The Truth About Love Read Free

Oh, I’m so ashamed of secret sin. “Bless me Father,” I try so hard not to commit secret sin. When it all comes over me I can’t stop. “Bless me father for I have sinned.” Oh bless me. So hard to tell that other sin when I stroked the hair of across-the-road girl. Name? I had her name! Where has my mind gone for a name? Tara! “Reet Petite.” Mama says you’re petite. I’m so sorry Mama, so sorry. You’ll be thinking of me. And crying all the time. Again. You’re not well, Mama. It was too hard on you, everyone said that last year when you cried and cried all the time. I used to go off to my room and hide in a corner when you cried so long last year after little sister died. And we all knelt and looked and looked that day at her as she lay white in her white communion dress and you wouldn’t leave the room would you Mama? Dr. Sullivan and Dada and Father Dwyer had to talk you out of the room. It took hours and hours. We sat outside waiting for you, Olivia, Daragh and me. And then after the funeral in the rain and cold we all came home and the house was full. And then it was quiet.
And then it was Christmas and I got a book. Was that my last Christmas?
“God, the hospital’s drenched in sunshine. It’s dripping in it. What a day. Like they said on Radio Éireann this morning, ‘Days like this don’t come in twos.’ What have I said? Don’t die on us all now, lad. Lad, can you hear me? Don’t die on us all! Though maybe it’s better. He’s destroyed, isn’t he? There’s Matron. Oh thank God she’s here. She’s one great woman with that starched headdress of hers and the rustling skirts. I’m surprised death ever defies her. I’m surprised she doesn’t bully death out of every bed in this hospital or laugh it out.”
Laugh death out of bed? Can I laugh it away? Can I laugh and be like the great hero of old Cúchulainn, who cried, “If I die it shall be from the excess of love I bear the Gael”? Ah, what a line! I’ve left no lines behind me. If I die I’ll have died silent. Nothing to be remembered by. I could have written something. A poem, even. Even one poem. Go away, Death! I’ll try laughing it away, like Cúchulainn. But now I feel a kind of rolling again and the woman is talking, the white and dark-blue woman.
“Oh my God! Childie! Dr. Sullivan and I delivered you. Ah childie, what have you done to yourself? Come here to me, childie. Darling lad, I helped your mother Sissy bring you into this world. Oh Sissy, what can we ever do for you now? All right everyone! Now up the steps. Right. Let’s get down to theatre. They’re waiting for him. It’ll be a long night what ever happens. Pray. All of you pray that Mr. Connelly—the best surgeon in the county—does the will of God tonight. The lad may be better off if God takes him. God will decide. But we’ll do our best. Hurry now. Hurry …”
Hurry! Run a race down the corridor. Down. Am going down life corridor. Into theatre. What play am I in? Real life. It’s real life! What is real life? Reen. Irene goodnight Irene … Reet Petite … Irene goodnight Irene. Reet reen reet … the finest girl you ever wanna meet … I go to meet my maker. Not yet! Mama, Dada, where are you? Where? Last hours, like Pearse. Alone. But I have no last poem for you, Mama. Not like his for his mother before the British shot him. We all had to learn it. Olivia used to make visitors cry when she recited “The Mother”: “I do not grudge them: Lord, I do not grudge / My two strong sons that I have seen go out / To break their strength and die …” Pale Pearse, pale like me, she says. Tried to be a hero to Mama. “Turn me over, don’t let my mother see me.” Not much of a hero. No one will tell my story. Oh Mama, I feel all wet and cold … I can hear you Mama: “Come in child. Out of the rain. You’ll get drenched. Come over here by the fire, I’ll hotten you up.” You always said that Mama. Oh thank you Mama for hot drinks on cold nights,