Anybody Out There? (Walsh Family) by Keyes Marian

Author:Keyes, Marian [Keyes, Marian]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2009-03-17T04:00:00+00:00

42

I was trying to remember if Aidan and I had had rows. I mean, we must have had. I mustn’t fall into the trap of turning him into a saint because he had died. It was so important to remember him as he’d really been. But I couldn’t remember any major fireworks—no big shouty matches or kitchen implements being flung.

Of course, we’d had our disagreements: I used to get occasional bouts of jealousy about Janie and any mention of Shane made him tight-lipped and surly.

And there was that morning when we were getting ready for work and he was having trouble with his hair.

“It won’t go the way I want it to,” he complained, trying to push down a stubborn tuft.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “You look cute with it sticking out like that.”

Briefly, he lit up, then said, “Oh, you mean Irish cute—like a puppy. Not U.S. cute.”

“Cute, like adorable.”

“I don’t want to be cute or adorable,” he griped. “I want to be good-looking. I want to be handsome, like George Clooney.”

He put his tube of hair wax back on the shelf with a little more force than was strictly necessary and I got annoyed and accused him of being vain, and he said that wanting to look like George Clooney wasn’t vain, it was normal, and I said, “Oh, is it?” And he said, “Yes!” Then we continued our ablutions in huffy silence. But it was early in the morning and we’d had a late night the night before and were tired and had to go to work and we didn’t want to, and under the circumstances the whole thing was understandable.

And there were other things—it used to drive him mad when I played with the ingrowing hairs on my shins. I’d be having a great time, squeezing and tweezing—gross, I know, but is there anything more satisfying?—and he’d say, “Anna, please. I hate it when you do that.” And I’d say, “Sorry,” and pretend to stop, but I’d carry on, hiding behind a cushion or a magazine. After a while he’d say, “I know you’re still doing it.”

And I’d sort of snap, “I can’t help it! It’s my…thing, my…hobby, it helps me unwind.”

“Can’t you have a glass of wine?” he’d say, and I’d stomp off into the bedroom, where I’d ring someone and gouge away to my heart’s content. Sometime later, I’d reemerge in top form and we’d all be friends again.

Then there was that time we went to Vermont in the fall to see the changing of the leaves and I decided that he was taking too many photos. I felt that he was intent on photographing every fecking leaf in the state, and every time he pressed the button and unleashed that whirry noise, I got a funny, angry feeling in my teeth.

But as differences went, that wasn’t so bad and even our worst row ever had been about something really stupid: we’d been talking about holiday resorts and I said that I wasn’t that keen on outdoor showers.

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