Page 7 of A Miracle on Hope Street
She fixed her lipstick in the mirror, fixed her favourite maroon woolly hat around her ears, and tried to see some hope in a face that had experienced plenty in its sixty-eight years in this world. She had once been fit for her age, mostly down to the walking club that she and Billy formed as soon as they both retired and the golf lessons they took, yet now the thought of joining Gladys and Cyril, Martin and Patricia and all the other couples who had signed up to do day trips to places like Donegal and even as far as Kerry, scared the life out of her, plus she’d put on weight with all her moping around. Why would they want to look at her being all miserable for anyhow? She’d turned them down so many times that the phone had stopped ringing and the doorbell had stopped too. The only people she managed to utter a few words to was Tim, the grocery delivery boy, who at twenty-seven years old didn’t really have much interest other than telling her he’d had to replace her Pink Lady apples for Granny Smiths, or that they’d run out of her favourite cottage cheese with chives or Derek the postman, who always had a strong waft of alcohol on his breath and a scrunched up, bright-red face that never really smiled much these days. His conversation was minimal too and he never could wait to get away once he’d handed over what he had to. If she dared to say anything more than ‘thank you’ to Derek, he’d run down the path like a scared rabbit. Bit of an oddball was Derek.
Marian took a deep breath, popped an extra-strong mint in her mouth and told her reflection that today would be the day that she would walk as far as the post office, put two Christmas cards in the mail to her daughters and maybe even stop at that nice coffee shop on Hope Street for a macaroon and a coffee to try and lift her spirits.
She could do this. She was going to have to before she drove herself to distraction looking at the four walls and talking to herself or to the television.
On her way past the table in the hallway, she lifted the photo of Billy, the one in which his blue eyes were dancing and his face was tanned and healthy, so full of life, in his victory pose at the top of Slieve Donard mountain where they’d taken their very first walking expedition with the group just over three years ago. Marian was in the photo too, with her arms wrapped around his waist and her head resting on his strong chest, but she didn’t recognise herself in it any more. She had been a different person back then, surrounded by love and family and friends, but now, even though she looked the same if a little bit chubbier, she didn’t smile like that any more.
‘Oh, why did you have to go so soon?’ she asked his picture, just like she did every day when she tried to leave the house. ‘Why did you all have to leave me so soon?’
Then, just like she’d done every other day for the past twenty-one, she pulled her maroon woolly hat off and dropped it on the floor, wiped her lipstick with the back of her hand, and cursed herself for being such a coward.
It’s Christmas,she tried to remind herself.Snap out of this! You’re not doing yourself any favours.
‘Go easy, Mum,’ she heard her daughter’s voice echo from before. ‘These things take time. Just take your time.’
Marian let out a deep sight of defeat. She was getting sick of taking her time. How long was it going to take to do something as simple as walk to the bloody post office?
She’d make a coffee and try again tomorrow, she thought, just as she did every day. Her heart lifted when she remembered that she could check her emails also and who knows, maybe the girl from the newspaper, Ruth Ryans, might even have replied to her by now. She’d always loved Ruth’s column – and if the truth be told, she wouldn’t even buy the newspaper if it wasn’t for that. For some reason she felt that she knew Ruth Ryans, the girl with the warm, Italian looks and curvy, friendly nature who seemed like she was everyone’s best friend.
‘How desperate have I become, Billy?’ she mumbled to herself, pinching tears from her eyes as she waited for the kettle to boil. ‘Writing to a young agony aunt for advice on how I’m going to get through Christmas and actually wishing for a reply. That’s what I’ve come to now.’
She sat down at the kitchen table and, with her hands shaking, she opened her laptop, hoping, as she had done every day since she’d written, for a reply from Ruth.
Maybe today would be the day. It was almost Christmas and Marian was running out of time to know how she was going to get through it all alone. She needed Ruth to answer and she needed her to answer quickly.
Chapter Five
Ruth
Seven Days before Christmas
‘Ah no! I knew this would happen! I’m so late! Shit!’
Bob jumps from his sleeping position on the armchair across from me, gathers his jacket, phone and wallet and races to the front door, the stench of stale smoke and alcohol wafting past me from my place on the sofa and my head throbs from lack of sleep from the night before. In a blink Bob is gone and here I am once again, left to pick myself up and get on with things, so I go stand in the shower, determined to wash away any traces of sadness and find the strength to face the day at my home office where I’ll read through letter after letter, email after email and choose which lucky members of the human race I’m going to share my worldly advice with in my next column or radio slot.
I hear the door slam as Bob leaves and it echoes into a skin-prickling silence, a sound that I should be used to by now, but I’m not. It’s suffocating, it’s overwhelming – and it’s a dark reminder that I am not moving on, not in the way my sister has or the way I’m pretending to be to the people who write to me with their problems.
The clock ticks and I drift off to sleep again, then wake in a cold sweat and sit up straight, so quickly that my head spins. I’ve had the dream again. Oh no, I’ve had that same dream and I can barely breathe because, as always, it’s so clear. She is standing at the top of the stairs, calling my name to come and help her with the Christmas tree. I try and find the stairs, but no matter what room I go into in this big, cold, empty house I can’t find her. I can’t find her and I can’t find the stairs. She keeps calling me, telling me she has been there the whole time; that she never really went away at all, that she’s still here somewhere and I just have to find her.
But I never do.
The house is silent. She is not here. There is no one here, except for me now and a solitaryFor Salesign that stands like a stiff flag at the bottom of the front garden. I need to move away from this house, but until I get a sale, I need to do some work.
Twenty minutes later after a hot shower and with a very strong coffee in my hand, I squint at my computer and the list of emails that await my attention. Despite doing this job for years, every day until recently I’d always get a flutter of anticipation when I’d delve into the lives of others and contemplate which ones to publish on my blog, which to choose for the weekly news column and which to save for the once-a-week radio slot. It used to be exciting, it used to be challenging; sometimes it would be downright heartbreaking too, but it’s always something that I knew I could do so well after all these years.
Yet today I don’t know where to start.
I open the first one, knowing already who it is from, but I decide it’s best to have an easy start.
Dear Ruth,
I have a big problem and this is what it is . . .
You’re in my dreams every night. Are you still single? Please say yes. Love M
I lean my head on my left hand and roll my eyes. Yes, I amstillsingle. No, I am still not interested.
‘M’ is my anonymous regular ego massage, my number one fan, and even though I have no idea who he (or she?) is, I know that I’ll hear from M at least once a week with a compliment on my physical appearance, my soothing voice of reason, my words of wisdom. There are a few like M who write me regularly just to give me empty faraway compliments, but if they knew how miserable I really am in real life right now they wouldn’t be so praising I’m sure.
