The Beekeeper

By Doreen Duffy

     I looked into Sean’s room before I left. His bed looked like it hadn’t been slept in. There was something going on with him, but I didn’t know if I could fit anything else in my head.

     When I got to mom’s house, she wanted me to go upstairs. She always uses her hands when she’s telling you something. These days her hands flail around but she can’t find the words to go with them.

     ‘Bees, bees,’ was as far as she got.

     Mom was opening the door carefully, like she expected someone or something to jump out. I was losing patience, holding my breath. But when the door was almost open, I could hear it. The low humming, buzzing. I felt my face form that surprised look that she has about a hundred times a day. It was like everything was a surprise to her, the time, the food that arrived in front of her, her face in the mirror. Me.

     The windowsill was lined with bees, pushing and shoving, their bodies a mess, tiny balls of anger clamouring over each other. The bedside locker drawer partly open, bees crawling out of it. I turned and looked at her.

     Her whole face said, ‘see, I told you so.’

     I took her arm and ushered her back out of the room.

     ‘Stay inside.’ I said, when we got downstairs.

     I needed to see where the bees were getting in. 

     ‘I’ll stay or go as I please,’ was written silently all over her face

     The silences were becoming longer. I felt like I was the one who couldn’t think of what to say. She could say so much with a look, although she usually couldn’t find the words now to complete any sentence, not one that made any sense anyway, even to her. That’s why, when she told me about the bees, it could have been anything.

     My phone buzzed. It was Sean’s school number again. Three times in the last two days. I’d have to call them back. I hadn’t had a chance to talk to Sean yet, not properly. He came downstairs the other night when I got in. He was pulling his fingers through his hair, standing on the stairs. I knew he wanted to tell me something.

     Before he had a chance to speak, I said, ‘I’m shattered, rough day with Mom,’ I walked past him, almost reached the top of the stairs and said, ‘All okay yeah?’

     I just wanted him to say, ‘yes’.

     Every day I’d promise myself, I would make time to talk to him, but by the time the evening came, I brought the silence home with me.

     I watched the bees making their way in and out beneath the eaves. The longer I looked the more I could see. I remembered hearing that you should never stand and swat bees because it gives them time to recruit more.

     I went back into the kitchen to make porridge. She’d forgotten all about the bees, she was busy emptying and refilling her handbag, a ritual.

     I put the TV on and went to stir the porridge. Mom found the remote in her handbag and pressed the volume up button until it would make your ears bleed. I flattened my hand over my ear and turned off the cooker. A missing person’s appeal roared out of the TV and then a photograph filled the screen. I couldn’t believe it. It was that kid that had bullied Sean last year. It didn’t feel like a year, but somewhere in that time Sean had stopped talking to me, really talking. Or maybe I’d stopped listening.

     I’d gone to my doctor after a really bad day, told him how much I was struggling. He said, ‘When you’re with her, be with her and when you’re not with her, be not with her.’

     I had trouble following both pieces of advice.

     Last night there was a horrible smell from the washing machine. Sean’s school uniform was stinking and soaking wet. There were slimy green mossy strands caught in the hems of his trousers.

    At night I’d see the flashing lights from the TV in his room reflecting people killing each other, his thumbs beating the hollow pads on the remote, the sound all in his head through his earphones. His face was pale and contorted in the night light, his skin translucent. There was a new poster, a black and white version of a soldier in full combat gear. The photo of me and him lying face down on his bookshelf, his face a warmth of smiles while he squeezed me in a little boy hug.  

     That kid probably wasn’t missing. He was probably hiding out to get attention, trying to go viral. I’d heard about kids doing that.

     I put the porridge in front of Mom, along with her tablets and a glass of water. I slid the remote out of her hand and replaced it with a spoon.     

     Last year when Sean was still talking to me, telling me stuff, he’d shown me some of the comments on his phone from that kid,

     ‘kill yourself’ was the last one I’d seen.

     A few nights after that I found Sean on the floor of the bathroom when I got home. He was violently ill, his stomach bruised, retching into the bowl. He said they’d chased him, caught him in the park.

     ‘Jesus Christ.’ I’d only stopped watching her for a second. Mom was at the sink pressing the liquid soap dispenser, squeezing soap all over the porridge like honey. She clamped her lips tight when I took it away.

     I grabbed my mobile and typed ‘bee killers’, deleted ‘killers’, typed ‘bees in house.’

     ‘Bees are an endangered species because the bee population is under stress.’

     How come all the things that cause us grief must be treated with patience and understanding? I’d gone to the school about that kid bullying Sean last year. ‘Little bastard’ that’s what Mom would say now that she’s started using colourful language. We got a load of talk about how he needed support.

     I punched in the number for the beekeeper.

     ‘Ah yes, a rogue group of bees is what you have there. They need protecting. Be careful though, they’ll attack, if they feel under threat.’

     He’d come tomorrow. They had an apiary.

     ‘We can relocate the swarm … they’ll feel at home here with us …’

     I was watching Mom at the table prying the tiny batteries out of her hearing aids. I took one step and another, but I wasn’t quick enough to stop her from popping the first one into her mouth followed by a big gulp of water.

     ‘I’d buy myself a gun before I’d go into one of those places.’ That was what Mom said about nursing homes. I was only a kid, but I remembered it because of the way she’d said it.

     I went upstairs. There were no keys for the doors. I had taken them all home after the time she’d locked herself in the bathroom. The pile of things I had to take from her house to mine was growing. I taped the door all around the edges with masking tape until I was sure nothing could get in or out.

     I stuck a note on it saying, ‘DONT OPEN THE DOOR.’

     Mom was quiet on our walk in the park. We stood at the lake. The clouds moved across the sun and darkness crept across the stagnant water clogging beside us. I felt my stomach turn from the stench.

     There was a low rumble behind us. One, two, three Garda cars and a van.

     When I got home that night, the lights. The news was on the TV in the kitchen.

     ‘Gardai are appealing for anyone in the vicinity of the lake in the last three days to come forward. Someone has information on this missing person.’

     Pictures flashed across the screen. The lake in our park.

     I turned the TV off.

     I couldn’t remember if I had put soap in the washing machine. I opened the door to check. The stench was overpowering. I pulled Sean’s uniform out of the machine. Drops of stinking water splashed onto the tiled floor. The slimy green strands had turned a murky brown overnight.

     I went slowly upstairs to Sean’s room.   He was crashed out on top of his bed, the TV still flashing light all over the room, making the black and white skull on his t shirt look like it was screaming. Tall, gangly, all legs and elbows, his wrists were bruised dark red. I turned the TV off.

     I switched on the washing machine. It hummed, churning the manky mess. Everything was starting to spin.

     I thought of the bees, I thought of how everything needs protecting, I thought of my mother reading the note,

     ‘DON’T…OPEN…THE…DOOR,’ as she presses the handle, cracking the seal of masking tape, breaking the silence as she walks into the room.