How We Remember Read online

‘No, no, no, no. No. He can’t use your share. No, the deal’s done. It’s what Ma wanted, he can’t change that. It’s what the will says, you can’t mess around with a will, Jo. I’m the executor for Christ’s sake. It’s tough if he don’t like it, it’s the way it is. And I told him when I talked to him. I said, “Why are you being like this? You and Jo get everything when I’m gone.” And then he says to me, “But Dad, that ain’t gonna happen for a while and I need it now.” What a thing to say.’

  By this point I can hear his speech slurring.

  ‘I can’t talk about it no more,’ he says.

  We look at Tuesday, late afternoon, early evening as a possible time to sign the papers, give the lawyer our bank details and so on, so I need to check if Dave is available. I also want to look through my mother’s photos to see if I can put an album together to display after the memorial service at the restaurant where we’ll have the buffet.

  ‘Whatever you want,’ he says. ‘You know what to do.’

  I tell him I’ve been reading her diary. When I ask if he wants to read it, he says no.

  ‘I don’t want to know what she said about me, I told you. It’s the past, I don’t need to know. It’s your thing, you have it.’

  ‘Do you want anything in the eulogy, any little bits, special things about her or you together that I can say?’

  ‘Nope. Say what you want.’

  We agree that I’ll head over the next day sometime when he’ll probably be out. We both wish for this silently and acknowledge it’s for the best.

  Then I check emails and see a new one from Jon.

  OK, you must be busy. I’ll be working a bit from home tomorrow, we can try to speak then. By the way, looks like you forgot to pay your last credit card bill. Now you’ve got a red notice.

  For Jon, keeping in touch regularly when we’re apart is all he asks. ‘Just let me worry,’ he says. ‘Let me worry about you. Let me be the one who wants to hear your voice. What’s so wrong with that?’

  If it wasn’t for Constance Rosenfelt I never would have met Jon. It was through Constance that I found the courage to apply to the fancy pants Ivy League where I later took up a study abroad year in London. It was late in that first term when I spotted him in the student bar one night, ready and waiting. Willing, it seemed. I couldn’t believe my luck. Over the years I’ve seen that the happier things in my life have come my way from being in the right place at the right time. But I also know there’s a fair bit of effort in the trial and error needed to orchestrate the right conditions for good fortune; it all takes a lot of time before any rewards are handed out. I guess you could say that’s how things happened over the course of my college days before I met Jon. After that, life seemed to come a lot easier.

  After doing well at community college, an excitable student advisor called Benji sought me out to talk about my future. Benji had a lot of hair and a beard and a cuddly puppy look.

  ‘You know, with your grades here you should consider applying to the Ivy League universities,’ Benji told me. ‘Some of them have entry programmes for older students like you.’ He shuffled through his paperwork and circled a few items in red pen. ‘Oh, yeah. You’re looking very good on paper. Just the type they want,’ he said, smiling up at me, adjusting his glasses.

  I laughed at the thought. Yes, I had worked hard, actually discovered that I did have some kind of academic knack for which my teachers patted me on the back every now and then, but so what? I was under no illusion I was anything special, so he kind of took me by surprise.

  ‘But my high-school grades were average. You can see they weren’t so great, really.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Forget about the high-school stuff. They don’t care about that. They want to see your grades here and your potential. You’re twenty-four, right?’ He looked through his papers again and made a note. ‘That fits.’

  ‘But I have no potential for Ivy League,’ I laughed. ‘Plus, there’s no money. None.’

  I could barely get by then, having already taken loans for those classes, and I was working loads of hours to pay the rent, bills, and squeezing in study time. I lived on a limited menu of baked potatoes with grated cheese for supper when I was my healthiest. I alternated this with packet macaroni and cheese and visits home to my mother where I filled up on animal protein every now and then. In spite of my meagre diet, I never seemed to reduce in size.

  ‘Financial aid. Scholarship. I’d highly advise you to look into it. What can you lose? Just apply.’

  I went along with the idea and was offered an interview. Before the big day I had a look around the campus and noted a high volume of rich-looking, attractive students wearing designer jeans and smiles that conveyed their ease and sense of entitlement. When passing one group with tanned faces accented against their impeccable teeth, I caught fragments of conversation about how great spring break was in Acapulco. So much better than Florida last year. Way better.

  My interview was with the dean of the mature students’ programme and a student. The dean was an older-hippy soul who wore a flowing skirt and had long greying hair. The student was male, white, around thirty-five, with a buzz-cut. He wore thick glasses that made his eyes look tiny, like a rat’s, and a shirt and tie that made him appear more serious than the dean.

  I could feel the sweat in my armpit beginning to trickle down my right arm, but I was determined to hold my shit together and do my best to act like a smart person. ‘I’ve developed a very big love of the arts over the years,’ I said, sitting tall and smiling, just as I had practised in the mirror that morning. ‘I guess I showed some talent when I was younger for drawing but now I like to see art and learn about the history and all that sort of thing. I see you have a fine programme here for the arts, the liberal arts and fine arts and all other kinds of art stuff.’

  She nodded, smiled for a few seconds, and asked if I’d been to any exhibitions recently.

  ‘Exhibitions?’ I hesitated. ‘Oh yeah, I’ve seen Norman Rockwell’s work at the Norman Rockwell Museum in the Berkshires,’ I said, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. ‘On the way home from a weekend away.’

  It wasn’t exactly recent, but I had dragged my mother there on our way home from a day trip to western Massachusetts. The outing was Dave’s idea, his attempt, he said, to bring him, our mother and me together for the day. He had spent a weekend in the Berkshires once with a girlfriend he’d met during one of his stints in the hospital. I was always sceptical about these relationships of his. Weren’t these addicts just bound to encourage each other and fall off the wagon? Dave bragged that his girlfriend’s parents were academics. They had a big second home in the Berkshires near Amherst. Apparently they were from old money, a preferable option, Dave indicated, to new money types.

  ‘To look at them you’d never know it, you wouldn’t ever guess they were loaded. They don’t wear fancy clothes or drive nice cars. It’s all understated. But they have big houses, lots of money in the bank, and trust funds for their kids. That’s what Sally is,’ he said. ‘She’s a trust fund baby.’

  The rest of us who didn’t have the luck of being born into old money would be forever stuck in narrow, crevice-like places. But if they had trust funds and future inheritances, which meant they’d never have to worry about where their next meal came from, why were they just as messed up as we were? What excuse did they have? Wasn’t spring break in Acapulco enough to snap them out of their misery?

  ‘When I was young I always dreamed of becoming an illustrator and Rockwell’s been a favourite of mine,’ I told the dean. ‘I like Monet paintings too. I’ve been to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston.’

  The dean liked that. Then the subject changed to my impressive community college grades.

  ‘Well, we can see you’ve really worked hard in every subject. Looks like you’re a great all-rounder,’ she said with genuine interest.

  Rat-eyes decided to interject. ‘Why in the world did you take Intro to Physics if you might want to major in
art history? And what kind of things do you expect from doing a degree here?’ He narrowed his eyes even more in anticipation.

  I wouldn’t have taken the stupid physics class if someone at the college hadn’t said something ridiculous like, oh, it can’t hurt, you know, for a liberal arts degree, and you’ll definitely be able to transfer the credits, but I didn’t tell him this. Somehow I walked through the cauldron of his cross-examination and reached the other side intact. ‘Well, I’ve been so, so excited about just learning as much as I can about everything and anything in the world. Nothing’s ever wasted on me. Nope.’ I was quick on my feet, picking up on what the dean had said about being an all-rounder. I worked hard to sound natural and relaxed. ‘I want to be as well-rounded a human being as possible and try to understand the world in its entirety. Physics was tough and I got stuck sometimes but I saw my professor for lots of help and I felt so rewarded afterwards. And you know, I think art is a reflection of the world and everything in it, like physics and science and all sorts of other things. Politics. Philosophy. Yeah, I just want to learn everything.’

  ‘That’s really great. It’s so great. We like our students to be well-rounded and inquisitive,’ the nice dean said.

  ‘Yes, I can really see that. The atmosphere here just kind of gives that impression.’ I smiled, trying to imagine what Acapulco was like at spring break.

  The student continued to stare me down, sensing, I’m sure, that I was bullshitting. At that point I thought I was doomed. A feeling of failure loomed over me, but the dean extended a friendly handshake and quiet chuckle.

  ‘Thank you so, so much for taking the time to come and see us. It’s been so, so nice to meet you.’

  I liked this woman very much, although afterwards, when I retraced all that was said, I wondered, seriously, if her overly warm style was a form of sarcasm I hadn’t spotted earlier.

  Or maybe that was just my paranoia.

  A few weeks later I was shocked to receive a letter from the university telling me I was in, in spite of the student who hated me. I was accepted to the state University of Massachusetts, Amherst, also, around the same time, although they didn’t seem bothered about wanting to interview me and I didn’t care about visiting them. I’d looked through the brochure, been that way to see some of the Berkshires on that day trip I brought up during my fancy pants Ivy League interview. The University of Massachusetts, or UMass, was miles away in the green hills and mountainous western part of the state, a world apart from everything that was home and too familiar; parents, brother, mental hospital, weird aunts and uncles, a family combination that most sensible people want to avoid. A new start, that’s what I wanted. In my mind I constructed an image of myself as someone who worked a quiet job in a second-hand bookshop with a relaxed, contented smile on my face as I read all the books on offer. I thought, hey, maybe I could even try to pass myself off as one of those understated trust fund baby types.

  Constance asked me to call her straightaway with my news when the letter arrived from the Ivy League. I could hardly get the words out for tears when I tried to tell her the news. Maybe I was scared shitless. ‘I can’t go there. It’s for rich kids, not townies like me. I can blend in with the rest of them at UMass, that’s where I belong.’

  She didn’t reply right away. ‘Jo,’ she said, then hesitated. ‘If you don’t take this up you might regret it. It’s really simple. It’s just a better institution, better reputation. And there are others like you there, you’ll see. And look, they wouldn’t have accepted you if they didn’t want you.’

  So I told my mother my news, told my friends, convinced myself I should go to a fancy Ivy League university after all and that it was cause for a small celebration.

  My parents and I had beers in the back yard at the house. The temperature was mild, the evening May sun warm, a reasonable enough time for a barbecue. Dave was going to try to stop by later.

  At this point my brother had been married to Nicole for a few months. He was on a good path then, was clean and seemed happier than he had ever been in his life. Nicole and I had our differences, but at the time she was sweet enough in her own way. Her personality came across as a bit flat, a straight, boring surface with no challenging undulations or exciting views at any point. But her immutability seemed to work wonders for my brother and for that we were all grateful. Like a faithful canine companion, she appeared, without much effort, to steady his unpredictable ups and downs. They lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Chelsea, Massachusetts, although Dave was looking at exciting air-conditioning contract possibilities in Florida. That all meant he’d have to leave the homestead and his pretty new wife for a little while to stock up some earnings.

  ‘Jimmy, isn’t it great?’ Ma said. ‘Your daughter got into an Ivy League. Oh, Jo, that’s so great, it’s so… so great. I’m so happy for you.’

  She came over to my chair to offer a hug, tears in her eyes. My mother’s attention and excitement kind of made me happy and annoyed at the same time. Meanwhile my father was quiet, as usual, puffing away at a big cigar. At that time he’d grown a moustache, a goatee, and sported a stud earring. His expression showed a kind of fullness before he’d even eaten. It was the kind of look you might see on a fat cat.

  ‘Yeah, tell me something though,’ he laughed. ‘What kind of strings did you pull to manage that one?’

  ‘Oh, Jimmy, stop.’ My mother laughed, looking at me to see if I was laughing too, then slapped his arm. I chuckled along, hah, what a hoot, oh, what a riot, that was hilarious.

  Good question, yes, what kind of tricks did I play to gain entry into that ivory tower, that squeaky-clean place that reserves its seats only for those young, pert asses, the offspring of the distinguished, and, of course, did I mention already, the financially comfortable? I realised my dear old dad’s sting didn’t veer too far from the truth on this occasion. My average high-school grades wouldn’t have gotten a look in. This was when my good luck kicked in: I just happened to be around when the university admissions office was trying to do something to enhance the diversity of its student body. Not fair, really, having all these privileged trust fund babies all in one place, have to mix it up a bit, someone thought, get in some other types. I know, let’s contact those community colleges and see what kind of specimens they have. That’s why they included older townies like me who did OK at the local community college, where, let’s face it, there weren’t too many future Nobel Prize winners.

  As I guzzled my beers and took another one of my mother’s cigarettes (I couldn’t fight the longing during these visits home), I mused on the prospect of someone like me studying at a place where I knew I didn’t belong. In my head I began to add up the money from the loans I would need. I had already taken out loans to get me through community college, and I began to lose count of how many years I would be paying them all back. OK, so maybe I would borrow less, I thought, and just work as many evening shifts as I could at the printing company where I did casual work. Hah, who said I needed lots of sleep or food? It would be a long road, but then on the other hand, wouldn’t I land a dream job and have a dream life with an Ivy League degree?

  I took my beer to the front by the driveway and had a good look at the house. For years the brown paint on the window frames had been peeling away. A soiled off-cut from an old carpet was slung over the railing near the front door. The white door was stained with grimy fingerprints, particularly around the knob. Why hadn’t I noticed all of this before? The mess of what my father called his ‘car-repair business’ occupied the space at the side of the house where he had put up a corrugated lean-to roof. Dark oil spots permeated the tarmac; in the peak of summer heat they steamed up and created a stifling smell. Dirty rags, barrels full of spare parts, cans overflowing with cigarette butts, and tools filled every corner.

  Not far from all the filth was my father’s shiny Ford pick-up truck. Every few years he bought himself a new one to replace the old. The truck was needed, he claimed, to pull the six-person
-capacity motorboat that sat behind it, the newer one he just purchased, which allowed him to treat his love of deep-sea fishing. Priorities were important, after all. Parked on the street was his red two-door sports car, just washed and waxed, that was ‘better on gas, my everyday car,’ he had told me with a proud twinkle.

  My father’s cigar had left a thick scent in the air, even here. I had started to feel the dizzying effect of the alcohol and sat down on the front steps. After a few minutes my mind began to wander up and down: education, books, intellectual conversations – would I have them, would I not, could I fake them – work, jobs, money, more money, Acapulco, no money, never enough money, food, hunger, desire, understated clothes, trust fund babies, boats, shiny cars, more money, men, men’s smelly cigars, cool men’s earrings, booze, lies, strings, oh, and all those strings, the many strings being pushed and pulled, spun and weaved together into Jimmy O’Brien’s universe.

  Fourteen

  On the kitchen table during a fine and sunny Monday morning my father has left a list of instructions:

  Call the numbers Ma wrote down and tell them about the memorial

  Call this place and tell them not to send any more stuff for Ma

  Cancel this policy I dont even no what it is

  Go through Ma’s stuff upstairs kepe keep what you want get rid of everything else

  Theres more in the bedroom closet

  I start with the phone numbers of my mother’s friends and acquaintances, the one my mother titled, People to call when I’m gone. When they answer, some of their voices sound suspicious at first, like I’m about to try to sell them something.

  When I call to cancel my mother’s death by car accident insurance policy the salesperson tries to convince me to take one out for myself, in spite of the fact that I reside in the UK.

  My mother hated throwing things away or handing stuff over to charity. She was adamant she would find a use for everything again at some point. The upstairs room I shared with my brother became the hoarding place for old items such as the cheap winter coats and scarves my mother wore in the seventies, blankets eaten through in the middle by moths, extra sets of 100 per cent non-iron polyester bedding. Thrown into a laundry basket are at least ten pairs of shoes my mother bought for her nursing footwear. I remember watching her slapping on white shoe-polish some afternoons before rushing out for her evening shifts.