The Woman Who Walked Into Doors (17 page)

He pushed me back into the corner. I felt hair coming away; skin fighting it. And a sharper pain when his shoe bit into my arm, like the cut of a knife. He grunted. He leaned against the wall, over me. I heard the next kick coming; my fingers exploded. Another grunt, and my head was thrown back. My head hit the wall. My chin was split. I felt blood on my neck. Again. Again. I curled away to block the kicks. I closed my eyes. He kicked my back. Again. My back. My back. My back. The same spot again and again. He was breaking through my back.

The grunting stopped. He was finished; he'd no wind left. I could hear him breathing, slowing down. He was wheezing. I waited. I curled up, tried to push the pain away. I stopped thinking and waiting; I didn't look; I didn't do anything. I tried to spread the pain through my body, to take it away from my back. I could hear whining and crying, breathing. It was me. I heard noises from far away. Charlo was going up to bed. Lights turned on and off. Water running. I stopped listening. I stopped everything. I was a ball in the corner.

I'm everywhere. I'm nothing. Someone is breathing. I won't move; I don't know how to. Someone's in pain. Someone is crying. It isn't me yet. I'm in black water; it's cold and soothing. Someone is crying. Someone is vomiting. It will be me but not yet.

He'd bring me a cup of tea. Or a Flake. That was all it took. A tiny piece of generosity — a kiss, a smile, a joke. I'd grab at anything. And I'd forget. Everything was fine. Everything was normal. He'd put the Flake in the fridge and let me find it. That took planning; the kids always had their heads in the fridge, especially at night — his timing had to be perfect. That was all it took. I still break them before I unwrap them. I sometimes cry when I eat them.

The doctor never looked at me. He studied parts of me but he never looked at my eyes. He never looked at me when he spoke. He never saw me. Drink, he said to himself. I could see his nose twitching, taking in the smell, deciding. None of the doctors looked at me.

I didn't exist. I was a ghost. I walked around in emptiness. People looked away; I wasn't there. They stared at the bruises for a split second, then away, off my shoulder and away. There was nothing there. No one looked; eyes stared everywhere else. I could walk down the street, I could sit in the church at mass, I could go up for communion. I could answer the door, I could get on the train, I could go to the shops. And no one saw me. I could stand at a checkout and empty my trolley, pay for what I was buying. I could hand over my money and get my change and stamps. I could push past people and let them pass me. I could say Please and Thank you. I could smile and say Hello. I could smile and say Goodbye. I could walk through crowds. I could see all these people but they couldn't see me. They could see the hand that held out the money. They could see the hand that held open the door. They could see the foot that tried on the shoe. They could see the mouth that spoke the words. They could see the hair that was being cut. But they couldn't see me. The woman who wasn't there. The woman who had nothing wrong with her. The woman who was fine. The woman who walked into doors.

They could smell the drink.
Aah.
They could see the bruises.
Aah, now.
They could see the bumps.
Ah now, God love her.
Their noses led them but their eyes wouldn't. My mother looked and saw nothing. My father saw nothing, and he loved what he didn't see. My brothers saw nothing. His mother saw nothing. Denise saw nothing — at first. (Carmel was living in England.) The woman who kept walking into doors.

—How are you?

—Grand.

Ask me.

In the hospital.

Please, ask me.

In the clinic.

In the church.

Ask me ask me ask me. Broken nose, loose teeth, cracked ribs. Ask me.

No one saw me. I was fine, I was grand. I fell down the stairs, I walked into a door. I hit myself with the heel of his shoe. I looked older than my age; what age was I anyway? It was my little secret and they all helped me keep it. He held me still and butted me. He dragged me around the house by my clothes and by my hair. Fist, boot, knee, head. He hurt me and hurt me and hurt me. (Carmel saved me; Carmel was the one. Carmel saw what was happening, and she made me see. And she made the others see. Carmel saved me and I've never thanked her. Sometimes I cursed her. It was easier when you couldn't feel or see.) I began to see what they saw. Nothing. I kept my eyes on the ground. I stopped looking at faces that were looking away from me. It was easier not to see them, and then I forgot why I didn't look. I shopped at the last minute, I wore a coat in the summer — I hid. I sent the kids to the shops. I wore plastic sunglasses. I drank. I avoided mirrors. I closed the curtains before dark so I wouldn't see myself in the window looking back in. I turned off. I forgot. I gave up.

The children made it difficult to stay that way. They always made me come back. I had to be there; I had to be visible for them. I had to think. I couldn't give up; they wouldn't let me. I had to be alive, awake and doing things. I couldn't die and leave them. I wanted them more than I didn't want them — and sometimes I didn't want them at all. But I couldn't leave them with him; I couldn't let go. They were there all the time. They had to be fed. They had to be hugged. They had to be cleaned. I had to be there. So I lived in the house. I was alive for them. They could see me. They could feel me. They'd grow up and then I could disappear. I could fold myself up and stop. But I had to be there for them until they were big enough. I had to protect them. He kicked me, he bruised me, he scalded me. Sometimes I hated them. He'd put them there to trap me; they were in it with him. They never stopped crying. They never stopped eating. They wouldn't let me lie down. They were on his side. They never left me alone. I always had to be there. I could never disappear.

When they were in bed or in school I could close down. I could curl up. After a hiding, after a fight, I'd curl up in a corner on the floor; I'd hum and concentrate on the humming until the aches became one pain, one pain that didn't change, that got no worse. I could feel the blood drying, becoming something else, something that didn't come from me. Then I could sink under the pain and there was nothing.

There was beautiful nothing, until I had to wake up and be myself again. The pain separated into aching limbs and muscle and I had to stand up and become Paula Spencer again. I had to straighten myself up and wash the dried blood from my face. I had to fix myself up and ignore the pain. I often woke up on the kitchen floor. The invisible woman. The woman who walked into doors.

—What made you do that?

Fuckin' doctors.

—What made you do that?

Stupid fuckin' bastards. What made me do that? Looking at my eye. Looking
for
my eye, behind the pulp. He didn't want an answer; he muttered, thought he was being nice. Silly you; look what you did to yourself. None of them wanted answers.

—A little bit of make-up will cover that up for you.

None of them looked at me.

—As right as rain.

None of them saw. Tut-tut-tut and another prescription. More pills to wash down. There was sometimes no food in the house but there was always valium.

—Do you take a drink, Missis Spencer?

Plenty of rest. Put your feet up for a while. Get your hair done; spoil yourself.

—Put this woman to bed the minute you get home, Mister Spencer, and bring her up a cup of tea.

—Yes, doctor.

The two of them, looking after me. Laughing at me. The woman who walked into doors. They didn't wink at each other because they didn't have to.

They were all the same; they didn't want to know. They'd never ask. Here's a prescription; now fuck off. The young ones were the worst, the young ones in Casualty. So busy, so important.

—It's people like you that waste my time.

I should have boxed her ears. A kid in a white coat, playing. Shouting at the nurses. A fuckin' little child with no manners. And I took it from her.

—Sorry, doctor.

—Next.

There'd be days when I'd wake up, when my head would be fresh and clear, when I'd feel tall and strong. My nostrils were long. I'd feel the air sailing up, cooling my head as it went. I tasted things. I wanted things. I'd hold onto the children. I'd feel them, look them all over. They grew in front of me. Their faces changed. They were good days. They'd climb up on me. I was awake. It was over. I'd clean. I'd wash. I'd try to catch up. I was doing it for him. To prove to him. I was worth it, worth loving. I worked and worked so the guilt couldn't catch up with me. I cut the grass. I made sure I knew what day it was. I worked. I washed. I cleaned the floor, the sink, the toilet. I washed sheets. I hung them out. I laughed when the wind whipped them back into my face. It was good to be alive. It was good to be in the back garden hanging up the washing. I made the beds. I ironed. I listened to the radio. I caught up. I brushed their hair. I sorted out their clothes. I made piles and filled the hot press. I put on lipstick and faced the world. I put in earrings. I polished shoes. I lined them up and polished them all. I tried to remember where they'd all come from.

He did love me. I know. He proved it again and again. Right to the very end. Even after I threw him out. It was just something in him. A bit of something that turned bad. Charlo was an angry man. The temper was always there, underneath. It was a good thing about him; he knew what he wanted, he got what he wanted. It was good to know that you were with him. Watching him, being with him. It was exciting.

If he'd been a bit different he would have been great at something — he'd have made a different name for himself. A businessman or a politician, or even an actor. He'd have been a star. If he'd had the education. If he'd had other work when all the building around Dublin stopped and there was nothing left for him to do. He would have put that anger to use. He wouldn't have been wasted. He'd have been a leader. I can see him. Managing a football team. Putting the fear of God into them at half-time. Standing up and speaking in the Dáil, tearing strips off the Minister for Social Welfare. Jumping out of a moving car — doing his own stunts. Teaching problem kids. They'd have loved him. Vote for Charlo Spencer. Co-starring Charlo Spencer. Written and directed by Charlo Spencer. Scored by Charlo Spencer. But he wasn't unemployed the first time he hit me. Beaten by Charlo Spencer. That's a fact that I can't mess around with. Robbed by Charlo Spencer. Murdered by Charlo Spencer. Charlo Spencer lost his job and started beating his wife. It's not as simple as that. He started robbing. He shot a woman and killed her. Because he didn't have a job, was rejected by society. It would be nice if it was that easy. If I could just think back and say Yes, that was how it was. Charlo Spencer lost his job and started beating his wife. I could rest if I believed that; I could rest. But I keep on thinking and I'll never come to a tidy ending. Every day. I think about it every minute. Why did he do it? No real answers come back, no big Aha. He loved me and he beat me. I loved him and I took it. It's as simple as that, and as stupid and complicated. It's terrible. It's like knowing someone you love is dead but not having the body to prove it. He loved me. I know it. But if he loved me, why did he hit me? Why did he hit me so hard and so often? The questions are never answered. They always torment me. And his love becomes a cruel thing, like a smile on a Nazi's face. You don't hit the people you love. You might, once or twice — it's only human. But not the way he did it, again and again. You don't pull back their fingers till they snap. You don't wake them in the morning with a kick in the stomach. You don't hold their face over the chip pan and threaten to dump their head into the boiling fat. You don't beat them in front of their children. That's not love. You can't love someone one minute, then beat them, and then love them again once the blood has been washed off. I can't separate the two things, the love and the beatings. I can't say that he was like that some times and like this other times. I can't make two Charlos. I can't separate him into the good and the bad. I take the good and the bad comes too. I lie in bed curled up thinking of the good and I can feel the bad chilling my back. I remember us moving into our brand new house with its lovely smell of paint; I remember bringing Nicola and John Paul around — he was only a tiny little fella — and showing them all the rooms a few days before we moved in; I remember that it was Charlo who was carrying John Paul and I was holding Nicola's hand. I remember that it was a hot day in the middle of a hot week and all the muck of the unfinished roads and gardens had turned into dust. There was no bus to the new estate — it didn't really exist yet. We had a long walk from the bus stop. There was still a farmhouse. Nicola waved at the farmer in his tractor; I told her to. The man waved back. We didn't know where he was going with his tractor. His fields were gone. There was a big chestnut tree that the Corporation had left standing at the top of our road. Charlo said it was left there because the squirrels had an uncle in the planning department. I remember being too warm and very excited. I remember Nicola twirling around and pulling the arm off me. Is this our new house Mammy, is this our new house Mammy? I remember being a bit shocked even though I'd been here many times before. It was all raw and bare, the edge of the world. I remember being worried. I suddenly wondered what the neighbours would be like. I wondered how far it was to the nearest shop. I wondered would the place always look like an abandoned building site. I couldn't imagine it changing, growing older and smoother. There was a cement mixer, turned over on its side, in the front garden two doors up. There were kids playing in front of the houses that were already occupied. I didn't like the look of them. They were rough-looking, even the girls, filthy language coming out of them. I didn't want Nicola hanging around with them; I looked at her looking at them. The old tree was at the top of the road, though. The rest of the estate would catch up with it; it would be lovely. All kids were loud and rough. Their mammies could never keep them clean with the dust and dirt. Mine would be the same. And the house. I loved it. Finished and untouched, the walls bare and waiting. The smell of newness. This was it. Home. This was where we'd stay. (We'd moved flats four times. Too small. Too damp. Evicted because of the noise we were making.) The new smell of the new house would rub off on us. A new start. I remember: we'd brought the kettle, milk and tea, sugar in a paper bag. Charlo hummed the national anthem as I filled the kettle for the first time in our new kitchen. We got Nicola to clap when I turned on the gas under the kettle and it came on. Whoosh! It was a big day. I remember it all. How I felt, how I looked, Nicola's face, the smell of the house, the dust in the air, the taste of the tea.