Closer Than You Think. Darren O’Sullivan
the shopping bag at my feet. Her eyes staying fixed on mine as she sat on the other end of the bench.
‘Yes, sorry. I’m fine. You shouldn’t have paid for my shopping.’
‘We wanted to. Can we take you anywhere?’ said the man, his voice deep and calming.
‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Can we walk you to your car?’
‘I’m walking home, thank you.’
‘Do you have an umbrella?’
I didn’t respond; the answer was obvious. The man dashed out into the rain into the car park, as a flash of lightning streaked across the sky. I counted, like I had as a child in the meadow behind my house, waiting for the thunder to clap. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, eight, eight… I couldn’t get past that number, I doubted I ever would.
The clouds slapped together, making me jump, and I saw the man had returned with a small black umbrella. He gave it to the pale woman, keeping his distance, as if he understood. She placed it on the bench beside me.
‘Are you sure we can’t give you a lift? Those storm clouds look pretty ominous. It’s only going to get worse out here.’
I looked up at her. Her eyes filled with compassion.
‘You shouldn’t have bought my shopping.’
‘Again, we wanted to.’
‘I saw you and panicked and picked up the wrong wine.’
‘Then we needed to pay for it. I’m sorry we startled you.’
‘I can pay you back, if you give me your details.’
‘I don’t want you to pay me back.’
‘I’m so embarrassed.’
‘The only embarrassing thing is that we live in a world where someone like you needs help.’
I felt pathetic, a grown woman in her mid-thirties, ten years older than the girl before her, unable to pay for her own shopping. I wanted to cry. But not here, not now. Above our heads the rain started to fall with more force. The drumming of thousands of drops hitting the metal roof sounding like an ocean rolling in. We both looked up.
‘Please, can we give you a lift?’
‘No, thank you. I need to walk. I can’t explain why.’
‘I think I understand.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then could you tell me, because I don’t,’ I said, smiling, hoping it didn’t look as sad as I felt.
‘I think you walking home in a storm is a fuck you…’
I laughed quietly, her words unexpected and true.
‘Yeah, that’s exactly it. It’s a fuck you.’
The woman rose to her feet and touched my shoulder before walking towards her partner who, out of respect, kept some distance. Just before they left she turned once more.
‘Claire Moore. You are the most courageous person I have ever met. That’s why it stopped. Never forget that.’
She smiled at me and though I desperately wanted to smile back, I couldn’t. I stared at her as she and the kind man walked away, climbed into their car and left.
Gathering the broken bits of my dignity I rose, replacing the headphones in my ears. Before stepping out into what would soon become a deluge, I scrolled through my playlist and chose some music. Opening the umbrella, I stepped into the rain. Another flash of lightning shot across the sky.
One, two, three, four, five…
Another clap louder than the music in my ears. The storm was drawing in.
With my head down, I set off. The music drowned out the noise of the rain hitting the roofs of parked cars. My return home was far less stressful than the walk in, the footpaths deserted, the air fresh and clean. I took my time despite the rain hitting the ground so hard it bounced and soaked the hem of my trousers. I felt safe when everyone else hid.
The music finished, the end of the short playlist, and silence ensued. The sounds of the world returned. Cars driving through the puddles, splashing water over the footpaths that drained into the puddles once more. Another clap of thunder, which made me jump. Not a surprised jump, but one laced with fear. I hadn’t seen the lightning before. The rain hit the top of the umbrella, tiny crackles like a thousand exploding fireworks, their rhythm transfixing, seducing. It stopped me in my tracks, took the world away, the roads, the houses. The tarmac, the daytime. And I was back in the dark, lying on my side, covered in grass cuttings, raindrops forcing me to keep my eyes closed. My head hurting, my stomach screaming. My foot twisted in agony. Sodden soil covered me because of the distance I had crawled. Under my nails, in my hair. In the gum line of my teeth. I tried to keep my eyes open, see what was coming. Face it head on. A coat, lowered over me, making a canopy, blocking the rain. The sound similar to the one I heard right now, the sound of a thousand fireworks.
A car driving past splashed my feet, snatching me away from my thoughts. I hesitated to understand where I was. Then, hoping I hadn’t been seen zoning out, I made my way up the road and to my front door.
It took me a moment to get my keys out and in the lock. Closing it behind me, I pressed my back into the wall. Told myself to breathe. Sliding down the wall I sat, the shopping bag to my right, and removed my sodden shoes and socks. My feet felt hot, the veins bulging across the tops. My eyes were drawn to the edge of my right foot. The skin was still bright pink even after all these years and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t remember what my foot used to look like before two of my toes had been cut off. But I could still remember that moment as clear as if it was yesterday. I could hear the sound that came from my mouth, the sound of the bolt cutters slamming shut. These memories were always there, just behind my eyes in a box I kept locked, but its lid wasn’t airtight, the dark light spilled through the cracks and keyhole when my vigilance slipped.
I wanted to text Mum but stopped myself. I knew what had happened. I knew how I was feeling and what my response to my feelings would be. It had happened before. I knew, despite not feeling like I could at the moment, that I would manage this and then my skin would be just that bit thicker. Hopefully, after enough of these moments, my skin would be so thick they would stop troubling me entirely. Hopefully.
Pushing the awful thoughts back I sighed, defeated, and took my phone out, knowing how the rest of the day would pan out. Opening my messages, I tapped the thread with Paul, my excitement clear to see in the brief words we had exchanged.
What a difference a few hours can make.
Paul, I’m sorry but can we rearrange? Perhaps tomorrow we could go for breakfast somewhere, or a walk in a park. I’m OK, nothing to worry about. Just had a rough trip to the shops. I’m not feeling myself. I’m really sorry.
I hated sending it, I wanted to see him. But not like this, and this would not shift until a new day had begun. Flopping onto my sofa, I turned on the TV and opened my Netflix account. I would find a new show to get into and I would stay there until I fell asleep. Then, I would get up tomorrow and try again.
As I was told, nearly ten years ago when recovering, tomorrow was another day, a chance to start anew.
Hello, Claire,
I came to visit you today. I watched you battle with a carrier bag and umbrella against the rain. Jumping when thunder crashed above our heads. You walked past me, on the other side of the street, twenty feet from me, your right foot clearly causing you discomfort, which I found comforting. Just before you turned onto your road, towards your house, you stopped, lost in your thoughts. I wonder if you were thinking about me? I wanted you to turn and see me across the road – I thought for a moment you did see me out of the corner of your eye.