by Ber Carroll
I harbour some guilt about that day, guilt that’s been eating away at me. I should have said more, I should have stood up for Liam properly, shown unflinching support, attempted to defuse my father’s contempt. I never got to say sorry to him for privately thinking he should have been trying harder to get a job, for not fully empathising with his situation. As I raked through the rubble with my bare fingers, the apology was burning in my throat, and it has been ever since.
I’m remembering other things too, details I had pushed to the back of my mind and mislaid with the passing of time. My father driving me to dancing, to swimming and friends’ houses, never complaining though it must have been inconvenient and annoying. The little gifts he occasionally brought home from work, pens, pencils, brightly coloured stationery he knew I liked. And the day, a few lifetimes ago, when Mandy and I fell off our bikes …
After I said goodbye to Mandy at the corner of the street and walked the rest of the way home, I took my dented bike around the back where Liam was taunting Maeve with a basketball, bouncing it around her and laughing at her attempts to gain possession. They glanced my way but didn’t notice the state of me or the bike. I knew I wouldn’t be as lucky when I got inside.
As I sneaked in the back door, as inconspicuously as possible, my parents were in the kitchen, Mum at the sink, Dad setting the table for lunch. Mum looked over her shoulder with a smile. ‘Hi, love.’ Her smile fell away when she saw my torn and bloody knees. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What happened to you?’
‘I came off my bike.’
‘How?’
‘I hit a pothole.’
‘Were you going too fast?’ This was from my father and I turned to look at him.
‘Maybe a little.’
Mum left the sink, drying her hands on her skirt, and came over to assess my injuries. ‘Where does it hurt the most?’ she asked sympathetically, her hands on my shoulders, her eyes looking me up and down.
‘My knees and my hands.’ I turned up my palms to reveal the stinging grazes.
She tutted at the shorn skin and steered me to a seat. ‘Come here and sit down. Let me see those knees …’ Blood had glued the fabric to my skin and I winced as she lifted it away. ‘Sorry, love, I’m trying to be gentle. I’ll clean it and put some cream on and it’ll feel a lot better.’ She went to the bathroom to get the first aid box and I was left to face my father’s wrath.
‘You were lucky to get off so lightly.’
I said nothing.
‘Where did it happen?’
‘Just outside town.’
‘Did you cycle home afterwards?’
I gulped. I didn’t want to tell the truth, but my bike was outside and clearly not roadworthy. ‘I got a lift …’
His eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘You got a lift!’ he repeated. ‘And from whom did you get a lift?’
‘A farmer. He had a trailer, he put the bikes in …’ I trailed off, knowing there was nothing I could say to remedy the situation.
Mum returned from the bathroom and, sensing the friction, paused in the doorway.
My father’s expression was forbidding. ‘You got into a car with a stranger?’
‘Mandy was with me,’ I said feebly.
‘So you’re as stupid as each other!’
Mum turned on him, her eyes blazing and her voice harsh. ‘Jesus, Jonathan, the girl is battered and bruised. Can you get off your high horse for once and show some sympathy?’
Through welling tears, I saw the anger drain from my father’s face and in a matter of seconds he softened into a different man. He came over, sat down next to me and lifted me onto his knee. I buried my head in the curve of his neck, where I could smell the familiar musk of his aftershave.
‘Sorry, love. I worry about you – about road accidents, about men in cars who don’t have good intentions … about everything, really.’
Sitting there, in the warm crook of his arm, I understood his worries, and I knew for once where he was coming from. And I felt safe and loved in the way that only he could make me feel.
Now I find myself remembering that sense of being protected, of being kept safe. I had all but forgotten that side of my father. His generosity too: the brand-new bike he bought me a few days after the accident, metallic blue with drop handlebars, multiple gears and narrow high-pressure tyres; the allowance he paid into my bank account when I was at Queen’s; the money he gave to Liam to supplement his dole. His weakness was Liam’s unemployment. It grated at him, frustrated him no end; it was his Achilles heel. In almost every other respect, Dad was dependable, decent and fairly level-tempered.
My feelings about him seem to be in a state of flux, taking new perspective from the memories and nuances I’d all but forgotten about, changing hour by hour, softening. I’m aware that this shift in how I feel about him has in fact been building, against my will, over the last few months. Matthew’s balanced opinion of Steve, Sophie’s cheating ex-husband, along with Jeanie’s assertions about her own imperfect family have played a part. The realisation that Maeve and Dad have a relationship, a working father–daughter relationship salvaged from the wreckage of our family, has played another part. By the time I finished listening to his voice message, the one about Maeve’s new job, the one where he sounded like a normal, caring father instead of a distant, opinionated professor, there was a chink in my feelings, a significant shift that I could no longer ignore. Maybe that’s why I fought so hard with Matthew and Mum. I was hanging on to the hatred, fighting for it, because it’s all I’ve known for the last eleven years and in its own way it’s helped me survive, kept me going.
These thoughts about my father are confronting and they leave me feeling so drained that I usually fall asleep before I reach any definitive conclusion or decision on what to do about him.
Chapter 32
Mona is back. She was off yesterday and I missed her. She’s the only nurse who stops to chat. We talk about how I’m feeling today, the weather outside, the news and, with the preliminaries over, we talk about home. Mona has been here twenty years, ten more than me. She has two teenagers, born and raised Australians.
‘They talk and act like Aussies,’ she smirks, ‘but their skin is bluey white and the two of them couldn’t look more Irish if they tried!’
I laugh, trying to imagine two Irish-looking, Australian-sounding angsty teenagers. Mona’s husband is also from Belfast. They emigrated straight after they got married.
‘Australia was our honeymoon, in effect. And we’re still here, still on honeymoon.’
‘Why did you choose Australia?’
She grimaces. ‘I couldn’t wait to get out of Belfast. I wanted to get as far away as possible. If I could have practically gone further away than Australia, I would have!’
That sounds familiar. I briefly wonder how many of us there are, Northern Irish who have run as far away as they practically can.
‘Do you miss home at all?’ I ask.
‘It took me a long time to miss it. To want to go home again. But now, aye, I do.’
‘Have you been back?’
‘Three times in all. The last visit was two years ago.’
‘Did you find it different?’ I’m surprised by how curious I am.
‘Aye, I did. There’s construction and new buildings and a bit more sophistication to the place. There’s still division, though, two sides with very different views and opinions. But I’ve realised that’s not entirely a bad thing. There’s no denying that Belfast has heart, that the people are passionate and prepared to stand up for what they believe in. When my kids mope or say they don’t care about things, I feel like shaking them. They have no idea how good they have it. Give me passion rather than complacency any day!’
Mona doesn’t look remotely like my mother but her turn of phrase and kindliness remind me of her. I haven’t spoken to Mum. She phoned twice, once when Mona was changing my drip and another time when the doctor was here and it was equally inconvenient to answer. The nurses at rec
eption updated her on my progress and scribbled a message onto a pink slip that they brought in later with my meds. Your mum called. Very worried about you but glad to hear you’re doing better.
I tried to call her back last night. The phone rang out and I left a message of my own: ‘Hi, Mum. Just letting you know I’m okay and that I’m going home the day after tomorrow. I’ll talk to you soon.’ I hung up feeling extremely relieved that she wasn’t there to receive the call, and extremely guilty for being so relieved. It’s not really making the apology that I’m dreading: it’s facing up to how much I’ve let her down. Mum has got through the last eleven years on the reassurance that I was safe, and that Maeve was safe, and that nothing bad would happen to her remaining children. But I didn’t keep myself safe. I exposed myself, and her, to another potentially disastrous situation, and I can only imagine just how rattled and insecure she is feeling right now.
I haven’t spoken to Jeanie either. According to Matthew she’s in Brisbane on business but she’ll be home tomorrow to greet me when I come out of hospital. I’ll apologise to her then, straight up, no fuss. No fancy words, just a plain ‘I’m sorry’.
So many apologies. So much making up to do.
At least Matthew and I have moved past apologies.
‘Everyone in this ward must think I’m in trouble with the law,’ I joke when he turns up later in the afternoon, in uniform again. He was here twice yesterday, before and after his shift, a figure of authority just like now. But only until he smiles, whips off his hat and squeezes me in a hug.
‘Well, you were in trouble with the law, Miss O’Reilly.’ He grins. ‘I’ve received a number of complaints against you, but given the extenuating circumstances I’ve wiped your record clean.’
Suddenly I don’t feel like joking around. There’s something I need to say, and this feels as good a time as any. The words have been bubbling inside me for days now. I reach to take his hand in mine. I’m shaking, petrified. ‘I love you,’ I croak.
I wait, almost expecting the world to stop on its axis and everything in the room to come crashing down now that I’ve tempted fate by making such a bold declaration aloud. Nothing happens.
Matthew gathers me closer to him. ‘I know you do,’ he says.
What a lovely, reassuring thing to say! Maybe he guessed all along that I loved him, or maybe he just figured it out over the past few days. Either way, Matthew officially now knows everything about me, my past, my present, plus a sketch of my future and his part in it. This makes me feel quite shy and exposed, but I know that’s more to do with my emotional immaturity than anything else. I also know that in time this shyness will pass and what I’ve revealed – about the bomb, my father, Josh and Liam – won’t seem so monumental. It will recede from the forefront of our lives and take its rightful place in the background.
Matthew is the ideal person to tell everything to. He has perspective, something which, quite frankly, I’ve lacked. He doesn’t just see my story as one of wasted lives, simmering hatred, never-ending grief and a broken family. He sees survival, resilience, hope, and a better future that has, against the odds, been forged from all the loss.
Matthew sees the big picture, the higher cause. In that way he reminds me of my father.
‘I love you,’ I tell him again, my voice muffled against his shoulder but definitely more confident.
*
I’m home, in my own bedroom, and I can see from my bed that it’s a beautiful day outside. The sky is blue and cloudless, and the sun has genuine warmth. Jeanie is going to the races today, one of the first meetings of the season. I can picture the scene: girls in strappy dresses and high heels, men perspiring in shirts and trousers, flutes of champagne sparkling under the sun, commentary booming from the speakers as horses thunder around the course, the jockeys on their backs a moving blur of colour. I went with Jeanie to last year’s meeting. It was a perfect day, too.
The phone rings. I don’t want to talk to anyone but I answer, reluctantly. ‘Hello.’ My voice is flat and verging on inaudible.
‘Caitlin! You’re home. How are you? Are you okay?’
Tears spring to my eyes. ‘Yes, Mum. I’m okay.’
‘How are you feeling?’
Good question. I feel weak. Embarrassed. Stupid. ‘I’m okay.’
She knows that I’m not okay. ‘Jeanie told me that your sugar levels went too high?’
‘Yes.’ I squirm and a wave of heat travels up through my body that has nothing to do with the blazing sun outside. ‘So high that I got ketoacidosis.’
‘Jesus, Caitlin. Jeanie didn’t say anything about that.’
‘Jeanie wouldn’t know the medical term, Mum.’
‘You could have died. Good God, Caitlin, you could have died …’
I don’t know how to respond to this. Of course I’ve had this thought myself over the last few days, but it’s different when you hear it aloud.
I could have died. Without seeing her. Or Maeve. Or even Dad.
‘You told me you were taking care of yourself, Caitlin.’ She sounds angry and close to tears. ‘But you clearly weren’t telling me the truth.’
I didn’t tell her the truth. Not about my health. Not about my job. Not about Matthew. I was drinking too much and playing Russian roulette with my sugar levels. I was worried about my job for months before I lost it. I had feelings for a man that were so deep they scared me. She knows none of this.
‘Telling the truth is not always the right thing to do,’ my father used to say at his lectern. ‘Not when it has catastrophic effects.’ Of course I couldn’t respond with this. She’d know I was quoting him.
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I didn’t want to worry you, that’s all.’
‘You didn’t want to worry me …’ She repeats in a high-pitched voice. ‘Do you have any idea what it’s like for me? Can you imagine how it feels to be thousands and thousands of miles away, and getting only a glossed-up version of my daughter’s life? Do you know how powerless that makes me feel, how useless? Don’t I deserve more? Whether it’s pretty or not, don’t you think I deserve the truth?’
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I say again, and I mean it. I see now that she’s always done her best to tell me the truth: about herself, Maeve, my father, and all the ups and downs of the last ten years. As a result, our conversations have sometimes been uncomfortable and painful, but she’s ultimately done the right thing in letting me know what I ought to know. When Liam died, our family came apart at the seams: I ran away, Dad had the affair, Maeve became disengaged. As Mum put it, instead of pulling together, we pulled apart. But Maeve and Dad have since returned to the fold, Maeve with a new level of maturity, Dad as a friend and coparent. I’m the only one who hasn’t come back. I want to be back in their midst, at least emotionally if not physically. I’m ready to be pulled back in. I’ve been lonely a long, long time.
‘I was in a relationship again … I met someone – Matthew – and we’d had a fight that day.’ I belatedly try to explain. ‘And I lost my job, Mum. You of all people would know the impact that had on me …’
Later, when I’ve hung up the phone and tears are streaming down my face, Jeanie comes in. She’s wearing a sexy black and white print dress, precariously high shoes, her outfit topped off with an oversized hat of silky black feathers that stick out at all angles. The hat would have me doubled up in laughter if it weren’t for the fact I’m crying.
‘I’ll stay with you,’ she offers when she sees the state of me. ‘I can watch the races on the TV.’
I should tell her not to worry about me, to go and have some fun, but I don’t. She kicks off her heels; for some reason, though, she doesn’t think to take off the hat. The bed sinks with her weight, her arm around my shoulders is firm and reassuring and I know how lucky I am to have her as my friend.
Chapter 33
I’m holding the paper sleeve with Maeve’s handwriting on it: Dad – BBC news. I slide the disc into the DVD player and sit back on my heels as I wait for it
to load. The picture is fuzzy at the beginning but the colours eventually become clearer. Standing outside a courthouse the reporter, holding a black umbrella to shield himself from heavy sheets of rain, speaks in a strong Northern accent.
‘In a landmark civil case, a high court judge in Northern Ireland has found four leaders of a paramilitary organisation responsible for the 1998 Clonmegan bombing that killed fifty-three people and injured hundreds more. The attackers phoned in the bomb threat but gave police the wrong location, which led to the evacuation of people from the centre of town to the top of Chapel Street, right next to where the bomb went off. The bomb happened just months after the signing of the Good Friday Peace Agreement that promised a new era of peace between Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland. The paramilitary organisation claimed responsibility for the bombing but no one was found guilty in a criminal court. In 2001, the families of some of the victims decided to go down another route to seek justice and brought a civil case to the high court.’
The camera moves from the reporter to the man standing next to him. I feel a lump in my throat when I see my father. He’s older, his hair more grey than brown, his skin pale and finely lined, his dark trench coat doing nothing for its tone. It seems like he has aged by more than the ten years it’s been since I last saw him.
Professor Jonathan O’Reilly lost his 22-year-old son, Liam, in the attack, I read at the bottom of the screen.
‘The families of the victims are very pleased with today’s result,’ my father begins, his eyes staring out of the TV and into my soul. ‘Finally, we’ve got justice. Finally, we have recognition of the terrible crime these men committed. I stand before you wearing the cost of that crime, a son that’s lost to me, a family that’s broken. I, and everyone else involved in this lawsuit, would have preferred a criminal conviction, but today’s verdict at least shows that terrorism is a costly business, and the people who fund it and carry it out are liable for all the costs involved.’
