All Our Hidden Gifts by Caroline O’donoghue (ink ebook reader txt) 📕

How would I even do it?

“I suppose you’re right.” She shrugs, and leaves the phone on the sideboard.

“Are you all right, Mae?” Dad asks. “You seem a bit … off.”

“I’m fine.”

They leave, and I wander around the house aimlessly. It’s only 7 p.m. My fingers trace the grooves in the wallpaper, my feet trace the skirting boards. Roe was right. I do have a beautiful home. It’s funny that I never appreciated it before now. It’s strange how I never understood the immense privilege, the wealth, the love that I’ve had the luxury of growing up with. Instead I was too busy obsessing over the friends and the grades that I didn’t have. It all seems so childish now. I go in and out of my siblings’ bedrooms, picking up things and putting them down again. Abbie’s shelf of Jane Austen books. Pat’s records. Cillian’s old Subbuteo football figures, Blu-Tacked to his desk and gathering dust. I lie on Jo’s bed for a while, just staring at the ceiling.

When was the last time everyone was home together? Cillian was at his girlfriend’s house last Christmas, and Abbie was at a destination wedding in Tahiti. We said we would all Skype them but we never did, and instead me, Jo and Pat watched Labyrinth until 2 a.m. and ate a tin of Roses. Pat let me have a rum and Coke.

I remember, with a sting of shame, being glad that Cill and Abbie weren’t home. Pat and Jo were my favourite siblings anyway. It was better when I had them all to myself. When the four of them were together, they all talked about work stuff and people I don’t know. They treated me like a baby, and made condescending declarations about how I was “turning out”. Now, I want to slap myself for having favourite siblings. For not being happy in our unit of five.

If the cards are right, we’ll never be five again.

I wonder, briefly, if it would be good to leave a note. To stop Mum from blaming herself, or Dad from having a nervous breakdown. But what could the note possibly say?

Had to break a curse, brb.

I pad around the kitchen, opening drawers and closing them again. I take the sharpest knives out of the wooden block next to the stove, testing each one against my fingers. One, a long Japanese knife my dad got off the boys for his birthday, pricks my finger the moment it touches the skin. A bubble of blood appears at the tip. I suck on it. It doesn’t hurt too much.

I won’t have to do it. Will I? Should I?

My phone buzzes. Roe.

Hey. You home?

Yep.

Can I come over to yours before the spell tonight?

Sure.

Great, thanks. x

He arrives a couple of hours later in his red bomber jacket, carrying a tote bag.

“Hey,” he says, smiling nervously. “Thanks for letting me come over.”

I shrug. “That’s OK.”

He looks at me and cocks his head like a curious puppy. “Are you all right, Maeve?”

“Yeah,” I say, softly. “I’m just, uh – I’m on my period.”

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline in surprise.

“Oh, you’re all pro-woman and genderqueer until I start talking about my period,” I say, sarky.

“No, it’s not that,” he says, wounded. “I’m just surprised you would bring it up.”

I shrug again and make my way into the kitchen.

“Do you want a tea, or something?”

“Sure.”

I flick the kettle on, and my eyes go to his tote bag on the floor. It’s full of clothes.

“What are those for?”

“Oh,” he says, bashfully. “I was just hoping I could change my clothes here. I wanted to … never mind.”

“What? Tell me.”

“I don’t want to. You’re in a mood with me.”

“I am not.”

“You are. I can tell.”

And he looks so confused that my heart melts. I want to wrap my arms around him, to kiss him long and slow. I want to sit him down on my couch, my legs on either side of his waist. I want to feel his hands under my clothes.

None of this is his fault. He wanted to be with me, before he found out what kind of person I am. Maybe part of him still does want to be with me.

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to hold back the emotion in my voice. “It’s not about you. Really. Please tell me.”

I pour the hot water and start working the bag against the bottom of each mug.

“OK,” he says. “I just thought … this spell will work better the more powerful we feel, right? And I want to feel as powerful as I can. Like I do onstage.”

“Are you going to do the spell dressed in drag?”

“No,” he responds, a smile spreading on his lips. He holds the gown against himself. “I’m going to do it dressed like myself.”

“Roe … that is so fecking cool.”

“Do you think?” He’s excited now.

“I do!” I start laughing and digging through his tote bag. I pluck out a silk navy camisole and a long pearl necklace.

“They’re only glass,” he says, as if he’s apologizing.

“This is going to be awesome,” I say, and for a minute I forget about Aaron and Heaven and all the other reasons I’m terrified.

“Do you have make-up? I don’t have much.”

“Not a lot. But my mum does. Expensive stuff.”

We take our mugs upstairs. Roe sits on my parents’ bed while I dig through her things.

“What do you have?” I ask.

“This,” he says, throwing over a pencil case full of pound-shop make-up. It’s cakey and half-melted and looks like it’s been flushed down a toilet.

“Well,” I say. “Jesus.”

“What?”

“Roe, I don’t know much about make-up, but I wouldn’t give this to my worst enemy.”

“Hey, shut up. Do you know how many lipsticks I’ve had to suddenly flake into the bin or into the river?”

“Fair enough. Well, let me introduce you to Mr MAC.”

I start working on him. I smudge a coffee-coloured shadow across his eyes, then draw an inky line across the lids, trying my best to flick