Pack Up the Moon Read Online Free PDF

arrived with a sponge cake the first day we moved in and after that
    she became part of the furniture. John used to say that she came with the house. Doreen was kind, considerate, funny, sharp, strong, passionate and above all a deadly adversary. She was old Dublin and made no apologies. She was a second mother to me and Noel. We often went to her when any problem arose, but this was one that even the mighty Doreen couldn’t solve and she knew it, so instead she served food.
    John’s father sat in the garden on a plastic deck-chair
    alone and drinking whiskey. My father joined him and they sat in silence, both with tears resting in their eyes. There was nothing to say Anne held on to Richard for dear life, afraid to let go, and I knew how she felt. Sean just sat by the front window, chain-smoking and blindly watching the passing cars. The loneliness and guilt in his eyes was unavoidable and for me it was like looking at a
    reflection. He caught my gaze and I turned away
    It’s my fault.
    I stayed at my parents’ house for two weeks after the
    funeral, but it no longer felt like home. I was a visitor. Noel stayed too and it was nice, but we were all adults
     
    now and every day felt like an extended Sunday lunch. Everyone tried to say the right things but nobody knew
    what they were, even Noel. I wanted to go home, but they were worried about too many memories. Nobody seemed to understand that there was no escape from them
    and that I held them close. I wanted to roam around and pick up his jumpers and tidy them up. I wanted to smell his aftershave and lie on his side of the bed. I wanted to listen to our music and hold his shirts close to my face. I needed to be as close to John as I possibly could be, so that I could say sorry.
    It’s my fault.
    Eventually it was Noel who pleaded with my parents
    to let their vice-grip go. It was he who explained the feelings that I had difficulty sharing. He just knew it was right for me to leave, so that I could start to pick up the pieces. So I did. I went home. My mother cried openly when I left and my father held her and smiled at me
    bravely. When they hugged me, it was difficult to let go.
    My dad held me tight and bent down, whispering in my ear, “He was like my son. We’ve lost our boy but we will survive.”
    The tears that had dried up days ago fell once more
    and I was grateful for the release. My mother nodded her head, agreeing with someone invisible. I sat in the car and looked forward. When we moved off I turned to see my father holding my shaking mother.
    It’s my _fault.
    The house was empty and cold. Noel put on the heating. The kitchen was still the mess we had left it. He started to clean up but I stopped him. Nick Cave was in
     
    the CD player. John had been listening to his new album that day. I wanted to be alone but instead Noel made tea. I waited for him to talk about God’s ways and how it was
    a plan and that John was much better off but he didn’t and
    I was grateful. He stayed for one coffee and when he was confident that I needed to be alone, he left. I waved him goodbye and told him I would be OK.
    Liar.
    I sat on the sitting-room floor listening to Nick Cave
    sing sad songs for hours, crying, laughing, talking to John, talking to myself but mostly crying. I played the answering-machine message he had left over and over again.
    “Hi, you’ve reached six four zero five two six one. We’re somewhere exotic so leave a message and, if we like you, we’ll call you back.”
    Our home had become a museum and my present was
    now the past. I sat in the kitchen and gazed at his personalised coffee mug, the post-it he had had left on the fridge reminding me to get the brake-light fixed on the
    car, the piece of paper he had brought from college about his stupid space-hopper test. I stared at everything that had been his and cried for hours because he was gone and
    it was my fault.

Chapter 5
The Five Stages
    Grief is all-consuming. Grief is isolating.