by Eoghan Egan
Ciara cocked her head. ‘Really?’
‘It was one of those …’ Styne shrugged, palms upwards, open, non-threatening. ‘My mind’s gone blank.’
Ciara nodded. ‘As a Christmas present, my son and I got tickets for The Snow Queen. It’s running in the Gaiety since November. Great show. For kids. I knew we were going mid-January and your email reminded me to check the ticket date. I thought we’d missed it. It closes next week. I wondered why a group of business people wanted to see a children’s pantomime. Hmm?’
Styne frowned.
‘I suppose you meant the Gate Theatre.’ Ciara waited for clarification.
Styne’s scowl deepened, suspecting a trap.
Ciara shivered and used the bucket bag as a barrier. ‘Or maybe not. Why am I getting the sense you’re holding back, Maurice? You sure you’re not married? In our phone conversation yesterday evening you said you have a nephew. Now, you say you’re an only child. Which is it? Or has your mind gone blank on that too? Did you take your wife and son to The Snow Queen last night?’
Styne stayed silent.
‘Was there a smidgen of truth in anything you said over lunch? Are you still in a relationship?’
Styne shook his head, at a loss how to retrieve the situation.
Ciara moved aside, pressed the car remote. ‘You know, I wanted to believe the Gaiety Theatre was a genuine slip. Like the Cork-Belfast airport mix-up? Now that I think about it, the idea of a high flying executive booking his own flight sounds implausible. Maybe I’m wide of the mark, and if I’ve misjudged you … well, I’ll cut to the chase: Thanks for lunch, Maurice, if that’s your name. Don’t ever contact me again. I haven’t got time for silly games, and I won’t be in touch regarding next weekend. Goodbye.’
Ciara slid into the seat, slammed the car door, started the engine and roared off.
Blindsided, Adam Styne glared in disbelief at a cloud of exhaust fumes.
-----
Hugh raced into Ganestown hospital’s reception area.
The switchboard operator checked a computer screen. ‘St John’s ward. Second floor.’
‘Thanks.’ Hugh sprinted away.
‘Her room number isn’t on the system yet,’ the receptionist called after him. ‘Ask a nurse.’
Upstairs, an old man stood forlorn by the unoccupied nurse workstation, desperate to catch someone’s attention. The brrring-brrring of an office phone pealed, no sooner answered than it rang again. A visitor rushed by. Her rich top note of oriental fragrance diluted amid the excess of pungent hospital smells; iodine, Savlon, floor polish, alcohol swabs, burned toast and bleach. An intercom crackled, and a voice called a doctor to ICU. A child cried. The old man shuffled away. Hugh took his spot, pressed the buzzer and stared at the unblinking red eye of a security camera monitoring the corridor from its anchored sentry perch high on a wall.
Giving up, he dashed along the corridor, ducking into rooms on either side until he found Kathleen. A nurse counted tablets from a dispensing trolley, took her blood pressure and made notations on a chart.
Kathleen reached out, gripped Hugh’s hand. ‘Why aren’t you at work?’
‘It’s Sunday, Ma. From now on, we’re spending our weekends together.’
‘Wonderful. Or as young people say, WTF.’
‘Ma, please tell me you don’t know what that means.’
‘Course I do. I’m well able to keep up to text speak. It means, wow, that’s fantastic. What did you think it meant?’
‘Um, Welcome to Facebook?’
‘Where’s Facebook?’
‘It’s not a place Ma, it’s—’
‘Will you change the bulb in the bathroom at home?’
‘Sure.’
‘And when will you paint the kitchen? You promised.’
‘I’ll start it tonight.’
‘Don’t forget the hall.’
‘Yep.’
‘And replace the lightbulb in—’
‘I’m on it, Ma.’
‘And paint the hall.’
‘Yes, I’m on that too.’
‘And the bulb—’
‘Yep.’
‘Why am I here, Hugh?’
‘You lost your bearings, Ma. No big deal.’
‘What’s happening to me?’
‘You’ll be fine.’ The words caught in his throat and he coughed, silently cursing his traitor voice.
‘Can you bring in nightclothes?’ the nurse murmured. ‘And Ruth Lamero asked me to page her if you dropped in. She wants a word. Hang around for a minute.’
‘Okay.’
The nurse wheeled the trolley out.
‘Thank God you’re alive,’ Kathleen said. ‘Go. Quick. They’re hurting me. They’ll kill you. Don’t let them catch—’
‘Nobody’ll hurt you, Ma. I need to see a nurse.’
‘Don’t leave me alone, Peter.’
‘Peter’s … I’m Hugh, Ma. I’ll be back in a second.’
‘I’m telling you—’
‘Everything’s fine.’ Hugh patted his mother’s arm. ‘Everything’s fine.’
Ruth was leafing through a file on the nurse station counter.
She pushed the health insurance card towards him. ‘Meant to return this.’
‘Thanks. Didn’t expect to be back so soon. It’s bloody difficult to prepare for specific scenarios when you don’t know if they’ll take place, or even when they might occur. It’s so …’ Hugh wrestled for the right word, ‘… vague. Ma insisted I leave her alone last night. I thought she was okay. Genuinely figured the doctor’s prognosis was wrong. So stupid.’
‘Not stupid, Hugh. Nobody likes to receive bad news. It takes time to accept.’
‘If I’d stayed with her, this wouldn’t have happened. How long will she be here this time?’
‘There’s nothing we can do. Tests will be back tomorrow. Probably let home on Tuesday.’ Ruth tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘And it’s not your fault. If it weren’t this, it’d be something else. Prone to disorientation is another symptom.’
‘God.’ Hugh paced the length of the counter. ‘Another factor I can’t control.’
‘Alzheimer patients can potter around at night, Hugh. They put on fires, or wander outside, or drive into town. It’s a challenge to keep—’
‘How’ll I curb that? I can’t stand guard twenty-four seven. Wish I’d relations nearby to share the burden.’
‘One day at a time, Hugh. Stay positive.’
‘Actually, I’m scared out of my wits. It’s easier to pretend there’s nothing wrong than accept reality. I know I have to man up, but I’ve no idea how to handle the situation. Am I delusional in assuming I can make a difference? I’d convinced myself this would work out, but since I got the phone call from the Garda station, everything’s changed.’
‘Someone said: “We’re born, we die, and in between, we try to understand,” ’ Ruth murmured.
‘Rod Steiger, I think,’ Hugh said.
‘That’s where you are now,’ Ruth said. ‘Figuring-out-the-best-option stage.’
‘I’m asking myself: Why Ma? Why now? Am I duty-bound to tell her? I’m so accustomed to my safety net: nice to know it’s there, even if you don’t require it. Now I’m sliding, with nothing to grab onto. Does she realise she’s got Alzheimer’s? A minute ago she said she doesn’t know what’s happening to her.’
‘Alzheimer’s is a horrible disease,’ Ruth dodged answering the question. ‘Your mother expects you to support her independence. Easy to say, but it’s a big ask.’
‘Doctor Abbott said that too. And he was right about the symptoms. They were there for months, a year and a half, actually. Since my father died. I didn’t recognise—’
‘So far, you’ve dealt with the fallout brilliantly.’
‘Have I? Muddled more than managed, if I’m honest. Don’t consider myself brilliant. It feels like I’m running through a minefield, waiting for the next explosion. I need a project. Something that’ll hel
p Ma long-term.’
Ruth reached across and tapped Hugh’s jacket sleeve. ‘Keep positive. Focus on what you can do today, instead of worrying about tomorrow.’
‘What I want to do is bury my head in the sand. How can I get beyond this hurdle? Will I be able to cope? It’ll put a block on my career. The compromises … God, that makes me sound mercenary, but I am concerned. My security, interests, work … That mantle of invincibility has vanished.’
‘That’s honest,’ Ruth said. ‘Alzheimer’s controls everybody it comes in contact with, not only the patient.’
‘I should get involved in practical stuff, like converting a downstairs room into a bedroom. Make Ma’s life more manageable.’
‘Good carers know there’s more they could and should do,’ Ruth said. ‘I’d love for the public to rally round and share the load.’
‘I should talk to one of those carers.’
‘I’ve a cousin, Sarah, who’s a geriatric nurse. She’s emigrating in a few weeks, the whole family are; her husband can’t get work. She’ll be happy to advise you or offer short-term support. Might provide you with the headspace to come up with a plan.’
‘I’d appreciate any guidance.’
Ruth wrote on a pad and tore off the sheet. ‘Here’s her number. Even if you want to talk to a nurse who understands and cares for Alzheimer’s patients, ring her.
‘I will. Thanks. I …’ Hugh studied the phone number. ‘I’ve tried to visualise what my wishes for Ma are. I haven’t got a clear vision yet, but I want her to enjoy a quality life, and provide a gold standard comfort service.’
Ruth nodded, said nothing, letting Hugh reason through his deliberation process.
‘There’s a quality to dying,’ he continued. ‘And whenever her time comes, she’ll want to pass away peacefully and with dignity. I don’t believe she’s afraid of death, but Ma hates being a burden. Depending on anyone is her worst nightmare.’
Ruth squeezed Hugh’s hand. ‘Your presence and support are all that matters. Although Kathleen might lose her past, she deserves the present. And future.’
‘Should I tell Ma she has Alzheimer’s?’
‘I’d say Kathleen’s well aware of becoming more forgetful and won’t thank you for the reminder. You could tell her she may have a memory disease.’
‘Hmm. I’ll leave that conversation for another day,’ Hugh said. ‘It seems like one step forward, two steps—’
His’s mobile buzzed. ‘Eilish?’
‘Hugh? I—’
‘Eilish? God, I hadn’t a chance to … You won’t believe what happened. I’m back in—’
‘Hugh, listen. It’s taken me hours to build up the nerve to call you. It’s over.’
‘What?’
‘Our relationship. It’s finished. I’ve … met somebody else.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve picked up my clothes. I swear, I never once imagined we’d … Sorry. We weren’t supposed to end this way.’
‘Eilish? Eilish? Can you hear me? I’ll be home in … Hello? Hello? Shit.’ Hugh checked the phone signal. Four bars. He redialled. Eilish’s number diverted to voicemail. ‘Who’s somebody else? This. Cannot. Be happening.’
Hugh sprinted away, skidding on the parquet floor.
Ruth called after him, ‘Kathleen’s insurance—’
‘Hold onto it,’ Hugh shouted over his shoulder. ‘I’ve gotta see Eilish.’
-----
Puce with rage, Styne strode to his car, murder on his mind.
A headache replaced the low burn of expectancy.
My plans. The time I’ve wasted. I knew the bitch would be a challenge.
He grabbed a tennis ball, squeezed, and pounded a fist against the steering column.
Can’t ask anybody where she lives. People remember conversations, especially when she’ll be reported missing. How to proceed? How to advance the search? How to get her?
‘She didn’t see my car,’ he muttered. ‘Should’ve asked the company name and track her from work.’
Too risky. What did she say about the house? An old cottage twelve kilometres from here. Two minutes to school, and a fifteen-minute drive to work.
‘You won’t beat me, bitch.’
Blood boiled in Styne’s head and he tapped Ciara McGuire into a search engine and almost hit the enter key. Almost. He drove into Ganestown and used the hotel Wi-Fi to search the web for Ciara again.
Two hits. Drumraney and Glencara townlands. He clicked onto Google maps. Either could be twenty minutes’ drive to Ganestown.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why didn’t I ask where your cottage was? National schools.
He inputted a search request and got a hit on eight sites. None near Glencara. Naomh Clar National School was beside Drumraney.
Styne wrote the information and erased his search tracks. Back at the car, he fed the school address into the sat-nav. Twelve point two kilometres.
Worth a visit.
Afternoon
Eilish had left the house keys on the kitchen worktop.
Hugh added voice messages to her mailbox until it filled up again. He dialled Ciara McGuire. She’ll know, he thought. They told each other everything.
No answer there either.
He roamed the house, dazed, searching for clues that didn’t exist, pulled out drawers usually jam-packed with clothes, and stared at the blank space. The double wardrobe in the bedroom was bare. Clothes rails, wedged with designer gear yesterday, were empty, except for a few wooden hangers. Eilish's perfume scent clung to the bed. The lavender aroma hit Hugh like a slap, and he lay on the sheets, breathing in her fragrance. Grief, layered with a sense of anger and rejection poured out in torrents. Shattered sobs shook his body, aching for the person he loved, and the dreams he’d lost. Tears soaked the pillowcase. After, he sat under the shower and let hot water relieve the numb pain. Images of Eilish, with flashbacks of their three years together, ran in his mind like looped film reels. He dressed and redialled Ciara McGuire.
‘Hugh?’
‘Give me answers, Ciara.’
‘About what?’
‘Eilish. She’s gone. She must’ve told you. Why didn’t you say?’
‘Say what? Gone where?’
‘Gone. Left. Broke up.’
‘Jesus. I’d no idea she’d planned to—’
‘I won’t go away. You can’t avoid me indefinitely,’ Hugh said.
‘I’m just home. Ferdia’s calling to collect David—’
‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’
Ciara met him at her front door.
‘I’m so sorry, Hugh. This sounds stupid, but are you okay?’
‘As if I’d got kicked in the guts with a steel-toed boot. Eilish won’t answer my calls.’
‘Come in. Coffee?’
‘No.’
‘David? Go tidy up your room. Ferdia will be here soon. How did Eilish—’
‘She phoned. Said, “We’re done. I’ve moved out.” That’s it.’
Ciara winced.
‘They planned this,’ Hugh said. ‘Eilish knew I wouldn’t be around last night. Did she tell you? You know who it is, don’t you?’
‘I’m not comfortable getting caught in the middle—’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘Richard West.’
‘Richard …? Jill’s husband? That guy’s ancient. Old enough to … How long’s it going on?’
‘Not sure. Eilish hasn’t been herself for a few months. I assumed ye had a domestic. She told me last week, how … um, I’d to drag it out of her. Far as I was aware, Eilish had sorted her issues out, between you two, I mean. We spoke yesterday, ended up in a row. Haven’t heard from her since. I’ve no idea where she is, or what’s going on inside her head.’
‘Richard West knows,’ Hugh said. ‘I’ll call round.’
‘No. Jesus, Hugh. That’s the worst idea ever.’
‘Why?’
‘
Why? Because … it is.’
‘But we were content. How can the person you live with tell you they’re—?’
‘Eilish was happy. Is. I mean—’
‘I can’t believe she couldn’t talk to me.’ Hugh rubbed his eyes.
‘Maybe she didn’t want to hurt you.’
‘Well, see how that worked out? I’d rather she hurt me with honesty than destroy me with lies. Wish we’d never met.’
‘Who’s hurting who?’ Ferdia spoke from the doorway.
‘Nobody,’ Hugh said.
Ciara gazed out the kitchen window.
‘What’s going on?’ Ferdia asked.
‘Eilish called quits on our relationship.’
‘What? Argh, for feck … Where’s she now?’
‘No idea.’
‘Aww Jaysus, I’m sorry to hear that. But sure, these things happen, and—’
‘Yeah. Relationships have their ups and downs, right?’
‘Exactly. This’ll blow over—’
‘I can’t remember when we disagreed or argued about anything, ’til a while back. Since then, she’s acted strange. You saw it yourself last Friday. It’s been on my mind to push for answers, but I knew deep down I wouldn’t want to hear them, so I let it go. I’m kicking myself now. Should’ve made time to talk. Wish I could say I don’t give a damn, but I do.’
‘Can’t feckin’ fault yourself for—’
‘I do blame myself.’
‘David? Ferdia’s here. Are you ready? Get your coat. Hugh, listen—’
‘We spoke about our engagement for Christ’s sake.’ Hugh pushed back his hair. ‘I was … we’d planned a future together. I’m …’ His shoulders slumped. ‘I don’t know which way to turn.’
‘Don’t blame yourself, Hugh,’ Ciara said. ‘You didn’t cause it, can’t control—’
‘Don’t worry. Eilish’ll be back. It’ll be … Howaya Master David?’ Ferdia ruffled David’s hair.’
David high-fived Ferdia and Hugh.
‘Nothing’s worse than getting hurt by the one person you trust never to hurt you.’ Hugh turned away.
‘I’m not choosing sides here,’ Ciara caught his arm, ‘but people change, and they forget to tell each other. Eilish should’ve—’
‘Yeah, right. Should’ve. Could’ve. Didn’t.’ Hugh moved to the door. ‘I’ve gotta go. Ma’s back in hospital.’
