by Claire Allan
‘Hmmm, uhm, yes, I think so,’ but she doesn’t look it.
‘You know you’re a terrible liar, don’t you?’
‘Never mind me. It’s nothing. I’m being silly.’ But I notice she is holding on to the mug of tea for dear life.
‘Stella?’ I raise an eyebrow.
‘Honestly,’ she says, ‘it’s nothing. Someone just walked over my grave. If you could find me a biscuit I’d feel much better.’
I look at her for a moment, sure it’s more than that, but I know her well enough to know she won’t be drawn any further, so I start to rummage for biscuits in this house that has never been my home.
This has never been a place where I was made to feel particularly welcome.
As a teenager it had felt as if every time I’d visited here I was reminded of just how much I was no longer the centre of my father’s universe.
I’d asked him once if I could put some posters up in the spare room – the room I slept in every time I visited. He shook his head. It wouldn’t be right, he’d said. He didn’t want Natalie to think he was making assumptions. It was still her house, he said. He was just a guest. I didn’t understand it, not really. Not at the time. Natalie was always so welcoming. Annoyingly so. She was desperate for me to like her, but that was never going to happen. Not when she had taken him away from me.
I’d left my pyjamas there once, about six months after my father moved in. It was shortly after Natalie took sick, I remember that. I remember I felt, momentarily, sorry for her. I wanted to help more. To do more. I folded them and stashed them under the pillow, waiting for me to pick them up and put them back on. When I came back the following week they were folded and neatly placed in a plastic carrier bag on the end of the bed.
‘Now’s not the time to make changes,’ my father had said. I always wondered who decided that. Was it him? Or was it Natalie? Regardless, I felt a renewed hatred towards them both.
I find a pack of Bourbon creams, pass them to Stella and sit down, the only noise around us being the ticking of the big clock in the hall.
‘Do you want me to come up and see him with you?’ Stella asks, splitting the biscuit in two.
I think of all the things I need to say and want to say and shake my head. ‘I need to do this on my own.’
His room smells of dust and stale breath and illness. The curtains are drawn tight and an electric radiator is pumping out heat into a room that feels oppressively warm. I feel myself break into a sweat.
He is small in that bed of his. So small that for the briefest of moments, I question if he is there at all. I look behind me, half expecting to see him come out of the bathroom larger than life, as imposing as he ever was. Tall, sturdy, full of bravado and his own self-importance.
As my eyes adjust to the darkness, his new shape becomes more apparent. Illness has shrivelled him. He’s curled on his left-hand side, his duvet and blankets folded up to his chin. The cancer has carved hollows in his face. His skin sags limply over his bones, grey, thin, wrinkled. His hair is now more salt than pepper.
I step forwards. Slowly. Quietly. As if he might jump up at any moment to shock and surprise me. He doesn’t shift. I contemplate leaving. I could close the door. Lie to Stella that I’ve spoken to him and we have nothing more to say to each other.
But I can’t lie to Stella. I don’t want to. It’s not what we’re about. She knows almost everything about me.
He shifts, just a little, a loud sigh accompanying the movement followed by a small groan of pain. My heart quickens. I should let him know I’m here, but what do I say? Do I say ‘Daddy’, or ‘Joe’, or ‘You bastard’?
I feel tears prick at my eyes. I have to hold in a low groan of pain myself. I’m not sure who I want to cry for most right now. Him, or the little girl I was, who was so hurt all those years ago.
‘Dad,’ I say softly. ‘It’s Ciara.’
He should know, of course. I’m the only person who has ever called him ‘Dad’. Despite their many years together, Heidi has never given him that title. He stirs. I can almost hear his bones creak as he does so. He’s still a relatively young man, only in his early sixties, but the way in which he tries to pull himself to sitting in his bed is more fitting to a man much older. I wince at the sight of him – the thinness of his hands as he reaches out to lift his glasses from the bedside table and put them on.
‘Ciara?’ he mutters. ‘Open those curtains. Let me see you.’
I fall into the role of dutiful daughter quickly, to my annoyance, and pull open the curtains. Not that it makes much difference. The gloom outside is such that the light barely lifts in the bedroom. I reach over and switch on the bedside lamp instead.
Then I sit at the bottom of the bed. Far enough away that he cannot touch me. I have drawn my lines. I have to. Self-preservation is everything.
‘I didn’t know if you would come,’ he says, his hand shaking as he reaches for a glass of water from the bedside table.
I lift it and hand it to him, watching him take a few sips before I take it from him again.
‘I didn’t know if I would come, either,’ I say. There’s a harshness to my voice that makes me feel both proud and ashamed of myself.
‘Well, I’m glad you did. And Heidi told you, did she? My news?’
‘That you’re dying? Yes.’
He winces a little at the word dying, as if my uttering it will summon the Grim Reaper sooner.
‘If I can get over this operation, I might get back on my feet again,’ he says. ‘For a while anyway.’
I nod. I don’t know what he expects me to say.
‘Ciara, I don’t have much time, but I wondered if I might have enough time to make things right with you. We’ve wasted so many years. If there’s any chance at all that we can even start to reconcile … it would mean more to me than I can say.’
I wait for him to say he’s sorry. I will him to say it. I’ve wanted him to say it for twenty years. Surely now, when time is running out, when he says he wants to reconcile – when he wants that more than he can say – surely now he can force those words out.
Maybe, if he does, I can think about a reconciliation. He’s scared now – I can see that in his eyes – in the way he looks at me. I need to know if he is really interested in acknowledging the pain he caused, or if he’s just scared of the judgement he’ll face from his God.
‘Heidi says you have maybe three months. Six at most,’ I say, picking imaginary fluff from the blanket on the bed.
‘I’ll not see six,’ he says. ‘I feel it. I can feel it getting closer. The cancer’s spreading.’
I look at him. There’s so much I want to say that I don’t know where to start. I could quip that the cancer started to spread a long, long time ago. But I don’t.
‘I’m scared, Ciara,’ he says, his voice weak. Pathetic.
I close my eyes. Just once, Dad, I think. Just say sorry once.
I can feel tears prick at my eyes. A well of emotion I know wants a release rises up in me. It’s a mixture of anger and grief and fear. I’m that thirteen-year-old again having her heart broken, asking her daddy to say he loved her enough to stay and that he was sorry that he ever hurt her.
I swallow them down and look him straight in the eyes. He will not see me cry. He will never know how much he hurt me, or how scared I was.
‘I’m not sure what you want me to do about that,’ I say, not caring in that moment about the icy tone in my voice.
Chapter Seven
Joe
Now
I don’t like being in this house alone any more. I used to enjoy the silence. I’d be happy lost among my books, or out in the garden. Now, no amount of books can distract me from the knowledge that my body is giving up on me.
I should have known I wasn’t well. Maybe I did and I was in denial. I’ve felt myself slowing down for the last few months – having less energy, less drive. I was foolish to think, or hope, it was merely my age.
Time is running out and I don’t know w
hat’s ahead of me. Will it be a painful death? Will I just slip away? What will be waiting for me on the other side? I’m a believer, of course. I believe in a God who forgives all sins when the sinner repents, but is there is a cut-off point in His tolerance for wrongdoers? Are some sins unforgivable?
Ciara has been so cold with me. I’m not sure what I expected. A hug? A tearful reunion? It’s been almost ten years or more since we last saw each other. Ten years since she said I was no longer part of her life and never would be again.
I suppose I expected some sign of love. That she cared. She’s not the thirteen-year-old girl I moved out on any more. She’s a grown woman, old enough to know that adult relationships aren’t always straightforward. She should have a bit more savvy by now. Then again, maybe I don’t deserve to be forgiven, by Ciara or by God.
Maybe I’ll ask Heidi to call Father Brennan for me. Get him to come to the house and provide some spiritual counsel. I’m too sore and too tired to get out of this bed save to shuffle to the bathroom and back again. I’m definitely too sore for a trip to chapel.
What will he think, though, if I tell him? Will he stay impartial as priests are supposed to? Will he dole out the penance of a couple of Hail Marys and Our Fathers and all will be forgiven, or will he never think of me the same again?
The clock in the hall is ticking loudly. I used to find it a comfort – a constant companion on quiet afternoons in front of the fire, reading my books with a cup of tea at hand.
Now, though, it’s just reminding me that every second passing is one that I won’t get back, and brings me one second closer to facing the judgement of God.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
Chapter Eight
Heidi
Then
Ciara’s face was incandescent with rage. Her blue eyes narrowed. Her mouth set in a snarl. She was lashing out, swiping at him with her arms while he tried to subdue her.
I was standing in the corner. If I could have pushed myself further into it, disappeared through a crack in the plaster, I would have. I was cradling my favourite doll and trying to understand what was happening. My mother was trying to coax me to come and sit beside her, but I’d never seen such rage before and it scared me.
Ciara was angry and Joe was doing his best to mollify her. Although she was thirteen – tall and lanky with a smattering of teenage acne – she started to cry like a baby. To cry the way I wanted to cry at the sound of their raised voices.
‘You can’t make me be friends with these people!’ she howled. ‘You can’t make me like them. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home. LET ME GO HOME!’
She kicked him square in the shins and he let out a roar of pain, while she darted around him and made for the front door. Quick as a flash he went after her, blocking her escape.
‘Ciara, pet, there’s no need to react like this. Natalie and Heidi just want to spend more time with you.’
‘Heidi! What kind of a stupid name is Heidi? Does she live up in the mountains with her granda or something?’
I shrank into myself. I was all too aware of my literary namesake, but most people had told me how pretty my name was. How unusual. They didn’t mock me – not like Ciara was mocking me.
‘She’s a nice girl,’ I heard Joe soothe.
‘I’m a nice girl, too,’ Ciara yelled, ‘but you’ve left us, me and Mammy, for them. And they let you. Mammy says they’re homewreckers.’
‘That’s enough,’ I heard Joe say. It was probably the first time I’d heard real sternness in his voice. ‘I understand that you’re angry, Ciara, but there’s no excuse for such rudeness. Things aren’t as simple as your mother would have you believe. We’d fallen out of love with each other a long time ago.’
‘That’s crap!’ Ciara blustered. ‘Mammy still loves you. She told me. She cries all the time.’
I glanced at my mother, who was pale. She looked as if she might be sick. I felt as though I might be sick too. I didn’t like that Ciara was calling my mammy names. I didn’t like that my mammy was being painted as a bad person. She wasn’t a bad person. But Ciara looked so sad and scared, and angry.
‘Loving someone and being in love with someone are two different things,’ Joe said. ‘I’ll always love your mother, but I’m in love with Natalie now. And she needs me.’
‘We need you!’ Ciara wailed.
‘Not as much as Natalie does,’ Joe said and I felt my mother stiffen beside me.
‘Joe,’ she said, a warning edge to her voice. ‘Now’s not the time. She’s upset. She has a right to be upset.’ I saw her give a small, reassuring nod to Ciara, but her face was blazing as if she was embarrassed, or ashamed. As if she had done something wrong.
‘Sweetheart, they need to know. They need to know why I have to be here with you,’ Joe said. His voice was thick with emotion. ‘When you’re older, Ciara, you might understand more. I love Natalie, and she’s sick. Very sick. And I need to be – no, I want to be – here for her, and for Heidi, because we don’t know what time we have left.’
I heard my mother sob as Joe crossed the room and took her hand. I saw the shock and hate on Ciara’s face.
Mammy squeezed my hand tight. I heard a small groan, barely perceptible, leave her lips. ‘Joe!’ she said in an angry whisper before nodding her head in my direction.
I felt as if the ground had just shifted under my feet and things were never going to be the same again. My mammy was sick. They didn’t know what time they had left. What did that mean? Did that mean my mammy was dying? No, that was impossible. It was unthinkable. I remember putting my hands to my ears to block out the noise, but it was already too late. The damage had been done. The words had been said and they couldn’t be taken back.
Chapter Nine
Heidi
Now
Alex sits on the edge of our bed, taking off his shoes. They clunk to the floor and he kicks them out of his way before standing up to undress.
‘That wasn’t as bad as it could have been,’ he says.
‘It wasn’t great,’ I say, stroking Lily’s head as I give her one final feed before bedtime. ‘It was awkward.’
He pulls his T-shirt over his head, exposing the fine smattering of hair on his chest, before he pulls back the duvet and climbs in beside me.
‘It was always going to be awkward,’ he says, leaning over to kiss me on the cheek and then to kiss Lily on the top of her head. ‘You haven’t seen her in what, ten years? And when you do, it’s not under the nicest of circumstances.’
‘I suppose,’ I say, unlatching Lily from my breast and putting her on my shoulder to try to get her wind up.
‘She seemed upset after she saw him,’ he says. He’d arrived while Ciara was upstairs and had sat with Stella until I finished breastfeeding. ‘Do you think she’ll get involved in his care?’
I shrug. ‘I hope so, but I don’t know. And that girlfriend of hers wasn’t giving anything away.’
‘Stella? She seems nice,’ he says. ‘They seem to be happy together.’
And they do. I saw how Stella had looked at Ciara when she had come back into the room, how she’d held her hand and mouthed ‘are you okay?’ before I had the chance to ask after her. I saw how Ciara placed her head on Stella’s shoulder as they sat together, letting her usually impenetrable guard down for just a moment or two.
‘Are you okay?’ I had asked as if I hadn’t witnessed the interaction between the two of them.
‘What do you think?’ Ciara had said. Or snapped. It felt like more of a snap.
‘It must be a shock for you, all of this,’ I added, trying to be polite.
‘That’s one way to describe it,’ she sniffed, looking around the room. ‘This house hasn’t changed much over the years.’
Her judgement, even though it wasn’t the house I lived in, and even though I had no say over the decoration of it, made me bristle.
‘Joe’s very set in his ways, you know,’ I said.
‘Actually
, I don’t know. The man’s a virtual stranger to me.’
I felt chastised again and with each answer from her I could feel myself shrinking back into the little girl I was all those years ago who was afraid to speak.
‘I’m sorry things have been difficult for you,’ Alex said, and it took me a moment to register that he was talking to Ciara and not me. I realised then, as she looked him up and down, that I hadn’t even introduced them.
‘This is Alex, Heidi’s husband,’ Stella said, getting in ahead of me with the formalities.
‘Oh God, yes, sorry,’ I said. ‘I should’ve said.’
‘I was able to figure it out myself,’ Ciara said, looking at me with something akin to disappointment on her face.
Why was I so useless, so socially inept?
Alex spoke, making up for my tied tongue and awkwardness. ‘Look, we appreciate this isn’t easy. But we want you to know you’re welcome here any time you want. If you want to spend more time with your father. We can get you a key. Heidi is here most days at the moment, helping, but if you’d rather have time alone with him then I’m sure Heidi wouldn’t mind.’
‘Can Heidi not speak for herself?’ Ciara asked.
‘I can,’ I answered, blushing at having my social ineptitude called out so openly. ‘But what Alex has said, it’s true. Whatever you need …’
‘I don’t need any of this,’ Ciara had said, waving her hand around, signifying the house around her and the entire situation. I watched Stella rub her hand, tenderly, soothing her. ‘I need to think about it. I’ll be in touch.’
Now, with Alex beside me in bed, I can’t stop replaying the entire conversation over and over in my head and forensically picking it all apart. Her words. Her tone. The looks she shared with Stella, and Alex, and me.
‘You don’t think Ciara was sharp? Nasty and bitchy?’ I ask him just as Lily produces a momentous burp that rattles her whole body.
‘Not overly, Heidi,’ he says. ‘Given the circumstances. I’m sure she doesn’t know her right from her left at the moment.’
