Story
Emma Donoghue
‘Thicker Than Water’
(3020 words)
So Mammy’s getting married. Again, I mean. She was married to Da for twelve years before they got divorced, and then she had two boyfriends, Mark and Jimmy - one after the other, I mean, not at the same time - but we never thought she'd marry either of them. Donald's different, he's from England and older, like - eleven years older than Mam, which is a bit disgusting if you ask me. Not that anyone would. Mammy doesn’t ask me or Ginny, she just says 'The wedding's the first weekend in June, girls, at the Belfast Royal Hotel.'
That’s four different men she's done it with, that I know of. There could be scads more of them, I suppose. It's hard to imagine. I'm still a virgin though I wouldn't shout that out at school. Sometimes I wonder how I'll lose it. Melanie McGabbon lost hers in the bit of grass behind the community centre. I don't think I'd fancy that. I’m going to wait till I feel like it, I don't believe that rubbish about you have to start before sixteen or you'll never be any good at it. And I'm going to be picky about the fella too. These days, you wouldn't know what you'd catch. It's confusing, in fact, the whole business. When they're going on about how fabby it is, they make it sound like Belgian chocolates, but then when you hear about AIDS and stuff, it sounds like eating half a Mars Bar you've picked up off the street.
Anyway. The wedding’s going to be a big knees-up even though Mammy claims she and Donald can't really afford it but what the hell, you don't get wed every day of the week. Ginny pipes up and wants to know do the two of us have to go or is it just for old folk. Mammy asks does that include her, and Ginny gives her one of those sulky wee smiles that always get round the adults. So then Mammy says the two of us can invite a friend each to make it less boring, how about that? But Ginny gives this enormous shrug and says she doesn't think any of her friends would want to come, actually.
Which is typical Ginny. Half the time she’s a messer and half the time she’s a selfish pig. She irritates the skin off me. See, her name's really Virginia, after some old school-friend of Mammy's, but since last Christmas she's been insisting we all call her Ginny, she won't answer to anything else. It’s typical her, to change her name to something that sounds so like mine. I'm Jean - always have been - and now if there's a phone call for one of us, and Mammy shouts upstairs, you can’t tell if she’s saying Jean or Ginny. I bet she did it on purpose - like when she borrows my suede jacket and thinks I won't notice. Or when she leaves her walkman turned on till the batteries wind down, then swaps them for mine, even though I keep telling her if she does it again I’ll cut all her hair off in the middle of the night.
Also, my sister’s got the attention span of a goldfish: two seconds max. Life's a perpetual shock to the lassie. She'll race around with her laces undone - trainers thumping - and then she's all astonished when she trips over a curb. And the worst of it is, it’s usually me that has to bloody rescue her. The way I see it, it's none of my beeswax what Ginny gets up to, I'm not her minder. But Mammy puts on that guilt-tripping face and says 'Oh Jean, you have to watch out for your wee sister, you know how she is. Blood's thicker than water and all that.'
The thing is, the cow's twelve already - I'm fourteen and a half - and how long am I going to have to run round after her? Is it going to be like this till I pass my GCSEs and I can get the hell out of here?
Not that Ginny likes me watching out for her; she calls me a nag. She doesn't seem to realize that if it wasn't for me she'd probably have fallen under a bus by now. She's like some fucking butterfly that just flaps around all day.
Anyway. If she doesn’t want to bring anyone to the wedding, that means there’s a spare invitation floating around. So I hare off right away and phone two of my friends, Eddi (her name's Edwina actually but she's mad about Eddi Reader, she’s got all her albums) and Denise. They both say they'd love to, specially when I tell them there's going to be champagne.
Mammy's raging when she finds out what I've done. 'But Mammy,' I say, ‘it's only as many people as if Ginny and I each invited one. It's simple maths,'
She hates me being logical, because she's no head for logic, herself. 'Don't you simple-maths me, girl,' she says then. 'Fifteen quid a head this wedding's costing me and Donald.'
But I can tell it’s not really about the money; Mammy thinks I've pulled a fast one. For a second I feel like giving her a wallop across the face and screaming 'Who wants to go to your stupid second wedding anyway?'
But I don’t. That would be more Ginny’s style.
It turns out the two of us are going to be bridesmaids in pale pink, lashings of lace. Sexy, not. We're over at Mrs.Percy’s for a fitting, and the woman starts tuttutting over Ginny's chest, or lack of it. 'Not a lot in the bosom department, have you, child?' says she with one of her wheezy laughs. Ginny's got this puss on her like she's been mortally wounded. It's true that her dress falls straight down from her neck whereas mine has a nice curve to it. When Mrs. Percy goes upstairs to look for another spool of pink thread, I say 'Maybe you should wear falsies.'
Not a peep out of my sister.
'You know,' I say, 'those rubber ones. You put them in your bra.'
Now Ginny doesn't even need a bra yet. Mammy got her one last year because all her friends were wearing them, but Ginny forgets to wear it, and it makes no difference anyway. She scowls at me now and says 'I may have to go to this wedding but I don’t have to wear fake tits.’
'Only a suggestion,' I say, sort of lofty. 'Just trying to help you look more normal. Some hope!'
So Ginny starts tugging the dress over her head and rips the seam, wouldn’t you know..
The morning of the wedding she goes out on her rollerblades and doesn't come back for literally hours. I’m raging. How can someone who dashes everywhere end up always being late? I don't know what the wee fanny does with her time but it all gets squandered.
When she finally clatters in without a word of sorry – like she’s forgotten what day it is – I tell her ‘We’d have gone without you, I swear to God.’
She ignores that. She's busy climbing into her dress. She hasn't even had a wash as far as I can tell. I just wish we were wearing different colours so people mightn't realize we were sisters.
'What d'you think of Donald, then?' she asks, fairly quiet.
I give her a stare. Of all times to start asking. 'He's fine,' I say sharply. The fact is, it doesn't matter what we think of the man, it's too late now. It was too late the day Mammy told us the wedding was all arranged.’
Ginny shrugs. She doesn't say anything else. I finish tying my sash in a bow and I steal a glance at hers, which is all lopsided but that's her business, if she wants to shame this family, let her. I can't find my tiny pink shoulder bag that I got for two quid in the Sally Army shop; I'm looking everywhere.
'It clashes,' says Ginny, dangling my bag by the strap.
'It does not,' I tell her, holding out my hand for it.
'It's not the same pink.'
'It's not meant to be, moron.' All at once I'm nearly screaming. 'It's a darker shade but it's the same family, Mrs. Percy said.'
Ginny swings it up in the air and catches it like a ball. 'What d'you need to lug a bag around today for anyway?'
I try and grab it from her but she pops it open and empties onto the sofa. Mirror, lipstick, mascara, inhaler for if I get my asthma, spot concealer, one Polo mint in case of bad breath, one tampon in case of emergencies, two painkillers ditto. 'My god,' says Ginny, 'you are such an anus!'
'I am not.'
'Jean, if Jesus Christ knocked at the front door to take you up to heaven, you'd say “Hang on, Jesus, I'll be needing my bag, and where's the key to my bike-lock?” '
I roll my eyes and start fixing my mascara.
Ginny keeps poking through my stuff. She grabs the tablets. 'Drugs! I'm telling Mammy.'
'They're paracetemol,' I say coldly, prising them out of her hand. I must be hurting the finger I'm bending back but the girl doesn't make a sound. There's nothing she'd like more than to have me accidentally break her finger, then she could run crying to Mammy, today of all days.
I drop the tablets back into my bag. 'Stress can bring on periods, it's a well-known fact.' I say this mostly to embarrass Ginny, because she's only had about three and she hates them. She's still too mortified to ask for tampons in the newsagents, she goes all the way down to Boots so she can get them off the shelf.
'Stress!' she snorts.
'Well, it probably doesn't get much more stressful than going to your own mother's wedding.'
'I thought you liked him? The Englishman?'
'Oh Ginny, grow up.' There’s no time for this kind of carry-on. My little bag won't close, now; I shove the tampon down the side. 'Aren't you bringing anything yourself?' I ask, just to tease her.
She shakes her head, hair in her eyes. I did tell her to put gel in it.
'You’ll probably start synchronizing with me, you’re such a copycat,' I say, fixing the silk rosebud behind my ear with a clip.
'I am not.'
'Suit yourself. But you don't want to ruin the day by bleeding all over the altar, do you?'
'No,' says Ginny, 'what I don't want is to carry round some stupid little bag that clashes with my dress.'
Now the door rings, and when I look out the window it's Denise and Eddi. 'You just watch yourself today,' I warn my sister. 'I'm not having you make me look stupid in front of my friends.'
She rolls her eyes, like she's about to fall into convulsions. 'Oh Jean, that'd be impossible,' she drawls, 'you’re such a fucking expert on everything. Your friends must think the sun shines out of your arse.'
I ignore that and run down to open the door. Eddi says my pink bag is just perfect, and Denise teases me about looking so buxon in my dress, which I don't really mind though I pretend I do. Nobody says anything much to Ginny, who's stomping round trying to remember where she put her pink satin wedding shoes..
'Oh my god,' says Eddi, hanging out the window, 'is that the groom?'
'That's him,' I say, glancing down on Donald's hair, or what he's got left of it. I'm praying she won't say anything about how old he is.
'He’s here!' Denise bawls down the corridor. 'Mrs. Carter, the bridegroom’s here!'
At this point I begin to regret having invited Denise, who was number two on my list as she's a bit excitable.
Mammy runs in now to see if we're ready. She's wearing Aunty Marie's cream wedding dress which has a little red wine stain on the sweetheart neckline that Mammy's pinned a corsage onto so you'd never know. 'Mrs. Carter,' squeals Denise, 'you're not letting him in, are you? You're not letting him see you in your dress?'
'It's bad luck,' says Ginny, muffled, from behind the sofa.
'Such nonsense,' says Mammy, very snotty. 'And Ginny, what are you doing back there when the limo's waiting?'
'Can't find my shoes.'
I knew she'd make us late. Didn't I say that's what she was like? So I stand there with Eddi and Denise, raising my eyes to heaven, while Mammy gets down on her knees in her wedding dress to scrabble round under the sofa. At this point I almost want there to be an enormous fuck-off row, the fight to end all fights, with Ginny bawling and Donald plodding up the stairs and the limo driver beeping his horn. But then Mammy thinks to look in the wardrobe, and there’s Ginny’s shoes.
We get to the church bang on time. Apart from a babby down the back bawling its head off, and Donald developing a bit of a stammer, it all seems to go pretty well. I listen hard during the vows, wondering how I feel about my mother marrying someone who’s not my father, but I don’t seem to feel much of anything except embarrassed about wearing pink satin from top to toe.
After the dinner - I don't eat much because I’m afraid of bulging at the waist – there’s dancing. Mammy and Donald do a stiff sort of waltz, then the band plays 70s stuff and everyone relaxes. Me and my friends dance a bit and make comments about the guys, though there aren't many except for my totally naff cousins and Donald's best friend's nineteen-year-old son who's in the navy. Eddi and I get Denise to guess what 'Voulez-Vous Couchez Avec Moi Ce Soir' means, because she takes Geography instead of French. Any time I check, my sister’s still slumped at the High Table, picking at her slice of cake.
On my third glass of champagne I’m just starting to have a laugh. Me and Eddi and Denise are sitting at a side table with a good view of the navy guy, when I feel a tugging at my shoulder bag. I jerk round and there's Ginny. 'What the fuck are you up to?' I whisper.
She scrapes her chair closer, mumbles something, and reaches for my bag again.
'What did you say?'
She clears her throat. 'I think I’ve started.'
'Started what?'
She’s looking pale as piss. 'You know,' she says miserably, staring at the little bag.
I get it, then.
'What's the problem?' asks Eddi.
'The problem,' I say, 'is that Virginia here never thinks ahead. Isn't that the problem?'
‘Ah come on, Jean,’ says Ginny, looking at the floor.
I'm definitely enjoying myself now. 'The problem is that she slags me for being so anal and then comes running to me for help. The problem is,' I say in this very loud whisper, 'that my wee sister's gone and got her period at the most awkward possible opportunity.'
Denise falls about giggling and Eddi joins in.
Ginny tugs at my little bag. ‘Gimme. I need it.’
The cheek of her! I pull the bag away. ‘Get one from the machine, why don’t you.’
‘They never work,’ she hisses.
‘They do so.’
‘I don’t have any change on me.’
‘You’ll have to ask Aunty Maureen for money, then.’
‘I’m in a hurry!’
Denise laughs like a mynah bird.
I keep my fingers locked round my bag. ‘I told you this might happen. Why do you never listen? I've only got one tampon and I just might need it myself, ever think of that? You’re so selfish!’
Ginny wraps her arms round herself as if she’s in pain, and squirms in the chair. ‘Please,’ she says, not looking at me. ‘I think I might be leaking.’
So of course I let out this big dramatic sigh and open my bag. I mean, I was only messing before; I was always intending to give it to her in the end. I’m about to slip it to her discreetly under the tablecloth, but at the last minute I just can’t resist. ‘Is this what you're looking for?' I belt out loudly, holding up the tampon so it's nearly in her face.
Just then the music happens to be at a quiet bit, so my words come out like a public announcement. Heads turn; even the navy guy stares over at Ginny, who's gone the colour of an aubergine.
And then she does something peculiar. She doesn't even take the tampon, after all that, she just scraps her chair back and stomps off across the ballroom.
She’s only gone a few steps when I see the stain. Dark, shiny red on the back of her pink dress, as big as a baby’s face. Everyone sees it. Mammy and Donald stop dancing.
Ginny looks at their faces. Her hand goes back; she feels the wet. She walks faster.
‘Shit,’ murmurs Eddi in my ear.
I launch myself out of my chair, tripping on my hem. I catch up with Ginny before she’s halfway across the ballroom. She’s going the wrong way; the loos are down the back corridor. ‘C’mon,’ I hiss, big-sisterly, ‘let’s get you mopped up.’
She shoves me out of her path and strides on. She’s left a bloody fingerprint on my sleeve.
But that’s not the worst of it. That’s not the thing I can’t get out of my mind, afterwards, no matter how often Denise says it wasn’t my fault and Eddi says these things happen.
What I don’t think I’ll ever forget about my mother’s wedding day is the look in Ginny’s eyes as she pushes me away from her: icy, astounded. As if I’m a stranger who’s knifed her in a crowd. As if she’s never seen me before in her life, and never will again.
'Thicker Than Water' first appeared as the title story in THICKER THAN WATER: COMING-OF-AGE STORIES BY IRISH AND IRISH-AMERICAN WRITERS, ed. by Gordon Snell (New York: Delacorte Press, 2001; London: Orion, 2002.).Not to be copied, downloaded or otherwise used without permission.