The Closet of Savage Mementos by Nuala Ní Chonchúir

him.
    ‘I don’t know whether I’m going to feel this bad forever, or if at some point it will be easy to think about him,’ I say. ‘Think about him lightly, you know, without feeling pain? Grief is so hard.’
    ‘It sure is; grief is work, it’s an active thing. Where do we put it all? The memories, the sadness, the constant feeling of loss. The dead only continue to exist because we talk about them, right?’
    ‘You don’t believe in an afterlife?’
    ‘I believe in the rebirth of souls, Lillis. Something of my mother lives on in Charlie, I’m sure of it.’
    I look at Charlie, at his moony face, and find it hard to believe that somewhere inside his fat little body, so soft and open to the world, lies the residue of his Irish granny.
    ‘Dónal didn’t believe in any of that, so I don’t really either.’
    ‘But you feel Dónal around you, don’t you?’
    ‘I suppose. Well, yes, in my dreams. At night especially, that’s when I sense him close by.’
    ‘So, you see, he hasn’t left you. Not completely.’ We do a circle of the village and by the time we are back to Market Street, Charlie is fast asleep in his buggy. Margaret lets us into her house and, after parking Charlie in the hall, we sit in the soft light of her kitchen, listening to the kettle boil. ‘I suppose you have to ask yourself where Struan fits into all of this. Is he replacing Dónal?’
    I look at Margaret, at her amiable, searching face and I realise that I do not have an answer to her question. I shrug and she gets up to brew the tea.

Chapter Eight
    V erity sent my father to tell me that Dónal was dead. Dónal had asked me to go to a New Year’s Eve party with him, in some flat off the South Circular Road. He gave me the address and I said I would see him there, but I had gone to the pub with my college friends and didn’t make it. When my buzzer rang on New Year’s Day I thought it was Dónal, come to give out and tell me what a great night I had missed.
    I leapt from my bed, pressed the intercom button and hopped back under the covers. After a minute or two, the door opened and Anthony stood there, not speaking.
    ‘Dad?’ I pulled my dressing gown from the end of the bed and wrapped myself into it. I was footless the night before and aches were clawing at the inside of my face, my mouth and my brain. I pointed at my head. ‘Hangover. But Happy New Year.’
    Anthony nodded and stepped into my bedsit, closing the door after him. ‘Lillis, I have news; it’s not good.’
    I jumped towards him. ‘What? Is it Verity? Robin?’
    ‘No, they’re fine. Look, Lil, there’s been an accident.’ He put me sitting on the bed and then sat beside me, his arm around my shoulder.
    ‘You’re freaking me out. Is it the boys?’ I was sure something had happened to one of the two sons he had with India.
    ‘No, not the boys. Lillis, Dónal Spain came off his motorbike last night and I’m afraid it was fatal. He died instantly.’
    ‘What? No.’ I looked at Anthony to see why he was saying this to me. ‘That’s ridiculous. No.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Lillis. It happened along the canal in the early hours of this morning. His bike hit a wall.’
    I could hear what my father was saying but holding onto the truth of it, the facts of what he had said, was like trying to grip a wet eel. I shook my head.
    ‘No, no, no.’ I wanted to climb back into bed and I wanted Anthony to go away. I laughed. ‘I’m dreaming,’ I said, relieved, and I grabbed at my father, sure he would not be there at all. My hand clutched the hairy back of his hand and he took hold of my fingers, pumping them up and down as if I were a child again and we were playing a game.
    ‘He’s gone, Lillis. I’m sorry. Look, why don’t you get dressed and come to Verity’s with me? You can go and see the Spains. They’ll need all the support they can get. You should be there; they’ll want you there.’
     
    The fish and salt smell of the Atlantic wound its way up the