Hidden Dips

It’s almost time. The WhatsApp notification popped up on my screen about six months ago: Kitty has added you to the group “Scoil Mhuire Reunion: Class of 2004”. There were streamer and champagne emojis in the group name, like congregating in a room with a large number of now relative strangers after twenty years, was the celebration we had all been waiting for. I turned to show Niall. “Why would you want to spend a night with a bunch of culchies you haven’t spoken to in two decades?" he scoffed. “Hey, I’m one of those so-called culchies!” I laughed, throwing a cushion across the couch at him. He jumped up to dodge the hit, those brown eyes twinkling at me as he sauntered out of the room. He could get away with anything with just a look. There was a poll about the date and the venue. I voted for the 26th of October, knowing that was the only date I wouldn’t be able to make it. I was delighted when it was agreed upon. Niall and I weren’t going to be around, everything was booked. I couldn’t see the road that was ahead of me then, how everything was going to fall apart. I don’t have that excuse anymore now.

The activity in the group started to ramp up around the beginning of September. Christina Ryan was “gutted” that she couldn’t make it but wanted load of pictures of what she’s sure will be a “mad” night. Several thumbs-up reactions, with one or two sad faces. Tommy Bourke posted a picture of a twelve pack of Tuborg with the caption: “Better start training now, lads.” That one got lots of crying laughter reactions. I muted my notifications after that and started searching for cheap flights to anywhere for the October Bank Holiday weekend. Sadly, it turned out that they don’t exist.

“You should go, pet.” My mum urged gently one Thursday afternoon. “It would be lovely for you to see all your old pals again.” I sighed heavily. “They weren’t my pals, Mam,” I started, but she had already turned on the hoover and was crashing around the room, banging into furniture. I lifted my feet as she leaned forward and thrust the nozzle underneath the couch. She liked the house to be just so, and no man, woman or child was going to stop her from achieving her aim. “A place for everything, and everything in its place” she would chant. That is how she was in all aspects of life, really. Only show what you want others to see. Everything else was put away or swept under the rug. I watched her move around the sitting room with a contented little smile on her face, and I wondered if I could be happier if I just chose to rewrite my memories like she did.

I turned my attention to the bay window. The rain was coming down heavier now, and a mist was descending the mountain opposite, shrouding it in brume and obscuring its peak. I felt a pull to climb up through the woods and lift the veil of fog, to tuck myself away with the mountain until the storm had passed. I visualised the summit through the clouds, one that I had climbed many times, with the dog, with friends, with Niall. He proposed to me up there. I vividly remembered standing on the plateau, staring out at the surrounding farmland. A neat patchwork of fields, with houses dotted here and there. To the left, I could make out the church steeple and surrounds of town. To the right, a collection of wind turbines rotated silently in the distance. You could see eight counties, on a clear day. I squinted at a shimmering object in the distance - a person hang-gliding across the horizon. I turned to point them out to Niall, only to find him down on one knee. We hugged and cried and laughed and giddily skipped down the mountainside to tell everyone the good news. That was the last time we climbed to the summit together. The last time I reached it, at all. Now the mountain hid from me, as though trying to convince me that it didn’t exist. It was gone, along with the life I thought I would have.

My phone lit up. It was a message from Jo. Hey, are you going to this thing at the end of the month? I jolted upright – if Jo was going, then I actually would have a friend there. We could be weird in the corner and laugh about stupid stuff until it was over. I wouldn’t have to make small talk or answer awkward questions. It would be bearable, just like old times. I started to reply, when a second message came through. We’re heading to Malaga with the kids for midterm, so I won’t be able to make it. We’re desperate for some vitamin D, ha ha. Let’s meet for a chat soon, though, yeah? Hope you’re doing OK. X

I blinked away the sudden surge of tears and swallowed the lump in my throat. Mum pretended not to notice as she dragged Henry over the door saddle and out to the hall. The hoover spun as she tugged at it, and he gave me a knowing look as he retreated out of the room. The WhatsApp group had forty-seven unread messages.

Two weeks later, Mam asked me to go into town for her. She needed a prescription collected. Her ankle was flaring up again. The steering wheel jerked in my hands as I hit every puddle on the narrow laneway up to the main road. I rolled up and down the hidden dips, automatically saluting every car that I passed along the way. The town seemed deserted as I pulled in outside the chemist. Small blessings, I thought, the bell chiming overhead as I pushed open the heavy door. The familiar medicinal smell filled my nostrils as I spotted Seán Mahon Senior in his usual place behind the counter. The man must be a structural support for the building at this stage. If he goes, the whole place will tumble to the ground. He smiled at me over his glasses as he handed me the prescription and asked after my mother. He seemed to know better than to ask how I was doing. Mam obviously couldn’t sweep that nugget under the carpet.

As I fumbled with the car keys outside, a familiar voice called my name. “Finnuala Gaffney, is that you?” It was Tara O’Brien. Wife, Mama Bear and Coffee Addict. She could add WhatsApp group admin to her Insta bio now. I recognised her beaming smile from her photos, although she looked different in person. Still thin, still pretty, but drawn. Her makeup could not conceal the tiredness in her eyes. She was pushing a buggy with a fussing newborn inside. “Oh, hey, Tara. How are you?” “Oh, I’m great! Yeah, yeah,” she inhaled rapidly as she spoke. “Really good – busy. But great. Ya know?” She rocked the buggy back and forth while cradling her Stanley cup. The baby’s face started to contort in muted agony. “How are you? I heard you were back in town! I hope you can make the reunion next week. It would be lovely to catch up with you.” I began to utter a series of guttural sounds, when a toddler materialised from behind her and started swinging out of her arm, shouting, “Mommy! I want to go to the playground, now!” An identical tot stuck his head out from underneath the bassinet. “Playground, playground, playground!” he chanted, punching the underside of the buggy. The baby was crying now. “Jesus Tara, will you come on? I want to get back in time for kick-off!” I turned in the direction of the gruff voice and saw a middle-aged man with a ruddy face tapping his foot. He had scruffy stubble flecked with grey and bloodshot eyes, his navy puffy jacket straining to contain his simmering anger and protruding beer belly. It took me a moment to recognise him as Tim Costigan – one of our former classmates. Jesus. The years had not been kind. He hoisted up his jeans onto his hips, mercifully covering the crack of his arse, and gave his wife an annoyed look. I supressed a shudder. Niall had started speaking to me like that, towards the end. Tara gave an apologetic smile, as their free-range infant started to whinge more insistently now. “Mom! I want. To go. To the playground!” “OK, my darling! Mommy is coming now.” She turned to me as her child man-handled her down the street towards her glowering husband. “Well, I hope to see you again soon! Must keep moving, you know how it is!” “Ha, ha, yeah!” I replied. “See you.”

That evening I sat on the couch scrolling and thinking about Tara. We had never been friends, if anything, I felt intimidated by her in school. She always seemed so confident, so sure of herself and what she wanted in life. While I, on the other hand, did my best to survive and get the hell out of town as soon as I possibly could. My plans didn’t extend any further than that. Foresight is not an ability that I have ever tapped into. I remembered feeling jealous when I heard about her wedding and apparently idyllic family life. But I thought everything was finally coming together since I met Niall. She must have heard about me too, I supposed. The phrase “jilted bride” had a way of getting around in a small town. But she never brought it up, never gave me that pitying look that I had seen so many times in the past few months. Instead, she seemed genuinely excited to see me, to talk to me. I scrolled down to her latest Instagram post. A photo of her with her smiling husband and children at the playground. (The baby probably just had wind, but it was well-captured). The caption read, Playdate with my favourites. Love heart emoji. The tiredness was filtered away. Fifty-two likes and counting.

I went out the front before dinner to catch the last of the evening light. Sitting on the flaking wooden bench, I watched the sun sink between the mountain and the conifers, a blaze of orange and red stretching out and mingling with the encroaching twilight. I could see the craggy elevation clearly now, its silhouette standing proudly against the dusky backdrop. I thought back to the last time Niall and I tried the hike up. It had rained heavily the day before, and the woods were muddy and boggy. I made a stupid joke about April showers in July that went down like a lead balloon. He had been in a foul humour all morning; he hadn’t wanted to come down for the visit. I thought the walk would do us good. A gentle reminder of happy times. “Can you slow down a little please?” I called after him, as he ploughed upwards through the trees. I kept slipping on the path and had fallen behind. “Ah come on Finn, I want to make it up before noon!” he retorted, without looking back. “There’s more rain forecast for the afternoon.” I sped up to catch him, my left foot slipping diagonally down off the rugged path. I instinctively hastened to correct myself, but lost my balance and fell forward, landing hard on my right hand. I let out a strangled cry and Niall stopped to see what had happened. He didn’t rush over to me, to see if I was okay. He just called out “Are you alright?”, from fifteen metres away. I could feel hot tears forming. “I think I’ve sprained my wrist”, I answered softly. He was standing, his face and torso turned towards me, his feet pointing in the opposite direction. “I don’t think I should keep going”, I sniffed, gingerly holding my wrist in my hand.

I studied his face. There was an absence of concern, compassion, of anything, really. In that moment I felt as though I were looking at a stranger. He glanced back up the path. “Do you think you can make it back down by yourself? I really need to do this today. For my head”, he explained. I just nodded, mutely, and off he went. He had been all apologies that evening, when he finally returned hours later to find me with my arm in a cast. There was a smell of stout on his breath as he leaned in to give me a rough kiss on the cheek. “I bumped into Michael Greed on the way back,” he stated casually, as he installed himself on the couch beside me and stretched out his legs. “We decided to go for a few pints and a catch-up.” He reached for the remote and switched over to the football. I made my excuses and went to bed.

You could probably call that the beginning of the end, and when he did eventually leave me, I really believed that was the end. Of my happiness, my purpose, my life. A life like Tara O’Brien’s. A life I so desperately wanted. I felt as though I had been tipped into a pit of despair and abandoned, a crumpled wreck. I hadn’t attempted to pull myself out of it. It never even occurred to me that I could. A vibration from my jacket pocket brought me back to the present. I sat there, my fingertips tracing back and forth between the exposed grain and peeling paint. A murmuration of starlings danced across the sky, their mesmeric undulations holding me in a trance. Red sky at night. I mused. Tomorrow will be a good day. I made a mental note to dig out my hiking boots before bed. For the first time in a long time, I could feel a sensation other than grief, anger or apathy seeping into my body. More than just hope, it was a feeling of freedom. A faint smile crept across my face. I inhaled the scent of my mother’s fuchsia, distant chimney smoke and neighbouring livestock, and held it for as long as I could. I breathed out long and slow, watching my breath dissipate into the atmosphere, and releasing the crippling anguish in which I had become encased. I felt lighter, somehow. I reached into my pocket to retrieve my phone and started to type. Overhead, the starlings swooped and soared, and my heart soared with them.