The next morning Mum is surprised to see me at the hospital so early, but I explain that Kerry is standing in for me so I can be here.
‘He has the day off,’ I say. ‘Means I could get here sooner.’
She looks at me, as if seeing me in a different way to what she has before.
‘I want to be here,’ I say. ‘There are things I need to put right.’
Mum swallows hard and I can see her eyes shine with the first hint of tears. ‘You must do whatever you need to do,’ she says, placing her hand on my cheek. ‘That’s what we do as women, mothers and daughters.’
Her words are spoken with such sincerity and intensity. I’m sure she’s trying to tell me something indirectly. I wonder again how much she knows. What secrets she is keeping.
‘Mum?’ I begin. I want to ask her about the key to the safe and what happened the night Dad fell. But the moment is lost as Dad gives a groan and his legs rustle against the starched bed sheets.
We both turn to look at him. Mum is saying his name and takes his hand in hers, a gesture she has done every time I’ve been here.
‘Jim? Hello, Jim. It’s me, Marie. Can you hear me?’
I position myself on the other side of the bed. His eyes are heavy. I can see he’s fighting to keep them open. He frowns as he tries to focus on Mum. His lips are dry and cracked. He moves his mouth as if he’s chewing a piece of food.
‘Do you want a drink, Dad?’ I ask. I pour some water into what is essentially a beaker for grown-ups. It has a lid and an extended spout so the patient can drink from it without having to sit up fully. Dad’s probably wondering what the hell I am doing there. He looks at the cup and I offer it to him, placing the spout in his mouth and ever so slightly tipping it. He swallows the water and, like a baby, sucks on the spout for more.
I exchange a look with my mum. Is she wondering the same as me about any long-term damage he has suffered? After the third sip of water he turns his head away. I take this as a good sign. He clearly knows when he’s thirsty, that water quenches his thirst and when he’s had enough.
He tries to speak but his voice is rough and hoarse. The noise is no more than a rasp.
‘Don’t try talking,’ says Mum. ‘You’re in hospital. Do you remember what happened?’
There’s a tremor in Mum’s voice. She sounds nervous. Dad makes a small nodding gesture accompanied by a grunt. I take this as confirmation that he does indeed know.
Dad raises his hand from the bed. The effort of this is clear, but as his hand shakes from the exertion, he stretches out a bony finger and points at Mum. He frowns and tries to speak, but his voice is husky and the effort too much. With an impatient rasp of air from his lungs, he drops his arm back down onto the bed.
Mum rearranges the bed sheets, which don’t need rearranging at all. She seems flustered. ‘You need to rest, Jim,’ she’s saying. ‘Take your time now, won’t you. Everything is fine and there’s nothing for you to worry about.’
I watch my father intently for any sign of a reaction.
‘Dad,’ I say. ‘Dad, it’s me, Erin.’
His eyes transfer their gaze to me. I carry on. ‘I came over from England because you haven’t been well. We’ve all been worried about you.’ I offer a smile, hoping I will get some sort of acknowledgement. He doesn’t respond, but he continues to look at me. In the past, his gaze, or death stare, as I used to call it, would put the fear of God into me. I would always know when I had said something wrong or done something wrong, he’d fixed me with those dark-green eyes of his. I used to think the death stare was worse than the telling off sometimes. I’m getting the death stare now and I wonder what I’ve done. Maybe he doesn’t appreciate me coming to see him. I want to say more to him, but Mum is there and I can’t bring myself to say what I want to in front of her.
Dad’s eyes begin to close and he doesn’t fight the sleep that threatens. He’s drifting off and within a minute his breathing becomes deeper and falls into the rhythmic pattern of sleep we have grown accustomed to in this ward.
I must have dozed off too at some point. I’m woken by a pain in the back of my neck, where my head has dropped forward. I stretch my arms and roll my head around to loosen the tightness in my neck muscles.
‘Do you fancy a cup of tea, Mum?’ I ask, looking on at Dad. I can’t work out if he’s asleep or awake. His eyes are only half open and his limbs are still. I know Mum has been speaking to him. Her words floated into my subconscious as I had drifted in and out of sleep. She’s been chatting about Fiona and the children.
‘Yes, please,’ says Mum, in answer to my question. ‘I’ll come out for it in a moment.’
I head off to the kitchen and begin to make two cups of tea. I may have left behind as much Irishness in me as possible when I went to England, but tea-drinking is one thing that stayed with me. A cup of tea is the answer to everything, according to Mum. We have lived through every celebration, every achievement, every problem and every crisis with a cup of tea. It’s a natural default setting.
I leave the cups in the family room and go to fetch Mum. Dad looks to be asleep or resting, it’s hard to know which, but the nurse assures us that it is perfectly normal.
‘Will you be doing some test to assess the long-term prognosis?’ I ask.
‘The doctor will discuss all that with you,’ says the nurse. ‘He’ll be doing his rounds later this morning. It’s best to speak to him then.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, although I feel the nurse had sidestepped answering my question. I guide Mum through to the family room. ‘There, sit yourself down, Mum, and have a proper break. I’ll go and sit with Dad.’
‘No, wait for me. Don’t be sitting in there by yourself,’ she says, standing back up.
‘It’s fine, Mum, you stay there.’ Once again I guide Mum back into the chair. ‘I would like to sit with Dad, just for a while… on my own.’
I hope I don’t have to elaborate. There are things I want to say to Dad in private. I don’t know when I’ll get another chance.
‘Don’t go upsetting him, now,’ says Mum.
‘I won’t.’
I leave before she has time to protest or insist on coming with me.
The door to the ward swishes against the floor as I walk in. The heart monitor beeps its regular rhythm. It’s a lonely sound now Dad is breathing on his own, there is no whoosh in and whoosh out of the machine breathing for him. His breath rattles gently at the back of his throat like a Venetian blind fluttering on a clement breeze against an open window.
I sit down and slip my hand into his, placing my other hand over the top.
‘Hello, Dad,’ I say softly. ‘It’s me, Erin.’ I stroke his hand, hoping for a response, some sort of acknowledgement that he’s heard me. I look over my shoulder. The nurse is at her desk, doing something on the computer in front of her. I’m not quite sure if she really has work to do, but she’s definitely making a point of being occupied.
I turn back to Dad.
‘I hope you can hear me, Dad,’ I begin. ‘I’m not very good at this and not sure I’ll be able to do it again, so you’d better be listening.’ I swallow an unexpected lump that has found its way into my throat. This is going to be harder than I imagined. ‘I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye about everything. Okay, that’s not quite right. When I was a teenager and living at home, we clashed a lot. And that animosity somehow found its way into our relationship, it got in all the little corners and grooves. It embedded itself and became the norm for us.’
I look for a response. I’ll take anything – the flicker of an eyelid, a twitch of his hand, but there’s nothing.
‘After the accident, when I went to England, I was very angry with everyone. You, Mum, Diana Marshall. Even Niall himself. He wasn’t supposed to go and die on me. And the adults in my life weren’t supposed to cause me even more pain by insisting I have a termination. I couldn’t cope with everything that happened. It hurt. It hurt so badly.’
Oh God, it had been so painful. The feeling of utter hopelessness comes rushing right back as if I’m living that moment all over again. It’s as clear, as sharp and as fierce as it had been then. I double up, my face resting on our hands. A wave of tears comes and races down my cheeks, spreading across my hands, following the channels between my fingers, seeping through the gaps, reaching my father’s skin.
I allow myself a moment to deal with the acute pain. It’s the worst torture I can imagine. It feels as if my heart is being cut from me while it still beats.
After a minute or two, the pain dissipates enough so I can concentrate on what I need to say. I’m aware Mum could walk back in any time now.
‘Dad, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Really sorry. I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to understand. I couldn’t deal with it. As time went on, I began to have small inklings of what it was all about. How you thought you were doing the right thing by me. But I couldn’t admit that. It would mean having to deal with the pain and loss all over again.
‘If I was angry with you, it was easier. I could deal with anger. I could channel all my feelings into that anger. The more I felt, the more I began to think I understood your reasons, the more mature I became and the more life experiences I had to deal with began to make me realise that the world isn’t black and white. It’s full of many, many shades and tones.’
The words are tumbling out. I keep going, fearing if I stop now, I’ll never say them.
‘But I wouldn’t let myself apply that to you. It was easier to hold you up as the villain. I could direct everything I was feeling at you. It meant I didn’t have to deal with that pain.’
I pluck a tissue from the box on the bedside table and dab at my eyes and nose. I rise and put my lips to his ear.
‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ I say. ‘So very sorry. Please forgive me.’ I kiss his cheek.
At first I think the dampness on his face is that of my own tears, but as I pull away I realise the tears are coming from Dad. A tear forms in the corner of his eye from under the closed lid and, as it pools, it overflows the small well between his eye and bridge of his nose. The tear follows the path of the one before, sliding down his face. And then his eyes flick open.
‘Dad?’
His mouth opens and closes. There is the tiniest of breaths and the quietest of sounds. I move my face closer. He’s trying to speak, I’m sure of it.
‘Erin.’ It’s a rasp on a small breath, barely distinguishable, but I know he’s said my name. He knows it’s me.
‘Yes, Dad. I can hear you,’ I say, my voice barely more audible than his.
‘Forgive me,’ he says.
I move my head to look at him and let the words sink in. After a moment I speak. ‘There’s nothing to forgive. Not now. Once upon a time, I might have wanted that from you, but not now. Not any more.’
His fingers move against mine. I bury my face against his and, once again, our tears merge as a tidal wave of emotion hits me. I allow myself to succumb to the feeling. I’m done fighting this battle. It’s been a pointless war with no winners, only losers.
Eventually, the crying subsides. I draw back. Dad is still awake, but the rims of his eyes are red. I can see myself reflected back in those green eyes. All those feelings I thought were just my own, all that pain and hurt, it’s there, plain to see in him, but I have never chosen to look for it. I’ve been too ready to cast him as a terrible father. My stubbornness and need to blame has prohibited me from looking at him through my adult eyes. He’s forever been seen through the eyes of an angry, naive teenager, who thought the world was against her.
How had I got that so wrong? How had the rest of my life matured and yet that one part I’ve allowed to stay in the past? It jars with me in every way. It’s as if I’ve been in the dark and never made any attempt to seek the light. The dark is comforting. The light means I have to look at things I don’t necessarily want to see, the fear of the unknown has held me back. I don’t want to have that fear again.
‘I love you, Dad.’
He gives the slightest nod of the head. It’s all he can manage. ‘Love. You,’ he says. Dad is getting weak, the effort to communicate taking its toll. He taps my hand with his finger and I lean in closer. ‘I know,’ he utters.
Those two words are loaded with so much, I don’t know how to respond.
‘He knows about the baby.’ Mum’s voice comes from behind me. I spin around, I hadn’t heard her come in. Mum rests her hand on my shoulder. ‘And so do I.’
Once again, I struggle to find any words. So much is happening, I’m finding it difficult to process it all. They know?
‘How?’ I finally manage to ask. I’m glad I’m sitting down already. My legs feel weak and are shaking. I look at Dad, his eyes are in that half-open state again.
Mum walks round to the other side of the bed. She adjusts the cushion on the plastic chair before settling herself down.
‘I’ve always known you had the baby,’ she says. ‘I’ve always known that baby was Sophie.’