I stared at his words, reading them over and over.
I pressed Reply and responded in a rush, aware my desperation to meet him flooded every word.
Let’s meet as soon as possible. I can’t wait to see you. We’ve got so much catching up to do, Reagan. Should I call you Reagan? I can meet you later if you’re free. Colleen x
I added my phone number just in case and pressed Send. It was only then that it hit me: I didn’t know this man. Only that he’d given me up and left me with his sister, while he went off to do God only knew what.
I banished my thoughts before anger took hold. I wanted to believe in him. I needed to believe he’d had a good reason to leave me; that he would explain everything when we met, and make it right.
His reply came through in minutes:
I’ll be in Tate’s Café on O’Connell Street at five today. I’ll sit by the window near the door. Reagan.
‘Is that it?’ I said to the screen. I took several deep breaths. Maybe in person he would be different, more affectionate. He clearly wasn’t one for emails. But he’d agreed to meet me and that was all that mattered.
I left the internet café and walked back to the bedsit to let the day drift by. I locked the door and wedged a chair against it, and spent the next few hours in an agony of anticipation, alternately pacing the space around the bed, and lying on it, trying to doze.
At four o’clock, I had a bath, cleaned my teeth, and tried to do something with my hair, wondering what Reagan would think of me. Would he be disappointed? I couldn’t help thinking he would be.
I finally headed out, blinking in the brightness of the late afternoon, and headed for O’Connell Street. Nerves and excitement kicked in once more, as I searched for Tate’s Café. It was almost five when I spotted it, on the other side of the road, gold lettering etched on the window beneath a red awning.
Needing a moment to still my nerves, I stepped into a shop doorway. From there, I had a clear view of the café window.
He was already there, looking at his phone, sipping from a large white mug. My eyes swam with tears. He was wearing a waistcoat over a checked shirt, and his hair was too long and grey. I couldn’t make out his features, but I knew, without a doubt, it was Reagan. Blinking until my vision cleared, I took a deep breath, and had just stepped out of the doorway when a text came through. It was Jake.
Have you met your daddy, yet?
I looked around, heart leaping. Another text followed:
Will he really make everything better, Colleen? I think it’s too late for that.
I deleted them instantly, my hands shaking.
I looked again at my father. ‘Reagan,’ I whispered, and as though he’d heard he turned and seemed to look right at me. I gasped, and the years dropped away, until I was a devastated nine-year-old again, watching a man in a black leather jacket, holding a wreath of lilies.
Now, he picked up his phone, pressing it to his ear. His mouth moved as he spoke, but his eyes were still on me. I couldn’t move. My whole body was shaking. Did he know I was his daughter?
As if in a trance, I crossed the pavement and stepped into the road without looking, freezing when a car braked sharply, inches away.
‘Idiot!’ shouted a man through his open car window, his face red and angry. ‘Watch where you’re going, bitch!’
‘Sorry,’ I said, tears of shock sliding down my face.
‘Take no notice, dear.’ An elderly woman took my elbow and guided me back to the pavement, while the car roared off in a cloud of exhaust fumes.
I looked back at the café. The seat where my father had been was empty. I could almost see the steam still rising from the cup he’d left behind.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, as the woman continued to fuss. But I wasn’t. Reagan had gone.
I looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of him. Had he seen me and decided he didn’t want to talk to me after all? Or maybe he’d remembered he had something better to do. My tears dried. Perhaps he was married with children and they knew nothing about me. Maybe meeting me would jeopardise his relationships.
I couldn’t believe I hadn’t considered it before.
I turned and ran from the old woman, who was talking about how sweet tea was good for shock.
Back in my room in the bedsit another text from Jake came through:
Shame the car didn’t do a proper job, Colleen. Enjoy what’s left of your life.
I collapsed onto the bed. It sounded like a death threat, and for the first time I wondered if Alfie was right. Maybe I should call the Gardaí.
Think about it, Colleen. They wouldn’t listen to you. You’re a mess.
I deleted the message and switched off my phone.
I’d picked up a litre bottle of vodka and a bag of Doritos from the express supermarket on the corner on my way back, and by midnight there wasn’t a coherent thought in my head.
The following day, I opened the wine I’d bought, and the day disappeared in a fug of alcohol. I only got out of bed to throw up. The first time, I didn’t even make it to the toilet.
Friday I woke with a thudding head, and there wasn’t a part of my body that didn’t ache. I cried and cried. Leaving Jake wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was meant to be a fresh start.
When I couldn’t cry anymore, I turned on my phone. There were three more texts from Jake, full of evil, sick words and I deleted every one. There was a message from Ella too. She’d booked a hotel in Sligo for us. Even paid for my room. And as I read, I felt a small punch of victory. She’d taken me at my word and agreed to come to Ireland. She and her family were arriving tomorrow and would meet me at The Mountain View Hotel.
But there was nothing from Reagan.
I responded to Ella, hands trembling, letting her know I would be there. If I could get out of the bedsit early the next morning, maybe Jake wouldn’t see me leave and wouldn’t be able to find me.
I spent most of the next twenty-four hours curled up under the duvet, avoiding the temptation to go out and buy more drink. I barely slept, my stomach churning with a mixture of alcohol and self-loathing.
At 5 a.m. I got up and packed my few belongings in my rucksack. After shoving what I owed the landlord under his door, I headed to the bus stop, where I caught a bus to the outskirts of Sligo.
I leaned my head on the bus window as it rattled along by the sea, passing clusters of cottages and fields, stopping and starting as it picked up more passengers.
The hotel looks over Benbulbin, Colleen. You’ll love it, Ella had said in her text as if overcompensating for her initial refusal to visit. I wondered what made her think she knew what I might or might not love. She didn’t know me at all. I didn’t want her to. This was just a temporary way of escaping.
As the bus approached the hotel, I felt a twist in my stomach. Was it nerves?
I got up and rang the bell and the driver pulled over with a squeal of brakes. I was far too early. Ella wouldn’t be there yet, and I doubted they’d give me the room. But it was worth a try.
‘Thank you,’ I said to the driver as I climbed off, hoisting my rucksack over my shoulder. The bus rolled away, revealing the hotel set back from the main road at the end of a sweeping drive. It was an old building with fancy windows and foliage over the walls. It looked stunning in the early morning sunlight, like the kind of place Jake and I used to visit when we were first married.
It was odd now, remembering our wedding – a quiet affair, with only two witnesses: colleagues of Jake’s from the hospital. He’d arranged it quickly as a surprise. Probably to ensure his little project couldn’t escape, though he’d organised a reception afterwards for family and friends. Not that either of us had many of either. Looking back, it felt as if it had all happened to someone else.
I crossed the road and headed into the hotel, where a smartly dressed receptionist greeted me from behind the desk, as if I didn’t look like shite.
‘A booking’s been made for me by Ella Matthews,’ I said, hitching up my rucksack, expecting her to turn me away.
‘That’s right,’ she said, her smile fixed in place as she checked the screen in front of her. ‘The room’s been paid for in advance, and it’s ready if you’d like to go up.’
After dumping my stuff I had a long, hot shower, trying to cleanse away the previous days. It was difficult to keep my stitched finger dry, and I tried to recall what the hospital had told me about the dissolvable stitches.
Finally dressed in a fluffy white robe, I made myself a black coffee and circled the room. The cup was warm in my hands, and the bright and airy room made the bedsit I’d spent the last week in look like a prison cell. I felt almost safe here.
When I’d finished my coffee, I looked at my phone. There were no messages from Reagan; no reasons for him walking away. I decided to ask him what had happened. He owed me an answer, at least.
Where did you go, Reagan? I thought you wanted to meet. I realise you may have your reasons to avoid seeing me. Maybe you have a family. But I still need to know why you left me with Celia and why you’ve never contacted me. I think you owe me that much. Colleen.
I pressed Send, before I could change my mind, and logged off.
The bed was vast and comfortable, and I was sliding towards sleep when the sound of a child’s laughter drew me to the window. A man was strolling across the immaculate lawn behind a little blonde girl who was running around the flowerbeds.
Was it Maisie? No. It was too early.
I returned to the bed and opened my rucksack, regretting that I hadn’t brought at least one of the outfits Jake had always insisted I wore. I had another pair of black skinny jeans and a black T-shirt – clothes I’d bought when he wasn’t with me and kept hidden at the back of my wardrobe. It was hardly the best impression to give my new-found sister.
But this was who I was now.