by Anita Notaro
Finalizing. That was one way of putting it, I thought, as my grip tightened on the phone. ‘What is it?’ I knew that I sounded sharper than I should, but did she have to be so … impersonal, I wondered?
‘It looks like her wedding ring.’ The voice was softer now, apologetic. ‘We’re very sorry not to have returned it to you …’
How on earth hadn’t I noticed that it was missing? Her wedding ring, of all things. ‘No, that’s not a problem. It’s just, you see, I had no idea—’
‘I understand.’ The woman was almost warm now, her voice kinder as she realized how upset I was.
‘Can I come in and collect it?’
‘Well, we can send it to you by registered post if you like.’
‘No, no,’ I said. ‘It’s just, I wouldn’t like it to get lost.’
‘I understand. Well, the office is open Monday to Friday, nine to five. I’ll put it in an envelope and mark it for collection. Is that OK?’
Suddenly, I found myself unable to talk, and so I just nodded, thinking all the time that of course, the woman wouldn’t be able to see me. Speak, Antonia, for God’s sake, I told myself.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes,’ I managed. ‘Yes, that’s fine. I’ll come in. Thanks.’ And I slammed the phone down and sat down on the floor and cried so hard I thought I’d die. I’ll never see Mum again, I kept saying to myself, over and over again. I’ll never see her again.
6
I TRIED TO empty my mind on my way up to dublin, and just drive on the motorway, past the Sugar Loaf Mountain in its coat of autumn purples and browns, and past the country shop which Mum used to love to visit. ‘Just for a treat,’ she’d say, and I’d roll my eyes to heaven, thinking of where we’d fit another tea cosy or trinket. Don’t think of anything, just drive, I told myself, as I reached the edge of the city. And then the logo of Celtic TV caught my eye as I drove through the suburbs. The office was on the main road into the city, a row of low-level grey buildings, the bright yellow logo splashed on the wall above the main entrance. Funny, I hadn’t thought about the letter. Not once. I hadn’t even wondered who’d entered me. Not that I had any intention of going, it was just … who on earth could it have been? ‘Oh well,’ I said to myself out loud in the car. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway.’
I managed to keep my focus all the way to the hospital, pulling up in the car park and forcing myself through the entrance before I had the chance to change my mind. I went straight to admin, to be told that her ‘effects’ were still at the nurses’ station in the ICU. I debated for a moment whether to leave, just run back to the car, and to ring later and ask them to post the ring to me, but then I changed my mind. Just for once, Antonia, be brave, I told myself, as I walked up the corridor to the ICU, my feet feeling heavier with every step. I could feel the panic rising, and I had to fight hard to push it down, opening the door to the busy department and walking over to the nurses’ station.
The nurse in there didn’t see me at first. She was on the phone, wearing a brightly coloured set of scrubs. When I caught her eye, she raised a hand to me. ‘Just a minute,’ she mouthed, before continuing, ‘But I’ll need that bed sooner rather than later, Sister. Right … thanks.’ Replacing the phone in the cradle, she looked up at me brightly. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’ve come to collect my mother’s—’ I began, before realizing that I couldn’t get the rest of the words out.
The nurse looked at me expectantly. ‘Your mother’s …?’
I shook my head, fighting the tears, clutching my throat and feeling faint. And then I felt a hand at my elbow. ‘Come on, sit down.’ I allowed myself to be led to the row of seats near the room where Mum had died. I sat down on one, rubbing my forehead and trying to catch my breath.
‘Just breathe deeply.’ The voice was gentle and vaguely familiar, and I looked up. That wisp of blond hair, the tired eyes. I couldn’t remember his name, until I looked at his name tag. ‘Niall O’Rourke, SHO.’
‘Thanks,’ I managed. ‘It was just such a shock, coming back.’
‘I’m sure it was – most of us don’t have to, so you must be here for a reason.’ I looked at him now and noticed the tired eyes were kind.
This time I could say it. ‘My mother’s ring. It was left behind.’
‘Oh. For goodness’ sake! They should have sent it out to you! What were they thinking, making you come back here for it?’
‘I don’t know,’ I whispered, willing myself not to cry.
‘Well, let’s get you out of here quickly, shall we? Do you have the ring?’
I shook my head.
‘I’ll get it,’ he said. ‘Just wait a second here. OK?’ and he patted me on the arm. Damn it, I thought, he’s so kind … and I’m so pathetic.
I suddenly realized that my chair was the very same one I’d sat on just a few weeks before, waiting for Mum, hoping for a miracle.
The doctor was holding something in his hand when he came back to me, an apologetic look on his face. ‘Here you go.’
‘Thanks.’ I didn’t say another word, just looked at the small clear plastic envelope with her wedding ring in it, a slim gold band. She’d never had an engagement ring. She’d joked that Dad was too cheap to buy her one, but it was really that she liked things simple. She hated making a fuss about anything.
I took the ring out of the bag and turned it over before slipping it on to the third finger on my right hand. It fitted perfectly, which was funny, because I didn’t have my mother’s long, slender hands. Mine were small, my fingers short. When I was young, I’d wondered who I took after – my birth mother or father – but as soon as I put my real mother’s ring on, I knew. I belonged to Mum and Dad. Here was living proof of what Mum meant to me.
The doctor’s voice broke into my thoughts. ‘I’ve a break coming up just now. Let me buy you a coffee.’
I looked up from examining the ring. ‘Sorry?’
He looked sheepish. ‘I just thought, well, that you might like a chat.’ He nodded towards the ring.
He’s feeling sorry for me, I thought, unable to suppress a flicker of annoyance. Everyone was feeling sorry for me. ‘Look, I’m fine—’ I began, but his hand on my arm was firm.
‘I know you’re fine, but I need coffee. Urgently.’ And he smiled.
I had to laugh. ‘OK. As long as you let me buy.’
‘Deal. Now, let’s get out of here, shall we?’ And before I could argue, he took me by the elbow and steered me out of the ICU, keeping up a constant stream of pleasant chatter about the weather. Only when the doors had closed behind us did he go silent for a bit, merely pointing to the sign for the hospital café.
‘You didn’t have to do that, you know,’ I said. ‘But thanks.’
He stopped for a second and looked at me sharply. ‘Look, it’s poor hospital policy to make relatives come back for effects. Causes unnecessary distress.’ And then, as if realizing that he sounded almost angry, he cleared his throat and smiled at me. ‘And you look as if you could do with a cup of coffee.’
I managed to smile back. ‘You’re right. I could.’
I was grateful to Dr O’Rourke for not asking me anything, just sitting beside me at a table in the huge hospital café, with its view of the grey sea and the brown strip of sand which seemed to stretch all the way to Howth. He’d placed two cappuccinos and my change in front of us, having wound his way back to our table, saying hello to several of his colleagues on the way. He didn’t ask me how I was feeling, or how the funeral had gone, and I was so relieved. I’d refused the doughnut which he’d offered to buy me, and which he was now tucking into, a shower of sugary crumbs falling on to his scrubs.
‘Excuse my table manners,’ he mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘We don’t get to eat much, and I’ve developed terrible habits.’ He grinned and his eyes crinkled at the corners, making him look less tired. His face came alive when he smiled, I noticed. ‘
It is kind of disgusting,’ I joked.
He shrugged and took another huge bite. ‘Sorry.’
I shook my head. ‘So, how long have you worked here?’
‘Three years, in answer to your question. Three years without food or sleep.’ He grinned again, wiping the crumbs off his mouth with a paper napkin.
At least he had some manners, I thought, unable to suppress a smile. ‘Sounds tough.’
‘It is, I suppose. Sometimes we do five nights on the trot before we get a day off, and all I have the energy to do is veg out in front of the TV. It takes a day or two to get back into a normal routine. Then just when you do, it all starts again. And there’s no social life, which is why everyone hates night duty.’
‘It sounds a bit lonely,’ I said, suddenly wondering if he had a girlfriend and, if he did, how on earth she put up with it.
He shook his head. ‘Not lonely – far from it. You can’t get away from people in here – it’s like a family. I suppose it makes up for the lack of any kind of outside life. And I like it, believe it or not. And if you like something, it’s easy, isn’t it?’ He looked at me expectantly.
I said nothing, just nodded my head and wondered what it would be like to enjoy a job that much. I’d never really liked the IT firm – the work was dull and monotonous, and it was the only job I’d ever really done, so I was hardly qualified to judge. But then, I supposed singing was my passion, now that I came to think of it. Not that I’d ever go further than the church choir. There was just no way, I thought, an image of the cheery letter from Celtic flashing into my mind.
‘Does it run in the family?’ I asked, trying to change the subject.
As soon as I asked the question, I regretted it, because Dr O’Rourke shifted in his seat uncomfortably and stared into his coffee.
‘Have I said something wrong?’
He looked up at me, as if seeing me for the first time. ‘What? No, not at all.’ And he leaned back in his seat again, arms crossed behind his head. ‘In fact, Dad was a surgeon and Mum a nurse, so I suppose you could say that it runs in the family … yes.’
I couldn’t for the life of me work out what it was I’d said, and yet I’d clearly put my foot in it in some way. I wanted to ask him, but of course, I couldn’t. I didn’t know him well enough to probe further.
‘What about you?’ he asked suddenly.
‘What do you mean?’ I replied, leaning back instinctively in my chair, away from him.
‘What’s your thing … you know, your passion in life?’ He was gazing at me expectantly, as if I’d say skiing or basketball. I shrugged and blushed again. I said nothing for a while, hoping he’d change the subject, but when I looked back at him, he was still waiting for an answer.
‘Well, singing, I suppose.’
‘Really, oh, wow.’ He leaned so far back in the seat that it tilted, the front legs off the ground, his hands crossed behind his head so that his elbows pointed upwards. He looked interested, surprised.
‘You’ll fall over if you do that.’
‘You’re right.’ He grinned and leaned forward in the chair again. ‘So tell me about it.’
‘The singing? Well, I only sing in the church choir, it’s not much …’ I began.
‘But you love it.’ He looked at me intently.
‘Well … yes, I do. How do you know?’
‘Because at the very mention of it, your eyes light up.’ He took a sip of his coffee, then placed the mug carefully back on the table. I noticed his hands for the first time – strong and tanned with long, tapering fingers.
I blushed and stared into my coffee cup. ‘Do they?’ I pulled at a lock of my hair and twisted it round and round, the way I always did when I was thinking about something. ‘It’s just, it makes me feel so … peaceful.’ And then I examined my coffee, blushing to the roots of my hair again. Why was I telling this complete stranger my innermost thoughts? And then I blurted, ‘Actually, I’ve got into a talent competition.’
‘Well, that’s exciting. Congratulations!’ I thought for a moment that he was being sarcastic, but then I looked up at him and he was smiling broadly. ‘It takes guts to enter something like that.’
I shrugged. ‘Actually, I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t know about it.’
‘Oh?’
‘Somebody entered me. I’ve no idea who.’
‘Well, they must think you’re pretty good,’ he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. That I’d be talented and someone else would recognize it.
‘Oh, no, it’s not that,’ I said. ‘I’m sure they mean well, whoever it is … it’s just, well, I won’t be doing it.’
‘Oh. Why not?’ He took another slurp of his coffee. He drank like he ate: messily. It should have been revolting, but it wasn’t, strangely enough.
‘Oh, God, I don’t know. Mum made me join the choir, and I like that because I can hide up on the balcony and sing without anyone seeing me. It’s a bit pathetic, but—’
‘It’s not. Shyness isn’t an illness, you know.’ He picked up a sugar packet and began to twist it around in his fingers. ‘I used to be shy, believe it or not.’
‘You? I find that hard to believe.’ I laughed. Then, when I saw the expression on his face, I added hastily, ‘I mean, having to talk to complete strangers all day and deal with their worries. How did you become less shy?’
‘Practice,’ he said. ‘That, and working here. You’re right – you can’t be shy if you’re meeting people every day of the week. And generally they’re in distress, you know. So you have to overcome it to be the best doctor you can be.’
‘You’re right. And you’re very good at it.’
Now it was his turn to be embarrassed. ‘Thanks. I’ve had to work at my bedside manner, to be honest.’ He smiled ruefully, twisting the coffee cup in his hand. ‘Now what’s this competition?’
I cleared my throat and said, ‘That’s Talent!’
‘Wow. That’s big. All the nurses watch it in here. You must be pretty good. When are the auditions?’
‘Well …’ I began.
‘Well, what?’
I shook my head. ‘As I said, there’s no way I can do it. Absolutely not.’
‘Oh?’ He looked at me as if I was talking Greek. ‘Why not?’
Oh, God, how could I tell him that if I had to stand up on my own in front of an audience of people I didn’t know, well, I’d just … dry up? Mum’s funeral had been a fluke, I knew that. I’d sung there because it was the very least she deserved. But I knew that if I went anywhere near a talent show or an audition, I’d open my mouth and nothing would come out. I knew it. I loved singing, but only if I thought no one was actually watching me, or at least not a bunch of complete strangers.
‘I’m a bit of a bedroom singer,’ I eventually admitted. It was half the truth, I suppose. I’d never sung in the orphanage – there were too many others around for that, and I’d been afraid they’d laugh at me, but when I came home to Glenvara, it had just started. One day I’d been standing in front of my bedroom mirror and a song had just come out of my mouth. I can’t even remember what it was, just the feeling.
I’d been so surprised that I hadn’t even noticed Mum standing behind me at the bedroom door until she’d come up, wrapped her arms around me, and hugged me tight. ‘My little nightingale,’ she’d said. And the name had stuck.
‘Bedroom singers hardly get on talent shows, do they? Don’t they spend all their time singing into their hairbrushes?’ Niall’s voice interrupted my thoughts. He was smiling.
‘I suppose they do, but it’s just that … well, I do get very nervous if I sing in public.’
He leaned towards me so suddenly that I jumped back in fright. When he spoke, his voice was steady, but intense. ‘We all get nervous, Antonia, but if we don’t face the nerves, we don’t get anywhere in life. We just … stand still.’ He accompanied this last statement with a gesture, hands upraised as if to say ‘stop’.
There was something about the way he said it that unsettled m
e, that made me feel as if the ground was suddenly shifting beneath my feet. I found myself standing up out of my seat, hands shaking as I pulled my handbag up on my shoulder. ‘I think I need to go now. Thanks for the chat.’ And I turned on my heel, cheeks burning.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause offence.’ He was up and beside me before I had the chance to make my exit. He touched my arm and I pulled it away. ‘Antonia, I’m really very sorry. I don’t know you, and I didn’t mean to presume …’
‘It was nothing, really,’ I blurted, before running out the door as fast as I could.
‘How dare he?’ I ranted as I sped along the motorway back home, overtaking all around me in an effort to get home as quickly as possible. Home, where I was safe, where no one could bother me. I pulled up to the house, parked the car, let myself in, made dinner, put on a wash, all the time trying not to think of anything at all. If I don’t think about it, it’ll go away, I kept telling myself. It was only when I sat down in Mum’s chair to watch television that I couldn’t avoid it any longer. The truth. That doctor had been right, even though he didn’t know me from Adam. I was standing still. Here I was, twenty-five years old, sitting alone in front of the television, with no job, no boyfriend, no close friends of my own age. Oh, I had my friends in the choir, of course, and the girls in the village who I hardly ever saw, but was this the life I really wanted, that Mum would have wanted for me? Of course it wasn’t. And I had no one to blame but myself.
The tears came, of course, but I wiped them away. I wasn’t going to wallow. Not this time. I stood up abruptly and walked into the kitchen. I hadn’t burnt the letter from Celtic TV. Something had stopped me. It was on top of the fridge, under a pile of leaflets for takeaways and free patio installation. I pulled it out and looked at it, at the cheerful invitation to audition to sing in front of three million people every Saturday night. Could that be me, Miss Mouse? Antonia Trent? At the very thought of it, my stomach started doing somersaults. Oh, God, I thought. I can’t. But I didn’t put the invitation back on top of the fridge. Instead, I left it on the kitchen table, where I couldn’t forget about it, and went to bed.
