The Godforsaken Daughter

by Christina McKenna

  “I’m May Clare,” she said sheepishly. “You must be . . .”

  “Dr. Shevlin, yes.”

  She led the way into the kitchen, where an older woman came forward immediately, hand extended. “Oh, thank God you’ve come, Doctor! Ruby’s in a bad way. I’m her mother.”

  Henry noted the hand, proffered first. This woman was clearly in charge. He glanced at the table. On it, a collection of bizarre items: shells, stones, a candle, two small dishes, a sickle, a length of blue material with holes burned through it, and a playing card lying facedown.

  “It’s what Ruby had at Beldam . . . the lake,” Mrs. Clare explained. “They were on that stool, like it was an altar or something. God knows what she was at . . . calling up the Devil himself. She needs to be admitted tonight, Doctor . . . there’s no other way of dealing with her . . . I’m not having her here . . . upsetting me. I know what she’s like.”

  Mrs. Clare already had the situation well under control. Had diagnosed the daughter, was telling him what to do. The stress on the word “me" indicated a narcissist of the first order. No surprises there. The controller, the manipulator, and the narcissist were common bedfellows.

  He studied the table, turned over the card.

  “She was probably trying to imitate her,” the sister said.

  He turned, stared at her.

  She smirked. “But Ruby’s hardly a star.”

  It was then that Henry remembered. It was the smirk, the dismissive toss of the head. Of course! Boots the Chemist on Royal Avenue. He’d gone there to inquire about Connie’s prescription after her disappearance last year.

  This one was certainly her mother’s daughter. The lack of empathy: striking.

  He put the card back on the table.

  “These things were private to Ruby. You shouldn’t have them displayed like this.”

  “Hardly private, Doctor,” said Mrs. Clare defiantly. “She was consorting with the Devil and there’s the proof.” She picked up the silver paten and thrust it at him. “That five-pointed star. It’s an occult sign. She’s just like her grandmother before her, God help her! May found that evil card outside her bedroom door. What more proof do you need?”

  “Hmmm.” Henry glanced briefly at the paten but did not take it from her. Clearly irked, Mrs. Clare tossed it back onto the table.

  “I’ll hold onto these things, if you don’t mind,” he said firmly. “It’s best you don’t mention finding them to Ruby. We wouldn’t want to cause her any further upset, would we?”

  He saw mother and daughter exchange glances. Looks that said: “Whose side is this doctor on?”

  “Well, she’s caused enough of that already,” the mother muttered. “Enough upset.”

  “A carrier bag will do.”

  May produced a plastic bag and proceeded to fill it as the mother looked on, arms folded, mouth set in a grim line. Then: “When will the ambulance be here?”

  “Ambulance?”

  “Yes . . . to take her to St. Ita’s.”

  May handed him the bag.

  “Backseat of my car . . . if you wouldn’t mind. It’s open.”

  He turned back to Martha.

  “Now, let’s not rush things, Mrs. Clare. I know you’ve had a shock. I’ll talk to Ruby now, if I may?”

  Through her tears Ruby heard a gentle knock. She sat up abruptly.

  A man’s voice out in the corridor. “Ruby, are you in there? Can you let me in, please . . . I’m Henry . . . Henry Shevlin . . . the doctor.”

  “Go away! I don’t need no doctor . . . I’m not goin’ near no hospital.”

  “I’m not going to put you in hospital. But—”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I assure you, Ruby, I’m not lying. But, if you refuse to open the door I’ll have no option but to call the police and have them break it down. In which case you will most definitely have to be admitted to hospital, for your own safety.”

  Ruby grew fretful, imagining the worst-case scenario.

  “I don’t want to have to do that, Ruby . . . and I know . . . I know you don’t want that happening, either.”

  Something in the man’s voice told her she’d better heed him. She got off the bed.

  “I . . . I only want to talk to you . . . not . . . not my mother . . . or . . . or my sister.”

  “I promise, only me. Your mother and sister are downstairs.”

  Ruby opened the door, and knowing what an awful sight she must look, immediately turned her back. She again went to the bed and flopped down.

  Henry, for his part, was greeted by a spectacularly odd sight. Ruby did indeed appear like someone who’d just tried to drown herself. Wet hair, blotchy green face; she was wearing a pink nightdress that came to her knees, showing equally green calves and feet.

  He entered the room lit by two small bedside lamps. But he could see enough to form an impression of its occupant. The color scheme was pink. Cushions and frills everywhere he looked. There were stuffed toys lined up on an ottoman. Several dolls crowded the windowsill. It resembled the room of a little girl.

  He found a chair with a large teddy bear on it and gestured. “Do you mind if I . . .”

  “Sit where you like.”

  He positioned the chair in front of the door. Meeting a new patient in such a fragile state meant that precautions had to be taken. Ruby might well try to escape. But he’d cleared the first hurdle: she’d let him in.

  “Now, Ruby . . . how are you?”

  Ruby sat on the bed, her whole body turned away from him, arms folded. Body language screaming: “No! Get out of here and leave me alone!”

  “All right,” she said.

  “Would you like to talk about it?”

  She shook her head.

  “In your own time . . . there’s no—”

  “She wants to put me in the loony bin. She’s always wanted to put me in St. Ita’s. Ever since I was seventeen . . . ever since I went to Donegal and had to come home ’cos . . . ’cos . . .”

  “Your mother?”

  “Yes, her . . . she’s always hated me. Always.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “I don’t know. You better ask her. Since . . . since Daddy died she’s hated me even more. She took everything off me . . . the farm and everything . . . Daddy and me did all the work and . . . and now I’ve . . . I’ve got nothin’. . . .”

  “That’s too bad,” Henry said. Given what he’d seen of Mrs. Clare, he didn’t doubt for one minute what Ruby was saying.

  “So she’s the one that needs to go in the loony bin and not me . . . so you should be down there talkin’ to her and not me, ’cos . . . ’cos there’s nothin’ wrong with me.”

  “Hmmm . . . parents can be difficult, I know.” He noticed a deck of cards on the bureau, picked them up. “Your mother and May say you tried to drown yourself. Is that true?”

  Ruby twisted halfway round on the bed, kneading a hankie in her hands. She imagined how awful she must look to the doctor, and felt awkward and embarrassed. At the same time, she realized she needed to be very careful about what she told him. It was no time to talk about the case and the Goddess and the voices, even though all of that was true.

  “No, I wasn’t . . . I just . . . I just wanted to swim in the lake . . . to see . . . to see what it was like at night ’cos . . . ’cos it was . . . it was too warm in bed.”

  “Beautiful cards,” Henry said. “Tarot, aren’t they?”

  Ruby was forced to turn fully toward him. Oh God! She’d forgotten to put them back in the case. A feeling of dread gripped her. How was she going to explain them?

  “I . . . I don’t know what they’re called.”

  “I used to have a deck.”

  He saw her look of surprise.

  “Oh, a long time ago . . . when I was a teenage
r,” he lied. “Can’t remember any of the meanings now.”

  “I know the meanings,” Ruby said, proudly.

  She moved an inch closer and watched him shuffle the cards. She thought him a very odd doctor. Why wasn’t he telling her to get dressed? Why wasn’t he filling out a form and asking her questions? Like her age, and if she was on medication, like Dr. Brewster used to, on the rare occasions she went to see him.

  “Do you really?” he said. “All the meanings? I’m impressed . . .”

  He saw the little compliment, all too briefly, light up Ruby’s sad features.

  “Right, I’m going to test you.” He spread the cards facedown on the bed. “I’ll pick one out and you tell me what it means.”

  He saw her hesitate, then nod.

  “Good.” Henry turned over a card. “Oh dear, Ruby, I’m afraid it’s not good.” He held it up. “It’s the Death card.”

  “Oh, but that doesn’t mean you’re gonna die.”

  “Thank heavens for that.”

  “No, it means . . . it means that you’re coming to the end of something . . . and you’re gonna have a new beginning . . . and that things are gonna be better for you, so they are.”

  “I see. . . .”

  “That maybe you’ve lost someone . . . and that . . . that part of your life’s over and you . . . you have to move on, like.”

  For a couple of seconds Henry allowed himself to think of Connie. “That’s very interesting,” he said. “Did you ever pick that out, Ruby? That card?”

  “I did, aye . . . and I knew it was right ’cos . . . ’cos I lost Daddy and . . .”

  He heard her voice breaking. “Is that his photo?” There was a framed picture on the bedside locker. It showed a man leaning against a tractor, smiling broadly.

  “Aye . . . that’s him.”

  “You must miss him a lot?”

  Ruby nodded. Dabbed her eyes with the hankie. “But I wasn’t gonna drown meself.”

  “That’s okay . . . I believe you, Ruby.”

  “. . . and I’m not goin’ into no hospital, ’cos . . . ’cos . . . there’s nothin’ wrong with me.”

  Henry took out his notebook. He scribbled down the clinic telephone number and address of Rosewood. “Now, tonight, if you need me, just call this number at any time. And don’t worry about waking me up. I’m on call.”

  Ruby looked up, surprised. “You’re . . . you’re not gonna put me in St. Ita’s?”

  “No, not tonight, Ruby.” In his bag he found a blister pack of sedatives and broke one off. “Take this. It will help you get a good night’s sleep.” He stood up. “Now, tomorrow at twelve p.m. I want to see you at the clinic in Killoran. I’ve written down the address. Does your sister drive?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. I’ll ask her to take you.”

  “But I can drive meself.”

  “Best not to, having taken sleep medication.” He moved to the door. “Now, get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Henry shut the door of the bedroom on a much-relieved Ruby and headed downstairs.

  To his surprise and at that ungodly hour, Mrs. Clare and her daughter had a visitor. A man was sitting with them at the kitchen table. A clergyman.

  “This is Father Kelly,” the mother explained.

  The priest stood up. “How do you do, Doctor? William Kelly. You’re new to these parts.”

  “Yes. Henry . . . Henry Shevlin.”

  “This is a terrible business with poor Ruby,” Father Kelly said, shaking his head bleakly. “A terrible, terrible business indeed.”

  Henry said nothing.

  “I asked him to come over in case we had trouble getting Ruby in the ambulance,” Mrs. Clare put in. “She can be very awkward and abusive to me and May, but she wouldn’t behave like that in front of the Father, you understand.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to say you’ve had a wasted journey, Father. Ruby is not going anywhere tonight.”

  “What?” The news had Mrs. Clare scraping back her chair. She rose.

  “My daughter’s just tried to kill herself and you’re telling me she doesn’t need the hospital? Well, I beg to differ, Doctor. I know my daughter better than you do . . . I know what she’s capable of . . .”

  She stood with hands splayed on the table, glaring at him. She made for a formidable foe. He immediately felt sorry for Ruby, and all she must have suffered down the years as a victim and target of this woman’s wrath. He decided it best just to let the raging torrent run its course.

  “. . . you didn’t see the state she was in when she came in here. May had to practically pull her out of that lake or she wouldn’t be alive. She wouldn’t even be sitting up in that room. What if she tries it again when you leave? What then? She’s headstrong. You don’t know what’s she’s like. She always gets her own way.”

  I doubt that, thought Henry, but said nothing, simply waited for her to finish.

  “Do you want to have her death on your conscience?”

  Henry didn’t answer.

  Mrs. Clare became exasperated. “Well, do you? Do you?”

  Then: “Now, now, Martha . . .” It was the priest, patting her arm. “There’s no need going and upsetting yourself. The doctor knows best.”

  The matriarch looked his way, lips pursed. The air thrummed in the fallout. Henry watched her struggle. But he could see where her allegiances lay. In Mrs. Clare’s world, the clergyman—God’s disciple—was the only man she would allow to overrule her.

  “I see, Father . . . whatever you feel is best. Perhaps you could go up and have a word with her. She’ll listen to you.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Henry said. “I have given Ruby a sedative to help her sleep. She needs to rest undisturbed for the remainder of the night.” He turned to May and produced a card. “She has an appointment with me at twelve tomorrow. Please drive her to the clinic, as she might be drowsy. Will you do that?”

  May took the card. “Yes,” she said, abashed.

  “Thank you. Now: I’ll be on my way. I think we all could use some sleep. Good night.”

  Chapter twenty-eight

  So James McCloone has finally kept an appointment?” Henry said. “No stray heifers or errant piglets needing his attention this morning, then?”

  Ms. King allowed herself a little half smile. “I’m happy to report that he is indeed here in the flesh, Dr. Shevlin. There’s just one small thing, though.”

  “Uh-oh!”

  “He’s brought a lady with him . . . a friend, Rose McFadden. And Mrs. McFadden is insisting, with Mr. McCloone’s apparent blessing, that she comes in to have a word with you first.”

  “Really? Well, anything to make James feel more comfortable, Edie. Send her in.”

  “You don’t feel it’s a little unorthodox, Doctor . . . ?”

  “Well, perhaps a little. But if she can help clarify things with regard to James’s situation it can only be a good thing.”

  Ms. King withdrew, and seconds later, Mrs. McFadden in her Sunday best—crepe de chine frock in pixie pink and an elaborate hat to match—was filling the doorway.

  “God, hello, Dr. Shelfin! I hope you don’t mind me wanting to see you first.” She came forward and shook Henry’s hand with an enthusiasm he found disarming. “Rose McFadden’s me name. Pleased to meet you, Doctor.”

  “And you—and you, Mrs. McFadden. Please take a seat.”

  “I will indeed. But just call me Rose, Doctor. None of that old missus or mister with me.” She settled herself on the sofa but barely paused to draw breath. “I just thought I’d come to fill you in on a couple of wee things about Jamie. ’Cos he’s not very good at the talkin’, and maybe would be afeard to tell you things about himself that I could enlighten you about.”

  “That’s no problem at all.” Henry pulled up one of t
he armchairs. “Good of you to be so concerned for his welfare.”

  “Oh, Jamie and me go back a long way, Dr. Shelfin. Me and my Paddy would of befriended Jamie soon after Mick died, ’cos we were worried about him being on his own, so we were.”

  “Mick was his uncle?”

  “Yes . . . Oh, Mick was the greatest man, Doctor! I remember me collecting for the Duntybutt Senior Citizens Ladies Friendship Club Luncheon, and Mick giving me five pound and three pence out of a tea caddy on the fireplace. The most money I got all day. He’d a heart bigger than the Rock of Cashel, truth be told. That’s why him and Alice adopted Jamie when he was a wee one. Mick wanted tae give Jamie a better start in life from that old orphanage in Derry. And no better couple could he have landed with. God was surely smiling down on Jamie that day.”

  Henry consulted his notes. “That would be St. Agnes Little Sisters of Charity?”

  “Yes, that one. Now Jamie was there till he was ten but he doesn’t talk about it much . . . so me and my Paddy don’t like till ask. ’Cos it kinda day-presses him. And that old day-pression isn’t much good for a body, so it’s not. But what I was gonna tell you, Doctor, was about a couple of wee things that happened Jamie in the past while that’s causing him to be day-pressed, like. Well, they’re not wee things . . . ’cos if they were wee things they wouldn’t be day-pressin’ him and he wouldn’t have tae come here till see the likes of you, Doctor . . .”

  Henry nodded. “Yes, indeed.” He sensed that Mrs. McFadden’s propensity for circumlocution had the distinct possibility of playing havoc with the morning’s schedule. Wernicke’s aphasia came to mind. He wondered idly whether she had possibly sustained a knock on the temporal lobe in infancy.

  “. . . and I know he’d be too embarrassed to tell you himself. That’s why I thought I’d fill you in. Now you might think it’s a wee bit cowardly of him not tae tell you himself, but better to be a coward for a minute than dead for the rest of your life, as they say. I—”

  “Two things,” Henry said. He really felt he needed to shepherd this conversation or he might be in the clinic well past midnight. “So, what’s the first thing?”