‘True Dub’ by Rachel Sargent

Eoin has never been good on the phone. It’s a generational thing. He cycles quickly through his week at work, spent scrambling to fix a magazine advertisement before it went to print, then redirects the conversation back to you, asking about Kendra, Ciaran and your classes. You see this coming every time and yet you never manage to avoid it, like when a friend frequently cancels plans or a boyfriend habitually cheats. Sometimes you manage to squeeze tidbits from him – the other intern who does work at home to try to impress their boss, the slightly dangerous nature of the part of San Francisco he lives in. That’s about it, he says when he’s ready to end the conversation. 

He doesn’t say it this time though. There are a few seconds of silence after his courtesy laugh as you tell him about one of the essays you’re grading that implied that Vietnam was still divided into north and south. But then he says, Ma, I want to ask you about something. 

Sure, love, what is it?

Would, uh, would it be alright if my girlfriend came back for Christmas with me? he says.

You feel as though you’ve been pinched on the arm, the way your brother used to when your mom drove over a cattle guard – shock, annoyance and a fleeting, sharp pain. 

Why didn’t you tell me you had a girlfriend, Eoin? you say.

I dunno, he says. It’s just one of those things where it’s like, how do you broach the topic?

Well, you could just say, ‘Ma, I have a girlfriend now.’ The word ‘ma’ sticks in your throat like a piece of dry spinach. Your accent is soft, sanded down at the edges after thirty years in Dublin, like an old table waiting to be varnished, but some part of it still rejects the word. You regurgitate it as ‘maw’, making you sound more Beverly Hillbilly than true Dub.

Yeah, well, I’m telling you now, he says.

Okay, you say. Tell me about her.

Her name is Sara, he says. She’s from Santa Cruz and she works in Silicon Valley.

There it is, the bare minimum: what’s their name, where are they from, what do they do? 

Anything else, you ask.

Oh, she uh, plays violin, he adds.

You chew on these details, hoping to find more information bleeding around the edges of his answers, but they are crisp and succinct, nourishment without taste.

I hope she doesn’t work for one of those terrible tech companies, you say with a gentle laugh.

Ma, come on, don’t be like that, Eoin says.

Sorry, you say. Just a joke. I’m sure she’s lovely. 

You circle a sentence about the Tet Offensive on the essay you’re grading, the ink from your red pen divorcing it from the rest of the paragraph. This statement is unsupported, you write in the margin.

I want you all to meet her, he says. There might not be another chance for a while.

Because you won’t come visit. He doesn’t say this, but you can hear the thought dangling there on the edge of his voice and suddenly it’s all you can think of, like a piece of food in someone’s teeth.

But this is too difficult a topic to discuss, and especially with Eoin, so instead you ask: Will you be booking your flights soon?

Eh, yeah.

Do you need some money for them?

No, no, he says. I get paid next week, I’ll book them then.

Okay, you say. We can’t wait to see you.

And you’re sure you’re alright with Sara coming along? he asks. 

You can almost see him picking at his cuticles, the way he does when he’s nervous. The skin around his fingernails was raw and peeling when you last saw him, bits of blood crowning around the skin.

Of course, you say. I can’t imagine your father would feel any different.

He doesn’t. You’re making two cups of peppermint tea in the kitchen before bed while Ciaran does the washing up. He stands right up against the sink while he scours the pot you used to make macaroni and cheese earlier, a dish from home that you’ve never managed to buck. A last bit of congealed sauce clings to the metal bottom as Ciaran scrubs. Eventually, he rips it off like a scab and watches it circle the drain. 

That all sounds fine, he says. Can’t believe it’ll be the first time he’s brought a girl home though.

You come up behind him and wrap your arms around his waist while he wipes the soap suds with a sponge. Did you bring lots of girls home to your mother before me? you ask.

One or two, Ciaran says. He rinses the sink and then his fingers. 

You move with him when he reaches for a dish towel to pat his hands dry and bury your face in his shoulder blades, the smooth cotton of his shirt pressing into your skin. Do you think he’ll stay over there forever? you ask.

Ciaran doesn’t say anything. He puts the dish towel down on the marble counter and covers your fingers with his own, pulling them tighter around his waist until you’re so close together that you occupy the same square tile on the floor. You look up to see your reflection in the window that looks out onto the back garden, faces superimposed onto the gently swaying pear tree, the patio table only used three months a year. 

I hope not, Ciaran says finally. A few more seconds go by before he says: But don’t you think your parents asked that same question when you married me?

*

When Eoin arrived in San Francisco he sent you a photo of the Golden Gate Bridge glazed with fog. You peered at it through your reading glasses, waiting for a picture of him, evidence that tied him to this place that was yours, but still alien. While he searched for an apartment, he stayed with a friend of yours from college who lived in the city and began his job as a marketing intern for an NGO.

I can see the sea from my office, he said on his first phone call home. Well, on a sunny day I can. It’s great to be getting this kind of experience, he said. They didn’t even care what my degree was. 

It was English and Drama, the legacy of sending him to the gentlest of Dublin private schools. He played Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing and Danny Zuko in Grease. The American accent he adopted had been so natural it had floated like oil around the water of his co-stars’ attempts. 

Did you get that from listening to me? you had asked. 

Think it’s more from TV, Ma, he said back. You sound too weird.

In his last show before graduation he had been scouted by a talent agent. You saw the woman hand him a business card when he emerged from backstage into the theatre lobby. Eoin’s face was red, scrubbed raw after removing his stage makeup. He shook her hand and gave her a radiant smile before moving to you and Ciaran and Kendra to accept a bouquet of flowers. She mentioned something about programmes for RTÉ, Eoin said. But at that point, he was already set on going to America.

You always knew that Eoin leaving was more of a when than an if. He’d spent a summer in New York working at a cake shop with his college friends and another interrailing across Europe. But you were surprised when he said San Francisco, not L.A. You had thought he would do the Hollywood thing, waiter by night, auditions in the day. A year, Eoin had said, like a J1. Ben’s already applied, he said. 

Eoin, of course, didn’t need a visa. He’d had his U.S. passport since birth. You still remember the appointment at the ugly modernist embassy in Ballsbridge, a few months after he was born. At the gates, the security guard had admired him and tickled his nose. Cute kid, he’d said. You knew he was, and yet you beamed every time someone else recognized it too. In the sanitized waiting area, Eoin slept soundly, tucked in the sling around your chest, as you clutched the paperwork and stared up at the framed photos of Clinton and Gore. On later visits, you were grateful for those early days, before the seats were full, before the guardhouse was installed, before you were treated with narrowed eyes like a runaway child finally forced to come home.

Eoin knew none of this. In college, he had once invited his friends over to watch a rugby match. As you stood at the kitchen island chopping vegetables, Eoin jokingly introduced you to an exchange student from New Orleans as his ‘mother who hates America.’ You laughed it off as the student looked on uneasily. Ever the drama student, you said to the boy with a smile. It’s America that hates me. The boy finally laughed and said, nice to meet you Mrs Whelan, but it stung to think that your years of teaching on Vietnam and taking Eoin along to protests on the Iraq War had shaped his view of you in this way. If you had truly hated America, you wouldn’t have bothered.

*

Motherhood in Ireland was a like different language at first, one which you spoke awkwardly. Every year you came back to Phoenix for Christmas your mother would ask about daycare, not creches, and summer camp instead of Irish college. You would stay from just after term ended until just before it began, nearly a month, stockpiling warmth and sunlight. One winter, Eoin had put his hand directly on a saguaro’s trunk, on the smooth green part between the spines and pulled it back with a cry, dozens of tiny splinters glued to his skin like glitter. Back at the house, he perched on the kitchen counter, his little feet bouncing against the cabinets as Ciaran pulled the needles from his skin with tweezers. 

Now what do we remember? you asked Eoin. 

Don’t touch the cactus, he said back.

Your mother would buy Lucky Charms for the kids, have a box waiting in a basket with other sweets in the kitchen when you all walked in, suitcases in hand. Eoin would beg her to let him have a bowl right that second, a treat before bed, and she would oblige, beaming. She’d continue buying it long after the kids were old enough to not be excited by sugary cereals anymore, when they didn’t even like them. When you said as much to her, she snapped back: Why can’t you let me have this one thing with them? 

Ciaran would arrive the week before Christmas, and the four of you would drive up to the Grand Canyon, to look over its edge at the winding river below, watch Native American dancers at the Hopi House and play in the snow outside the lodges on the South Rim. He’d leave after New Year’s, to reopen his practice and see patients, and you would feel rudderless, drifting in waters that were becoming unfamiliar. One year, you and your parents took the kids to Tombstone, to see the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral. Your father snapped photos of Eoin with the men dressed up as cowboys who roamed the streets advertising saloons and barbeque restaurants. As Kendra was hoisted into a stagecoach for a ride around town, your mother turned to you and said: It’s so nice to have you here in the winters. Poor Ciaran has to live in the real world and work. 

After your father died you kept the visits shorter, one to two weeks only. The kids were getting older, anyway, and busier. The time between your visits grew longer, from one year to two years to three. You sent the kids over during summer instead, to spend time by the pool with their cousins, and began producing more papers for conferences, conjuring excuses not to return to your mother’s house. 

 *

At the grocery store a few weeks later, you run into Susan O’Sullivan in the dairy aisle as you’re deciding between a gouda and a cheddar.

Ellen, how are things? she says as she sidles her cart up next to yours. I haven’t seen you since the boys left.

Hi Susan, you say. I’m doing well, just getting ready for final exams. How’s Ben? 

Oh, he’s doing great, she says. Really loving the job. They might make him permanent here when he gets back.

That’s wonderful, you say. Good for him. 

Listen, she says. I hear Eoin is bringing the girlfriend back for Christmas?

Yes, we’re all anxious to meet her, you say You lean in conspiratorially: He’s never brought a girl home before.

Susan smiles and grabs a wheel of brie from the shelf. She’s the one he met here, right? She was over on a holiday or something?

Your fingers tighten on the cart handle momentarily and you force yourself to say: That’s right. Then after a moment, almost to yourself: That’s why he went to San Francisco and not L.A.

Susan nods. Yes, I was a bit surprised too. Ah sure, all’s well that ends well, right?

Definitely, you say. Listen Susan, lovely to see you. Sorry to run, we’re having Ciaran’s parents over for dinner. 

A lie, but this revelation about Eoin makes you want to leave the cart there and make a break for the automatic doors.

When you arrive home, Ciaran is at the piano, picking out a tune alongside the brassy jazz coming out of the record player. You let him continue, allowing the music to numb your thoughts as you unpack the groceries. For a while you stand at the counter, flattening the bags and smoothing out the creases. You don’t even notice when the music stops, and Ciaran enters the kitchen. 

Hi, he says, kissing your cheek. How was your day? 

He goes to the cabinet next to the sink, pulls out a glass and fills it with water. When you don’t answer he says: Everything alright, love?

You move to put the grocery bags back in their corner of the pantry. Closing the door, you say, I saw Susan O’Sullivan in the supermarket today. 

Oh, how is she?

Yeah, fine, you say. She said that Eoin met your one Sara here before he left for San Francisco. 

Your one? says Ciaran. You mean his girlfriend? He doesn’t sound annoyed, merely corrective.

Yes, his girlfriend. Susan was asking about Eoin bringing her here for Christmas and said, didn’t they meet here first while she was over on holiday?

Alright, so?

So, why did I have to get this bit of information from Susan O’Sullivan? I had to pretend that I knew already.

Ah, Eoin probably just forgot to say.

Did you know?

No, I didn’t.

Well, why didn’t Eoin say anything?

Because he’s twenty-three and probably not in the habit of talking about the details of his love life with his parents. 

Okay, well if that’s so then does that mean Eoin was planning on going to L.A. and changed his plan to go to San Francisco to be with this girl? 

I suppose it might, says Ciaran. He takes another gulp of water, then adds: But isn’t that what happened with us? 

That was different, you say as you pull the dead leaves from the poinsettia. We were married before I moved here with you. We were older. It wasn’t a decision made on a whim ten minutes after I met you.

Ciaran places a hand on your shoulder and you turn to look at him. You don’t know that that’s what happened, he says. He might have had other reasons for choosing San Francisco. But either way, it was his decision.

You sigh in response. I don’t feel up to cooking now. Do you mind if we just order Chinese? 

Of course, says Ciaran. He pulls out his cell phone and asks, the usual? 

*

A few years ago, after one of Eoin’s plays at Trinity, you and Ciaran took him out for a drink in town. Eoin had changed out of his costume and pulled a jumper on over his t-shirt and jeans. His skin was stained red with syrupy blood, his hair encrusted with it. Don’t worry, it’s fake, he said to the bartender as you entered the half-empty pub. He had starred in a Metallica-themed musical version of Titus Andronicus titled Kill ‘Em All. Eoin had told you that acting in Trinity required a certain amount of participation in other students’ experimental theatre projects. It might have been upsetting to see your son beheaded on stage had he not died to the wailing of the song ‘Whiplash’, which you remembered being blasted on the radio as you were dropped off at home after a particularly bad date.

Kendra was late. She rushed in all scrunched up as though she were about to give a full body sigh, dressed in clothes that were the closest H&M could get to workwear. She gave Eoin a side hug and said: God, I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it. They kept me in work so late. 

Don’t worry about it, Eoin said. They seem like arseholes.

Kendra’s eyes narrowed. Well you know there’s not much out there at the moment. Like, I’m trying my best.

He didn’t mean it like that, you said.

Kendra rolled her eyes and shook her head. So, how was the show? she asked.

It was, uh, interesting, you said. I was really surprised with how well ... the songs captured the tone of the play.

You can say it was shite, Ma, I don’t care, said Eoin and you all laughed. 

Well, it sounds like I didn’t miss much then, said Kendra, laughing along. 

Alright Ken, said Eoin. You can fuck off with that.

Hey, hey, said Ciaran. Relax.

Sorry, but not all of us get to traipse around on stage. Some of us have to work a shit job because our internships are unpaid, said Kendra. You’ll probably start thinking about that once you graduate and have to work in a bar to fund your BBC drama dreams.

Kendra, you said. That’s enough. We’re just here to enjoy a nice drink together as a family, alright?

The two of them calmed down enough to finish their drinks before they both excused themselves: Kendra to meet up with her boyfriend and Eoin to join some of his castmates in a night out. You and Ciaran were left to get the Luas home on your own, sharing the empty carriage with a businessman who had fallen asleep against the window and a drunk couple who spent several minutes shouting at one another. On nights like that you liked to list the things you loved about Dublin. 

*

On the day that Eoin’s flight gets in, town is crowded with Christmas shoppers. The lights on Grafton Street are up and glowing in the fading afternoon light. When you get home, Eoin and his new girlfriend will already be there. Ciaran didn’t schedule any afternoon patients so he could finish early and pick them up from the airport himself.

As you get on the Luas, you’re clutching a box of Lucky Charms you picked up in a technicolour sweet shop near the Central Bank, a sudden impulse. You paid €8.95 for this box of sugar-coated oat pieces and rubbery marshmallows that stain your fingers when you hold them. You remember having your first bowl of them one morning at Jill Reynolds’ house after a sleepover when you were nine years old. Your mother would never buy them for you, before or after that. You hope Eoin will find them funny.

When you arrive home, your skin is flushed from your walk from the Luas and the hair around your forehead sticks to it in sweaty patches. Ciaran is coming down the stairs as you pull off your coat and hang it on the rack. 

Eoin’s asleep, he says, grabbing his jacket. I was going to head to Aldi and pick up some wine and stuff for the breakfast. Thought maybe we could walk down to the pub for dinner when Eoin gets up. 

You kiss him on the cheek as he’s wrapping his scarf around his neck. That sounds great, you say. What about Kendra?

She’ll meet us there, he says, opening the door. Ellen, he says, and he jerks his head down the hall and lowers his voice. She’s lovely.

Sara is sitting at the kitchen table in front of her laptop but looks up when you enter. You’re not sure what you were expecting when you pictured her, maybe a blonde valley girl with an Irish-American background, a couple of years of Irish step dancing, a mispronounced surname and the expectation that you’re a ‘mammy’ who makes tea constantly and fawns over her son. Sara is black, and very pretty, dressed in jeans and a white shirt, lightly wrinkled from sitting on a plane for eleven hours. 

She scoots her chair back a little too quickly and moves over to you to shake your hand. It makes you smile to see her cover it up so well. She’s nervous but not embarrassed about it. Mrs. Whelan, it’s so great to finally meet you, she says. She sounds the way you used to. Before Dublin weathered you down.

You shake her hand and say, I can just give you a hug, right? It’s lovely to meet you too.

She laughs. Of course.

It’s just Ellen, by the way. Can I get you anything? 

You pull the Lucky Charms out of the bag and set them on the counter.

No, no, I’m fine, she says. Sorry, I was just writing some emails. My boss wasn’t thrilled when I said I’d be taking Christmas vacation early. 

Oh no, you say. That sounds like a bit of a pain. 

It is, she says. But what can you do sometimes? She shrugs, her mouth flattening into a perfect line, the way your students do when you ask them about their plans after college. She looks around. Oh my god, are those Lucky Charms, she asks. 

Yes, you say, slightly embarrassed. My mom used to buy them for Eoin and Kendra. I thought it would be a funny treat for him when he came home. I just remembered you can obviously get them in San Francisco.

Is it okay if I have a bowl? Sara says. I haven’t had any since I was a kid, and I’m kind of hungry after the flight. 

You feel a nervous warmth in your stomach, like after a sip of whiskey, and you go to the cabinet and pour cereal and milk into a bowl. You make a cup of tea to give yourself something to hold. 

Sara closes her laptop and places it into the bag slouching on the floor. I think I can be done for the day, she says.

You sit down at the table next to her and push the bowl towards her. She thanks you and takes her first bite. The milk is so good, she says. 

You pour some into your tea and watch the white whirl around the brown. It’s hard going back to fat free after this, you say. You look at Sara and she smiles. The two of you share a laugh, like girls who have just passed a note to one another in class. You suddenly aren’t sure what to say, how to talk to this girl who knows your son in a different way than you do. 

Did you have a nice flight? you ask.

Sara nods. I think Eoin was a bit nervous though, she says.

How is he? He doesn’t tell me much. Is he happy with his job? 

I think so, says Sara. I hope so, anyway. He worries about money a lot. He doesn’t think he’ll get a full-time offer after his internship ends. I try telling him that that’s how the city is. They keep you on your toes all the time. It’s shitty, but it’s life. She catches herself and looks down at her bowl. Oh, sorry.

You smile and nod for her to continue. Don’t worry about it. 

Honestly, I think about getting out of the industry sometimes. Going somewhere else. I’m trying to convince Eoin to audition for some local theatre. Maybe we could head down to L.A. or something, I don’t know.

Do you think that’s what he wants? you ask. Do you think he could make a career of it?

I think he could, she says. He’s very down on it all, but I don’t know. I see the way he looks when we see a play together or a movie. He sings while he cooks too. 

She pauses for a moment, smiling to herself, and your eyes suddenly burn. Eoin didn’t sing at home very often, but sometimes if you came home early from college, or the supermarket, you would hear him upstairs, following along to the radio while he folded his laundry or cleaned his room.

Things will work themselves out, she says. He shouldn’t do things because he feels like he has to. She picks up the bowl and slurps the bit of milk at the bottom. 

You study Sara over your mug and suddenly you are aware of how young she must be, twenty-three or twenty-four. At twenty-three you were throwing your life away. You hadn’t gone to grad school yet, hadn’t met Ciaran. You were dating a law student who wanted you to quit your job, to settle down in Phoenix with a ranch house and three kids. Your mother was very disappointed when you broke up with him to move to D.C. to study for a doctorate. Throwing your life away, she had said. 

You hear Ciaran scraping his boots on the floor mat in the foyer. His hair is dripping from the rain when he enters the kitchen and places two bottles of red wine on the table.

He picks up the box of Lucky Charms and examines it. Did you bring this from America, Sara? he asks.

No, she says laughing. Your wife got them for Eoin and me. 

Ciaran grins at you. Brilliant, he says. I remember these from D.C. They’d rot the teeth off ya, but they’re delicious. I’ll go wake up Eoin, shall I?

If you can manage it, Sara says after him. She gets up and takes her bowl to the sink, rinsing it under the warm water then placing it in the dishwasher. You like that she does this without a thought. That she doesn’t stand around, waiting for permission. She rolls the plastic bag and breaks the tab at the top of the box, slotting the two pieces of cardboard together and positioning it at the center of the table. 

I’ll leave them here, she says. For him to see.

*

After dinner, and several glasses of wine, when everyone else has gone up to bed, you pick up the box of Lucky Charms and pour yourself a bowl. At the kitchen table, bathed in the brightness of the overhead lights, the window outside is black and unknowable. In your bowl, the marshmallows melt into the milk, swirling like pastel dyes. Instead of leaving the marshmallows behind to eat at the end, the way you did as a child, you fill your spoon with a mix of the stars, rainbows and oats. They leave a film when they melt into your tongue and there’s a crunch like Styrofoam when you bite into them. You ignore the ache in your molars caused by the sudden influx of sugar and savour the sweetness.

From issue #9.5: spring/summer 2020

About the Author
Rachel Sargent holds an M.Phil. in Creative Writing from Trinity College Dublin. She was a finalist in the Tucson Festival of Books Short Story Competition and an Honorable Mention in Glimmer Train’s Short Story Award for New Writers. Her work has appeared in the The Cardiff Review and The Honest Ulsterman.