On the night Joe died things had been tense in the house. Well, things were always tense in that house, but they were more tense that night. The great ‘I’m going to sell this house as soon as he’s gone’ announcement of the night before had wound us all up.
I veered between not giving a damn what Heidi Lewis did with her godforsaken house and being so angry that she could look at it all so coldly.
I suppose I was angry because her coldness simply mirrored my own.
I wanted him dead. I hoped that he was right when he whined about maybe only having weeks and not the months the doctors said were possible. I couldn’t stand the thought of spending months of my life in his presence. Spending months of my life in that poky bedroom, where the air was stale and there was little in the way of natural light no matter what the time of day.
I couldn’t stand the thought of having to play nice. I didn’t want to play nice. Seeing him had cemented that in my mind. I just wanted him to admit to what he’d done and say sorry. But it seemed that was too much to ask.
So that night, after we had eaten the begrudgingly prepared dinner Heidi had thrown together, sitting around the table in silence while Kathleen grilled a couple of pork chops for my father and had cut them up as if he were some feeble infant, my frustration had grown.
All this fussing around for a man who didn’t deserve a moment of it.
It seemed like such a waste of everyone’s energy.
He seemed like a waste of everyone’s energy.
It was around nine when Kathleen presented me with a cup of tea and a plate holding three custard cream biscuits and asked me to bring my father up his supper. A man of plain tastes, custard creams were his favourite biscuit and Kathleen told us all that she’d gone and bought them especially. ‘But good ones, mind, not those value pack ones that taste of nothing.’
I’d trudged up the stairs to find my father sitting on the edge of his bed, his feet in his slippers on the floor. He seemed to be lost in his thoughts.
‘Kathleen asked me to bring you some supper,’ I said in a voice that contained no trace of the warmth Kathleen had shown him.
‘She’s good to me,’ he said, ‘she always was.’
I crossed the room to put the cup and the plate on the bedside locker. I was just turning to leave, when he grabbed me by the wrist. For a man who was supposedly so weak he held a firm enough grasp on my wrist to make me wince.
‘Ciara, love,’ he said.
I felt my blood run cold just at the tone of his voice.
I tried to pull my hand away, but he held on tighter, pulling me closer.
‘Ciara,’ he said again. ‘Can you help me? I need your help to get to the bathroom. My legs are feeling a bit weak.’
‘I should get Alex to help you,’ I said.
I didn’t want to be anywhere near him, never mind take him to the bathroom.
‘Sure you’re here, you can help me, can’t you?’
He looked up at me, the expression on his face painted as weak and vulnerable, but the grasp of his hand, the friction burn I felt starting on my wrist, told a different story.
I felt my own legs weaken, but I vowed to be strong. If he wanted help to get to the bathroom, I’d do it. He wouldn’t upset me. That’s what he wanted, I think, to set me on edge and upset me. To remind me that the balance of power would always fall on his side.
‘Let’s go then,’ I said, stepping back.
He let go of my wrist, took my hand instead. I closed my eyes for just a second, just enough to steady myself.
I helped him to stand and we walked, him holding on to my arm, towards the bathroom.
‘You were always such a good girl, Ciara,’ he said. ‘Such a great daughter. We were so close once, weren’t we?’
I didn’t answer, and we reached the bathroom in silence.
‘There you go,’ I said, not wanting to get drawn into his discussion about good girls and how close we were.
He stopped and looked at me. The way he always did. The way that stripped away all my layers, emotional and physical.
‘Will you wait there ’til I’m done?’ he asked. ‘I’m not sure I can walk back myself.’
‘Yes,’ I muttered. I’d say as little as I could to get through this ordeal as quickly as I could.
‘Good girl,’ he said again and I felt another layer slip away.
Good girl. He used to say that then, too.
I closed the bathroom door between us and did my best to gulp some air, to try to steady my stomach. What I wanted to do was go back downstairs, or leave. But I knew they’d see it, all over my face. Shame leaves its mark.
I could feel my resolve to stay calm waver. Could feel heat prickling at the back of my neck, unshed tears stinging my eyes. I jumped when the bathroom door opened and he hobbled back out, grabbing on to my arm again. My whole body cringed, tensed with his touch.
When we got to his room, he sat on the side of the bed again. Took some deep breaths. He did look pale. Shaky. Unsure of himself. I revelled in that for a moment or two.
‘Could you help me?’ he asked, and I didn’t know what he meant.
‘Help me into bed,’ he added. ‘Like a good girl.’
There was something in the way he said it, something in the expression on his face that made me snap. I couldn’t do this any more.