Now and Then

by Mary O'Sullivan

  “Why, Ben?”

  “Look. This is why.”

  He was holding his left hand towards me, palm up. I frowned, not knowing if I was supposed to take his hand or just stare at it. He pulled up the sleeve of his pyjamas.

  “My wrist. Look at it.”

  I nodded, barely glancing at the scar I knew so well.

  “The scar from way back when you were a kid. You had an accident with an electric saw. What about it?”

  “It wasn’t an accident. And it didn’t involve a saw. I cut it with my Swiss Army knife. On purpose.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. The other patients were still sleeping.

  “Don’t worry,” Ben said. “They’re too out of it to hear. Or to judge.”

  I brought my attention back to the upturned palm in front of me and examined the scar in a new light. I traced its jagged course with my finger. It was a bumpy scar, as if the broken flesh had been gathered in clumps to stitch it back together. The accident with the saw had always made sense to me. Why would I have questioned it?

  He was focused on me, his stare so intense it was as if he was trying to read my mind. So was I. My brain was reviewing every event, from the day we met to this very moment. I was desperate to decipher what was true and what was fabrication. I could see us, in what now felt like another lifetime, in our Dublin home, laughing, happy. Smug. And yet there had been times when I had wondered about the dark shadows in Ben’s eyes. Shadows that had appeared a lot more frequently since our move to Paircmoor. Shadows I had been too busy to worry about.

  I turned his hand over so that I would not be distracted by the scar.

  “So, tell me,” I said, “what really happened. The truth this time.”

  He flinched as if I had hit him. I knew, in my heart, that every word I said now would have a consequence. For Ben and for our future. He needed sympathy and understanding. But I needed the truth. God damn it, I deserved nothing less.

  I touched his face, his hair. Felt the stubble on his chin, the softness of his lips. Grounded myself in the familiarity of the features I knew and loved. I stood and drew the curtains around the bed. We were enclosed in a warm glow as the wintery sunlight shone through the lemon fabric. An illusion of privacy on this day of broken illusions.

  “Tell me about cutting your wrist, Ben. Why you did it. I’m listening.”

  He squeezed my fingers so tightly it hurt.

  He leaned towards me and whispered. “When I was fifteen, my world began to change. I got so tired, Leah. Getting up in the morning was a huge effort. I would lie in bed and try to think of one good reason to go in to school. I never could. I had this overwhelming feeling of – of – outsidedness. I had family and friends, attended a good school, had hobbies. And yet I had nothing. I was empty inside. I was alone. At fifteen I did not have a future or the words to explain how I felt.”

  I stayed quiet but I was struggling to understand because at fifteen years of age I had not had the opportunity to lie in bed and wonder about a reason to get up. But I could see what an effort Ben was making to explain. I also knew this was just the start of the story. I nodded to encourage him.

  “You don’t understand, do you?” he said.

  I couldn’t deny that. “Your wrist, Ben. What happened?”

  He shrugged. A careless gesture, as if hacking your wrist was nothing of note.

  “Hugh gave me a Swiss Army knife for my sixteenth birthday. I had asked him for it. I needed it for scouting. Or so I thought. As soon as I had it in my hand, I realised it could be the answer to the suffocating, non-existence that passed for my life. The lethargy, the feelings of isolation, hopelessness and loneliness that were growing every day. I went into the bathroom, locked the door and cut my wrist with the sharpest blade. Just a nick. The pain reached through the fog in my brain. Brought me to life. It was all-consuming. It banished the sadness. The nothingness. It felt like the supportive friend I needed. But that initial relief did not last. So I had to cut again. And again. I managed to keep the small cuts hidden. I was the kind of kid who went unnoticed anyway.”

  How had Della not seen? I was sure I would be aware if one of my kids was cutting themselves. And what about Hugh? Or Ben’s dad? Were they all so busy with their own lives they had not seen Ben struggle? That thought brought me back from the brink of blaming his family. I had not seen his struggle for the past – what – the past few weeks, months, years? Ever since he had been made redundant? Ever since he had done the right thing by marrying me?

  “The scar, Ben. It’s not a lot of little ones. It’s a long, deep cut.”

  “That was when I knew I could no longer cope. Hugh had university, Dad had work and Mom had Dad. I had my Swiss knife. I drank a few swigs from the bottle of vodka I had taken from the drinks cabinet, sat on the side of the bath, and cut. Deep and straight.”

  I instinctively reached for his wrist and touched the scar. I closed my eyes and shuddered. Not at the feel of the physical scar. I was used to that. It was the thought of Ben, so young, so desperate.

  “Mom found me before I bled to death. I don’t know how because she was meant to be out for the night. I have often since cursed her for –”

  The curtain drew back with a swishing sound. A nurse stood there, a tray of instruments in hand.

  “Mr Parrish, I must take blood samples from you.” She turned to me. “Excuse us, please. We won’t be long.”

  I stood up and immediately had to put my hand on the bedside locker to steady myself.

  “I’ll grab some lunch, Ben,” I said. “I’ll be back soon.”

  He looked at me and in his eyes I saw his plea for understanding. For compassion. For forgiveness.

  I know he must have seen the hurt, the anger and the utter confusion in mine.

  I left the hospital, and walked to the park with the bench under the oak tree and the litter under the hedge. It was becoming my place of refuge.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Still think this was a good idea to come up here, Mom?” Claire Hoey asked.

  Mags glanced at her daughter, then immediately turned back to the road again.

  They had left Paircmoor village behind and were driving towards the Conicmoor Hills. The road narrowed as it climbed. The higher you climbed the more spectacular the view of the surrounding countryside. If you could see, that is. A thick fog blanketed the area. The ditches seemed to be closing in on them, and the line of grass that grew in the centre of the pot-holed tarmacadam was getting more difficult to discern.

  “We’re nearly here now,” Mags said. “Her house is very close to the signpost for St Brigid’s Holy Well. That’s on the left there. See it?”

  Claire saw the sign. She remembered a time when all the villagers, or most of them, had trooped up here on the first of February every year, to honour Saint Brigid on her feast day. She smiled as she recalled her childish devotion to Brigid. She had long since left it behind, along with her belief in fairy tales.

  “Ah! Here we are,” Mags said, as she brought the car to a stop beside a gate.

  “I hope she’s home after traipsing all the way up here.”

  “Of course she is, because today is Sunday. Thursday is the only day she leaves here to collect her pension and groceries in the village.”

  Claire laughed. Paircmoor did not need a local newspaper while they had Mags Hoey to keep tabs on everyone. Claire was nervous about this visit. She had always been afraid of Gobnait Slevin.

  “Be careful what you say to her, Mom. You know she can be nasty.”

  “She’s alright. Just doesn’t suffer fools gladly.”

  Claire shrugged. Her mother was on a mission and there would be no stopping her. She followed her through the gate and along a path leading to the long, low cottage. The building was so smothered in ivy, it appeared to be growing out of the soil. Even though it was November, the surrounding garden was lush with greenery – at least what could be seen of it in between the many pots and raised beds. There were se
veral glasshouses, and the outline of a polytunnel peeped out from behind the house.

  “Bloody hell! Are you sure Gobnait is not running a grow-house, Mom? She certainly has stepped up production since I was here last.”

  “Don’t mock. Some swear by her herbs and potions for pains and aches and the like.”

  Mags was just about to knock on the door when it suddenly opened. Gobnait was much as Claire remembered her. A tiny woman with sleek auburn hair pulled into a bun, piercing blue eyes and exquisite, unlined skin. It seemed she had discovered the secret of eternal youth, as she looked no older now than she had twenty years ago.

  “So, Mags Hoey,” she said. “What are you doing up here?”

  “I need to talk to you, Gobnait. Can I come in?”

  Gobnait turned and led the way into her kitchen. It was mostly like herself, neat and timeless, except that the blazing log fire and gleaming ware on the dresser gave it a very welcoming air. She stared at Claire.

  “You’re the daughter,” she said as she pulled out chairs at the table for them both to sit.

  Claire nodded.

  “You look very like your father. Is he dead or alive?”

  Claire was just about to answer when Mags gave her a warning look.

  “We don’t know anything about him,” Mags said. “We came here to talk to you about hair. To be exact, your sister’s hair.”

  Gobnait pulled out a chair and sat opposite Mags. She placed her hands on the table and joined them together. The picture of calmness, unless you noticed the nervous tic beneath her right eye. She sighed.

  “What has Minnie Curran been up to now?”

  “That, Gobnait, is what we’re here to find out,” Mags said.

  Mags sat in her chair, back straight, chin held high. She looked as threatening as it was possible for her to be.

  “The truth, Gobnait. Talk.”

  Claire smiled. She knew from experience that in this mood her mother would get her way, no matter how long it took.

  Gobnait Slevin obviously knew too. She took a deep breath, then began to talk about her sister, Minnie Curran, and what she had been up to.

  ***

  I finally got myself together enough to leave my park bench under the oak tree and make my way back to my husband in the hospital. When I reached the ward, it was packed with visitors. The bed beside Ben was empty so the elderly man and his white-haired wife must still be having their private conversation in the café. I could not see the other two patients in their beds because they were so swamped by visitors.

  The curtains were pulled around Ben’s bed. As I parted them to go in, I had a moment’s dread that he might not be there. He was. And he was sleeping, turned towards the window, back to me. I leaned over to get a proper look at his face. He seemed peaceful. Relaxed. His mouth slightly open, dark eyelashes stark against his pale skin. I was shocked to see his shoulder blades protrude underneath his pyjama jacket. Gently, so as not to wake him, I put my hand on his back and felt the sharpness of the bones. He had been on a drip for the past few days, but I wondered if he could have lost so much weight that quickly, or had he been losing it ounce by ounce without me noticing. Yet another stick to beat myself up with.

  All the available chairs were in use, so I sat on the side of his bed. The other patients’ visitors were a noisy lot. It sounded like they had joined forces to swap jokes and anecdotes. I didn’t know how Ben was sleeping through the din.

  I noticed that the children’s drawings had been rearranged on top of the locker. I hoped they had been moved by Ben. That he had seen them and knew how much the children missed him. I should have handed them to him when I came in earlier. Pointed out that each wriggly line and crayon mark, each painstaking drawing, was a labour of love. If he had known how much he meant to us, he would not have put his life at risk by going down to the storm-whipped sea. Or had he? Had that just been bravado, carelessness, a tantrum because Ellen Riggs had gone away?

  As I watched him sleep peacefully, my frustration and confusion rose to such an extent that I wanted to shake him awake. Have him take up his story where he had left off. At his wrist-slashing, teenage years. Why had he lied about it? And, more to the point, what else had he hidden from me? He and his enabler, Della.

  I had my hand raised to shake him awake when the curtain opened. A nurse, dark-haired and dark-skinned, nodded to me. She picked up his chart from the end of the bed, read it and then wrote something on it. There was a particularly loud roar of laughter from the gaggle of visitors. The nurse frowned.

  “Are they disturbing you?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “I’m fine with it but I don’t know how my husband is sleeping through it.”

  “Oh! You’re Mrs Parrish? The noise won’t disturb your husband. He’s had a sedative. He needed it after this morning.”

  “What do you mean? What happened this morning?”

  I saw an initial look of puzzlement, closely followed by embarrassment, cross her face as she realised I didn’t know what she was talking about. She hesitated for a moment, as if weighing every word before it left her mouth.

  “Sorry, I assumed you knew. Mr Parrish had a panic attack. Nothing major but we’re just being cautious because of the trauma he suffered in the past few days. He needs rest now.”

  “I see. Thank you for telling me.”

  But I didn’t see at all. Della had been with him this morning. Why hadn’t she told me what happened? Had he secretly been having panic attacks since I met him? And then I remembered Hugh’s text.

  You’ve got to tell Leah. She has a right to know the truth. Especially now.

  They were liars, all of them. The snotty, deceitful Parrish clan.

  “I’ll get a chair for you,” the nurse offered.

  I stood and picked up my bag from the floor where I had left it.

  “No need, thank you. I’d better get home to the children.”

  I opened my bag and took out Ben’s phone and charger. I put them in his locker drawer. I could ring him later. Maybe.

  “Would you see that my husband gets these, please?” I asked the nurse.

  She nodded, then glanced at the drawings on the locker top. She smiled with such sympathy reflected in her eyes that I wondered if she also knew Ben’s secrets. She probably did.

  As I walked past the partying visitors and down the corridor from St Joseph’s Ward, I was pretty certain that I, Ben’s wife, was probably the only person in the world who knew nothing at all about him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I stood in the car park and looked back at the hospital. My eyes were drawn up to the first-floor windows. I wondered if Ben was still in his sedated sleep or if he was, at that very moment, looking down at me and wondering if I had forgiven him for hiding the truth from me. A hard thing to do since I didn’t really know what the whole truth was, did I?

  When I sat into the car, my first priority was to find out how my children were. That meant talking to Della. My instinct was to go on the offensive. Demand to know why my mother-in-law had not told me about Ben’s panic attack this morning. She had been there in the hospital. She must have known. She had been there too all those years ago, when he had cut his wrist. Deliberately. A suicide attempt at sixteen years of age. No. That conversation with Della would have to be face to face. All I really needed to know was that my children were safe. I keyed in her mobile number. She must have had her phone in her hand as she answered after one ring.

  “Leah! How is he? Is he alright?”

  I paused, giving her a chance to mention the morning’s panic attack I assumed she had witnessed. She was silent. Maybe I was being unfair. And maybe she was being a bitch. I had to bury my base instincts. Nasty, vengeful instincts. For now, Della was a mother, concerned for her son.

  “He’s sleeping,” I said. “He’s been sedated. How are the children?”

  It turned out they were a contented little crew. The twins were occupied building a hospital with their wooden blocks an
d Rob a space station with his Lego.

  “I need to do some grocery shopping, so I’ll hop into town now.”

  “Are you going back to see Ben again?”

  “No. I won’t disturb him. He needs to rest. And I have to make some arrangements with Mags Hoey about cover for the salon. She’s the stylist I employ. She lives in the village. I could call to her on the way home. If that’s alright with you.”

  “No problem. The children are as good as gold. I can give them their dinner. Just a matter of heating up the casserole you left for us. Take as long as you like.”

  “Thank you, Della. I’ll see you later.”

  I rang Mags then and told her I would be with her in an hour’s time. Immediately all the salon worries began to crowd in on me. Minnie Curran and her inflamed scalp. My fault or not? Viv Henderson and her championing of the injured Minnie. Insurance claim or not? Would I be able to keep the place open? Or not?

  All I could do for now was the grocery shopping. I swept everything out of my mind, except my shopping list and how to pay for it. That was my forte. Leah Parrish, the sweeper-upper of life’s detritus.

  Mags’ house was at the top of Paircmoor village, just before the road headed back towards Cowslip Cottage. It stood out in the terraced row for its bright yellow door, colourful blinds and flower baskets in bloom, even in November. It was the type of house that brought a smile to your face and made you feel welcome. Mags opened the door before I had a chance to ring the bell.

  “I was watching out for you, Leah. Come on in.”

  She led the way towards the kitchen. I followed on, my mouth watering as I got the aroma of cooking.

  “I’ll take your coat and you sit down at the table,” Mags ordered.

  She pointed to where a place had been set for dinner.