What Might Have Been Me

by Yvonne Cassidy

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Carla Matthews travelled to New York as a student for a summer but when the time came to head home to Ireland, she decided to stay behind. She had fallen in love with musician boyfriend Eddie, with the city itself, with the idea that here she could become someone new, someone she couldn''t be in Dublin anymore. Eleven years later, Carla feels stuck. She never did return to university and has almost forgotten her dream of being a writer. As she begins to wonder if this is how it will always be, she receives a phone call from home that changes everything. Now Carla must return to Dublin, to her mother and sister, to a city and a life she hardly recognises anymore. Faced with some difficult choices, Carla begins to discover what it truly means to come home to herself. What Might Have Been Me is a compelling story of love and belonging, and of how, in the midst of devastating loss, a family finds a way to piece itself back together.

Release date: January 19, 2012

Publisher: Hachette Ireland

Print pages: 416

Sample

It was a Sunday night near the end of the summer when I first saw Eddie on stage in O’Dowd’s in Montauk. When I came in, late
from work, they were playing Red Hot Chili Peppers’ ‘Under The Bridge’. It was a song they always played towards the end of
their set but I didn’t know that then, just like I didn’t know how corny it was to fall for someone on a stage. I was twenty,
that Sunday night in August, and young enough to think that the first time something happened to me it was the first time
it had happened to anyone.


You could still smoke in bars in New York back then and at first I couldn’t find the others in the smoky dark. It wasn’t until
after I’d got my beer I spotted them, made out the shape of Ange’s curls next to the counter by the wall. As I pushed my way
towards her the band moved on to the Rolling Stones. ‘Hey,’ I whispered, ‘they’re playing your song.’


The joke was getting old. Nearly every band that played that summer had ‘Angie’ in their set. Usually they made a balls of
it, weighing it down with more emotion than the music could carry so it dredged along or did the opposite, tripped through
the verses like Angie was some chick they’d just met. But the guy on stage was doing a decent job, balancing everything just
right.


‘How come you’re so late?’ Ange said.

‘Just as we were about to close, a table of eight showed up. Do you think Steve would turn them away?’

Ange rolled her eyes. The band had finished ‘Angie’ and the singer said something I couldn’t hear over the clapping.

‘I called Pete,’ she said. ‘He says he’s never going to fail an exam again. He sounded miserable to be home.’ She smiled.


‘You don’t look too upset?’

‘Well, I’m missing him like mad, wouldn’t want him to be too happy!’

We laughed and chinked bottles. On stage, the band was starting another song and I recognised it straight away: ‘You’re a
Big Girl Now’. Dylan, Blood on the Tracks. As the singer played the opening guitar chords he closed his eyes, as if the music was taking him out of the bar to somewhere
far away inside his own head. It was years since the days when I’d listened to that album over and over, lying on my bedroom
floor, watching the vinyl spin so close I could practically see the music between the grooves. It was Dad’s before it was
mine, but now it was nobody’s, put away on the top shelf of my wardrobe, along with the rest. I couldn’t listen to Dylan,
not any more.


‘Pete said Damien was giving him the third degree about you. He kept asking if you’d been with anyone over the summer, why
you never wrote back to him.’


I could feel Ange’s eyes on me but I concentrated on the stage. There was something mesmerising about this guy, the way he
was rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet in the disc of light. Only a minute ago he’d been channelling
Jagger, and now if I closed my eyes, it could have been Bob Dylan up there. He was getting to my favourite part, the part
about the corkscrew.


‘Did you hear what I said about Damien?’

A guy in front of us turned and glared.

I shot Ange a glance in the dark. ‘I’m just trying to listen to the music, OK?’

She was quiet then, but a pissed-off quiet that I could still hear, and when the song ended she turned to talk to Pat on her
other side. I didn’t care. I was sick of talking about Damien, analysing whether I’d done the right thing. It seemed like
I’d spent the whole summer doing that. The singer pulled over a stool from the edge of the stage and said he was going to
play one of the band’s own songs, a song called ‘Falling’.


You could feel the restlessness in the crowd when he said that. They wanted him to sing more Dylan, one of the big ones, and
so did I at first, until I heard him sing. His voice was pretty high for a guy, and it was funny how different he sounded,
Dylan and Jagger gone completely. The bass and the drum were barely traces of noise so it was just his guitar, simple and
clear as drops of rain. As he sat on the stool, the yellow stage light lit one half of his face, catching the edge of his
sideburn, making his eyebrow-piercing glint.


I can still remember that feeling, that sudden wash of sadness that came from nowhere. It might have been because of the melancholy
melody or because Dylan had made me think about Dad or knowing that I’d probably never hear the song again, but whatever it
was, standing there with the hot empty beer bottle in my hand, I was afraid I might cry. Not that I ever cried then.


When it was over, I clapped as loudly as I could, my ring clinking on the glass. They barely waited for the applause to stop
before pushing into the last song, a lively rendition of ‘Like a Rolling Stone’. By the end of it everyone who wasn’t already
on their feet was on their feet and I could hardly see them any more over arms waving and hands clapping.


‘They were good, weren’t they?’ Ange said.

‘The best band of the summer. Typical that I missed most of it.’

As the crowd dispersed we found ourselves in a circle with Catherine, Rachel and Pat, who said the band had played before,
back in June. The debate started, whether to stay where we were or to move on to the Starfish, if it was too early for shots
of Jägermeister. I offered to get a round in and that settled it.


Pushing through the crowd, I noticed it was mostly Americans, stressed-out New Yorkers on a mission to relax. At the start
of the summer, us Irish had outnumbered everyone, but our numbers were dwindling as people went off travelling or home to
repeat exams. Every night, every round, every drink was another part of the summer edging away and I wasn’t ready for it to
end, to go home. Not yet.


It was three deep at the bar, the worst time to be there, right after the band ended. As I waited, something made me look
down the corridor towards the loo. A guy was on the phone, one finger in his ear. It was the diagonal line of sweat on his
back that I noticed first, the barcode tattoo on his neck. It was only when he hung up that I realised it was him, the singer
with the sad voice.


I wriggled my way into the narrow space in front of me. I felt a tap on my back and turned to see Pat leaning through the
crowd. ‘Nialler just got here – can you get him a bottle of Miller?’


‘Sure – help me carry them, will you?’

The barman took my order fast, like I knew he would: I’d been tipping him well all summer. Pulling a twenty from the roll
of notes in my pocket, I thought again how it was easy to be generous here, where the roll of notes never seemed to run out.
When I turned to pass the drinks back to Pat he was bending down to talk to someone.


‘Pat! Here, take these.’

Someone shifted in the crowd and I saw it was the singer Pat was talking to, his hand heavy on his shoulder, like he was pinning
him there. He let go to reach for the bottles, shoving one in the top pocket of his shirt. ‘I was just telling this fella
here how great they were tonight, even better than back in June.’


The guy was smiling but looked embarrassed.

‘Thanks, man,’ he said. ‘Unless we really sucked in June.’

Pat laughed. ‘I wanted to ask you about your name, Long Night’s Journey. Where’d you get it from?’

‘It’s a line from a Bob Dylan song,’ I said.

The singer was rubbing the back of his head and he stopped to look at me, raised his pierced eyebrow. ‘That’s right,’ he said.
‘“Tough Mama”. You know your Dylan.’


‘You should meet Nialler,’ Pat said. ‘Now, he’s a real Dylan fanatic. I’m Pat, by the way. Patrick. Patrick Kennedy.’ He held
out his hand.


‘Eddie Salerno.’

‘Eddie – a good Irish name! And this is Carla.’

Eddie: it suited him. He turned to me and I moved the bottles to my left hand so I could take his.


‘Carla Matthews,’ I said, ‘since we’re being formal with the last names.’

‘Nice to meet you, Carla Matthews.’

He had a good handshake, a nice smile. His T-shirt had a picture of a tree on the front with a guitar as the trunk. It said
‘Natural Rhythm’ underneath.


‘Sure, come over and have a pint with us,’ Pat said. ‘Meet the gang.’

‘Pat, Eddie probably has loads of friends here.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t know anyone other than Nick and Rob, who seem to have ditched me. How about I find them and then we’ll
find you guys?’


I’d seen them earlier by the door, chatting to two American girls, but I didn’t say that. I thought once he found them we
wouldn’t see him again, that he was only being polite, but I barely had time to tell Ange what had happened before he was
back again with the two others in tow, Pat dragging over some more high stools and introducing them to everyone as if he’d
known them all his life.


Nick, the drummer, was the best-looking one, tall with intense eyes. I wished he’d sat next to me instead of Eddie. Eddie
was nice but he wasn’t my type, too small and skinny, like the bass player sitting on the other side of Ange, the one she
practically had her back to. But Eddie was better-looking than him – he had nice hair, dark and shiny and soft. It was a pity
he ruined it by letting it splay into the sideburns that took up half his face.


‘I think Pat might be what you’d call a fan,’ I said.

He blew his fringe from his eyes. ‘I should talk to him, try to perfect my formula.’

‘Your formula?’

‘I’ve noticed the appreciation of our performance increases in direct proportion to the volume of beer consumed. I need to
do more research to find out exactly at what point that is.’


I laughed. ‘Well, I just arrived from work and I really enjoyed it. Especially that song, the second last one.’


‘That’s one of my all-time favourite Dylan tracks.’

For a second I was confused. ‘No, not “You’re a Big Girl Now”. Your song – “Falling”, was it?’


‘Oh, “Fallen”? You liked that? Thanks. It’s the first time we played it at a set like this.’ He smiled and looked down at
his beer bottle, peeled off the label.


‘You should play more of your own stuff. It was really good.’

He shook his head. ‘Nah, you’ve got to be careful. People come to hear the songs they know, not our stuff. One of the first
things you learn: give the audience what they want.’


‘Sounds like you’ve been doing this for a while?’

‘We’ve been on the circuit for a couple of years. Rob and I got together first, in Philly. Then Nick came along when we moved
back to New York. But I’ve been singing and playing since I was this high.’ He waved his hand around the level of his knee.
‘So, like, since last year!’ He laughed at his own joke and I did too, he had stolen it before I could make it.


‘My mom gave me my first guitar when I was five. A plastic thing with a handle that you wound up. It played “Old MacDonald
Had A Farm”. I was so excited when I got it that I bit it. I sank my teeth right into the plastic.’


I kicked towards the guitar case on the floor next to him. ‘Should I check that one for bite marks?’

He smiled his nice smile. ‘I think I’m over that now. But my mom says that’s how she knew I had a taste for music.’

It was a terrible joke but I laughed anyway, a proper laugh, not faking it. He was talking a bit too much but maybe he was
nervous. ‘So you’d your career mapped out from the age of five?’ I said.


‘Not totally. That took till I was seven, when Mom brought me and my sister to see Springsteen in the Garden. Ever hear of
the No Nukes concert – I swear I remember the moment he came on stage. And that was when I knew that that was what I wanted
to do.’


I nearly made a joke about O’Dowd’s not quite being Madison Square Garden but there was an earnestness in his brown eyes that
stopped me. I tried to imagine my mum bringing me to a Bruce Springsteen concert at seven – at any age. ‘When I was seven
I wanted to be the back half of a cow in the school nativity play.’


He’d just taken a swig of beer and he burst out laughing, nearly spitting it all over himself.

‘You know, that’s the first thing you’ve told me about yourself,’ he said.

‘You never know, it might be important.’ I drank some beer. ‘Anyway that’s not true, I told you my name.’

‘Carla Matthews,’ he said. ‘Matthews doesn’t sound Irish, is it?’

‘No,’ I paused. ‘English.’

‘Your dad is English?’

‘Yep.’ I didn’t correct his tense, swung my legs. ‘Nat Matthews. From Brighton, it’s a seaside town, in the south.’

‘Nat Matthews,’ he repeated. ‘Cool name. He should be in a band.’

I don’t know what had made me bring up Dad, except maybe that they’d played Dylan earlier on. I glanced around to see if Ange
had heard but she was deep in conversation with Nick, their heads close. Eddie chatted on, talking about the sets they usually
played in New York, a weekly slot in a bar in the Village. They were hoping to do a tour of the east coast in the fall, he
said, to play in Philly and DC and some college towns in North and South Carolina. When he spoke about the band his face lit
up, his excitement infectious and, listening to him, I envied his passion, his certainty.


After a while Pat interrupted to say he and Nialler were going to the Starfish. Catherine jumped down off her stool to go
too, Rachel finished her beer. Ange turned and caught my eye and I could see she wanted to stay, just like I did, so I suggested
one more, before we decided what to do next.


We got one more and when we were finished Rob called it a night and went back to the band’s motel. We got another and then
one for the road after that. Now that there were only four of us we talked in a group, telling funny stories that became funnier
as the night wore on. I told them about the time Ange went for an interview in McDonald’s and got locked in the loo, and she
told them about the time I got my leg stuck in the railings outside McCormack’s. Eddie liked that one, laughed a lot, until
Nick told his story about Eddie falling off the stage at a college gig they’d played in Buffalo. Nick was quieter than the
rest of us so we all listened properly when he started talking, even Eddie, who sat there with his arms folded, shaking his
head. I liked Nick, how he told the story, the way he made us wait, and I wished he was looking at me the way he was looking
at Ange.


It was when I came back from the bar that the group seemed to have broken up, Eddie sitting facing the door while Ange leaned
in closer to talk to Nick. Now that it was two twos instead of a foursome it was a bit awkward between us, until we went back
to talking about music, an intense discussion about Bob Dylan, Guns N’ Roses and Neil Young that took us the rest of the way
through the night, until the lights came on.


Nick had gone to the loo and Ange leaned over towards us. ‘What are you two talking about?’ ‘Two’ and ‘talking’ kind of slid
into each other.


‘Music,’ I said. ‘It’s nice to have a conversation with someone who has decent taste for once.’

Ange made a face. ‘Oh, God, do you like all that miserable stuff too? Morrissey and The Smiths?’ She steadied herself on the
counter with one hand and spoke to Eddie in a pretend whisper: ‘She’s my best friend and all, but between you and me she can
be a bit depressing.’ She slipped off her stool and Eddie had to half catch her. I remember thinking then that I was glad
I didn’t fancy him because I’d have gone mad about that comment in case it put him off.


‘I’ll leave you to cheer Eddie up, Ange,’ I said. ‘I’m off to the loo.’

Walking to the toilet I could feel the beers getting a foothold. I wasn’t as drunk as Ange, but I was getting there. The bar
was closing. What now? Ange might be flirting with Nick but she was on her way home – she’d never be unfaithful to Pete. Waiting
for the cubicle to open, I made a face at myself in the mirror, a smile, a frown. Eddie was interesting and funny, a great
musician, but he wasn’t my type. Damien was six two, rugby build. But Damien wasn’t there. An image of him flashed into my
head: his head grazing the ceiling of his mum’s car parked outside my house the night before I left. He’d been talking on
and on, how we didn’t need to break up, what I was feeling was only natural after everything that had happened, I just needed
time to think. I’d been thinking all summer and I was sick of it. Why shouldn’t I have some fun like everyone else?


When I came back, Eddie was on his own. ‘Where are the others?’ I said.

‘Gone to get some fries. Apparently there’s some late-night diner around.’

‘That’s right – Joel’s.’

‘You hungry?’ he said.

The feeling in my stomach wasn’t hunger. ‘Not really.’

‘You want to go down to the beach instead?’

‘At four in the morning?’

‘I vowed after last time that I wouldn’t come back to Montauk without seeing the beach and we leave first thing tomorrow.’

‘What about Ange?’

‘Nick’ll make sure she gets home. He’s a good guy. C’mon, it’ll be fun.’

He downed his beer in a final gulp and jumped down from his stool, bending down to pick up his guitar case. His T-shirt pulled
up and I saw part of another tattoo across the base of his back. His skin was tanned.


‘What?’ he said, when he stood back up and saw the indecision in my face. ‘I’m sorry, is this a bad idea? You said you were
working. You’re probably beat – you probably want to go home.’


Home. In a few weeks I’d be at home for good.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m not even tired. I’m coming with you.’

His guitar bumped between us like a third person on the walk to the beach but he didn’t move it to his other shoulder. All
night I’d been refusing his cigarettes but he held out a box of Marlboro anyway. I was about to refuse again but something
made me take one. There was a crack as he lit it for me, I remember that, and the forgotten rush of the first inhale, the
way he tossed the match on to the road so the tip glowed in the darkness before it burned out. He was a few inches shorter
than me – it was more noticeable now that I was walking alongside him. But it was only a few inches, and it’s not like I ever
wore heels.


We took the back road to the closest part of the beach. It was nicer at night because you couldn’t see the rocks and the seaweed
that rose up with the tide, like dead girls’ hair. Crunching my ass into the sand, I listened to the waves sucking out over
the stones. It was like one of those movie-clear moments right then, like everything existed just for us. I couldn’t think
of a single thing to say.


Eddie had his head tipped back, looking at the sky. ‘The stars are gorgeous here,’ I said, ‘so much brighter than at home.’

‘The stars of heaven. You know them?’

‘Some. I think that’s the Plough over there …’

‘No!’ he laughed. ‘The band. The Stars of Heaven – Dublin band in the eighties?’

‘Never heard of them.’

‘They were good. I don’t know what happened to them. They had two really cool albums and then they just, like, disappeared.’

There was nothing to say to that and we were quiet. He grabbed a fistful of sand and let it escape into a pile next to his
leg. I was looking at it, thinking about what to say next, when he spoke first. ‘Shit. I’m so bad at this stuff. I have no
idea how to talk to a girl like you.’


‘A girl like me?’

‘You know – a beautiful girl.’

‘Ah, Jesus! Would you ever fuck off!’

‘What?’

‘Those cheesy lines might work on American girls you pick up after your gigs but if I was you I wouldn’t try them on the Irish
ones.’ I laughed to make the words sound lighter, conscious of the way he was looking at me.


‘What do you Irish girls like, then? Some guy who swills Guinness until he throws up over your shoes?’

‘That sounds like the perfect date.’

‘It’s not a line. I am really bad at this stuff. Usually I end up talking to some music nerd in the corner after gigs. Usually
that nerd is a guy and he doesn’t look like you.’


I scrunched deeper into the sand.

‘I don’t go around telling girls they’re beautiful. But I think you are.’

I stared out into the darkness where I knew the waves were. ‘Sorry if I don’t know what to say to that,’ I said. ‘My sister
Suzanne, now she’d have the right response.’


‘How come?’

‘She’s had a lot of practice. She’s the good-looking one in the family.’

‘Is that right?’

I could hear the sarcasm in his voice but I still didn’t look at him. ‘That’s right. She’s just like my mum, sallow skin,
dark hair. I got Dad’s looks, which basically means I have to rely on my glittering personality.’ I thought that would make
him laugh or at least smile but when I turned, his face was more serious than it had been all night. He picked up another
handful of sand. I wished I hadn’t made that comment about Suzanne but it was the closest I could get to the truth: that no one had ever told
me I was beautiful before.


‘Don’t let your dad hear you say that,’ he said.

I watched the sand flowing through his fingers, slow at first, then faster. ‘He used to say it himself,’ I said.

I knew what he was going to say right before he said it.

‘Used to?’ he asked. ‘Your parents split up too?’

I shook my head, a tiny movement in the dark that he didn’t see.

‘My dad split when I was seven, moved to Philly,’ he went on. ‘Me and my sister had to move there, too, when I was ten.’

‘My dad died,’ I said, pushing my feet deeper into the sand. ‘He split permanently.’ It was a stupid thing to say, childish,
but I didn’t care then. All of a sudden I felt cold and stupid sitting with this guy on this beach, a guy who knew nothing
about me.


‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. Earlier – you never said. I just assumed?’

‘It’s OK.’

It seemed like it was time to go, a good place to end whatever it was that hadn’t even started, and I stood up, my feet slipping
in the sand. He reached out to grab my arm and missed. ‘Hey,’ he said, pushing himself into a stand too. ‘Sit down. I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to bring something like that up. Please don’t go.’


Behind him the dunes were dark against the lighter sky. It couldn’t be getting bright already, but it seemed like it was.
I dusted the sand off the seat of my jeans.


‘What did I tell you, Carla? I’m no good in situations like this. If you stay you can be the one asking the questions. I’ll
tell you anything you want.’


‘Who were you calling after the gig?’ The question came out before I knew it was going to, and as soon as I’d asked I wished
I hadn’t. It had been a girlfriend. Who else would he have been calling?


‘My mom,’ he said, folding his arms.

‘Your mom?’


‘Yep.’

‘You always rush off stage to call your mother?’

‘Actually, yeah, I do.’

His face was half in shadow so I couldn’t see if he was messing, but something in his voice made me believe him.

I giggled.

‘I know it’s lame. Not the macho image girls want to see.’

I shrugged. ‘What did you tell her? About tonight?’

‘She wasn’t there. I knew she wouldn’t be. She’s in a folk band and they were playing tonight too. But I left a message on
her machine so she’d hear it when she got home.’


I only realised my muscles had been tensed when I felt myself soften, just a little. He sat down again, cross-legged, waiting
for me to join him. I had to ask him. ‘So, it wasn’t your girlfriend?’


‘I don’t have a girlfriend.’

I sat back down, a little further away this time. I was surprised by the relief I felt to know he didn’t have some girlfriend
back in New York. ‘By the way, you guys get it all wrong. Most girls don’t want some macho type. They love to see a sensitive
side. Next time you’re chatting someone up you should tell her that thing about your mom straight away.’


‘I’ll remember that.’

‘Do.’

‘So, what about you, Carla?’

‘What about me?’

‘Is there a Mr Carla at home in Ireland?’

I laughed. Mr Carla – it almost suited Damien. ‘There was – but now there’s not.’

‘What was he like? A macho guy? Or a sensitive soul?’

I thought for a minute. ‘He’s nice. I’ve known him all my life. We were in school together. Played rounders together. Now
we’re at university together. He stayed at home this summer to work in the bank. His father’s a bank manager.’


Eddie waited for me to say more.

‘When he told me that, I realised he was growing into his father. Literally turning into him. That in twenty years from now
we’d be living in a house just like our parents’ houses, him driving a Ford Mondeo, me driving a Fiesta. And we’d have two
kids, a boy and a girl, who’d look like us and go to the same schools we did. They’d grow up to be like us and the whole damn
cycle would start all over again. It just seemed so pointless. And boring. So fucking boring.’


The words flowed out on to the sand. It must have been the beer or the freedom of talking to someone who didn’t know anything
about Damien, or even about me, that let me be so honest, and after all the months of agony over my decision, everything suddenly
seemed as clear as the moon over our heads. I waited for Eddie to ask me more, but he didn’t.


When I turned to look at him, he made an imaginary steering wheel with his hands. ‘That’s a car? The Fiesta? You could have
driven around in a party for the rest of your life and you turned it down?’


‘You’ve obviously never seen one.’

‘So this guy, the Mondeo guy, he’s a maybe or a no?’

‘A no.’

Eddie nodded and stretched back on the sand, resting his hands behind his head. ‘You only have one life,’ he said. ‘You got
to spend it doing what you’re passionate about. It’s an obligation to yourself.’


‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘that’s it. That’s totally it.’

He sat up again, quick and cross-legged, facing me. ‘So tell me, Carla Matthews, if that’s all so boring, what is it you want?
What is it you’re passionate about?’


His eyes were on mine, shiny in the moonlight. I wasn’t expecting such a direct question. I pushed my heel into the sand.
Any indecision from earlier was gone and I wanted to tell him something that would make me sound intense and interesting,
someone he would have to get to know. I ran through a list in my mind of things I’d tried and given up: painting and piano,
even a pottery class once. The gap between the question and my answer was getting too long. And then I remembered.


‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘I suppose the only thing I’d put into that category is writing.’

‘Writing?’ He raised the eyebrow with the piercing. ‘That’s awesome. What do you write?’

I was the one to look away now. It had been over a year since I’d written a word, I’d probably forgotten how. ‘Oh, just stuff,
you know. Bits and pieces.’


That was when I remembered the play I’d written once. I’d forgotten about it but then on the beach the memory opened inside
my head and I could see it all so clearly. Using an old copybook I’d written it out in marker pen, with scenes and acts and
everything. There were even little drawings down the side. I’d hidden it where I knew Dad would find it, next to the ashtrays
on the window ledge in the kitchen. He read it aloud while I did the drying up and Suzanne did the putting away; Mum was away
on an overnight. I remembered that he read both parts, making us laugh, and that I hadn’t known it was funny until I heard
it in his voice instead of mine.


I must have spent a while thinking about that because when I looked at Eddie I saw he had moved much closer. His hand wasn’t
draining sand any more and he put it on my side, in the gap of skin between my T-