Page 17 of Every Christmas Eve
‘Your dad used to say his heart lifted higher than he even knew possible when you played the harp,’ Mum toldme while we wallpapered the living room together in the summer. I chose a subtle violet and cream design which turned out nicer than I could have hoped for. ‘Maybe you’ll find your mojo again one day soon, even if in his memory.’
I know I will. I don’t know when, but I’ll play it very soon. I know I will.
Gracie FaceTimes me before bedtime. I’ve cleansed and moisturised my face, I’ve lit an organic cedar candle, and I’m convincing myself that I’m positively peaceful after a very strange day.
I don’t need a puppy or a cat or a turtle. I’m fine.
‘So, after all that, praise the Lord we got the pots all finished and delivered, but not before Declan came back to deliver a poster for the revived Charity Afternoon Tea Party at Ballyheaney House,’ I tell Gracie.
‘That’s the big fancy house you worked at when you were younger?’ she asks me.
‘That’s the one, yes.’ She is on her lunch break at university and eats a sandwich while we catch up, as we try to do a few times a week. ‘It was one of those days when I couldn’t catch my breath at all. I was running around in circles, but we got all the orders out, then I delivered a birthday bouquet to a local lady who turned one hundred years old today. Now, that was special, especially when I gave her a hug and her old eyes glistened with delight. But I really wasn’t expecting to hear about events at Ballyheaney House, was I? I mean, I’d enough chat about that with Nana Molly on Monday when she first heard it on the grapevine. As if I’m going to that, charity or not.’
I imagine Gracie is only half listening as I rant and rave about a place she doesn’t really know an awful lot about, apart from what I’ve told her and what she’s learned through brief holidays here throughout her twenty years.
‘I don’t get it,’ she says, scrunching up her perfect face. With her freckled nose and almond-shaped eyes framed with dark, wavy hair a mirror image of mine, she is my past, present and future all rolled into one, yet we can be as different as chalk and cheese on a lot of things too. ‘The lovely old birthday lady with tears in her eyes is beautiful. I get that. But what’s the big deal with the charity thing? Who cares if you go or if you don’t?’
I hold up my mug of tea as if it’s a shield, already in a state of defence.
‘You’re absolutely right, Gracie. Who cares about it? It’s no big deal whatsoever,’ I reply, wondering too why I’d felt the need to mention the party to my daughter who lives on the other side of the Atlantic.
‘Well, you do, it seems.’
‘Erm, well, I guess it was … yeah, I suppose I was being nostalgic, that’s all. Ballyheaney House and the Christmas Eve party was once a big part of my late teenage years,’ I say, doing my best to explain without explaining the whole truth. ‘It was a coming-of-age thing, I suppose, and quite a treat back in the day. Maybe you could go with your gran, eh? That might be nice for you both. I don’t think it’s Nana Molly’s thing, but your Nana Liz wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
I’m rambling as I always do when I’m either nervous or trying to paper over the cracks of a conversation.
My daughter pushes her face closer to her phone screen in a comical way that makes me only able to see one of her huge brown eyes. She slowly pulls back again, her eyebrow arching and her lips pursing tight.
‘So, you’re not going?’ she asks.
‘No,’ I reply.
‘And it’s no big deal?’
‘Right.’
‘Yet you felt the need to tell me about it not once but twice this week,’ she reminds me. ‘And you think I might like it?’
‘Maybe?’
‘So, why don’t you go too?’
Jeez, I sometimes forget how my own daughter can read me like a book even through a tiny screen when she’s thousands of miles away. I wonder how she manages to tell exactly what I’m thinking just from my face, my tone of voice, or some totally unrelatable piece of useless information about a charity event in a tiny village in Ireland which has absolutely nothing to do with either of us.
‘Forget I even mentioned it.’
It’s the best I can come up with, other than give her a complete history lesson on happenings from before she was born.
‘Mom?’
‘Gracie?’
I’m ready for her to pry and quiz me some more, but instead, when I look at her properly, I’m almost sure I can see tears well up in her eyes. My daughter may be able to read me well, but I will always be able to read her better.
‘Oh my gosh, what’s wrong, baby?’ I ask her as I set mymug of tea on the coffee table. I swoop my phone into my hand from where it was balancing. ‘Was it something I said? What’s going on, love? Are you in some sort of trouble?’
She looks away and rolls her sleeve over her hand, then holds it up to her face.
