Normal People(65)

Did you hear Isa Gleeson is pregnant? she says.

I did, yeah.

Your old friend.

He picks up the can of beer and weighs it in his hand. Isa was his first girlfriend, his first ex-girlfriend. She used to call the house phone at night after they broke up and Lorraine would answer. From up in his room, under the covers, he would hear Lorraine’s voice saying: I’m sorry, sweetheart, he can’t come to the phone right now. Maybe you can talk to him in school. She had braces when they were going out together, she probably doesn’t have those anymore. Isa, yeah. He was shy around her. She used to do such stupid things to make him jealous, but she would act innocent, as if it wasn’t clear to both of them what she was doing: maybe she really thought he couldn’t see it, or maybe she couldn’t see it herself. He hated that. He just withdrew from her further and further until finally, in a text message, he told her he didn’t want to be her boyfriend anymore. He hasn’t seen her in years now.

I don’t know why she’s keeping it, he says. Do you think she’s one of these anti-abortion people?

Oh, is that the only reason women have babies, is it? Because of some backwards political view?

Well, from what I hear she’s not together with the dad. I don’t know does she even have a job.

I didn’t have a job when I had you, says Lorraine.

He stares at the intricate white-and-red typeface on the can of beer, the crest of the ‘B’ looping back and inwards again towards itself.

And do you not regret it? he says. I know you’re going to try and spare my feelings now, but honestly. Do you not think you could have had a better life if you didn’t have a kid?

Lorraine turns to stare at him now, her face frozen.

Oh god, she says. Why? Is Marianne pregnant?

What? No.

She laughs, presses a hand to her breastbone. That’s good, she says. Jesus.

I mean, I assume not, he adds. It wouldn’t have anything to do with me if she was.

His mother pauses, hand still at her chest, and then says diplomatically: Well, that’s none of my business.

What does that mean, you think I’m lying? There’s nothing going on there, trust me.

For a few seconds Lorraine says nothing. He swallows some beer and puts the can down on the table. It is extremely irritating that his mother thinks he and Marianne are together, when the closest they have come in years to actually being together was earlier this evening, and it ended with him crying alone in his room.

You’re just coming home every weekend to see your beloved mother, then, are you? she says.

He shrugs. If you don’t want me to come home, I won’t, he says.

Oh, come on now.

She gets up to fill the kettle. He watches her idly while she tamps her teabag down into her favourite cup, then he rubs at his eyes again. He feels like he has ruined the life of everyone who has ever even marginally liked him.

*



In April, Connell sent one of his short stories, the only really completed one, to Sadie Darcy-O’Shea. She emailed back within an hour:

Connell it’s incredible! let us publish it please! xxx



When he read this message his pulse hammered all over his body, loud and hard like a machine. He had to lie down and stare at the white ceiling. Sadie was the editor of the college literary journal. Finally he sat up and wrote back:

I’m glad you liked it but I don’t think it’s good enough to be published yet, thanks though.



Instantly Sadie replied:

PLEASE? XXX



Connell’s entire body was pounding like a conveyor belt. No one had ever read a word of his work before that moment. It was a wild new landscape of experience. He paced around the room massaging his neck for a while. Then he typed back:

Ok, how about this, you can publish it under a pseudonym. But you also have to promise you won’t tell anyone who wrote it, even the other people who edit the magazine. Ok?



Sadie wrote back:

haha so mysterious, I love it! thank you my darling! my lips are forever sealed xxx



His story appeared, unedited, in the May issue of the magazine. He found a copy in the Arts Block the morning it was printed and flipped straight to the page where the story appeared, under the pseudonym ‘Conor McCready’. That doesn’t even sound like a real name, he thought. All around him in the Arts Block people were filing into morning lectures, holding coffee and talking. On the first page of the text alone Connell noticed two errors. He had to shut the magazine for a few seconds then and take deep breaths. Students and faculty members continued to walk past, heedless of his turmoil. He reopened the magazine and continued reading. Another error. He wanted to crawl under a plant and burrow into the earth. That was it, the end of the publication ordeal. Because no one knew he had written the story he could not canvass anyone’s reaction, and he never heard from a single soul whether it was considered good or bad. In time he began to believe it had only been published in the first place because Sadie was lacking material for an upcoming deadline. Overall the experience had caused him far more distress than pleasure. Nonetheless he kept two copies of the magazine, one in Dublin and one under his mattress at home.

*



How come Marianne went home so early? says Lorraine.

I don’t know.

Is that why you’re in a foul mood?