The First Time I Said Goodbye Read online

  “Poor Bob,” Auntie Dolores said again, stepping back this time and taking my mother in from head to foot before turning her gaze on me, just at the time I was trying to stretch out a kink in my neck.

  “You must be so tired,” she said, reaching for me and pulling me into a group hug with my mother. “Dear God, it is just brilliant to see you. Brilliant! Of course so sad . . . poor Bob . . . may he rest in peace.” She shook her head and made the sign of the cross on her ample bosom. “We should get you home.” She looked towards the flat-capped man. “Shouldn’t we get them home, Hugh? Sure won’t they be wrecked?”

  I was foolish to think that home actually meant the place where I would be staying. Although I dreaded being shown to my cousin’s bachelor pad, I had started to crave going anywhere that provided a bed. I didn’t even care if it was a comfortable bed. No, when Auntie Dolores said “home” she of course meant her actual home: a small redbrick house on a terraced street which looked like it would have fitted, in its entirety, into our back yard at home. It was the same redbrick house my own mother had grown up in along with her family, eight of them in total, squeezed in like sardines.

  We, the four of us, pushed our way into an impossibly small room where at least eight other people stood, shoulder to shoulder, some of them looking vaguely like my mother. A door to an impossibly small kitchen was open, which at least provided a fresh supply of oxygen to the room. It wasn’t warm outside but the room had a cloying feel as my mother was gathered into a tearful group hug by her long-lost relatives. Occasionally one of the group would look at me and back to my mother and ask if I was “little Annabel” and my mother would nod and I would feel about five years old. I stood, awkwardly once more, hoping they wouldn’t grab me into their scrum. Feeling a little overwhelmed and more than a little overheated I made for the impossibly small kitchen where aluminium foil-covered platters of food sat on every available surface and the biggest kettle I had ever seen bubbled on the stove.

  I pushed my way through the open back door into a small concrete yard dotted with plastic planters overgrown with flowers. Seating myself on a plastic garden chair, I put my head in my hands, and tried to take deep breaths to stem the slightly dizzy, overly exhausted feeling that was threatening to overpower me. How my mom was still on her feet, I just didn’t know. I imagine she was fuelled with adrenalin and raw emotion at seeing her long-lost relatives again, and while I was happy for her – and I really was – they were strangers to me. This felt alien and claustrophobic and if one more person said “Poor Bob!” I would scream out loud.

  I breathed slowly in and out, trying to find my centre in this claustrophobic concrete space at the back of a terraced house.

  “They’re not that bad,” a deep voice said.

  I looked up. A man – bald, late thirties, wearing low-slung jeans, a polo shirt and Converse – eyed me quizzically. I suddenly felt embarrassed. It was pretty obvious this man was one of my relatives: he might even be the name-stealer himself. And here was I, flustered and nauseous five minutes after meeting his family.

  “I didn’t . . . I’m not . . .” I felt my face blaze.

  “I’m only teasing you,” he said, breaking into a broad smile. “Why on earth do you think I’ve escaped out here too? I was just shocked to find someone else in my usual spot – and adopting my usual head-in-hands pose as well.”

  I felt myself relax and made to stand up.

  “No, keep sitting. I’m thinking you’ve been travelling a while. You are probably wrecked and didn’t expect the welcoming party.”

  I nodded my head weakly. “I don’t want to appear ungracious . . .”

  He sat down on the back-door step, his gangly legs stretching out in front of him. “I’m Sam,” he said, reaching his hand out to shake mine. “You must be Annabel.”

  If I had been less tired I would have made a snarky remark about his powers of deduction but, given that exhaustion was seeping from every pore of my body, I decided not to. It would have sounded all wrong and made me out to be a bitch – and I’m really, really not a bitch.

  “Hi, Sam,” I smiled, deciding now would also not be the best time to tell him he stole my name.

  “They will calm down, you know. They’re just so excited. It’s like the return of the prodigal son. My mum said she never expected to see her sister again.”

  “Oh I know, and it’s such a lift for Mom as well. It has been tough.”

  “I heard. That’s too bad about your dad,” Sam said, shifting his legs, trying to get comfortable. “Shit when people die, isn’t it?”

  I was taken aback by his bluntness. But he was right. And it sounded better in a Derry accent. It really was shit when people die.

  We chatted for a while. I agreed to drink a cup of tea. Sam said I would be banished from the family before I’d even been properly welcomed if I refused. I nibbled at a sandwich and watched my mother come to life before my eyes – her eyes dancing with tears and joy as she reacquainted herself with people she had last hugged forty-eight years before, her eyes darting around the room trying, I imagine, to remember when it was her home. It was clear from very early on that this party was not going to end any time soon, so when Sam offered to take me back to his place I almost threw myself into his arms with gratitude.

  Chapter 4

  I think if you were here it would be easier – but you feel so far away. It feels like so long since I have held you and have felt you with me. What if it has all changed?

  * * *

  His house at least was not what I had feared. In fact, I actually did cry a little when I saw the whitewashed house with a beautifully manicured garden. The painted red door opened to reveal a modern, not at all chintzy, interior – light and airy with bucket-loads of natural light which did hurt my tired eyes a little but definitely did my heart good.

  Walking down the long hall, Sam gestured to a shiny white kitchen before pointing towards a lounge which screamed minimalist elegance. My heart dared to hope that the spare room might not be the hellhole I had imagined. But what I hadn’t counted on was the room being like something out of my dreams. A bed dominated the room – a very large wrought-iron bed. It sat under a bay window draped with light muslin curtains, but equipped with the best black-out blinds money could buy. And on the bed the plump eiderdown was covered in crisp white linen which Sam kindly informed was indeed Egyptian cotton (3000 count) and I had to fight the urge to lie down there and then. He pointed to a door that led to an admittedly small walk-in closet and another that led to a beautifully appointed en suite bathroom. The power shower called to me and I couldn’t keep the smile from my face.

  “A shower is not a shower unless you feel there is a real possibility the force of the water will take off a layer of skin as well,” Sam said and, not for the first time, I fought the urge to hug him.

  “Why not rest up? Take your time. I’ve a friend calling over later – you are more than welcome to join us, or you can just rest here until you feel recovered from the journey.”

  Still smiling like a woman delirious from hours and hours of travel, I said I would see how I felt after I washed off the grime of two continents from my skin and had a little lie-down.

  He switched on the small antique lamp beside the bed and pulled down the black-out blinds for me. “Sleep well,” he said. “Anything you need just holler.”

  As he left the room, I sat down on the edge of the bed, allowing the softness of the sheets underneath me to soothe my tiredness. Thinking I would just lie down, just for a moment, I put my head on the pillow and drifted off.

  When I woke the house was silent. A glass of water had appeared on my bedside table with a note saying to help myself to anything in the kitchen. Lifting my cell from my bag I saw that it was gone 3 a.m. – my brain was too tired to figure out what that meant in US time.

  I had a series of messages from Craig.

  Through my still-exhausted fug I tried to make some sort of sense of them.

  Are yo
u there?

  Are you safe?

  Where are you?

  Do you even care?

  You leave the country and I cease to exist any more, huh?

  Oh, shit. He was annoyed and I would have to try and appease him. I should have called, or sent a text or something, but it had all been so full on that, I was ashamed to admit, he had simply slipped my mind. But I couldn’t tell him that: that he had simply slipped my mind. That would not go down well at all. Not one bit. I felt something sink in the bottom of my stomach – which given the fact I thought my stomach was already at an all-time-low-sunk place was an achievement. I tried to message something back, through my fuzzy-headed exhaustion and fat-fingered typing, but nothing made sense and, as a wave of jetlagged exhaustion washed over me again, I felt myself start to drift off. Given that I had barely slept in the last few months, I surrendered, blissfully, to it. Okay, it might well have been fuelled by a mammoth journey and a time difference, but I would take my sleep where I could get it.

  When I woke again, despite the black-out blinds I could tell it was morning. There was a buzz about the place, the muffled sounds of cars outside passing up and down the street – the occasional call in a foreign accent which reminded me that I was somewhere new and different.

  As I sat up in bed, I heard a knock on the door and Sam’s voice carried through. “I’ve put some coffee on. I assume you drink coffee which is probably very presumptuous of me. My mother called earlier – she is bringing your mother over in an hour. You may need a dose of something strong to keep you going.”

  I called back a quick thank-you and stood and stretched. I’d just have a quick shower first, slip into some fresh clothes and then join Sam in his kitchen. I pushed all thoughts of Craig and his text messages behind me, feeling guilty that he hadn’t been my first thought on arriving safely. Of course he would have been worried, of course I should have let him know. I would call him later and let him know that I was sorry, that I had been overwhelmed by arriving in Ireland and had been dealing with the welcome of countless relatives and that I would make it up to him when I got home. We would put our lives together again when I got home, I decided, as the hot water gushed over me. It’s not that I would forget my father, but this seemed to be the final piece in the process of losing him. Once that was done I would move on. My return to the States would herald my return to Bake My Day and I would, I vowed as I washed my hair, make it all up to Craig. It would work out, I told myself as I towelled off, dried my hair, dressed in jeans and a sweat top, and swept some moisturiser across my face. I would do for now – until I’d had some caffeine anyway. Slipping some sneakers on my feet, I headed towards the kitchen where Sam called out that breakfast was ready if I wanted it. The smell of freshly cooked bacon hit my nostrils and I realised I was starving.

  “This is a lovely welcome,” I said, taking a seat at the kitchen island and reaching for the mug of coffee he poured me.

  “We’re a hospitable race,” he said. “Famed for it.”

  He put a key on the table along with my coffee. “I have to go to work – no rest for the wicked. But feel free to use this house as your own. No rifling through my underwear drawers or anything – but, you know, make yourself comfy.”

  I realised then I knew relatively little about this man who had allowed me to stay in his house except that he had exceptional taste in bed linen and lived alone – and perhaps sometimes entertained friends in the wee small hours.

  “Work? It’s a shop, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Vintage clothing – all the rage, especially in these times when everyone is looking for a bargain. But not just any tat. People tend to think when you say vintage you mean stuff you rifled from your mum’s attic. We’re very particular – designer labels mostly and genuinely vintage – 50s, 60s and 70s, occasional 80s. None of this ‘it was fashionable in 1994 therefore is retro-chic’ carry-on.”

  “So your shop doesn’t smell like mothballs?” I felt I could try a joke – he seemed up for it – but as I spoke I only hoped I didn’t offend him. After all, I didn’t know him from Adam – he was just a cousin who had saved me from death by Victoria sponge the day before.

  He laughed, his blue eyes twinkling and creasing. “Perish the very thought,” he said, sipping from his coffee cup. “We do get the odd old doll come in looking for something in a nice tweed or offering to sell her old Sunday best, complete with gravy stains circa 1976, but we are quite discerning. You should call in while you’re here. I could set you to work. My lovely mammy tells me you run your own shop back home.”

  “A bakery,” I said, although it had been at least eight weeks since I had done a day’s work there and, if the truth be told, I felt a little removed from it. Bake My Day – it seemed like such a quirky, funny name back then but now it seemed stupid, childish even. The last eight weeks had changed me – still this was not the kind of conversation you had with an almost-stranger not even twenty-four hours after you met. You didn’t launch into the horrors of grief and the fact that if you have to ice another cupcake ever again in your life you may do yourself in with a spatula. “It does okay. My assistant is keeping it ticking over for me at the moment.”

  “I must get you to bake me something while you’re here,” Sam said. “Although I’m trying to watch my figure,” he added, patting his almost-flat stomach. “Can’t see any hot young thing falling for me with some extra padding around my middle.”

  He smiled and I was grateful he didn’t push me further about work. Actually, as he picked up his car keys and wished me well, I was grateful he hadn’t pushed me much about anything. Whether it was the jetlag or something darker I definitely felt a little raw that morning. I sipped my coffee, walked into his den and sat down punching buttons on his remote control until his TV sprang to life. Scrolling through the channels I clicked on an old episode of Frasier and started watching, until I found myself welling up at the scenes with Martin. Pull yourself together, I told myself, brushing my sleeve against my eyes. Positive mental attitude – back in Ireland with your mom – there is no need to cry every time anyone even thinks about their father.

  Thankfully my slump into self-pity was disturbed by the arrival of my mother and Dolores – who were clearly in better spirits than I was. I heard them before I saw them, laughing as they came through the door – Sam’s mother obviously having a key to her son’s house. “Annabel?” my mother called, her accent now quite a bit more Derry than it had been.

  “I’m in the den!” I called.

  “‘The den’ – I love it!” Dolores said. “Sounds like something off the TV. I love Americanisms!”

  “We have a unique turn of phrase here too,” my mother said. “Remember the ‘good room’?”

  “I loved that room,” Dolores said as they came in, still lost in their own conversation. “I’ve many happy memories of courting young men in that room, not that we got away with much. Not with Mammy and Daddy in the next room. Do you think they really put a glass up to the wall to listen to what we were getting up to – making sure we were behaving ourselves?”

  My mother giggled – again a childish lilting laugh I hadn’t heard in a long time. “Well, I wasn’t prepared to take a chance. Were you?”

  Dolores laughed heartily, “Ah no, that was what the Bollies were for! Sneaking up those lanes to the woods after dark – it felt so rebellious.”

  My mother wiped a tear of mirth from her eyes and looked at me. I must have looked a sorry sight in comparison, curled on the sofa, scraping tears of another kind from my eyes.

  “Ah, pet,” she said, sitting down beside me, “did you not sleep well? Are you feeling okay?”

  I stared at her blankly, wondering how, in just a week, she seemed to have forgotten what we had been through and was no longer acknowledging that I might have a legitimate reason to be crying over Frasier at eight-thirty in the morning.

  “I’m fine,” I lied, because I didn’t want to embarrass her in front of Auntie Dolores by sho
uting at the top of my lungs that it might just be the dead dad in my recent past which had put me in, as she would put it, ‘bad form’. “Just tired . . . must be jetlag.”

  “Look, if you want to just shoot the breeze here today, that’s fine. Dolores and I were going to go for a drive around Inishowen anyway. You should see the coastline – stunning. Well, I mean, you should see it, but if you are still feeling tired you can see it another day. Go back to bed, get a good rest. Get yourself well mended for tomorrow.”