AOIFE
I SAW HIM AGAIN YESTERDAY.
Coming out of the GAA pavilion when I was driving home from work. Of course, I was wrong.
It wasn’t Joey; just some tall lad with his hood up, and a hurley in hand.
But I pretended it was him. For a split second, I imagined he was still here, and I wasn’t completely alone.
Depression had set in pretty quick after that, and I had eaten half my weight in cheese and onion crisps before passing out on my bed, with the scrap book I’d spent all summer making. I wasn’t entirely sure if it was a healthy hobby to have undertaken, but it gave me unmeasurable comfort, so I was going with it.
When I woke this morning, that scrap book was the first thing I reached for. It was like my own personal comfort blanket, filled with six years of memories of Joey Lynch.
Every photograph, every perfect summer night, every horrible roaring screaming match, everything I was from the age of twelve to this exact moment involved Joey.
Revolved around our relationship and the way he made me feel.
My eyes landed on a picture taken the night of my eighteenth birthday. I stared down at the two fresh-faced teenagers smiling back at me.
It felt like a million years ago, but I remembered the moment, the feelings
I had in my heart at that exact time in space.
“This is Daddy,” I said, stroking my ever-expanding belly, as I sat cross- legged on my bed and turned the page of my scrap book.
When I first started talking to my bump, it was right after Joey left for rehab, and I felt like a tool.
But now, it felt as natural as breathing.
All day every day, I chattered away to my little intruder.
Having Joey’s baby inside of me felt like I still had a part of him with me.
Like I was talking to him.
“See?” I let my finger trail over the photograph. “That’s your daddy holding the winner’s cup in third year. He was the captain of the school hurling team that year, and he was the best on the pitch. And that’s uncle Podge standing beside him, and right in the back with his shirt over his head is uncle Al. He’s a little unstable, but we love him anyway.” My gaze flicked to Paul who was also in the team photo, and I grimaced. “And that guy right there is Mammy’s first boyfriend. Daddy likes to call him Paul the prick.”
A weird little shiver rolled through me when the baby squirmed in response, causing my poor, overstretched stomach to ripple. “Take it handy, little hurler,” I cooed, stroking the part of my stomach where I felt the most pressure. “Poor Mammy doesn’t need any more stretch marks, okay? So, you just hang tight in there.
