by Shelia McWade
Check the door. Go back and check the door. You did close it and lock it and it is secure but you’re running back to check. Fool! What were you thinking, actually thinking when you closed the door not a minute ago and turned the key in the lock to lock the door, lock the house? See, it’s closed and it’s locked and the house is secure and you can go about your business now, please. Please? Car keys, now don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the car keys. No, they’re here. Zipped in the upper pocket, right-hand side. Well done. Now first. Where first? Where do you want to go first? What do you want to do first? God, it’s cold. Should you go back for a heavier coat? No! Go! Look, it’s good to be up and out and it’s good to be busy even though it’s early yet and it’s cold and really bed is the place to be at this hour but there’s no point in staying in bed because you didn’t sleep, did you? And if you did at all it wasn’t much. So easy does it now. Take it gently ‘cause the concentration’s not so good when you haven’t had your sleep. No one’s is. This is a great car for it starts first time every time. If only people were as reliable as this car. Dependable. You can depend on nobody these days. Where are you going first? Where? Did you decide that? No, you didn’t. Let the engine heat up and open the glove compartment where you keep the cloth and dust down the dash and think. Left sweeps, right sweeps, circle round the steering wheel, fold the cloth and put it back. Recycling first, clear out the rubbish, that’s therapeutic and besides you don’t want those milk Tetrapaks stinking any longer in the boot than they have to. Putrefying. Disgusting.
Music. News. Music or news. Which is it to be? Some days you can’t get enough of the news, depending on what the news is of course and if it’s of interest to you and even a bit of craic, and on other days you just can’t be bothered with it because it’s, well, it’s all too scunnering. And you have to be in the mood for music. What kind of music? Loud or soft or classical or country or pop or whatever, decisions you can’t be bothered to make sometimes and now it’s a decision you just can’t make so you’ll have nothing. You’ll settle for silence. For to tell the truth you don’t know what you think about music or anything at all or should be thinking for that matter so it’s best not to think.
How’re the lads? Give them a wave there. Hello! They all think they know you now, waving you on through the barrier to the bottle banks, the paper banks, the Tetrapak bank. Banks. Banks!
Crazy! You love throwing the bottles, one after the other without pause smashing glass on glass and breaking into smithereens, shards, slivers of sharpness that can cut into your skin and release blood that bleeds out and empties the very innards of you. Blood banks. They have blood banks. Where they keep blood. But they don’t want your blood. They can’t afford to have your blood.
Damn milk. Boot stinks. That needs air freshener. You should get this stuff. It says on the can that it doesn’t just disguise the pong but it actually neutralises it. They’ll say anything these days. Give it a go. And get some bleach, three for a pound, the good thick stuff. Bargain. And matches. Batteries, sure why not? This trolley is hopeless. Should have taken a basket but you didn’t think and it’s too far now to go back for one and now you’re here you may as well get something edible. Organic carrots, don’t have to peel them. Healthier. Yeah, healthy. And organic and free-range chicken. That’s supposed to be healthy too. You’d like to think. They say it’s never too late to be healthy.
If you look after the car, the car will look after you. Four tyres, thirty pounds of pressure per square inch, three down, one to go. And bonnet up and water in and bonnet down. And a fill of petrol and a paper and a Lottery ticket - a Lucky Dip because you couldn’t trust yourself to pick your nose let alone six winning numbers plus the bonus. It’s all a lottery. Now, are you seriously going to buy that paper you won’t read? Don’t be daft, leave it back. Have a packet of sweets instead. Mints. The ones with the hole. Better. Suck. Suck one. Suck two. Suck three, four all at the same time, swilling them about your mouth until your hot saliva melts them and your teeth crack them and you nibble them to tiny pieces and swallow. In one. Four more. Suck.
The traffic’s picking up now. You follow it. Red. You stop. Amber appears. Green. You go. You obey the rules of the road. All is done. Nowhere to go. Drive. Drive at thirty. Keep to thirty miles an hour. It’s hard, isn’t it? Especially when you want to put the boot down and tear up and down the road without looking backwards or forwards and feel the speed and the world-melting thrill of it.
Text message. ‘Where are you?’ You don’t want to know. You drive on. You drive further away. You arrive at a car park on the outskirts of the city. ‘Park and Ride’ says the sign. You park. You see a van selling teas, coffees, hot snacks. A fat woman with hair scraped back from her face does not look at you as she points and says ‘Milk and sugar there.’ You are sweet enough. You just add a tiny drop of milk and stir and stir as you stare at the girl who hates her job.
Back in the car. The phone rings. You pull out the cup holder and set the scalding tea inside it. You look at caller display. You press receive.
‘Pat? Pat, we need to start treatment as soon as possible. I’m so sorry.’
You open the car window and pour away the tea you did not want. Then you open the car door and you step out. And with the longest throw you can muster you throw away the cup.
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A few words from Sheila:
“I lost my only sister Bridgheen to cancer in 2003. She was an inspirational woman, dedicated to life and love. In the months prior to her death, she married, went to Paris, came back, went to Lake Como, came back, bought a house, adopted a dog. She loved life and led her beloved family and friends from the front to meet it head-on. That is her legacy. Life’s precious. Live it. Love it. Do with it what you love. I am Sheila McWade from Belfast, Ireland. I’ve given up a successful acting career, and 17 years in a TV soap opera, to pursue my real passion, writing. I’m now an MA student in Creative Writing at Queen’s University, Belfast. I’m back at college - and I love it!”