“Answer it,” Jon says after a pause. He’s taking all this more seriously than I’d hoped.
My thumb hovers over the green button.Oh god. Here goes.
“Celeste. Hi. Thanks for calling back. I am so, so sorry.”
Silence.
“If there’s anything I can do…I could meet with your kids? Apologize in person? And…and your husband?”
“I don’t think my children or my husband want to be anywhere near you, to be quite frank.” Her tone is ice-cold. I’ve met her over the years at parent–teacher meetings and Oakpark street parties, and she’s never seemed particularly warm, but this is a whole other level. Understandably.
“Of course. But truly, if there’s anything I can do…”
“You can make a public apology, explain you made it all up.”
This chills me. “I’m sorry?”
“Yes, that. But with more detail, and publicly.”
“It’s just I didn’t make it…” I stop. That’s only going to make it worse. “You’re right. I will.”
She means in the WhatsApp group, right? Not like, a letter to theIrish Times?
“Good. I’ll look forward to it.” She disconnects.
I pull a cushion over my face, screaming into it, but soundlessly, since we have a sleeping baby upstairs.
“OK, what did she say?” Jon asks.
“I have to make a ‘public apology.’ ”
He takes my hand. The contact, his skin on mine, stills me, reassures me. Even after all these years, he has that magical power to fix me with just one touch. “Don’t mind her. It’ll all blow over, and she can’t make you do a public apology. Who does she think she is, the queen of Dublin? It was one mistake.”
I squeeze his fingers. “Thank you for being lovely. Why am I such an idiot? How have I ended up here?”
“Because you’re human. We’re all human. Remember what your counselor said.”
He gently untangles his hand and gets up to grab another beer from the kitchen. I sit, unmoving, on the couch.
Remember what your counselor said.
Remember that I’m human, remember to go easy on myself. Remember that intrusive thoughts are just that—thoughts. And that worrying I’m going to hurt my baby doesn’t mean I’m actually going to hurt my baby. God, it was so hard though, in the early weeks. The nonstop crying. The thoughts of rocking her and rocking her to make her stop. Or leaving her for good…
From the kitchen comes the sound of the fridge, the suck of the door opening and closing. On the lamp table beside the couch sits the baby-monitor screen. I can see Bella, asleep in her cot, her soother on themattress beside her. The image is grainy, and sometimes it’s hard to see her clearly. Sometimes when I worry that she’s not breathing, it’s quicker to run upstairs than to sit staring at the screen trying to work out if her movement is real or a flicker in the feed. There’s nothing wrong with her breathing, I’ve just turned into a worrier. Maybe I’d worry less if I didn’t have this screen to watch. I haul myself off the couch and go upstairs to check on her properly.
Bella is fast asleep, arms flung above her head. I watch her for a moment then my eyes go to the window, and the plywood that boards it up. It will take a week at least, we’ve been told, for new glass to be fitted. And suddenly there’s something very unnerving about it—about not being able to see out. Imagining someone out there, watching and waiting…A shiver runs through me. I shake myself and turn away.
12
Maeve
Wednesday
Maeve Khoury stares at the screenshot, feeling hot and cold and sick. What was her Aunt Susan thinking? It’s bad enough that Susan teaches at her school, but sending messages about people in her class…shit. So this is what her mum was on about last night, with herwhat the hell?shout, followed by a much quieter call in her home office. Maeve’s sister, Aoife, had tried to find out more, but their mum wouldn’t say. Now Maeve knows. Not because her mum gave in or Aoife sneaked on to her phone (though, no doubt, she did) but because it’s doing the rounds on Snapchat. God, her family are mortifying.
To be fair, not that many people know that Susan is Maeve’s aunt. They both keep it quiet at school and Susan treats her the same as she does everyone else. And Susan is actually quite well liked for a teacher, which makes things easier. Butthis. And of all people, her aunt had picked on Nika Geary. Nika, who’d made Maeve’s life hell all through Transition Year and on into fifth year. And over something sostupid. Her mind goes back to that day, as it has done many times since, no matter how hard she tries to move on.
It happened on Junior Cert results day. Transition Year students weretold to gather in the canteen at noon. Envelopes would be handed out at twelve thirty, and then students were free to go home and open their results in private. Of course, nobody was going home, they were going into Dublin city center to drink.
