Stanzas: Monthly Chapbooks March 2015: Identity | Page 21

Mercury
Nina O’Donovan

T

o someone on the outside, it would look like a normal scene. Eva is doing her
best to maintain that. Turning a mug round and round under warm tap water, she
tries to appear casual and unaffected. She tries not to dwell on what she now knows;
that her daughter has been sleeping with another girl.
Nessa is gently trying to engage her in conversation, something so rare that she’d
feel guilty for weeks if she ruined it. She’s happy. Eva can’t help but wonder if it’s
because of the girl, Will. It’s too easy to overthink the situation. So she does.
‘I think maybe we should get something for the garden. It’s the right time to plant
things, isn’t it?’ Nessa props herself up on the empty counter, crossing her ankles and
fixing the leg of her jeans. She’s eating a slice of toast in small, comfortable bites and
waiting for the kettle to boil. ‘Sunflowers maybe? I’ve always liked them, we could put
some along the front wall.’
Eva nods amicably, wondering if this has anything to do with the flower beds under
Nessa’s bedroom window, if she even knows that they’ve been trampled carelessly.
Violets and daffodils and mint, crushed to bruises by herself or Will.
This girl was a part of her once, a part of her life. Nowadays, Eva feels like she
never sees her. It’s like having no control over a limb, this phantom awareness of her
daughter’s movement. It’s like knowing where your hand is held out in front of you,
even if you close your eyes.
She wonders if the right words would help, but certainly any that she has would
make things worse. Anyway, she just can’t say it. Eva’s mouth feels empty, like all the
words are cowering against the back of her skull. They don’t want to come out, and
why would they? They’re safe, unheard and un-judged. Maybe a better version of her
would be able to extend a sentence like a rope, make a connection. But because she
likes the safety of it, she doesn’t say a word.
*
Will is not smooth hair and skin, and fine art features. She has a voice she could really
use, but she doesn’t. She sees it as a sword, metal and masculine, bent out of shape to
be buried with others. A sacrifice; for what, she isn’t sure.
It might just be to keep everything that she’s made of inside. What you remember
of your life is a mythology, not a history. If you’re honest about it, most of it is
probably wrong. Will keeps her myths in shoeboxes; a bible of jewellery, souvenirs
and notes, little knots of words she holds dear. She keeps past people and things in
a way she can wrap around herself and remember, makes herself a patchwork of
everything she admires.
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