Granda’s gone up to God. My Mary-Jane’s click against his good lino as I flick my toes, smushing my cheek against the open coffin like a wad of gum. His skinny fingers are tucked over one another with indigo blobs splattering the pale, holy beads slithering through the gaps. His spider-leg eyelashes are still spare the buzzing fan. All my blinks lift a bit of hope inside me, thinking he’s going to jump up and tickle me silly. Granda’s going to let out his big, crackly laugh and bring back his biscuit breath again. Just a wind-up, he’ll say. Just a wee joke.
He remains serious. Mammy’s tried explaining but she’s no good at making sense of this, but when I told her as much, she said nobody can. Only the same words left her splintered lips. He’s gone away, far away up to God. Did he float? Did Our Father shout c’mere you now, Granda McNally? Why’s no angel sent him back yet? A school story plays on my mental movie screen, one of a curly Devil being sent tumbling off the clouds of heaven.
The wake has a grey light flickering through the blinds, one throwing shadows along the scrunched faces of chapelgoers. Granda’s stuff seems lifeless. Dust crumbles off the Sacred Heart, the sittee wheezes as another person’s knees give way. Their dripping tears are reflected in the gaze of the Child of Prague. A book marked three quarters of the way through sits on the cold fireplace, and the telly flicks through news channels like stories about missing dogs could bring any joy. A quiet stuck inside in loneliness clenches around my lungs, nearly as thick as the smoke. Folks are everywhere but half of these people fib about knowing Granda, not one gave a mass card to his open-eyed face.
Voices float out of the kitchen door and when Granda’s stiffness chills my spine too much, I patter towards the sounds. Old women’s faces wrinkle with sadness and getting old, and probably the sadness that comes with that. Half-full cups of tea with beige spilling down the rim cover the place, miraculous medals stuck between thumbs and fingers. The world seems gigantic with gloom as soft hands graze my head, but their rings scratch my scalp. A bitter taste hits my tongue coming from my own throat, boke mixed with diluted juice. Certain men hover against the dark walls with a pint-infested cough, a shine in their golden tooth and never their eyes. Some of their language makes me stick two fingers in my ears, an act that earns a low chuckle.
Mammy appears, all wisps of ginger flying around her head and the look of somebody just off Planet Mars. One hand grips my shoulder to steer my body out, a paper circle above my head. When we return to the hall of emptiness, one that pricks the hairs of my arms, she hands me the plate. Her mumbling is too low and distant for a single word to make sense, but she walks off and slams the door before I can whine. A squashed sausage roll with a blob of ketchup sits expectantly, flecks of sauce oozing out of the sides, put with a cherry scone. My shoes click with less joy.
I fling myself onto the lowest step of his stairs, huffing and puffing like a bad wolf until my lungs are dry. The plate wobbles on my lap while the stair carpet nips my freckles. Why’s nobody answering? My mind whirls like a spinning top. Mammy told me to wait until I was bigger. But I’ve went up a shoe size recently. And this year my school pinafore is less baggy. Baby Marty might be a babe with his drooling nose and pitchy squeals. My Granda always said I was a big girl. Where is he anyway?
God might send him back, a thought that briefly seems worth sharing. These adults wouldn’t take words from a so-called wee pet. Maybe Granda is resting his eyes. Or God might have no room for any more angels. Our Father might stroke his long white beard, pluck out each folk lined-up for heaven and shake his head. He could well, couldn’t he? My nose scrunches as I search my brain. Mentally, I say my prayers a few times before I ask God for the truth. The ancient and wisdom-y voice leaves my head blank. Maybe He’s saying to catch myself on because Granda is bound to wake up, he always does after a dead long nap. Maybe He’s busy crafting a storm in his dancing fingertips. Other kids across the globe must have bigger problems because God does not speak another word. Granda is going to wake up, isn’t he? He’s going to bounce up after his wee sleep at any moment. Tick. Tock.
A whimper catches my ear. My waist twists to examine the top of the stairs and two steps above me rests a ball of fur. His charcoal dog with the round, heavy eyes of two stones. Is that not proof that Granda hasn’t left us? He wouldn’t have left Pod, his clingy little pet, behind. Granda had wanted to call him Padraic but Mammy had told him off rightly because Padraic was no name for an animal. More of a name that mammies gave their sons when their daddies were called Padraic, or they were nearly sure they didn’t have a son called Padraic already. So, Pod stuck. His tail often wags all happy when I show up, but he’s stuck in a sleepy daze. Pod barely seems to notice me. Dog. D-O-G. G-O-D. Ha!
Eventually, Pod steps down the stairs to nuzzle my side. His eyes glitter like stars are trapped inside. All day long the pensioner women with their shiny-buckle handbags have called me a pet, nearly as much as a dote. A pet, but? Surely I do not have the triangle ears of a cat or the face of a grumbling pug. Pod is a smelly pet. A raw and meaty scent like a mushed steak dinner. Pod’s drooping gaze has long rolls in his fur. The actual pet feels as lost as me, I bet. His paws scrape the stairs, digging for a sniff of Granda’s existence. His tooth-like nails rip fuzzy shreds for a sign of the one person with meaning in his dog world. A humongous realization hits my wee self. Human beings have arms to wrap around shoulders and bottomless tear-tasting tea. People have people. Dogs just wonder why they are left behind.
My body shifts to slump my head on the stair, the carpet crunching under my ear. Pod rests on the same step. We blink at each other with the same curiosity and each thump of his heart taps mine. His tongue rolls sloppily out of his mouth with a dewy string of spit, and naturally I stick my own out at him. God feels like a stranger, both missing and staring through my soul through the framed Divine Mercy. Granda feels like a stranger, lying there but seeming too unfamiliar with hands once full of heat. Folks feel like strangers and rightly so they are.
Against the warmth of the stair, a soft memory hits me. My body leaps up but Pod simply follows with his eyes. Don’t dogs use their smell for basically their lives? The clumpy chapel scent couldn’t be comforting but a hint of home could be. My scrambling arms gesture widely up the stairs, swinging like the living room fan. Pod’s blinking becomes alert and with dragged movements, he leaps up the staircase after me with a bark. We race across the landing to Granda’s shut tight bedroom, and despite me pressing myself against the wall like a super spy, Pod nudges the door open.
The pair of us still. Granda’s room has an atmosphere of dust, so easily inhaled and making my heart drop. His trousers for days ago are laid out, his prayer book squatting on the beside table. The beige bedsheet reminds me of the millions of faces passing by, shaking their heads at my smaller self. Again and again, expression after tut after sigh.
Pod scratches the bed before crawling his way on, shuffling towards the pillows. As the door creaks closed, I climb to lay at his side. When the bouncing of the mattress settles, we are two squished faces with the same gleam in our eyes. In attempt to shove the waterworks down, I take a heavy inhale. A blast of Granda’s biscuit scent fills my nose, squeezing my heart with a casual whiff. Pod snuggles against the pillow with a droplet clinging to his eyelid, his sweaty breath caressing my cheek. If D-O-G is G-O-D backwards, God exists a wee bit inside Pod. A bit of heaven exists inside God which means, a piece of Granda lays beside me.
Gone up to heaven or not.
Kaila Patterson is a teenage author based in Ireland. She was a Finalist in the Rising Voices Awards 2024. Her work has been published by The Irish Times, Paper Lanterns, The Serulian and Poetry Wales. Her current book is a work-in-progress and her first YA novel was published in 2021.
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