Grace thought there could be nothing worse than visiting the mortuary. She got through it, buried the pain as much as she could; it was easier when you still didn’t quite believe it. Funny how the mind works. She stood over Paul, looked into that so familiar face, and yet she could convince herself it wasn’t real. It was shock, of course. The one thing worse was telling Delilah. She spent the car journey home framing the words, conscious that Delilah would always remember those few terrible moments. That was all she had, a car journey to prepare Delilah for a lifetime. The fact that it was already on the news was neither here nor there. Grace was in no state to have a fight with the radio stations, all she wanted to do was curl up and pretend that life was the same as before even if it wasn’t and she knew it never would be the same again.
In the end, she told her at the kitchen table, held her close for longer than she had done in a while. Grace couldn’t remember the words she used, but Delilah understood. Her body shaking with sobs then, later wracking because there was no more left within her to come out. Grace gave thanks for the tears; far better that than none at all.
*
It was two days now. Two days since Delilah had left her room. She’d hardly eaten, wouldn’t speak, and Grace had no one to turn to. What did Patrick know of girls, of teenagers, of dealing with the death of a husband, a father, a liar? Grace hadn’t slept. She’d gone through the day, the same words circling about her brain as though on loop: he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone. This time, he wasn’t coming back. There was no way to console herself that, by some means, sometime, maybe a long time from now, they’d be together again, just as it was all those years ago. The worst thing was that now, she wasn’t sure if that was real at all. After all, perhaps Evie and Annalise had felt the same way; weren’t they married to him too? How would she ever figure it all out? It hurt even more when she thought about it. Maybe this was payback? God having the final laugh. Her mother believed in eternal life; the reward for all that catholic guilt. She believed that one day she’d see her husband again, if she lived a good enough life. They’d be united in the next world. Grace sighed; perhaps the price was not so high for that kind of peace of mind.
At around nine in the morning, she walked from her silent kitchen. She couldn’t remember cooking for days. They’d lived on a diet of crackers and toast and whatever spread was in the fridge. She had to get her act together, if only for Delilah. She was still a child, even if at fifteen, she seemed already too grown up to be reminded of it.
‘Please Delilah, just eat something, have something more than coffee. We have to start getting on with things.’ She couldn’t think about the funeral, and for the first time in years she didn’t feel guilty about all the work she wasn’t getting done. Grace couldn’t think of anything, really. Her mind felt as though it had ruptured along a fault line. She resorted to chocolate fudge ice cream, but even that didn’t tempt Delilah.
So. Today.
Grace made a small pot of tea for both of them. Even the Darcy pot was a memory of Paul. A weekend in London, all three of them, before it meant much to Delilah. They’d spent more time in the museum shop than the museum. She smiled sadly as she carried it upstairs to Delilah’s room. It seemed to Grace that the view of the Dublin Mountains had entranced her daughter. Maybe they were helping to block out some of the pain she was feeling. ‘Have some tea, Delilah.’ Grace left the clay pot down on the desk her daughter was supposed to use for study. It wore more nail polish marks than ink stains. She sat on the side of Delilah’s bed. ‘Come on, I know you’re awake. Please, have some tea with me and then I promise I’ll leave you for a while.’ Grace felt she was sitting on an emotional tightrope as the girl stirred. Delilah had been spiralling away from her for some time now. She didn’t want this to be the final blow. She caught her breath at the sight of her. Throughout her childhood, Grace had to remind herself that yes, she was actually her daughter. A gift she probably didn’t deserve and one she might so easily have lost. Today, she looked as she had when she was four years old. All pink cheeks, tousled hair and ruby lips. When she opened her eyes, it was as though she was looking into Paul Starr’s face. It made her catch her breath.
‘What do you want me to say?’ Delilah tossed towards her, sleep still hanging in her eyes. ‘That everything will be okay, that it’s all right that my father is dead? I’m fine with that and you can go and paint a picture about it?’ Hurt more than malice clouded her voice, but still Grace caught that underlying resentment that she first noticed when Paul left them to move in with Annalise.
‘No, of course that’s not what I want. Delilah, I just want to help you get through this.’ For a moment, in her mind’s eye, Grace recalled herself. Similar age to Delilah, walking into that studio, seeing her father desperate, pathetic, and then one day, dead.
‘Oh yeah, I can see how you might do that all right.’ Sarcasm didn’t suit Delilah, but Grace stopped herself from saying it.
‘I remember what it’s like, Delilah. I lost my own father.’ Grace didn’t need to remind her daughter of this. Every time there was a mention of her work, the ghost of Louis Kennedy was resurrected and his tragic suicide was very much a part of his legacy.
‘Sure. We all know about that; the whole country knows about that. But what was your mother like?’ Delilah pulled herself up in the bed, wrapped her arms protectively about her knees. ‘Was she always there for you? Or did she spend her time consumed by her career? Did you have sisters, family you could turn to? Or did she set out to break up your family by deciding that she’d take the pill, send your father away so he would get another family and forget about the one he had?’ There was spittle coming from her mouth. Her eyes were angry, but the tears that flowed down her face were teeming with anguish and pain.
‘I…’ Grace couldn’t find the words. How did Delilah know? Had she heard them arguing? They’d been so careful so she wouldn’t ever learn why they’d parted. ‘Marriages are not that black and white.’
‘Oh, please Mum. I’m not stupid; I’m not a child anymore. I do have a brain. I can work things out.’ She roughly wiped away the tears and snot from her face. ‘I don’t want to talk to you anymore.’
‘Delilah, please, you’re making this even worse than it already is. He loved you very much. And he never really left us; we saw as much of him as any of your friends do of their fathers.’
‘That’s not the point.’ Delilah’s voice had grown cold and, in an instant, Grace was brought back to the conversation she’d had with Paul when he realized she was taking the pill. He became immovable. There was no reasoning with him, but then, she hadn’t realized it at the time, perhaps he’d already moved on.
*
Grace could feel that dark shadow tighten its grip about her. This time she knew she couldn’t hang around. Delilah needed her and there was no-one else to fall back on if she ended up like she had when Delilah was a baby. It was completely different to when her mother had taken sedatives and painkillers to take the edge off. Alice Moylan was nothing like the old family doctor who’d worn faded tweeds and smoked a pipe during his consultations. Alice could perfectly understand the situation: ‘You wouldn’t believe the number of women who take these,’ she said, smiling a little lopsidedly. ‘How do you think most of us get through our first divorce? Actually, I’ve even had a woman start taking them before her wedding.’ Grace doubted she’d get past breakfast without them. If that made her uneasy, it was something that she could put to the back of her mind. She could not go to pieces now; she had to be strong for Delilah. ‘I’m increasing the dose. You’ll find they’ll help you to cope better. Take them for a while, at least.’
‘I probably don’t even need them,’ Grace said as she tucked the script firmly into her bag. ‘It’s a bit like smoking, isn’t it? Once you know you have them near at hand...’ She laughed a little nervously, and thanked her lucky stars that Alice hadn’t asked too much about Paul.
‘There’s nothing wrong with taking them if you need them, Grace.’ Alice told her once, after Delilah was born, that there was no shame in depression. Grace didn’t like labels, but when Paul left her, she could feel the darkness overtake her like a misty shadow, cloaking and choking her a little more every moment. ‘When you need something, you need it,’ Alice said, so many times that Grace had started to say it too. This time she wasn’t so sure she would get through what lay ahead without increasing them again. The thought scared her. If nothing else, she was beginning to understand her mother a little better.
Her second stop was at the studio. She wasn’t dressed for work, and couldn’t do any even if she wanted to. All she would be capable of creating was something desolate and grotesque. Instead, she switched on the kettle and uncovered some of her brighter canvases: a juggler on Grafton Street, a flock of swans rising from the murky depths of the Liffey and a smiling posy of dog daisies. The blaze of golden yellow, white and green on a sun-scorched afternoon might have brought a smile to her lips on a different day. The thought that they were all more than four years old made her feel a little sad, but still, it was better than looking at her more recent work. She sat back with a large mug of tea – black. Buying milk hadn’t been high on her agenda for the last couple of days. She hardly heard her phone ring, but then suddenly it seemed so loud that she couldn’t ignore it anymore.
‘Hi Sis.’ It was Clair. ‘We’re just wondering how things are there.’ Grace had rung them after she’d told Delilah about Paul, said she’d call them when the funeral was arranged.
‘It isn’t the same up here; funerals, they’re low-key affairs.’
‘You’ll have to give him a send-off though.’ Clair’s voice had the tone of a distantly related mourner, not close enough to be distraught, but wanting to share in the funeral.
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Oh of course, the beauty queen?’ Clair then said something to Anna; it was a muffle, but Grace had a fair idea it wouldn’t be complimentary. They were planning on coming to the funeral. They would all have to get on together, put aside what they thought of Evie and Annalise. ‘Anyway, we’ve had it announced here, in the local church. All the auld ones are praying like mad for you and Delilah.’
‘I suppose the prayers won’t go astray,’ Grace said, although, she had a feeling it would take more than a miracle to put things right.
‘So, there are no arrangements made yet?’ Clair sounded as though she was in a hurry. There had been no hanging around with their mother’s funeral, but then that was much more straightforward than this.
‘No, it will have to be sorted with Evie and Annalise; it isn’t exactly straightforward.’ Grace hadn’t told them about Kasia. There was already too much to explain, too much for people that really weren’t part of her life anymore. A small voice deep inside her niggled at her. They were part of her and Paul’s life though, a link to the time when she and Paul had been starting out. In many ways, they’d been there to help them cement their relationship. It was, after all, at her mother’s funeral that she’d really begun to see him for the man he was. It was there she began to rely on him.
‘You don’t have to come all the way up, I really don’t expect it.’ Grace knew the words were wasted. Her sisters still loved Paul, despite what had happened with Annalise. Paul was like that; he won people around so you could see past his faults.
‘Don’t you want us there?’ Clair’s voice sounded small, as though she’d been struck.
‘Of course I want you here. Delilah would love to see you as well, but the fact that there aren’t any arrangements, as I said; it’ll just be a very small simple affair; no big family wake, no big hoolie. I’m not even sure if he wants to be buried or cremated.’
‘How can you not know that?’ Clair cut off the words, but it was too late. ‘Sorry, it just seems to be the kind of thing that you’d talk about.’
‘Well, we didn’t.’ Grace didn’t mean to be short, but it was a reminder that there was far too much Paul had not told her.
‘Anyway, of course we’ll be there. We were talking last night about it. Anna said that maybe we’ll stay in a B&B. There must be somewhere near you there that could put us up for a couple of nights.’
‘Don’t be silly, Clair, you can stay with Delilah and me. It may not be the Hilton, but there’s loads of room.’
‘Yeah, but it won’t be just Anna and me though, will it?’
‘Won’t it?’
‘No, Anna will be bringing Tom and I…’ Clair lowered her voice. ‘I’ve met someone. He’s nice, Grace. His name is Mike. Maybe it’s not the best time to introduce him, but this one looks as if he’s a keeper. I think…’ She started to hum the wedding march.
‘Look, it doesn’t matter; if you want to stay, we’ll make room for all of you.’ Without Paul, it felt now as though they were on their own; the girls would be good for Delilah
*
‘I need you there,’ Paul had said the words simply, and then the killer; ‘you’re still my wife.’ It wasn’t even twelve months earlier; Christmas nuzzled just around the corner.
‘What about…’ She didn’t mention Annalise by name. Always tried hard not to. Sometimes it felt as if they were still having an affair behind Evie’s back, only this time, everything was turned on its head. They’d been having dinner just a week ago. When he asked her, he was pleading.
‘It could be a huge opportunity for me.’ His eyes held her in that chasm that she knew she’d never be free of. He had always supported her work; she promised she would do the same for him.
‘Then you need to bring Annalise; she’s the one who’ll be at your side if things go well.’
‘Will she?’ He managed to seem downcast and rakish all at once: a trademark look. ‘It’s you I need, Grace. It’s always been you.’ He reached towards her, but she pulled away, couldn’t stand to be so close to him when he was no longer hers, whatever he said. ‘You can talk to them; tell them about your work, they’ll know you by reputation already.’
‘I seriously doubt that,’ she snorted. She couldn’t tell him that she hadn’t painted anything she was proud of since the day he left her. It was all she had these days: her pride. She shored up the success of that time when he fell for her; it was all for his sake. ‘Anyway, Annalise can talk to them too. She was a beauty queen after all; she managed to snare you…’
‘Don’t.’ His eyes hardened, it was enough for her to understand. ‘Annalise can talk to kids. I can’t bring her to something like this, she’d be completely out of her depth. Anyway, we’re not…’ Again the unfinished sentences; they said far more to Grace than he’d ever confirm.
‘Let me think about it,’ she said finally, ‘I’ll give you my answer in a day or two.’ There was no one she could ask, apart from Patrick, and he was in the States. Was it too bizarre to get all dressed up for a date with a man who knew her inside out? A man who would then return to his own domestic harmony or discontent? A man she was still madly in love with? There was no choice, really. She had to go.
‘This means so much to me,’ he leant towards her and this time she did not pull away from his light embrace that bordered on a kiss. She looked stunning; Delilah said so and she was always critical, but with her seal of approval, Grace felt beautiful. Her dress had cost the equivalent of North Korean air display, but it was worth it to feel like this.
For a moment, she could see in his eyes that tenderness that had ripped her apart all those years ago. Tried hard to convince herself it was not an opportunity to win him back, but deep down, she knew it was all she longed for. She might as well have been heading off to the Trocadero on their first date. ‘It means nothing.’ She kept saying it as if it were a mantra. Only thing was, part of her knew that to Annalise Connolly it would mean everything.
It turned out that Paul was right. Again. One of the guests, a diplomat from London, was a collector. He had been after one of her later works to add to his portfolio. Grace listened as he spoke of her exhibitions, witnessed Paul’s face, filled with pride. She sidestepped any questions of recent work. Instead, she spoke of the commissioning of private pieces and the scarcity of time these days. In spite of everything, she was enjoying herself. The company was stimulating, the food was good and the restaurant was decorated exquisitely for Christmas in a sedate ensemble of rattan, bronze and deep burgundy.
‘To my wife!’ Paul called the toast from the far end of the table. ‘To my talented and beautiful wife. To Grace Kennedy-Starr.’ He held up his glass and everyone joined in the toast. She knew she should be beside herself with joy, but in that moment, she detected something in him. He was smug. Gloating to the people at their table. He had, in every way, all that he could want, and with it, with her here, he carried an arrogance that maybe he’d managed to conceal before. Grace knew then, in that instant, that she was little more than another acquisition in his life. She felt a shiver run through her, even though the restaurant was not cold.
‘You were the most beautiful woman there tonight,’ he whispered as they sped back to Glenageary in the taxi. ‘Beautiful, talented and still my wife.’ His words were heavy; she suspected they owed something to the expensive brandy, maybe a little regret too.
‘I think you’ve had too much to drink.’
‘Too much. Yes, of course, you might be right. But I mean it when I say I think you are still the most intoxicating woman I’ve ever known. I’m proud you’re my wife; nights like tonight, they’re good for us, Grace.’ He moved closer to her so she could smell his aftershave, ‘We are still husband and wife, and some things haven’t changed between us.’
‘Hmm.’ She was non-committal. Something in the way he observed her made her wince; it was the first time it had ever happened. Maybe it was thinking about his two sons, his relationship with Annalise, and mostly thinking of Delilah. How would this all play out for everyone if it went any further? He followed her into the house. She didn’t have it in her to send him back to Annalise; how could she when she’d wished for it so long? They slept, wrapped up together in the double bed they’d shared for over a decade. He snoring lightly; she drifting in and out of an uneasy sleep. At five o’clock, she woke to find he had slipped away.
As it should be, she thought. Maybe she was a little relieved, even if she couldn’t quite admit it at the time.
*
Since the accident, thoughts of that night felt as if they might drown her. She would wake in the middle of the night and cry salty hot tears. She cried for Paul Starr and the mess they’d made of both their lives. She cried for the sisters she’d abandoned. She cried for her father, tears that she’d stored up almost three decades earlier. Mostly she cried for her mother. She knew that, for years, she’d blamed her mother. It was unfair, unreasonable and maybe the only coping mechanism that she had. How would people define her when it came to her own funeral? It would not be as a mother herself; it would not be as a friend or a sister, or someone who made a genuine contribution to the lives of others. God, she thought, if only I could paint.
It was, she knew, time for a change.