Natalie, I wish you’d have said something to me earlier. I didn’t know you felt like I was overstaying. You had not made me aware about how long I could wait for. I often have difficulty picking up on social cues, and though I wish you had been direct with me, I am grateful for my time here. The unpolluted air has cleared my head. My words have come home. I have written over twenty new pieces about the unsophisticated green fields, the burning turf, the harrowing and uncertain sky. Thanking you and your incredible grandmother for the best fortnight ever.
I groan. Did I send him mixed messages? I re-read his note many times and decide that it implies no hard feelings. I go back to bed to nurse my hangover.
That afternoon, I feel lighter, relieved.
I open the lids of the pots in the kitchen. Gran is preparing carrot soup for lunch and potatoes and gammon for dinner. The smell of the boiling food makes my stomach lurch. I consider driving to town for a big feed of greasy chipper food.
Gran adds some turf to the fire.
I fill up the kettle and switch it on. ‘Just the two of us again, Gran. At last,’ I say. ‘Glad he’s finally fecked off.’
‘Who?’ Gran asks.
‘Fionn.’
She looks at me blankly. The kettle begins to rumble.
‘Fionn,’ I say, ‘the poet.’
‘Who?’
Guided Spin Tours
On a mild evening in early May, I come home from work to a smoked-out kitchen.
Gran flaps a dishtowel to banish the smoke towards the door. The cooker’s fan whirs noisily.
I rush past her and open the windows. ‘What happened?’
She flails. ‘I don’t know, Natalie. I was down in the room. Looking at notes, or cards, or at something and I forgot. I forgot dinner was on.’
‘Why isn’t the smoke alarm going off?’
The room is fogged with a putrid burnt food smell. I drive to town to buy batteries and some take-out Italian for dinner. When I return, the overhead fan of the cooker still mills around and Gran has a plate on her lap. She greets me as if I’m just home.
Fresh potatoes and frozen vegetables boil in pots on the hob. In the oven, cod bakes on the tray. Gran eats the burnt meat and spuds from earlier. The meat is a crunchy black and clacks off her dentures.
‘Gran, I got us something to eat from town.’
She glances around her. ‘But I have dinner on for you, Natalie.’
‘Well, I’m going to eat this food, Gran. Not as tasty re-heated and I’m starving.’
I wonder if I should tell my mother what’s happening, how Gran’s memory is fading, but there’s no need. She knows. We all do. Even Gran does during the times she’s fully with it.
It’s upsetting to watch Gran confused. It’s upsetting to react to her dithering with frustration. I try not to comfort eat and instead I swim every evening or go to one of the spin classes. The exercise helps me let go of the fear. I now understand what sweating away stress is.
During spin class, I daydream while pedalling. After a couple of months of frequently attending classes to release, I realize I actually enjoy them. They don’t hurt anymore. My muscles are used to it. I don’t get so red in the face. I’ve figured out how to breathe as I move. I’m not sure when this happened exactly, thinking back to my spluttering first few sessions.
Andrea encourages me daily. She encourages everyone. I suppose that’s why she’s a fitness instructor.
The gym is noticeably quiet as the days grow longer and brighter. People have kids to entertain, GAA matches to go to, holidays to take. Summer activities are prioritized over being inside.
I change for Andrea’s lunchtime spin session. Only four participants and me attend class.
It’s the usual format. I know when we’ll be climbing and seated and going hard or going fast. We’re being cued by the music like Pavlov’s cycling dogs, ready to pump or change gears alongside the song’s beats.
The class is nearly over when Andrea looks at her phone and then at the clock.
She hops off the bike and comes over to me. Her phone vibrates in her hand.
‘Nat, I’ve to take this call – go up to the top and cover.’
‘What? No. I can’t.’
‘Well, do it from here so. I’ll let them know. I really have to take this call. I’ll be back in five.’
‘Andrea, I won’t be able—’
‘Plan is to keep going with this for another two minutes, then do a three minute endurance ride. Take a drink break. Go for a minute and a half sprint low resistance. Okay? Thanks,’ she says.
‘No, wait,’ I say but she’s already at the door.
She turns to the studio and shouts, ‘Natalie is going to take over for five minutes, guys. Back shortly.’
I mutter ‘fuck’ under my breath.
The other four in the class fix their gaze on me and wait; they’re slowing down their legs. I have to act before they lose momentum. I compose myself and shout Andrea’s instructions to the group.
They indifferently press on. I seem to know naturally what to do but five minutes pass and Andrea’s not back.
I try to remember the cool down moves. Spin for a minute or so with all resistance off. One pedal to the floor to stretch your calf muscle. Swap sides. Off the bike. Quads. Stretch by holding the back of your leg to your bum. What’s the glutes one? Groin stretch by holding the seat and leaning to each side. Touch your toes. Arms. I can’t remember. Neck, turn to each side gently. Chest. Fuck.
Where is she? I look at the clock. The end of the sprint is near and there’s still seven minutes to pass until the cool down. How will I fill that time in?
Andrea winks at me when she returns. I feel light-headed with relief.
She mounts her bike and takes control again.
At the end of class, she asks, ‘How did that go?’
‘You dropped me in it.’
‘That wasn’t my question, Nat.’
‘It could have been terrible. A complete disaster.’
‘I asked how did that go?’
I grudgingly smile. ‘It was fine. It was kind of fun.’
‘You’re very capable, Natalie, if only you’d let yourself get on board with that idea.’
The sky is cloudless blue. People are in their summer clothes and the pubs and restaurants have set their tables and chairs outside. I drive through the town with the car windows open; the warm air blows onto my damp hair. The bypass is quiet and I play Motown’s Greatest Hits CD at top volume. I take the right onto the winding country road towards Gran’s house.
Calm envelops me passing the hilly green fields of cows, sheep and horses.
I turn down the music and pull into the driveway, drive around to the back of the house.
Gran is at the turf shed, a filled bucket either side of her. I wave and switch the ignition off.
‘Isn’t it a shame on me to go swimming on an evening like this?’ I say to her as I shut the car door. ‘It’s promised sunny till the weekend though.’
Gran’s not moving.
‘Do you want me to carry them inside? Mind your back.’
She’s not looking at me.
‘Why are you standing there?’
She turns to me, stares as if she’s trying to figure out who I am.
‘It’s me, Gran, Natalie.’
I am motionless now, I don’t want to startle her. The headlights on my car turn off automatically. Flies hover around in the fading blueish light.
My heart rate picks up. ‘Gran, are you okay? Has something happened?’
No response.
‘I’m going to take a step over to you. Don’t be afraid.’
I show her my hands and move slowly. She remains still. I put my arm around her waist. ‘Come and walk inside with me. We’ll get the kettle on. You’re freezing.’