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SCORING TRIES AND MISSING FATHERS

Hugh

OCTOBER 30, 1995

“W HERE’S G IBS ?” I ASKED WHEN I WALKED INTO THE KITCHEN AFTER AN U10’S RUGBY game on Monday evening.

“Upstairs with Claire,” Mam replied, balancing on a chair while she tried to pin a pinata to the ceiling—something my father always did. “How did the match go?”

“We won, thirty-five to six,” I replied, dropping my gear bag by the door. “I scored a try and kicked ten points in conversions.”

“Good job,” she praised, smiling over her shoulder at me. “Did you thank Patrick’s mother for dropping you home?”

“Yes, Mam, I always thank Mary,” I shot back, trying to keep the sting out of my tone, but the bitterness inside of me was hard to navigate. “Dad said he’d come to this one.”

Mam sighed heavily. “Hugh.”

“He said he’d get out of the bed and come to this one,” I repeated, tone harder. “The whole reason I play rugby is because he wanted me to.”

“Hugh, love, I know you’re feeling let down, but your father’s struggling right now.”

“We’re all struggling, Mam,” I argued, unwilling to give him another pass on being absent. “Joe was Gibsie’s father, and Beth was his baby sister, but you don’t see him taking to the bed for five bloody months, now, do you?”

“Your father is a good man.” She parroted back the same words she’d been singing since he checked out on us. “He loves us more than a boy your age can comprehend, but he is grieving, and we need to understand that.”

“ I’m grieving,” I choked out. “ Claire’s grieving. You’re grieving. Why does his grief trump ours?”

“It doesn’t, but your father’s been diagnosed with severe depression and PTSD, sweetheart, and I know those are only words to you, but it’s not something he can just snap out of.”

“Why not?” I demanded, feeling beyond hurt that the man I’d grown up adoring just checked out on me. “Just tell him that he has to get back up.”

“Just because you can’t see your father’s illness, doesn’t mean that it’s any less deserving of empathy,” she replied, tone hardening. “Now, I understand you’re going through a lot, we all are, but that doesn’t give you the right to speak badly of your own flesh and blood, and I won’t have another bad word said about your father. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” I muttered, knowing now was the time to throw my white flag in. My mother worshipped the ground my father walked on and would go to bat for him no matter what. I used to think it was the same for Dad, but this year had me opening my eyes to a lot of ugly truths.

“Good boy,” Mam said in an approving tone. “Now, what do you think of my work?”

“It looks great.” Folding my arms across my chest, I leaned against the island and sighed in dismay. Every wall in the kitchen was decorated with a concoction of ghouls, goblins, and balloons. “But you know I’m not having a party this year.”

“Uh, yes, you are.”

“No, Mam, I’m not. I didn’t hand out invitations to the lads or anything.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing your mother has ‘the lads’ home phone numbers, isn’t it?”

“Tell me you didn’t?” I half begged, half groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t do it.”

“I sure did, baby boy,” she chirped from her perch, happy as a clam with herself. “The lads will be here tomorrow at two, like every other Halloween we’ve had since the surgeons removed you from my stomach.”

“Thanks for that,” I deadpanned, moving for the kitchen table. “What a lovely visual.”

“Be glad you only have to visualize and not experience it,” she laughed. “Now, perk up because we are going to have a massive celebration tomorrow.”

“There’s nothing to celebrate,” I muttered, dropping into a chair.

“I beg your pardon,” she feigned outrage. “How about the birth of my first and only son?”

“Mam, come on.” Slumped over the table, I rested my chin on my hand and sighed. “What’s that word that queen over in England used about having the year from hell?”

“Annus horribilis?”

“That’s exactly what this year is for us,” I told her. “1995 is our annus horribilis.”

“You know what, son? I think you might be too clever for your own good,” Mam mused, hanging a plastic skeleton from the ceiling. “I doubt there’s another mother in Ballylaggin whose child quotes Latin.”

I shrugged, too pissed off and sad to appreciate the compliment.