A Chuisle mo Chroí

Alex Blake

The writing appears overnight. The exact same as last time. We cover it with a layer of white emulsion before Noah can see it. He’s been asking questions constantly. Shouting. Acting up. It’s been upsetting Elise, who is now sat at the kitchen table with paint on the sleeves of her favorite cardigan. Her face is the color of the unplastered wall behind her. Purple and grey. I am scrubbing the sink. Trying to get this place to a liveable standard. I tried to rub Elise’s shoulders when I entered the room. It was supposed to be comforting. It had made her recoil. I try to forget about it. It’s not her fault, I know that.

Noah is still asleep in his bedroom. I peek through the door to see him splayed out on top of the bedsheets, crayons littered on the mattress and around the bed. He’s been so tired recently. I turn back to the wall, shiny with drying paint. The letters are still visible beneath it. A Chuisle. It looks like crayon. Same as before. But Noah can’t have written it. It’s too high on the wall. He’s only a little lad. Besides, how would he know how to write A Chuisle? He doesn’t speak Gaeilge. He barely speaks English. At first I thought it must be Elise writing it in her sleep. The move has been hard on her. I also know she used to sleepwalk as a child. I learned that on our first date. She told me this story about her trying to bake cookies in the middle of the night. She dropped a baking dish, woke up, and freaked out. I tried to joke about it with her family once. It didn’t go down well. I thought it was funny. A Chuisle was what her mother used to call her. It means pulse, apparently. A few nights ago, I set up a video camera on the wall and recorded overnight. I know that sounds extreme, but no one would give me an answer. And we had a camera already in the house from when the place was unoccupied, for security. When I checked the next morning, the footage was all blank. I’d tested the camera before. I’ve tested and tried again since. All blank. Now I’ve given up. Tonight, I’m just going to stay awake. I’ll find out who’s writing on the walls.

I buy eggs and crushed tomatoes at the corner shop. I’m going to make shakshuka—Elise’s favourite. When I start cooking, she says she’s not hungry. She’s really not herself at the moment. Then I notice Noah is crying in the next room. I ask her about it, and she says nothing. When I go to check on him, he’s on his back on the floor. He’s wailing like he used to do when he was a baby. When he sees me he starts crying, “Mum." I pull him to his feet and ask him what’s wrong. He keeps repeating, “Mummy won’t listen.” I don’t understand, so I ask him to slow down. He repeats the same again. His eyes are drooping as he speaks. I put the TV on for him and then go back into the kitchen. Elise is gone. I find her in the garden, sat on a tiny square of wet grass, her face like a mannequin. She holds her body that way too. Like she’s frozen. I close the back door so Noah can’t hear us, and I’m ashamed to say that I shout a bit. She doesn’t respond, which is unlike her. A few weeks ago we would have had it out right there and then. She loves a good shout. Not today, apparently. I go back inside. My skin feels all bristly. I shouldn’t have shouted. I know that. Moving house is one thing. Taking on a renovation like this is another. I know it’s hard for Elise. I keep having to remind myself. Putting your mother in a home was never going to be easy. Then moving into your mother’s home. Then renovating that home. God knows these words on the wall aren’t helping.

That evening, I make myself a large flask of cold coffee and set myself up in the spare room, which overlooks the hallway with the writing on the wall. I’ve got the iPad set up with a scary movie to keep me awake. It’s not The Texas Chainsaw Massacre but it’s adjacent. Elise spoke only to ask me to “please come to bed.” 

I replied, “Sorry, babe—I’ll see you in the morning.” She’s sleeping now. I can see the bedsheets rise and fall through the open door across the hallway. The camera is set up again, but I don’t have high hopes. Piece of shit isn’t working.

I watch the square of lilac moonlight from the window drift across the wall, illuminating the still-visible letters. I am nearing the end of my coffee, so I pop two caffeine tablets. The office chair that I’m sat on is becoming particularly uncomfortable. The house is cold. An iciness is creeping from the floorboards. The shadows play tricks on me. My eyes keep flicking to something in the corners, but there’s nothing to see when I really look. I’ve heard nothing from Noah or Elise. 

Just two months ago, we were hiking in the Lake District. Before all of this happened. Elise drinking cold coffee from a flask. Noah had muddy knees from falling over. I remember the way the sun warmed the back of my neck as we walked.

That’s when I wake up. I immediately throw the blankets off of me. The hallway is lit up with sunlight. Fuck. I can’t believe I fell asleep. There’s a purple crayon on the floor of the hallway, and fresh writing on the wall. A Chuisle.

I check the camera. Blank. I open the door to Noah’s room. It’s not properly latched. There are crayons on the floor again, despite me tidying them yesterday before tucking him in. I walk over to his bed and put my hand on his arm, waking him. He looks so tired. He says, “Mum?” as I lift him out of the bed and carry him to the hallway, where I point to the crayon and the writing. His face goes white. 

“Did you do this?” I ask him. He won’t look in my eyes. I’ve never seen him make that face before. His little face pulled wide. It sends a chill up the nape of my neck. 

I try to talk to Elise, but she just says, “I don’t want to talk about that. We’re going to see my mother today.” I make breakfast for the three of us and we eat in silence.

The rain is beating down outside the care home windows. Elise is sitting at Ethel’s bedside. Noah and I are in the corner. I’m reading him a book about dinosaurs, yawning in between every sentence. Every so often I watch Elise’s face. She whispers in Ethel’s ear as Ethel stares at the ceiling blankly. Then Noah urgently taps the book to make me continue reading. I never really knew Ethel well. We met a handful of times throughout the years. I know she’d upset Elise frequently with comments about the two mums raising a kid thing. It happens. Elise said she expected something different. That’s the sad part. Ethel was from a very different generation. I told her she’d come round one day. Not long after that, this all happened. Ethel doesn’t talk anymore. She just looks straight ahead. She’s never going to “come round” now. 

Elise’s bottom lip is shaking. I put the book down and approach. I put my arms around her and squeeze gently. I feel her release her breath. I wish the sadness could be pressed out of her. I would squeeze as hard as I could. Noah joins us at the bed, keeping a distance from Ethel. He looks at her warily, sucking his thumb. I tell him it’s okay, but he stays back.

Later, I try to hoover the whole house. You wouldn’t believe the dust. I emptied the filter more times than I can count. Elise sat on the sofa all afternoon with Noah. When I passed through last, they were both asleep. She looked so exhausted on the drive home from the care home. She said something along the lines of “I just feel so horrible that it’s easier for me to have a relationship with her when she can’t fucking speak.” Then she asked me if I thought she was a monster. I said no obviously. But what was I meant to say? If anything, Ethel was the monster, making her daughter feel like this for all those years. Elise would hate me saying that though, so I kept quiet. I stop at the top of the hallway. The purple letters are pressed hard into the wall. The crayon is all mangled at the end. I pick it up, and tidy away the rest of the crayons into my desk drawer. Out of sight. I drop the hoover nozzle and let myself fall into the office chair, staring at the defaced wall. The paint is thick and patchy for all the times we’ve reapplied. Then I notice a loose corner at the bottom of the wall. A corner that’s come free of the plaster. I approach and lift it. There’s wallpaper under here. I start to pull. The pulling sends plumes of dust all over the floorboards. It’s coming off all in one big piece. I get low and pull the whole panel, and the curtain of wallpaper drops. Beneath the surface is another layer of wallpaper. It’s magnolia, with little swirls and decoration. It’s also got A Chuisle written in crayon.

I make dinner quietly. Elise approaches and makes me jump. She says, “What’s all that at the top of the stairs?” and I say, “I’ll clean it up soon.” 

“I’m sorry, Charlotte.” She squeezes me gently from behind. I hold my face very still. It feels like the first time she’s wanted to be close to me in weeks. I feel the breath release, and I’m careful to stop it there. My eyes sting. Noah is playing with his dinosaurs on the carpet. He’s using an unidentified carpet stain as the dinosaur watering hole. I ask him if the dinosaurs have names, and he says no. Elise tells me she’s going to bed soon. I say I’ll be up a bit later. I don’t tell her why. The truth is I don’t want to look at the wall upstairs. I’ve avoided looking at it all afternoon. I’m even holding in my wee so I don’t have to see the wall on my way to the toilet. I don’t understand it. I can’t think about it. It makes my brain hurt. I can’t talk to Elise about it. I couldn’t. She’s just too—how do I say it—delicate right now. Noah doesn’t ask me any questions about it when I finally take him to bed. Thank God. He doesn’t notice that the crayons are gone either. Double thank God. When I close the door, Elise pulls me close to her in our bed. She hasn’t done this in ages. Her hair smells like paint and rainwater. She drifts off before I do. I’m staring at the ceiling. I look back at the hallway. The door is closed. I eventually fall asleep.

Elise is screaming. It’s an awful sound, tearing up through her body and rattling her throat. I find myself in Noah’s room in seconds. I didn’t know I could move that fast. He’s on the floor next to his bed. I fall to my knees. I ask if he’s breathing and go to check his pulse before Elise can respond. Yes. He’s breathing. He’s alive. His eyes are open. He’s staring at the ceiling. I try to move his head. He snaps it straight back. Elise has her forehead on the floorboards. She keeps repeating, “He was trying to tell me. Oh God. He was trying to tell me.” I can hardly look at his face. He looks like Ethel.

I’ve moved Noah onto the bed and I’m stroking his head. I don’t know where Elise is. I tried to talk to her, but she left abruptly. I tried to tell her to call our doctor. She wouldn’t listen to me. I will go and find my phone and do it in a minute. I just need to watch him. Maybe she’s already calling. I can’t imagine it. I think she’s not well. I’ve never seen her make that face before. Noah’s hair is soft and warm between my fingers. He’s sleeping, I think. I can hear a scratching sound from outside the door now. Then there’s a bang. I freeze. I call Elise’s name, and there’s no reply. I call again, but there’s nothing. 

The scratching continues. It’s an urgent sound. Almost violent. I place Noah’s head carefully on the pillow and walk toward the door. The scratching is louder now. I push open the door. It’s Elise. But she doesn’t look like herself. She’s kicked over the tin of white paint, and it’s dripping through the bare floorboards. Her leg is spasming. Her face is pulled wide. She’s got her back to the wall, like she’s trying to run from it, but her arms are pinned behind her. A crayon in each hand tracing over the words A Chuisle from the start and end of the text. I step closer. I’m inflated with a sick cold feeling. I try to call her name but she just keeps writing. Her mouth is making a low murmuring sound, while her limbs erratically pull and twist. I reach out my hand, tears appearing in my eyelashes. As I touch her she drops. It’s a horrible sound. A thud. Now her hair is speckled with white paint and her open mouth lands in the thick puddle. I pull her up as quickly as I can, helplessly looking behind me at Noah’s still body on the bed. I check her pulse. I drag her into the bedroom, brush the hair out of her eyes, and clean the paint from her face. I collapse next to her. She looks at the ceiling. Just how Noah does. Her eyes open but they look dead. No. They’re not. Don’t say that. I check her pulse.

There’s a flapping sound in the hallway. I look over my shoulder. Another corner of wallpaper has come loose. I look at Elise. She’s snoring now. I walk over, grab the corner, and tug. A piece comes off and I tear at the rest with my hands. I rip at it with my fingernails. Under that wallpaper, another layer. I pierce and scratch at it. Different color. Same words. I pull the next. And the next. The paper cuts my hands. I keep pulling. Another layer. A Chuisle. Another layer. A Chuisle. Another layer. A Chuisle. Then I feel the wall give. The last layer of wallpaper is a red color. I press it with my hand and it bows, like there’s no wall behind it at all. I push. It gives. I push straight through it, puncturing.

I find myself on the floorboards. The paint is gone. The light looks different. The wall has no writing. I pull myself up and glance immediately to Noah’s bedroom. It’s not there. I can see Elise, where I left her—on the floor of our bedroom. I turn and behind me is Noah’s room. They’re on the wrong sides. The light is wrong. It feels like the middle of the night. I run to Noah, still on the bed. I touch his arm. He’s very still for a moment, then he wakes. I feel my breath erupt from inside me. I pull him into a tight hug, and he says, “I missed you, love.” I squeeze him. I take his little face in my hands and look at him. It’s really him. Then he asks me where little Elise is. I tell him to wait there. I can’t let him see Elise in this state. Not like this. I walk past the wall. There’s still no writing on it. No A Chuisle. I approach our bedroom. 

Elise is propped up against the bed, as she was before. The paint is gone from her hair and clothes. She wakes, too, with a smile. “Charlotte. I was wondering when you’d come.”

I kneel beside her. She takes my hand and all the words fall out of my mouth at once. She stops me. “I don’t want to talk about that,” she says. “We’re seeing my mother today.” There’s a noise downstairs. I tell her we went to see her mother yesterday at the care home and ask her if she’s feeling okay. She looks at me with a sardonic smile. “Care home? She’d kill me if we ever moved her out of this house.” 

I say, “Are you sure you’re feeling right?" I go to check her pulse, and I can’t find it.

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