In a new essay, Lia Millsresponds to Article 12 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, as part of a continuing series in association with Amnesty International to mark the 60th anniversary of the declaration
SO, I'M AT her door. I found the number easy enough from the letterbox in the lobby, took the stairs to the fifth floor. I wanted time to think. What to do if I see her. What to say. I still don't know.
She throws open the door. "You're late," she says.
What? How did she know I'm here? She must've heard my heart, drumming on my ribs. Any minute now it'll jump out through my mouth and eat her.
"They usually send someone - older," she says, eyeing how I'm dressed - trenchcoat, jeans and the Nikes I wear for school. I couldn't find my Uggs this morning.
I've seen her before, but not in real life. She's everyone's favourite model-turned-PR-babe, all over the news lately because of this stratospheric gig she put on for charity. Meta4 donated their hotel for a whole weekend. Their celebrity mates performed and hung out with the crowd, live on TV. Everyone in the country was trampling their grannies to get tickets. You couldn't get away from her picture or her voice promoting that gig, she was everywhere. My gran said you'd swear the Pope (the last one) had come back to life and made another visit, the way no-one would talk about anything else. Gran says some of the money's gone missing and what about that flash new apartment by the sea, but Mum says that's just rumour.
So here she is, the real thing, in a vampy scarlet kimono that clashes with her hair, waiting for me to swallow my nerves and say something.
She has her own ideas about why I'm here. "Have you done cleaning work before?" I nod. "I'm a student." It's nearly true. I'm doing my Leaving this year.
"Come in." You don't realise, on TV, not even when you hear her sugary voice, how tiny she is. Like a doll. How easily she might shatter. If she was to fall out a window, say. This close to her, I'm raw as bone. I rattle with nerves. I can't get her out of my head since all the fuss. I dream crashes and flames, her wide-eyes melting, her body twisting. I'm here to warn her, but my heart has gone on a rant of its own, won't let me speak. My hands in knots at my sides.
She doesn't notice, bangs on about where to hang my trench and leave the Nikes. She wants me in my socks on her fancy floors. Doesn't ask my name. The apartment is nothing to buzz about, but the sitting room is a surprise. It's L-shaped, a glass-walled bowl of light. The sea broods outside, flat and unimpressed.
She offers me gloves to work in - not the Marigolds Mum uses, but latex. Like CSI. She watches me lug the hoover out and set off across the tiles in the hall, then disappears into the ensuite, satisfied.
There's a knock at the front door. I leave the hoover running and open it. The girl out there is flushed, breathless. Upset-looking.
"Very sorry for late . . ."
"We changed our minds," I interrupt. "We'll do it ourselves today." Dad gave me 50 yoyos before his latest business trip. Conscience money. I fish it out of my pocket and hand it over. "Here." I don't know what people get paid for cleaning, but I'd work a whole day in Copyfast for that.
She's confused. "But, the agency -"
"It's okay. Really." I shut the door, get back to hoovering. I didn't want that money. I want nothing from him, ever again.
". . . there's no need to go in there." She interrupts my little dream, blocking the door into the study. She's morphed into a businesswoman, skirt a little tight at the hips, tiny feet arched into Manolos. Hair dragged into a knot at the back of her head. "You can do the bedroom now."
Where it all happens. Her perfume makes me gag. I hear Mum's voice in my head, telling me to take out those dishes; pick the kimono up off the floor; hang it up. The wardrobe is crammed with frothy, useless things. A few men's suits at the back. Don't think about what happens in the bed. Tweak duvet, punch pillows. Kick a lacy string into a corner of the wardrobe. I'm not touching that. Slide the door shut.
In the shiny ensuite I remember one of those wife-swap programmes. We used to think they're hilarious. One woman made her kids scrub the loo with a toothbrush. Hers is electric. I've heard about wrecked clothes and cars, people who crap on carpets. All she'd do would be pay someone else, someone like me, to fix it.
I want to do something she'll remember.
I'm in the kitchen, wiping down the surfaces when she squints in at me through the hatch. I see a guillotine in my head. Women knitting.
"I have to run down to my car. I won't be long." The bow of her mouth works when she talks, but her forehead doesn't crease.
Botox. She must.
The door closes behind her. I wait to hear the heavy firedoors, the ping of the lift. Slip into the study. The tiny icon of her e-mail beckons. One click and it's open. New message: "Family News!!!"
It's one of those circulars: Little Sophie, whoever she is, has won a zillion medals for music; Conor is top of his class; Niall is a Vee Pee.
My fingers come alive on the keyboard:
Isn't it great to hear about Mary's perfect children and her perfect life . . . Bet you've heard about mine :-) But guess what, the botox stare has begun and I might have overdone the sunbed thing, lol.
There's a stack of bills beside me and - score! A letter from that charity " . . . reasonable explanation . . . account for . . . shortfall . . ." The phone rings. The answering machine clicks in. Leave a message.
Beep.
If you're there, pick up.
I nearly do what he says, out of habit. But I don't.
I'll be back tonight, he says. I miss you. I haven't slept since I left.
Beep.
That makes two of us, dude. Three, if you count my mother.
Mum couldn't have any more babies after me. A messy birth, a hysterectomy. It wouldn't happen now, she says.
Turns out he wanted more children, other children, all along.
Now we have to sell our house, so they can divide the money. "When you go to college," Mum says, "there'll be no reason to keep it." Her voice has a new beat, like she has to get things out through her mouth before her mind slams shut.
I found a man and made him leave his family we've bought a brand-new apartment it's savage :-)
Gran says fight but Mum says it's too late. She says you can't fight a baby. We'll have to sell our house in the end, because he needs - they need - a place too. She'd as soon be done with it, be free of him, start over.
Mum says don't worry, we'll find somewhere; we just have to downsize, get rid of stuff we don't need. She says what harm. She says my life will change anyway, when I go to college. Gran says she'd like to kill him. Mum says not in front of Angie, Ma, he's still her father.
They all say it has nothing to do with me. What the fuck does that mean? It has everything to do with me. It's my family that's wrecked. That's my home that's gone up for sale, that people are trekking through right now, looking through our stuff, while Mum's at work. I'm meant to be at my friend Ciara's, studying for our mocks.
He says we should get enough to buy a place somewhere in the area but we all know that's a lie. Mum's looking in the country. Not the pretty country of lambs and daffodils, but miles and miles of houses and a non-existent bus and no one we know.
Cleaning? I've done my share of it these last few weeks, clearing things out and taking them to the WaWa if they're halfway decent, to the dump if they're not. No matter what Mum says I've caught her crying over things like my TY projects and a painting I did in second class, saying she can't, she just can't, throw it all away.
I'm harder than she is. I bin stuff without looking.
I hear the lift, the firedoors. Hurry. His wife will be out on her ear but what harm?I stand up, still typing.
By the way, those rumours about the missing money are true.
Her key in the lock.
Go to: Contacts. My fingers dance the keystrokes. Select All. Copy. Paste.
She's behind me. "What are you doing?"
Send.
Article 12
No one shall be subjected to arbitrary interference with their privacy, family, home or correspondence, nor to attacks upon their honour and reputation. Everyone has the right to the protection of the law against such interference or attacks.
This is one in a series of 30 stories and essays by leading Irish writers marking the 60th anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. The series was created by Sean Love for Amnesty International and continues next Saturday. www.amnesty.ie