“Karen Levy. First of all, I can’t say how much I admire your courage. I’m sure I speak for everyone here when I say that.”
I smile my thanks as murmurs of agreement ripple around the hall. Images of myself flash before me. Lying on my bedroom floor, banging it with my fists in despair, tears and snot streaking my face, my hair uncombed and tangled, my body unwashed, my heart broken, my soul tortured. My only wish to lie there until I die. The antithesis of courage.
“My question, Leah, is why do you think your husband allowed you to live?”
Whew! This one isn’t messing about. Straight for the juggler. I notice heads turn to look at her. Probably because it is a question they want to ask, but never would. I take a deep breath.
“If you remember, Karen, I mentioned in my talk that Ben brought hot milk to me the night before . . . the last night. I didn’t drink it. He turned on the dishwasher before he left the house, so any traces of a drug that may have been in the mug, were washed away. It is possible he meant to drug me and take me, as he did the children, to Pouldubh Head too. Or maybe he wanted to make me suffer the agony of the survivor. I have no way of knowing now. That is the cruellest part. There are so many questions and few answers.”
Karen Levy looks set to ask another question. It would probably be about the funerals. I do not want to answer that question. Not now. Not ever. I notice a hand being raised towards the back of the hall. I nod in that direction.
“It must be a great consolation that the children were too sedated to know what was happening to them?”
I nod. “Toxicology analysis confirmed the children had been given potentially lethal doses of the sleeping pills Ben had been prescribed in the hospital. And, as I said, they did appear to be asleep when Mrs Sanquest saw them. Even though autopsies confirm their cause of death as drowning, they were most likely not conscious when the car entered the water. I pray they were not. And the answer is yes. It’s some consolation.”
I long to run. To race off this stage and keep going until I have no more breath left in my body. No more nightmares. No more suffocating grief. No more touting my tragic story from pillar to post so that someone else will not have to go through this torture. Because they will, won’t they? Nobody believes it will happen to their family. I didn’t. Not until I had to go to the morgue, Hugh by my side, and formally identify my babies. And their father. Their murderer.
“Who do you blame? Your husband? His doctors? His mother?”
No-one ever asks the other question. Do you blame yourself? But that’s the answer they most want to hear.
The questions come from a man sitting in the front row. Directly in front of me. He is white-haired, middle-aged, stocky. I meet his direct gaze and know he is neither curious nor judgemental. He cares.
“If you had asked me that question two years ago, I would have answered yes to all. I blamed the professionals for not recognising the need for intervention, his mother for covering up Ben’s mental health problems. Most of all I blamed myself. I lived with him. I saw his mood swings. I believed him when he said he would talk to the doctor. I was the children’s mother. The one who gave them life. The one who should have protected them to my last breath, not theirs.”
“And your husband?”
“I hated him. With as much passion as I hated myself. I was so consumed by hatred that even the good memories were tainted.”
“But you don’t still feel the same?”
I turn to look at the screen. They look back at me. Rob, concentrating on aligning the Christmas lights, his eyes so beautiful. They were Ben’s eyes without the darkness of tortured thoughts. Anna, her boundless energy reflected in her smiling image. Those curls, that beautiful blonde cascade of hair, escaping from underneath her Santa hat. And Josh, his grin so full of devilment. How can I tell these strangers that Ben had been there with them, laughing and having fun? Loving them. Because he did. I know he did. And yet, even as he had decorated the tree with them, brought them to Dublin, played with them in the park in town, he must have been planning to kill them. I had hated him. Sometimes, I still do. And yes, hatred hurts the hater, but his crime, his unspeakably evil, premeditated crime, is unforgivable. The man was still waiting for his answer.
“I am working towards hating what he did,” I said. “But not hating him. It’s a slow process.”
I close the image and click to the next page. A list of contact numbers flash on screen. Help lines for mental health professionals. Confidential phone lines for emergency situations. Or when you just need someone to listen.
A young girl in the second row raises her hand. I notice her eyes are puffy. She is probably the sniffler.
“How did you get through the trauma and come out strong enough to be able to carry on? To give talks to groups all over the country like you do?”
Innocent girl. What makes her think my nightmare is over? That I don’t wake screaming anymore when I dream of the jeep plunging over Pouldubh Head, carrying Rob and the twins to their deaths? When I dream of them under thirty feet of water, trying to claw their way out of the jeep, and I’m trying desperately to claw my way in to them, while Ben laughs manically at all of us. Strong? How? Why? But, yes, yes. I can be strong when I need to be. For the snifflers. For the people in danger of walking unknowingly into the same nightmare that has now become my life. That’s why I’m standing here in this quaint little hall in Kerry on the second anniversary of what has become known in the media as the Pouldubh Tragedy.
I smile at the girl. “Believe me, I have a long way to go to being strong again. But, yes, I have moved on from the crippling first year after the funerals. I’ve had tremendous support from my husband’s family, from friends, from the Paircmoor community, and from the counselling services I attend. Talking. That really helps. And having people listen, like you all did tonight. It’s so important to talk to family, to friends, to professionals. Get past the idea of shame or embarrassment where mental health is concerned. If you feel that life is a struggle, if you suspect that someone close to you may be suffering, please, please, please, ring one of the numbers on the screen. Don’t wait. Don’t think it will all work out without intervention. Sometimes it does. Many times, it does not.”
There are still upraised hands. I have had enough. I have told them the truth. I have exposed myself to humiliation and judgement so they can be warned. I know from experience I will be asked why I allowed Ben to be buried with the children, why I still have a relationship with Ben’s mother. Why I didn’t realise what stress he was under. It’s as if some people believe that Della deliberately reared her son to murder his children. That I purposely ignored the signs and symptoms of his breakdown. His loss of humanity. His capacity for evil. I don’t want to explain myself anymore. Because I cannot. There are no explanations. I want to go home.
Cora to the rescue again. She trots towards me, a huge bouquet of flowers in her arms. She presents them to me and says a few words of thanks. Applause breaks out. They’re standing now and I feel like a fraud. I glance down and see tears on the sniffler’s cheeks. I feel an urge to go to her and put my arms around her. All I can do is hope that something I said will send her in the right direction. One that doesn’t lead to lifelong agonies of regret and guilt.
“I’m sure you need a coffee after all that,” Cora said. “Follow me.”
I close my PowerPoint presentation, shut down my laptop and pick up the notebook. Then I follow Cora, the applause still sounding as I leave the stage. She leads me backstage again to where she has freshly brewed coffee ready for me.
“You’ll have biscuits,” she says.
I take a chocolate digestive.
“Eat up. I’ll just hop outside and make sure the projector and screen are properly stored away. And the chairs.”
She scuttles off leaving me a lovely moment of silence. Digestive eaten, I take out my phone and key in the number.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
I nod as I listen.
&
nbsp; “I’ll be leaving here in the next few minutes. I should be home around eleven.”
I agree to all the instructions about being careful on the road and not to drive too fast.
I find Cora, still on-stage, directing tidy up operations. I offer her my hand and tell her I must get going. She ignores my hand and hugs me.
I had parked my car earlier at the rear of the hall. I slip out the back door and point my fob in the direction of the car. When the lights flash, I see that there is a woman standing by my car. The sniffler. She turns towards me as I approach.
“Sorry if you think I’m stalking you,” she said. “But I just want to thank you. I’ve finally decided to look for help. I’m a victim of domestic violence. I have two little girls. I’m not going to wait for him to turn on them too. Listening to you has given me courage. Thank you.”
Like a wraith, she disappears into the night. I should call her back, support her, thank her for making this visit worthwhile. Make sure she knows that Ben had never, ever, raised a hand to me or to the children. But why would I want people to think well of him? Make excuses. There are none.
I put my laptop into the boot of the car, take off my coat, fold it and put it on the back seat. The beautiful bouquet of flowers Cora had presented to me go on the passenger seat. Beside it I place the notebook. I look at the two items for a moment, thinking there is something appropriate about the arrangement. Then I sit in and drive home.
I haven’t even put my foot over the doorstep of Cowslip Cottage before Mags is in the hall, her face anxious.
“Ha! It’s only ten minutes to eleven. You drove too fast!” she says.
I laugh. As ever, there is something warm and comforting about being nagged by Mags.
“I had a clear road,” I say. “How has he been?”
“Like a little angel. Why wouldn’t he be with three angels up above to look after him?”
That’s another thing I love about Mags Hoey. She always speaks about Rob and the twins. Not in a morbid or apologetic way, but with love, and lack of the awkwardness most people feel at the mention of their names.
I walk down to the bedroom which had been Rob’s, Mags trailing after me. The nightlight is on, casting a mellow glow around the room. I tiptoe to the cot. He is lying on his back, dark curls framing his face, his arms flung out. He is a restless sleeper. Like Anna. He has dark brown eyes, just like Rob, and an impish smile that is pure Josh. He was the embryo. The foetus. Baby number four. The one I didn’t want. The one I almost lost. The one who fought to stay with me, to grow to full term. Now eighteen months old. He is the essence of his siblings, and yet he is uniquely Reuben. Hopefully he is also what is good in Ben and me. I reach out my hand and gently touch his hair. He gives a little wriggle and settles down again.
“Night, night, Reuben,” I whisper.
I follow Mags back to the kitchen. My nose twitches as I get the aroma of her homemade pizza.
“Sit,” she orders, waving me to the place she has set at the table.
I do as told. Through the open door I catch sight of the packed boxes in the hall. I begin to shake and doubt my decision.
“Oh! Mags! Am I doing the right thing?”
She places a plate of pizza in front of me. I know she will nag until I have eaten it all. She continues in her quest to ‘put meat on my bones’.
She sits down opposite me, elbows on the table. She looks me straight in the eye. So few people do. They cannot cope with the suffering they see there.
“Look here,” she says. “A swanky apartment in Dublin City centre is a pretty good start to the New Year, Leah. Della has been very generous.”
“But it’s not my home, Mags. It’s Della’s apartment. The one she had intended living in before Ben changed all our lives. I don’t know why I agreed to take it.”
“We’ve been through this again and again. You need to move on, Leah. There are too many reminders here. And before you say it, I know you’re not trying to forget your children. You never will. But what you need to carry with you is how they lived. Not the way they died.”
I look at Mags. She is still the busy, bustling little woman I had first met and didn’t altogether like. Now, I love her like she was my mother. Maybe Mam has organised for Mags to be with me when she cannot. I smile.
“What will I do without you, Mags?”
“What do you mean, without me? I’ll visit you in Dublin of course.”
“I’ll hold you to that, Mags. I’ll come down here and drag you back with me if necessary. Maybe I should wait until after Christmas to move.”
“Hugh and Piper and their baby are coming to see Della in Howth for Christmas, aren’t they? You and Reuben will have a grand time. You haven’t changed your mind about keeping on Cowslip Cottage, have you?”
“Yes, of course I’m keeping it. Reuben will have to be told soon enough about his brothers and sister. It will be good to show him where they lived. I couldn’t leave Paircmoor behind anyway. Not even Viv Henderson. Everyone’s been so good to me. Besides which, who’d buy Cowslip Cottage? People say it’s cursed. Maybe it is.”
“Stop talking daft and eat up your pizza!”
It’s after midnight as we stand at the front door. Both reluctant to say goodbye.
“You have the spare keys to the cottage?” I ask for the third time.
“Yes. Don’t worry about it. I’ll look after it for you.”
“I know. Thank you.”
“And the salon, Leah. You’re sure I can’t pay for –”
“Mags! I haven’t set foot in that salon for two years. You’ve made a great success of running it. If anyone is entitled to have their name over the door, you are. You’ll have to deal with Viv Henderson when the lease is due for renewal, but the equipment and the client list are yours.”
We hug. A say a quick prayer this won’t be the last time I feel the comfort of Mags’ arms around me. That’s a lasting curse Ben has left me. I can’t feel the joy of the moment because I’m too aware of the fragility of life. The randomness of death.
I watch her walk towards her car and wait for her to turn towards me. Mags always has the last word.
“Reuben,” she said. “I often wondered why you chose that name for him.”
“The bible. Old Testament. Reuben was Leah’s son.”
“Hmm. I didn’t know you were religious.”
“I’m not.”
Mam had not been religious either but she had chosen the name Leah for me and told me the bible story about Leah being married to Jacob while he was also married to her beautiful sister Rachel. But Mam had no sister. Not that I knew of. Maybe the answer has something to do with my father. I don’t know. And that’s the way it will stay. For now.
“Take care!” Mags calls. “I’ll go see you as soon as you’ve settled in.”
I wait at the door until the sound of her car fades into the distance. It is a still night, yet the trees in the avenue sway as if dancing to their own music. I can hear the river hiss as it rushes under the bendy bridge. I have no doubt the workhouse ghosts are wandering restlessly along the banks of the river. Behind me, Cowslip Cottage whispers its story in groans and creaks. Then I let it all pour out into the night. The hate, the anguish, the fear of striking out alone, the guilt. Oh, Leah Parrish! The guilt!
I wipe my tears, go back into the kitchen, collect the key I keep at the back of the cutlery drawer, and take the notebook with the green cover from the counter where I had left it. Then I walk over to the old shed and put the key in the door. It’s the only one. I have not had a duplicate cut for Mags. I open the door and switch on the light. It hasn’t changed. Not since the forensic team were here, fingerprinting and whatever else they had to do. Not since my children spent their last few hours here. Not since Ben had spent his last night turning it into a Santa’s Grotto for them. The toys are still strewn around the place. Jenny, the toy donkey Hugh had given Anna, lies abandoned on the floor. Proof positive that Anna had been asleep, unconscio
us, when she was put into the jeep. She would not have left Jenny behind had she been awake. Rob and Josh must have been asleep too when Ben strapped them in and drove them to their deaths. Rob’s bike is showing signs of rust. The ribbons on the handlebars of the twins’ trikes are drooping and dusty. Mam’s artificial Christmas tree continues to wilt.
I look at the notebook with the worn green-leather cover. Ben’s diary. The one he left out here for the gardaí to find. Or maybe for me. A suicide note of sorts. And yes, I have read it, every single word so many times that I can recite it verbatim. Some entries are in pen, some pencil, fading now. The writing is copperplate at times and at others the script sprawls and tumbles over the pages. It starts from when Ben had been made redundant and then it continues on in crests and troughs of hope and despair, right up to the morning he and the children left their make-shift Christmas grotto and went to their deaths. Reading it has allowed me to see inside his head, to plumb the depths of his depression. But it has not brought me the explanation I desperately needed, that one word, one sentence, to tell me he had been motivated solely by a twisted kind of love for the children. It did enable me though, to tell Ben’s story in his own words, so that other people will, in future, recognise the signs I missed. I turn to the last page.
The children are excited. Happy. Sleepy. It is time.
Yes, it is time. I place the diary back up into the rafters. Rueben may want to read it sometime in the future but I will never open it again.
I stand motionless. Listening intently. Staring into the dark corners. Holding my breath. There is no echo of Rob’s gentle voice. No whisper of Anna’s constant chatter or Josh’s giggle. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I call their names. Not just with my voice. I call them with my heart, my soul. Rob! Anna! Josh! Why, Ben? Why?
Now and Then Page 35
