her, and I knew he had told her. Nic knew too, but she hugged me back. She was young, more willing to understand. When we got back in the car, he didn’t speak much, and he kept his eyes on the road, but I didn’t think anything of it. He was tired, and things were still shaky so I let it go. We drove for miles that day, and after an hour or so I didn’t even know where we were. He stopped the car outside an ugly little grey building, that had a few young girls smoking joints and crying outside the front door. Their faces were white and they stared at us as we walked through the door. A bored and chubby old woman was sitting behind a desk in the little room. He kissed my cheek and told me to sit down. The seats were cold and sticky, and more frightened teenagers were sitting on them. He came back over after a while, and sat opposite me, taking one of my hands. He sighed, and asked for one of my cigarettes. I knew something must be wrong, he hated me smoking. He told me that I needed to think about our kids, and what people would say. He said I had no right to make those kind of decisions for all of us. I realised that things weren’t fine. I told him I wouldn’t do it, that it was against the law and I would take him to court. I tried to cause a scene, and scream and cry, and do all the things that usually meant I would get my way, but he held my wrists and told me it was happening. I don’t remember much about the next few hours. He helped me into the baggy T shirt they used for a gown, and tied my hair back away from my face, and said it would be over soon. I have never hated anyone so much. When I woke up he lifted me up and carried me to the car. I was still wearing the shirt, with his overcoat wrapped around my stomach. There was dried blood on my legs. He told me that the nurse had said it might hurt for the next week or so.

He took me home and put me to bed before going for the girls. They brought flowers to my bed, and said Daddy had told them I had been sick but I was better now. I cried myself to sleep for a few nights and he brought me food and coffee every few hours. He slept in the den at night. After a week I got out of bed, and tried to remember that my girls were still there. I tried to remember that I was still a mother. Suzie looked at me strangely, and kissed my stomach. When I asked her why she said that Grandma had said I had had a sore tummy. I ran up the stairs, and he was in our room. He was packing his clothes. I went back into the hall and saw the little pink cases that we had bought Lisa and Suzanna for our trip to New York the year before. I opened them and saw all their little shoes and dresses. I ran at him, I tried begging him, hitting him, I dug my nails into his cheeks until they bled but he kept going. He went straight through me. He was back in the lounge after just half an hour. He told the girls to say goodbye. Suzie asked us why, asked why Mommy was crying. She said she wasn’t going, and I held her to my chest. Lisa was already in the car, crying. Michael had to drag Suzanna off of me. I tried to pull him back, screaming and swearing on out front lawn. The neighbours were peering out of their windows. Some even came out onto their porches, and pointed and shook their heads at me. No one seemed to understand that I wasn’t the one leaving my children. I was being punished for loving my children and not loving their father. I waited for two weeks in that house. Waiting for him to come back, or a call or a letter. After a month or so, Nic came to visit, telling me that he had gone and she didn’t know where. She said we could fight them together, she’d speak to her law professor and we could get them back. Turned out Michael had played lacrosse with most of the faculty. The next year, Nic was expelled for plagiarism. It was never proved. I never saw or heard from any of them again. Nic even stopped calling after a while. Everyone did.

I drove home after she had finished. I didn’t know what she wanted me to say. It was too late for sorry, and what did I have to be sorry for. She knew that I believed her, but we both knew I would never see her again. I drove away, and phoned Tom as I did, telling him I’d be at the airport in half an hour. He told me he loved me, and I thought back to all the times I had heard Dad to say that to her. She told me her name was Madeline. I told her that I was three months pregnant. Tom doesn’t know yet. If it’s a girl, I’ll call her Madeline. I looked back when I hit the highway. The mountains had closed their jaws around her forever.

Breathing Love

 Cancer. It's a dirty word, isn't it? It's a word you hear on Corrie, on the news, in the hairdresser's. It's a word that makes you screw your eyes up and pat your chest, makes you go “Such a shame. Never thought she'd go like that.” But it never really touches you, does it? Never sinks in until the doctor looks at you like that. He shuffles his papers and shuffles his feet. He's embarrassed. You look back at him and you know, and now you're embarrassed. You know he must have said the same lines umpteen times this week, and you almost feel sorry for him. When all is said and done, and you assure him that you'll be fine and no, no you don't want a glass of water, you just sit and stare at each other, waiting for someone to break the awkward silence. But he said the dirty word, the magic word, and now things can't be the same anymore.

I decided to walk it back from the surgery. Kevin had offered a lift, but I couldn't face him. Not yet. At least not until I'd told Joe. I knew he'd be in the bookies, I even saw the back of his jacket when I looked in the window, but I kept walking. How do you start that conversation? I carried on past the bookies and nipped into the grocer's. The wee blonde lassie on the counter asked how I was, how was Joe, and the kids, and their kids. Fine, all fine. She's just doing her job, I thought. She didn't really want to know, and anyway the whole Corner would know soon enough. I kept moving through the precinct, bumping into a few more familiar faces, and spinning them the same shite. After half an hour of stopping and talking, I decided to phone Kevin, or rather I asked a nice wee boy in the Co' to phone him. Kevin had bought me a mobile phone, but I couldn't even see the numbers, never mind press them.

“Ma, what's wrong?” Wee Kevin, always the worrier.

“Nothing, son, nothing at all. Just wondering if you could come and get us from the Co'.” I made myself smile while I spoke; for Kevin's sake and for the sake of the wee boy that had dialled the number for me, who was still watching me from the fag counter.

“Aye, no bother, Ma. Get yourself a tea and I'll be up with the car in fifteen minutes. Awright? Sure nothing's wrong?”

“Honestly, son, I'm fine. Just tired.”

The wee boy turned the phone off for me, and he told me his name was Michael, and he was only working part time here because he was at college. I said that was good for him, put a fiver in his pocket and headed to the cafe.

Kevin took his time. I saw the big red car pull up the carpark and began to get up, when I seen her get out of the passenger seat. Jesus, son, no the day. Kevin and Karen had got together two years ago, and she had been doing a line with him behind her man's back for a lot longer than that. Three kids to three different men. With a fourth on the way to Kevin. She climbed out the car that he paid for, wearing the clothes he'd bought and sauntered into the shop like a bloody queen. I didn't like her, and I'd put money on her not liking me, but she came right up to me and planted a kiss on my cheek.

“Hiya, Mum!” Mum. I'll fucking “Mum” ye.

“Hello, Karen. Hi, son.” He came round and picked up my messages and she was already back at the car before he'd straightened up. Couldn't work, according to her, due to chronic arthritis. I ignored her in the car. Don't get me wrong, I was looking forward to Kevin having his first child, but couldn't stomach her spending all his money on maternity clothes and designer prams. When we pulled up to the house she marched right into the kitchen to make coffee, and I sat down in the living room.

“Did you need to bring her, Kevin?”

“Jesus, ma, no this again.”

“Kevin, this is nothing to do with whether or not I like Karen Beattie. You know exactly how I feel about her and the whole lot of them, but I'm no wasting my breath telling you again. It's not about that.” I opened the window because I knew he was getting wound up, and he smoked when he was wound up. Just like his father. And her, she didn't need a fucking excuse.

“Well, what then?” Lighter at the ready.

“I just need to speak to you, and your sister, and especially your father, and I'd rather speak to you all alone.”

“Aye, my fucking arse, ma. Lorraine'll be down here with Mr. Perfect and that wee boy, and you won't bat a fucking eyelid. As fucking usual.” Here we go, I thought. Lorraine was “the favourite”, according to Kevin. Sometimes he was right, I suppose.

“Kevin, grow up, this isn't about Karen, or Neil or any of them. I just didn't know Karen would be here, and I would rather she wasn't for this.” He'd already put one out, and he was lighting another.

“ Grow up? I'm no the one phoning people then not wanting them here, make up your fucking mind, ma!”

“It's cancer, Kevin.” That shut him up.

His sister, Lorraine took it better. She made tea and looked up symptoms on her fancy phone. She was the strong one, had been since they were weans. I told her not to bring Neil and she didn't. It was nothing against the man, and it had been nothing against Karen, even if I did prefer Lorraine's husband. Kevin headed up the road for a pint not long after she arrived, never was one for family pow-wows. Joe still wasn't back, but that wasn't unusual. He wasn't home all that much since he'd been laid off. It was only two years before he was due to retire but Joe would've worked until he died if they'd let him. Nowadays, all he did was go to the bookies, probably hoping he'd bump into one of his old cronies from the shipyard. If he did, they'd take it along the road to the pub. If he didn't, he'd spend his drinking money on the horses and come home moodier than he was before he left.

“We'll get you through this, ma. One step at a time.” Lorraine tried to tell me that breast cancer wasn't that bad, and they had all kind of new medicines. I nodded, I played along with her, but I wasn't convinced. I mean really, how many times does cancer end well? You could keep it quiet, and keep it at bay, but you couldn't really get rid of it. It was still there, waiting for your life to get back to normal, so it could show up and mess it all up again. I played along, even if I knew I was going to lose.

Joe fell in the door at about nine o'clock that night. I'd sent Lorraine home to feed her man and the wean, and promised her I'd make myself something to eat. She knew I was lying but she left me alone anyway. She knew I needed time with my thoughts, and I did, but I regretted it as soon as the door shut behind her. The whole house seemed to get smaller, and I couldn't settle down. I made about six cups of tea, and let them all get cold. I could hear Joe stumbling about the hallway, and I knew he must have met the old crowd. I could smell the drink off him from the living room.

“Got something to eat, Maggie?” he shouted from the kitchen. I took a deep breath and stood up. I could hear him rummaging in the fridge, and I knew he could see the defrosted chicken drumsticks, the cold meat, the eggs. What he meant was “cook me something, Maggie”. I'd never complained before and I wasn't starting now. It's just how we worked. I headed into the kitchen and he lit a cigarette at the window. He smoked after a drink, too.

“How was your day, pal?” I asked him. Didn't want to jump right into it.

“No too bad, hen. Won a tenner on the 2.16. Happy Days, that's it's name.”

“Eh?”

“Happy Days! The horse's name was Happy Days.”

“Oh aye, right. Joe, I need to talk to you.”

“Aye, aye, bit of dinner first but, eh?”

“Aye.”

I made him corned beef and chips, and told him I wasn't that hungry. He put on the telly and I still couldn't find the bottle to tell him. He found a bottle though, and drank until he fell asleep in the chair. I decided I'd just go to bed and we'd talk in the morning.

We both woke up that morning with a sore head, and neither one of us was in the mood for talking. He went for his shower as usual, and I made him his bacon and eggs, as usual. As usual. It was our wee routine, and I couldn't see how to break that routine. I watched him read the papers and eat his breakfast, and I felt guilty. Imagine that, guilty for messing up his day.

“Joe, can I have a word.” He lowered the paper and looked at me over his glasses, with that look that said “can't you see I'm busy?” He always seemed to have that look these days, but I knew it was nothing against me. He just wished it was true, and he was busy. Boredom can kill a man, just as slowly and painfully as cancer can kill a woman.

“You know I was at the doctor's yesterday.”

“Aye, that infection's been going round.” He looked back at the paper, bored again.

“Well, aye. But he found something else, too.”

“Oh aye?” He reached for his cigarettes.

“Aye. It's cancer, Joe. Breast cancer.”

He offered me a fag and I took one. The smoke burned my throat and made my eyes water, but that was good. That meant I couldn't see his face.

“Jesus. Did he say if it was...I mean, like...can they do anything?”

“Not sure yet. He said there were some things they could try, but...but my age, you know.”

He got up and walked the length of the living room and back again. I could feel it coming before he said it, I could see what he was thinking as if I could see through the back of his head.

“Sorry, darlin'. Just gonnae head up the road, told Tam I'd be in the bookies for about eleven. I'm so sorry darlin'. I'll see you after.” Like father, like son. I wasn't hurt, I didn't expect much else. He was a good man, really. He just couldn't stand doing nothing.

It moved a lot faster than Shaw thought at first. Within two weeks I was in hospital. Within another two, I was told it had spread elsewhere. They told me that there several options, but most of them were too aggressive. Kevin was there every day, and Lorraine was there every night. They weren't there together all that much. It made me sad but I knew they had their lives to be getting on with, and no one could stand the tension when they were in the same room. Lorraine had went to school with Karen Beattie, and they had never been the best of pals. I didn't mind really, my Joe came up every day. Sometimes he was drunk, and he cried a bit, but he was there, and that was what mattered.

The doctors said that I had the choice of going home, and they would send a MacMillan nurse in, but I said no. At least here, in a hospital, full of sick people and doctors and nurses, it felt real, and I could get my head round it. If they sent me home, with a stranger making my husband's meals, I didn't think I could cope.

Joe told me that my sisters and brother were coming up from England. I didn't see the point in saying no; I knew they'd be here soon enough for a funeral. There was no point praying for miracles at this point. I'd went to Mass every Sunday for seventy six years, and every time I'd knelt down and prayed for my mother, my husband, my son, my daughter. It had never occurred to me to pray for myself. They all descended one Friday afternoon, and Lorraine told me she'd be putting them up. I didn't know how to thank her for that; Joe wouldn't know where to start with making teas and doing washing. I laughed to myself for a while before they came up to evening visiting, remembering Joe and my brother Francis fighting on our wedding day. Francis swore he saw Joe winching Evelyn Murphy, the town bike of her day. Joe of course took the neb and it ended with the two of them knocking lumps out of each other outside the Knights hall in Anniesland. The idea of the two of them under the same roof was ridiculous, but they were civil enough in the hospital; Kevin even told me that Joe had tapped Francis a fag. It might not seem much, but that was like a bloody marriage proposal for those two.

The following Tuesday, the wee lassie doctor came into my ward and pulled the curtain round. She must have been eighteen if she was a day. She drew the curtain round the bed, and sat down right close to me. Her wee lassie face looked scared and upset. Obviously, she wasn't like old Dr. Shaw. Obviously, this was the first time she was telling a woman that she was about to die. I took her hand before she took mine, and once again I felt guilty. This was harder for her than it was for me, I knew that. I'd made my peace with it weeks back, but she was young, and when you're young you believe in miracles. You believe in wonder drugs and coming back from the brink. I was an old woman, I had seen it all, and I knew that God didn't waste miracles on old Irish women.

“Mrs. McAndrew, I'm afraid it's what we expected.” She squeezed my hand and stared at her wee clipboard. She looked like she was hoping something would jump out it at her, like she'd missed something. I told her it was okay, and that I would tell the family when they came up that night. I asked her not to phone Lorraine, because I thought it was better hearing it from me. She looked so sad and frightened, and I just wanted to give her a cuddle, but I didn't. I let her pour me cup of water, and when she stood up to finish her rounds I asked her to leave the curtain shut.

It was Lorraine that told me I didn't have long left. The wee lassie doctor had explained it to me that afternoon, but it didn't feel like she was talking to me. She didn't sit on the bed, or take my hand like before. She just stared at her clipboard and recited the words on the sheet. I suppose it made it easier for her. Lorraine said in words I could understand, compared it to people it had happened to, as if that would make it all click. They let me have a few more nights in the ward with the other women. Some would make it home, some wouldn't. It didn't matter anyway. The five of us in ward 6A all had breast cancer, we were all over sixty and we all knew that the cancer would kill us one day, and somehow that made it easier to talk about it, even laugh about it. After the first month we had all seen each other being sick, losing hair, cried in front of each other, so it was easier. I cried harder than I ever had when they moved me into the room by myself. I'd watched them take Morag from the bed across from me away, and I knew, just like she did, that she wouldn't be coming back. When she was gone and we'd started to joke again, I said that we were like the old, smelly dugs at the pound that noone came for, so they got taken into the back room and put to sleep. They all laughed at that, and I felt better because I still knew how to make people smile. I thought about my joke when the door closed behind the porters and I was alone in the room on the seventh floor, and it wasn't funny any more.

*

One Sunday afternoon, Joe came up by himself. I worried at first, thought him and Francis had had another blow out, or Lorraine had finally stabbed Karen Beattie. He took his hat off when he came into the room, and drew his chair up to mine. I hadn't seen Joe do that since I'd gave birth to Lorraine. Any other day he'd be staring out the window, trying to think of a way to get out onto the balcony for a puff. But this Sunday he took my hand and put it against his face. I breathed in, trying to see if I could smell whisky from behind my oxygen mask.

“How are you pal?” I said. I tried to lift my own hand to touch the hard skin of his fingers, but my arm wouldn't lift that high.

“I'm alright darlin'. How you keepin'?” He tried to smile and a tear broke loose. I wished he would look me in the eye but he still had my hand at his face, and he kissed my fingernails, my knuckles, my rings. “What you smiling at, doll?”

I had begun to cry too, but I was happy. I was thinking about the night he had gave me the ring on my third finger. He caught my eye then, and I knew he could see the memory too. He had never been much of a dancer, my Joe, but I said yes the night he asked me to dance. The lassies I was with all laughed at him, he was that clumsy. But I didn't mind. It was enough just to let him put his hand on my waist and put my chin on his shoulder. He didn't need to twirl me about or impress me. I liked things the way they were, just turning on the spot. It wasn't long before he asked me another question, and I said yes without a minute's hesitation. From that night I said yes to whatever he asked me.

“You were that clumsy, Joe.” I said. He laughed and wiped his wet eyes with my hand.

“You made me look good though, hen.”

“Aye, so I did.” We laughed and talked for another few hours. And he never let go of my hand. It was at the back of my head that the nurses never chased him away or even came into the room. I knew they didn't let you away with that until the very end. But I tried not to think about that. The clock in the nurses station told us it was eleven o'clock, and I said maybe he should go home, but he refused. I moved over in the hospital bed and he got in beside me. We laughed like weans, thinking about the time he sneaked into my room a few nights before we got married and he nearly got caught by my da. Nothing happened; Joe knew better than that. It was just nice to lie there, breathing in the cigarette smoke from his shirt. Tonight felt like that, him lying behind me, cuddling into me with his big arms. I thought about the kind of boy he was, and the man he became. He was a good man. He had hurt me once or twice, but we were happy. We'd never been rich, and we'd never got out of the Corner, like we planned. We had never went back to Ireland. I had been meaning to get Joe a wee dug to keep him occupied, but it had never been a good time. There were lots of little things we'd never got around to, but that didn't matter. I had Joe, Joe had me.

The clock in the hall told us it was half twelve. I told Joe I loved him, and breathed in the familiar smell of families, cigarettes, regrets and love. As last breaths go, they could be a damn side worse.

Red, Deep Red

The first time I met Miss Marsha Black I didn’t even look up. She was just another face, in the sea of young, eager faces in the bookstore that day. I was bored. My agent had practically dragged me there kicking and screaming to do the signing. My hand ached from writing “Show some teeth, Love Charlie Washington” on about a million copies of Bitten: Revival. And my ears should have been fucking bleeding from listening to the kids queuing up to get their copy signed. “I’m your biggest fan”, “you’re such an inspiration”, blah blah blah. The more I heard these pubescent drama queens profess their undying love for Lex, the hero of the books, the more I hated myself for dreaming him up. I’m a good a writer. Or I was once. When I wasn’t much older than the girls in the store, I couldn’t wait to write, couldn’t wait to lose myself on paper. And honestly, Bitten was only a bit of fun. I showed it to my agent as a joke, but she just snapped it up, if you’ll pardon the pun. It was on the shelves within half a year, and there I was, six years, eight books down the line, and I couldn’t even remember how I’d got there. Ten years ago, being surrounded by swarms of nubile young women would have been my dream. It’s all I ever wanted. But now, I wasn’t so sure. These fans, these kids, had cost me a lot. The incident with the seventeen year old at the press release had cost me my marriage, my home, everything. I only see Mikey on Saturdays now. Sarah won’t come any more. The girl at the press release was in her home room.

Anyway, when Marsha Black came giggling and panting into my life I hardly batted an eyelid. She said something like “you’re my idol…I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you”, some shit like that. I waved it away and scribbled the line on the cover.

A week after that I was sifting through the sample of fan mail I was given each Monday morning. Out of the hundreds of thousands of letters and pictures and even draft novels and screenplays I was sent, I answered ten a week. Giving back to the fans, I’d say to my assistant, with a smirk. She was a stupid girl, a graduate of English Literature. I kept her around for her big blue eyes, her tight ass and the fact that she hung on every word I said. I flicked through the pages. There was a naked picture of some emo kid, covered in generic tattoos and piercings. A few angsty, apathetic poems. And then a couple of letters. One from a woman in prison who told me her daughter loved my books, and she planned to get out of the joint in time to take little Christy to see the movie adaptation of Bitten: Kiss of Death. I finally settled on a letter on purple paper. The colour stood out, and the pages were scented with some kind of sugary perfume. It reminded me of my daughter’s room. I started to read:

Dear Charlie,

Meeting you last week was the defining moment in my young life. I’m not stupid; I know you won’t remember me, but I just want you to know, you are the greatest artist of your time, and you’re wasting yourself on this vampire shit. I can see through the clichés and teen gore, and I can see something so much more in you. I hope one day you’re brave enough to see it in yourself. I hope we can meet again someday. You’re something special.

All my love,

Marsha Louise Black

P.S My number is 555-43-12-66 if you ever want to talk. Call my crazy, but you look like you could use a friend.

I couldn’t believe it. This girl was the same age as my daughter. And there she was, looking straight through me. I had never heard a girl talk like that, so blunt and honest. Most kids that age try to sound smarter, and come across dumb, or try to sound dumb because they think it’s sexy. Here was a girl that quite clearly didn’t give a shit. I knew the name, I remembered signing it but for the life of me I couldn’t picture her face. Something told me she had red hair. Not red like the stupid little goth girls with hair dye stains down their neck, real red, deep, flowing auburn falling down her back like leaves. I strained my mind, desperate to remember more. I stopped as I felt myself getting turned on. I shook my head and poured a drink. She’s a kid Charlie, just a kid. You can’t go through all that again. And with that I pushed her from my mind, and forced myself to put her letter at the bottom of the pile.

The first time I called her it was a Sunday night. Me and Laura, my ex-wife, had had a huge fight the day before. I showed up at Sarah’s school on Friday afternoon, trying to make her talk to me. I thought enough time had passed that she might as least be able to be civil. I am her father. She refused to talk to me and I followed her to her car. I didn’t know she had a boyfriend; a gangly, muscly teenager, and when I grabbed her arm to make her look at me, he got aggressive. He pushed me back and told me to get the hell away. Maybe I should have. But I didn’t. I punched the kid right in the face, shattered his jaw. Mikey didn’t even come over that Saturday, and Laura told me to stay away from her family. It was strange to hear her talk about her family, hers, as if it was separate from mine. On the Sunday night I was alone in my office. The little assistant, Kate, lingered about the doorway at the end of the day, as she was used to being asked to stay behind for a while, to talk about her “her future in the business”. She seemed to think that the best way to get ahead in the business was to sleep with the talent, and who was I to correct her? But that night, I was in no mood for her adoring words and her trembling fingers. Normally, that kind of innocence, or at least a façade of innocence would have drove me crazy. But I sent her home early, and finished the bottle. And another. I was so wasted I couldn’t even cross the room to turn on the lights. I staggered to the big gas fire behind my chair and turned it on, and collapsed in front on the mantle. I looked around the office, at the pictures of my children, of me and Laura on our honeymoon in Hawaii, of my first Booker prize giving. My mind travelled to the piece of shit I had written to win the award, and how I had milked the fucker for another two awards and a contract for at least five movies. I reached for the bottle, getting to my knees and crawling to my desk again, my hand searching in the dark for the glass. As I groped through the documents on my desk, my mind arrived at Marsha Black. I had cleared out my desk of all the old receipts and failed efforts in the past few days, but I had kept her letter. I wasn’t sure why, perhaps just for written proof that someone, no matter how insignificant and anonymous, someone believed in me. Whatever the reason, I scanned the desk, looking for the letter. I found it under a copy of Bitten: Revival. I smelled the paper before I saw it, and spent a few minutes breathing in the sweet scent. I wondered if that red hair smelled like this. I read again, and again, and my eyes lingered on the number at the bottom, and the nonchalant post script. Call me crazy, but you look like you could use a friend. It was true. There was nothing wrong with it I decided, with just wanting a friend. I hauled myself onto the chair and dialled. Glancing at the time, I wondered if she’d be in bed; it was a school night. The thought made me feel sick. I was about to put the phone down when a voice answered.

“Hello?” She didn’t sound as young as I’d feared. Her voice was husky and serious.

“Uh, hi, um…this Marsha? Marsha Black?”

“Marsha, yeah. Can I ask who’s calling?”

“Uh, you probably won’t believe me, but this is Charlie Washington. We met at Little Oaks Bookstore a few weeks ago and you wrote me with your number? Uh, I hope this is okay.” Images of caller ID and parental protection flashed through my mind.

“Oh! Um, yeah, yes, of course it’s okay. I didn’t think in a million years you’d call. I’m so, so glad you did. I, uh…what’s up, I guess?” Her grown up manner faltered for a second in shock. I liked it, it made her seem slightly more accessible. I was used to girls reacting like this, I knew how to handle them, or so I thought.

“Not much, babe”, I said, turning on the old Charlie Washington charm. The whisky helped me along. “Just a little lonely tonight, I guess. Your letter was really sweet. Seem pretty smart. How old are you anyways?”

“How old do you think I am?” I wasn’t prepared for that. Shake it off, Charlie boy.

“Shit, I, uh…like, twenty?”

“Do you think I’m twenty? Or do you hope I am because it’s better than eighteen?” I was speechless. I made a sort of strangled noise through the phone, and was saved when she started to laugh.

“I’m fucking with you, Charlie. And you flatter me, I’m twenty three.” I exhaled. This one had me by the balls. No one screwed with Charlie. I felt completely at her mercy, and I liked it. And hey, twenty three. Twenty two years wasn’t so bad. At least she could get service in a bar.

“Twenty three, huh? So you at school, or?”

And that was it. We just hit it off. I hadn’t had a conversation with anyone like that since I met Laura in college. We talked about her classes, about my kids, just everything. And she understood, she did. I explained how I fell into this teen horror bullshit by accident, and she didn’t fake any sympathy, or try to give any explanation. She just listened, and although she didn’t say much, I could tell she got it. I fell asleep on the phone to her that night, and when I woke up I couldn’t wait to text her. She was exactly what I needed. A self- esteem boost without the sugar coating. We kept up the texting for about three weeks, and spoke on the phone a couple more times. Each conversation just got better. She didn’t just want to pry into my life, I wouldn’t be just locker room gossip. She wanted to know me, and I wanted to know her too. It wasn’t long before I decided I want to meet her again. I couldn’t believe as I got to know this incredible young woman that I’d seen her before, I’d heard the voice that was quickly becoming my lullaby right in front of me, and I couldn’t remember.

I wrestled with my conscience over whether we should meet again for weeks. My agent was on my back again; apparently I had a gig working on the screenplay for the second Bitten movie. I’d been on the last one, and couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do less. I needed a break, a vacation from all the bullshit and the acclaim that I didn’t think I deserved. I decided, fuck it. I took the plunge and texted her asking to meet me. I felt so foolish, the way I agonised over writing the few lines. After what seemed like hours, I finally settled on: Do u wanna meet up sum tym? Coffee or sumthin? She didn’t reply for twenty five minutes, and I felt sick waiting. The strangest thing was, I enjoyed it. I liked how she made me feel, giddy and wrong like this. I hadn’t felt like that with anyone before; as far as I was concerned, I always had the upper hand when it came to the ladies. But not now, Marsha had shaken me up big time. It made no sense to me that I could feel like this about someone when I couldn’t even picture her face. My cell buzzed; the reply was: Time and place? I grinned, wiping the sweat from my upper lip. We agreed to meet the following Friday night at some little bookstore café, and I could hardly wait for the next tedious week to pass by.

The week went in just as quickly as I’d hoped; a monotonous blur of signing papers and sitting in on dull casting sessions. I tried to honestly appraise the willing young “actresses” who read for myself, the casting director and the producers, but I couldn’t think of anyone but her. I tried to picture Marsha reading lines for me, but nothing that I had inspired did her justice. She was too smart, too different from the vapid girls in my imagination, and, up until recently, in my real life as well. I could never have wrote a Marsha. I was so nervous on the Thursday night I went out to a few strip bars and got very drunk indeed. I woke up at my office, drowsy and weak but vaguely excited for the coming evening. When night time finally came, I headed to the coffee place thirty minutes early, and chose a table that gave me a perfect view of the doorway. My cell phone sat in front of me constantly, and I deleted about a thousand texts asking where she was before I could send them. I ordered a cappuccino, then changed my mind and asked for a regular black coffee. Marsha seemed real, she wouldn’t want to come meet some frothy, pretentious artist. I knew I was over-thinking everything, and checking the time too much. The doors stayed closed until half past seven; exactly the time we had arranged to meet. I stood up, then sat down again. Fucking hell, Charlie, cool it. But in the end I was disappointed; it was some middle aged guy walking in the door, some chubby, boring old man, not the girl of my dreams. I dropped my eyes again, and tried to ignore the growing suspicions that the great player had been played, and she had set me up to make a fool of myself. I was just swallowing the dregs of my coffee when I realised that the man who had walked in was sitting across from me.

“Jesus! Hey, uh, can I help you with something?” I was annoyed that he had interrupted me, and perturbed that I’d barely notice him.

“Well now, I don’t know. You are Mr. Charles John Washington of 311 Hunter’s Way, Portland, Maine?” He spoke with a lazy Southern accent; like an overweight Mark Twain. His whole body seemed to be sweating, beads of moisture gathered on every inch of exposed skin. He wore a black suit, and blue shirt, with what looked like spaghetti sauce stained into the fabric. I leaned back from the smell of BO and potato chips that poured from him.

“Look if you’re one of the guys from the movie, I really don’t have time for this, buddy. It’s my night off, talk to Lisa, I’ve taken a few days off.” I began to stand but he put a greasy hand on my shoulder.

“Oh, now I think you have time for me, sir. Forgive me, my name is Cyrus Halloway, and I am a detective with Portland PD. I’d like to talk to you about a Miss Marsha Louise Black.”

The next eight hours were the longest of my life. Longer than when Laura went into labour with Mikey and there were complications. And longer than the trial last year for drink driving. Both of those occasions had ended well, but this didn’t seem to go away. They kept me up all night, reading my own speech back to me, like another casting session. I didn’t know my phone had been tapped. Apparently after my relations with a minor, it had been a necessity, apparently my lawyer had explained all the conditions to me at the time. The officers read the damning conversations to me, the worst being the ones of a more adult nature. It had been harmless phone sex at the time, I never dreamed it could be used as evidence against me. They wouldn’t tell me what had happened until the next afternoon. My lawyer was there, and he didn’t look at me the whole time. Marsha Black had been killed, they told me, the night before. She had been stabbed thirteen times in her bedroom. The sweaty detective told me, with some relish, that she had also been raped before the murder, and that the results of the DNA tests had shown that my finger prints were on some items in her room , specifically a book entitled Bitten: The Revival. I laughed then, explaining the situation. Noone laughed back. They asked me to explain then, how my semen had been found on the victim’s body and on her sheets. I had no answer for that. My lawyer stepped in, demanding to speak with me before I answered any more of their questions.

“Charlie, I’ve known you since college, and you’re one of my oldest friends, but how the hell did you get into this? Didn’t we talk about this, about getting involved with fans? I’m going to ask you once, and you damn sure better be straight with me. Do you have anything to do with this?”

My mouth opened and closed; the truth was I didn’t even know. I didn’t know myself. The week had flown by, and I could honestly say I didn’t remember anything about it. They showed me pictures when they came back in, pictures of her body. They were disgusting. Once again I thought of my ridiculous books, and was shocked at how much I didn’t understand about death and murder when I penned the pale faced little boys nibbling on the necks of their girlfriends. She was naked in the bed, and her neck with black with blood. Her eyes were blank and stared up at me, accusing me. And I was right about the hair. It was dark red, and lay on the white sheets behind her head, soaked in the blood from her wounds. And suddenly, I remembered her. I remembered the sensation of running my fingers through that hair. I remembered washing blood from my hands. I started sobbing, and they suspended the interview. I was charged with first degree homicide. My trial is next week. Strangely enough, Laura, Sarah and Mikey are all coming to see me.

Mother's Love

Shut the door. Look at the clock, midnight. Twelve hour shifts are murder, but it’s money. Through to the kitchen, empty tin foil trays on the counter; Gary must’ve phoned in a Chinese. Can’t blame him, I know we can’t afford it the now but after Thursday night I know none of us can be bothered with anything. Phoning in for that shift was so tempting but I knew I’d regret it on pay day. Water over a teabag and collapse at the kitchen table, face in my hands. Pregnant. How could she be so stupid? Did we teach her nothing? Where did I go wrong, god, I’m her mother. I’m supposed to protect her. Gary’s heartbroken. Our baby. She’s got standard grades in two months. How’s she going to cope? She’s so smart as well. She wants to keep it. How’s she going to keep it? She’s only fifteen, she can’t even get a job yet. She doesn’t want to stay in school. She knows me and her dad would do anything for her, I’d give up work and raise the wean myself if I thought we could cope on just Gary’s wages. A job’s so hard to come by the now, I couldn’t give it up. I love my family, but I love my job, and I need them both to survive. Fifteen and pregnant. And to that wee prick. Gary wants to report him to the police, he’s seventeen so it’s child abuse. But Emma says she’ll leave with him, if we report him, and then we won’t ever see her or the baby. She says she loves him, stupid wee lassie. He doesn’t want her, or the baby. Just Gary put the fear of God in him. That won’t last long, he’ll be gone long before the wean’s born. And she’ll be left with a wee baby that she can’t support. Can’t imagine her getting rid, but I wish she would. Well, naw I don’t, but I do. She couldn’t cope if she got rid of it but it’s no fair on her. She’ll no cope if she tries to keep it. I had to raise David by myself, and Gary was around when Emma was just toddling. Kids today. Kids having kids. I couldn’t have done any of it, the kids, the fights, the money if I didn’t have Gary. He’s been a Godsend. Didn’t have to stay, no many men would take on a woman with two weans to a junkie bastard who was out the door when the money dried up. Twelve years married this October. No been easy. They sisters of his sticking their neb in every two seconds. But he’s been more of a father to them kids than anyone would have expected. His heart’s roasted with this. He was the one greetin’ when we found out. Me screaming and shouting, but he was the one that cried. Worse than anything else, him crying like that. ‘Cause she’s still just the baby, we can’t see her as anything else. Still see the wee lassie running about the garden in her wee nurse’s outfit, dragging her Mr. Blobby doll about. She’s still just a wee girl. Christ, she’ll be a mother in seven months. I’ll be a granny. David’s just turned eighteen, he’ll be an uncle. Mental.

Emma’s sonogram. She’s been crying. She says lassies at school have been talking about her. She starting to show a bit. I’ve told her to stop wearing they daft wee skirts, they make it look worse. She won’t listen. She says he thinks she still looks good. How would he know, he hasn’t seen her in a month. They’ve been fighting. Hear her crying at night. He’ll only talk to her on that msn now, Gary tried to forbid them seeing each other for about a week, but she ended up sneaking out so much there was no point. She’s allowed to see him now and he doesn’t want to. Can’t win. She’s so sad these days. None of her pals talk to her anymore. There’s so much stuff she can’t do, and she needs to be so careful. Ah they’re wee lassies, and wee lassies can be so vicious. They can’t be bothered with having to take care. They’re fifteen, all they want to do is drink poof juice and winch boys. Can only hope that they stop at winching, and they learn something from what’s happened to Emma. A whole life changed in one fell swoop. A strong heart beat, the doc tells us. Do we want to know the sex? Emma does. It’s a wee girl. There’s a break from worrying for both of us. A daughter, a grand daughter. She holds my hand.

Emma’s birthday party. Waste of time, waste of money. We told her not to as well, she’s hardly spoke to any of her mates for the past few months. He’s back on the scene, playing the loving daddy. Flush all of a sudden, we all know why. Drug raids all over Bellsmyre last week, and he just disappeared. Emma won’t hear it. He’s told her he’s got a job but he can’t tell her what it is ‘cause it’s on a temporary basis and he doesn’t want to get her hopes up. Bullshit, and she’s just lapping it up. Last thing I wanted for her was to end up in the same boat as I was. History repeating itself. He’s hung about longer than we all thought, but if he’s here for the long haul she’ll have a hard few years ahead. Hope she’s prepared for the police at her door looking for him at all hours of the morning, waking up the wean and pulling the house apart looking for his stash. God love her, but they’ll no be showing up here. She’s my daughter but I’m no having anything to with him, or the crowd he’s in with. Bad news. But don’t want to lose Emma so. Feel heart sorry for Emma. Crying in the corner ‘cause no one showed up but me, Gary, David, him, and her granny. DJ and everything, big fuck off buffet, all going in the bin. She won’t let anyone near, just wants him. Never felt so useless. Sent a letter to the council saying she was getting kicked out, signed off as homeless. Getting a wee two bedroom terrace in Park Mains. That was her present for her sixteenth. What’s going on? Emma’s screaming?! He’s shouting, what’s wrong, what’s up, chill out, what’s wrong? I could throttle him. There’s a damp spot in her dress. I told her no to wear that dress. Skimpy wee thing, looks awful on. Her waters have broke.

Can’t stop greetin’ . I’d do it for her if I could. I’d’ve done all of this for her if I could’ve saved her it. Doc says there’s some complications. Cord’s wrapped around the baby’s neck. Emma’s been taken away, they’re doing a C-section. He’s scarpered, told us he’d follow us up to the hospital in his motor. That’ll be it then, he won’t show up until she’s getting her benefits.

Her name is Layla Skye. Trust Emma to pick a name like that. She’s perfect. She looks just like Emma, but with David’s eyes. None of him, thank God.

She was kept in an incubator overnight. She had trouble breathing. Emma sobbed all night, she told me it was her fault because she’d been smoking when she was pregnant. Wasn’t even annoyed, I’d have a cheek anyway. I told her it wasn’t her fault, that Layla would be fine and these things just happen sometimes. He didn’t show up until the morning. He was out his face, the nurses made him leave. Emma didn’t know he was there, we didn’t tell her. We knew she’d make us let him stay and Gary wasn’t having that. Emma fell asleep on my lap for the first time in about ten years. First time I felt like her mother since she got pregnant. She’s asleep now. Layla’s in her wee crib at the bottom of the bed. Gary’s had to go to work. Poor man’s been up for nearly thirty hours, then straight onto night shift. Emma’s saying she hasn’t heard from him at all. She says Layla’s getting our last name, and that it’s all over between them, but she’s said that I don’t know how many times. I’d love to believe her. She’s too young for all this. Seeing Layla was a wake up call for her. She says she loves that scumbag, but I don’t think she’s ever loved anything or anyone as much as wee Layla. Mother’s love. Nothing like it. Just hope it’s enough. 

Notice

      Colleen pours out three bowls of cornflakes and sets them on the table. She leaves a jug of cold milk on the counter, adding a shot to her coffee. Alice is always late, Darren is probably thinking of a good lie to get out of school. Gary should be home in ten minutes; he called from the car. He should have been home hours ago. There’s a man shooting at cars on the free-way. Colleen watches the news coverage on the new television on the kitchen table; a Christmas present from the kids. She squints at the line of cars, looking for the family Volvo. The gunman fires another three shots into a red Honda. The woman had opened her door. Perhaps she recognised him. Perhaps she thought she could talk to him. Colleen sips her coffee and watches the woman slide from the driver’s seat to concrete. She takes a step towards the screen; yes, there is a small boy sleeping in the back seat. Children can sleep through anything. She wonders if Darren has sneaked back to bed yet.

      Gary’s home. He shivers through the back door, shivers out of his dripping raincoat. She doesn’t speak; points to the milk jug. She doesn’t look up from the screen.

      “I’ll be gone by the time you get back. I just need to pack a few things.”

      “Alright.”

      “Col, is there no way we can...?” He shoves the spoon into his mouth.

      “No goodbyes, Gary. Kids aren’t gone yet. He chews the cereal. Any other day, he’d complain about a cold breakfast. His eyes flick from the TV set to her face. She drains the mug and leaves the kitchen, calling the children as she goes. They shout excuses from their rooms. She doesn’t wait to hear them. She mutters something about finishing getting ready. The gunman drops to his knees, surrounded by armed police. Gary starts to cry quietly.

      The train is crowded, buzzing with concern about loved ones caught in the morning traffic. Colleen did not see how the drama ended. She drove the children to their bus, leaving him in the kitchen. He had started to watch a sports programme. The kids waved goodbye, keeping up the pretence They were all pretending today. She is marking papers quickly on her briefcase. Jill Tyler is failing, again. She can barely muster sympathy for the girl, even though she now understands what it feels like to have a broken family. She writes a half hearted note in the margin to Jill, urging the girl to come and see her to discuss her problems. She hopes that no such visit will take place. She does not know how to pity any more. The train shudders into her station, but she does not get up. She lets the doors open and shut, sinking back into her seat. An elderly couple board the train. She thinks about giving up her seat, and decides against it. She hasn’t the strength to stand, nor even to move her now discarded briefcase from the seat next to her. She watches the crooked old man offer an arm to his plump wife, both swaying and slipping in the moving carriage. The woman falls to the linoleum floor at a sharp turn. Colleen looks away, staring out at the graffiti’d neighbourhood.

      She rides the circuit twice before descending at the stop got on at. She makes for the car, and stops at a news stand for a pack of cigarettes. Gary had made her quit when Darren was born. There had been the odd drag here and there, at parties and funerals. He knew that. She lit the first cigarette and drew feverishly. It was gone within a few minutes. The nicotine made her head spin, and she gripped the side of the Volvo. After a moment’s faithful deliberation, she decided to get into the car, and lit another, dangling her arm out the window. The first and last time Gary had seen her do this, he had lashed out. After all, it was a company car. Colleen decided that after everything, she didn’t give a shit. She thought of Brooks, his boss, doing his weekly inspection of the cars, and pictured his shiny face screwing up at the smell of stale smoke. Gary could get fired for that. Good.

      She wonders where they go from here. She has heard about things like this, the awful soap opera stories her friends tell her, where the loving husband has been playing away. The stories always seemed ridiculous to her; she wondered whether the girls from work had actually elaborated their sad divorce stories to make themselves feel better, make themselves seem like the victim. She figures it makes sense; it is quite pathetic to admit that he just left, he just lost interest. Nothing like a bit of adultery to spice up the court hearing. Colleen pitied these women, but from an elevated view point. She didn't like to think she looked down on them, but she did. Poor, sad little women. Well, they can't all be Gary. Not like my Gary. Now what? She turns the key in the ignition and starts off, heading for the bridge.

      It is too quiet, she thinks. She turns on the radio, quickly turning off the broadcast about the highway shootings. She settles on some eighties track. Gary always hated the music in the eighties; he says rock died in '79. Colleen finds it comforting. It reminds her of being pregnant for the first time, and everything being new and exciting. It reminds her of beginnings. She had never associated Pat Benetar with things coming to an end until now. The little screen above the radio tells her it is 12.46pm. Darren will have cut class by now. Alice will probably be at some meeting; yearbook, pep, prom committee, cheerleading. She was always Little Miss School Spirit. She gets that from Gary, the easy popularity. Colleen was never like that. She was never a slacker or a burnout, just never noticeable. She wasn't anything really. It always puzzled her that Gary chose her. She figures he just liked the way she idolised him; her high school crush on him had lasted twenty four years now. She is stuck in traffic. There are policeman in yellow vests directing diverted traffic at the other side of bridge. The nonsense from this morning must be the reason for the hold up. Colleen lights another fag, almost smiling at her boldness. Almost smiling. Horns and shouts fill the air on the bridge. She wants to yell at them, tell them to stop being so rude. Do you mind? I'm trying to think! She says it quietly, they way she always says her comebacks when Gary is on her case; loud enough to make her feel better, quiet enough that he can't hear her.

      She decides to make him notice, make them all notice. Sorry folks, she thinks as she put her foot to the floor, swerving to the left. Sorry folks, your commute is about to get even longer. She crashes through the rails, and starts to go down, down. She has another drag, closing her eyes. She smiles. Think your boss will notice, Gary? Notice this asshole. Notice me.

Karen McKay

      Karen McKay was born in the backseat of her mother’s minivan, three months premature. Doctors said that Karen’s survival was a medical marvel, and it really was a shame that her mother hadn’t made it. No one knew who the father was, so Karen was taken in by her aunt, who had a one year old of her own. They went to school the same year, and were in the same class. The boy was slow, and the other kids made fun of him. Karen spent her days and nights defending him and learning to dance. She went to New York one fall, to audition for Juilliard. She fell down two flights of stairs on the subway en route to her audition, fracturing her collarbone and shattering her pelvis. Juliard wrote to her; they would be unable to reschedule her audition.

      Karen spent six weeks in hospital and went home to Maine, where she took night classes in Spanish and worked on a checkout at Target. One day, on a late shift at work, Karen was called into Steve, the area manager’s office. He told her that he knew she’d been stealing cleaning products, and he had it on tape. He said he would get rid of the tape if she sucked his dick, and she did. She did that night and most Tuesday nights thereafter. After about two months, he took her on a real date. After six, he proposed.

They were married in Spring, and Karen stopped working on the floor and moved to the back office. She didn’t like it there. The checkout girls all said that Steve and the other managers like to make the little reception girls stay on late. Karen took a requisition form to Steve’s office and caught him fucking Leann Germanotti on the desk. She filed for divorce and he got everything. Karen stopped working at Target altogether. It was either leave quietly or the video footage would be turned in to the authorities, Steve said.

Karen’s aunt called. Her big cousin had been hit by a car on the way to the swimming pool. Karen went to stay in Portland with her aunt. They planned Karen’s 40^th birthday party in the local Masonic hall. Most people had somewhere else to be that night. Steve had a business dinner he just couldn’t get out of.

       Two weeks later, Karen took an overdose in her aunt’s bathroom. At her funeral, Steve read a poem, and said that Karen McKay was the only woman he’d ever loved.