Fragile Lies

by Elliot, Laura

  “I needed to talk to you.”

  The snow was turning into a blizzard. She could see it swirling past the window and imagined it settling on the lane, banking high between the hedgerows. She bent over him and kissed his cheek.

  “I’d better not keep Frank waiting. We’ll talk another time. For now, you need to rest. If I’m able to drive I’ll be in to see you tomorrow. Do you want me to phone anyone … Killian?”

  Her hair brushed his face. His eyes darkened, as if he remembered the spread of it on his bed. He tried to rise. The effort made him gasp and collapse back against the pillow. “Don’t worry about Killian,” he said. “I’ll take care of him.”

  At the door she turned and waved.

  “I love you.” He mouthed the words towards her.

  Her fingers curled tightly into a fist. All the love she would ever need flowed across the distance and was accepted by her.

  The countryside held its breath for three days as snow floated lightly from branches, crunched icily beneath their footsteps. The occupants of the lane moved within their marooned ambit, separated from the main road by sculpted drifts that sparkled like crushed shards of crystal but showed no signs of thawing. School was cancelled and Emily struggled regularly through the snow to check on the well-being of horse and pony. Frank and his sons arrived with spades to help Lorraine clear the way to her studio. An unfamiliar shape hung over everything. The clinking sound of shovels, the hidden caw of crows, the bold chirp of a robin on the window ledge and the gnawing wind, forcing its way through the trees, played an eerie melody as they worked.

  The urge to paint was strong. If the bats flew above the windbreak trees she did not notice. Darkness was everywhere when she left her studio on the third night. Even the glow from the windows of Donaldsons’ farmhouse had been extinguished. Snow crunched underfoot. A new moon disappeared behind clouds and emerged again to float in its silver aureole. A distant reach. A promise waiting to be fulfilled. She walked forward into its pale, filtering light.

  “The specialist says I’ll be climbing mountains as soon as I’m back on my feet.” Michael’s leg had been operated on and he had rung earlier in the day with a progress report. “Are you still cut off?”

  “It’s possible Frank will be able to drive the tractor to the top of the lane tomorrow,” Lorraine replied. “If he can, I’ll follow in his tracks. The main roads are gritted. They should be fine for driving.”

  “I don’t want you to take any risks,” he warned. “Promise you’ll only come if the way is safe?”

  “Promise.”

  “I want to talk about Killian.” His voice was still slurred from the anaesthetic. “It’s important that we meet as soon as possible.”

  The following morning the thaw was underway. Water dripped from the eaves of the old house and the crunch beneath Lorraine’s feet became a squelch. Snow slid easily from Michael’s car. She opened the door and removed his manuscript and mobile phone. As she expected, the phone was dead. It was the same model as her own and she plugged it into her battery charger. Emily, muffled in scarves and a woolly cap, opened the kitchen door and stamped water over the floor.

  “This weather is driving me nuts. Con won’t let me ride Janine until it clears.” She buttered bread, sliced cheese and tomatoes, switched on the sandwich maker. The smell of toasting cheese filled the kitchen.

  “I can’t believe I rescued the creator of Nowhere Lodge from certain death,” she said, noticing his manuscript on the table.” She carried it and the sandwich to the sofa where she read avidly for the rest of the morning. “My friends will never believe this.” Occasionally, she chortled. “I bet I’m the only person in the world who knows what’s going to happen in the next series. Can I visit him this afternoon? I’ve a number of suggestions to make. Some of his plot lines are way off target.”

  “You certainly cannot visit him. He’s recovering from serious surgery.”

  “Then I’ll make some notes. Be sure and give them to him. Tell him I’m prepared to accept ten Jason Judge autographs as payment. Otherwise –” she paused for dramatic effect, “I’ll reveal everything to the tabloids.”

  “I’ll warn him.”

  “I like it when you laugh and mean it.”

  “Glad to know something meets with your approval.”

  “Are you all right about me staying in Dad’s apartment next weekend?”

  “I already told you. It’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine at all. But he’s under house arrest. She’s such a calculating, conniving cow. No! That’s too insulting to the mother of my calf. She’s a blistering, bollocking bitch!”

  “Emily!”

  “Stop pretending to be Saint Lorraine. If I were in your shoes I’d take out a contract on her. She was supposed to be your best friend and all the time she was cheating behind your back.”

  “Stop it immediately. Do you hear me? Stop it.”

  “It’s never going to be all right again with Dad, is it?”

  “Not the way it was. I can’t turn the clock back, no matter how much you want me to.”

  “If you went for counselling, it could help. I read an article on mediation. This woman said it gave her and her husband a whole new perspective on their marriage. I cut the article out of the paper for you.”

  Lorraine had a sudden desire to slap her daughter. A sharp smack on her backside which would silence her instantly, stop the aimless drivel she felt obligated to fling at her mother whenever the opportunity rose. With the pony, Adrian had broken through the last of Emily’s defences. Lorraine had been aware of a shifting in the balance of blame. Somehow, Adrian, working gently, persuasively, had managed to obtain his daughter’s support and the two women who had been in the centre of his life for more years than Lorraine cared to count were now assuming responsibility for his marriage break-up. She stared at the set of her daughter’s mouth, the wilful expression disguising her confusion, and knew that Emily was as adrift as she was, battling too many conflicting emotions, dreaming too many impossible dreams.

  The sudden flash of anger drained away and Lorraine was overwhelmed by all they had lost. It was a pure feeling of loss. Nothing else, no fury, disbelief or jealousy. She sank to the sofa and began to weep. Emily held her close. The reversal of roles was instantaneous and her daughter’s arms were strong. Later, they could reclaim their rightful order in the echelons of family life but for the moment there was just the comforter and the comforted.

  A phone call from the hospital came as Lorraine was preparing to leave the house. The nurse was apologetic. Complications had arisen and Michael was under observation until his temperature settled. Could Lorraine postpone her visit until tomorrow? The nurse was reassuring but her brisk voice did nothing to lessen Lorraine’s apprehension. She remembered the urgency in his voice when he mentioned his son, his anxiety to see her as soon as possible. She moved indecisively around the kitchen, unable to settle. The opportunity of painting for the afternoon held no appeal. The studio was cold and the earlier bout of weeping had drained her energy. Emily was also suffering from severe cabin fever and intended cycling through the slush to visit the friend whose house was closest to Stile’s Lane. She emerged from her bedroom in black cycling trousers, a yellow puffa jacket and bicycle helmet. “Don’t say it,” she warned her mother. “I know I look like an obese wasp but you will insist on the helmet. Can I sleep in Fran’s tonight?”

  “That depends on whether we’re discussing a male or female,” Lorraine replied, still puzzled on the gender issues surrounding this particular friend.

  “You think Fran’s a girl?” Outraged, Emily stared at her mother.

  “It’s the eye shadow that makes me uncertain.”

  “So? Has anyone ever stopped you wearing aftershave?”

  “I don’t wear aftershave.”

  “But Fran wouldn’t stop you if you wanted to. Why can’t he wear eye shadow? Your generation are always labelling people. It’s so … so old age stuff.”
r />   “All I asked was – oh, never mind. I’ll ring his mother and check if it’s OK.”

  “We’re planning a surprise birthday party for the goths.” She bared her teeth, stuck two index fingers to the sides of her mouth. “We’re going to dress up as vampires and invite them over to his house. Then we’re going to jump out on them from behind the kitchen door.”

  “Have you considered the possibility that Janis and Joplin could drop dead from shock?”

  “Then we suck their blood.” She guffawed heartily.

  Mother and daughter had reverted to their natural roles.

  Fifty

  Killian

  Snowflakes in a glass orb. Still and peaceful, shining like a diamond on his grandmother’s mantelpiece. He shakes the world. Shakes it in his fist. Watches the snowflakes swirl. Watches them settle. He waits for the night shift.

  * * *

  A broken tibia, Killian. What on earth was your father doing in Trabawn? Never heard of the place. Don’t fret, he’ll be back soon. Duncan got a star in school today. Best boy in class. He’s with me now. Say hello to Killian.

  Hello … hello … can we go home now?

  Another boy band in the charts, Killian. White suits, ugh! I’ve got a rose tattooed on my shoulder. See? Mum is threatening to lock me up and throw away the key. Lorcan’s a suit. Can you believe it? He showed me his business card. Advertising Executive. He’s even carrying a briefcase. Says it impresses the hell out of his old man.

  Knock Knock. Who’s there? B-4. B-4 who? Let me in B-4 I freeze to death. Ha Ha Ha.

  The job’s crap, my mate. Guy’s a snowflake. He doesn’t see me. Just the old man’s money. She’s a bit of all right but a real ball breaker. Wake up, Killian. Wake up! I want to talk to you proper.

  My daughter text tonight. She has a boyfriend now. A biker boy. Angel from hell. I worry he will go too fast. Soon I see my family. Soon, little soldier, soon.

  Killian, it’s Meg. See what I’ve got. The Cat in the Hat! Bet you remember every word. But I’m going to read it again, anyway. Eoin’s here too. He brought you a xylophone. Listen to the notes … doh ray me fah soh lah tee doh. Listen again … and again … sing with your heart, Killian, and we will hear you.

  I’ve put on weight. Comfort eating. My wedding dress is too tight. Fuck! Why did I ever say yes?

  There you are, Loveadove. I’ll park my trolley and we’ll begin. Am I holding biscuits in my hand? One blink for yes, two for no.

  Blink.

  How many biscuits am I holding up?

  Blink! Blink! Blink!

  Three it is. A genius … a bleedin’ genius, that’s what you are! What’s with those goats in their white coats? Don’t know their arses from their elbows. Goats in white coats – listen to me. I’m a bleedin’ poet. Isn’t that what I am?

  Blink!

  Killian my wandering boy. Where have you gone? Further than any of us, I should imagine. Wait till I tell you about the Milford Sound! Such magnificence. Such adventures. I’ll bring you with me next time. Maggie says you’re counting. How many fingers have I got? Three, you say. Three fingers and a thumb. Lost one in Alaska. Bet it’s preserved better than I am. Where on earth is your father? Lucky I had the key to his apartment or I’d have spent the night on the corridor. His phone is off. It’s not like him to be out of contact. Must ring Jean, see what’s going on.

  PART FOUR

  Fifty-one

  “Is this Michael’s phone?” The voice at the other end had the huskiness of a heavy smoker.

  “Yes, it is,” Lorraine replied.

  “Can I speak to him, please? I’ve been trying to contact him since last night.”

  She had been clearing the breakfast dishes from the table when she remembered his mobile phone. The call came shortly after she removed it from the charger and switched it on.

  “I’m afraid he’s still in hospital.”

  “Jean told me about his accident. How is he?”

  “He’s over his operation. Yesterday, his temperature was still high but I’ve been speaking to him this morning and he sounds fine.”

  “Who are you, my dear?”

  “My name is Lorraine Cheevers. Michael’s accident happened close to where I live. I’ll be visiting him shortly.”

  “I’m his aunt, Harriet Carmody. Could you give me the telephone number for the hospital? I flew in from New Zealand late last night but he wasn’t expecting me back for some weeks yet.”

  Lorraine flicked among the papers on the telephone table and called out the hospital number.

  “I’ll ring him right away.” The woman thanked her. “He must be extremely worried about Killian.”

  “Is Killian all right?”

  “There’s no change, at least not that I can notice. But I’m afraid the prognosis remains as bleak as ever.”

  “Prognosis?”

  “I’m in the clinic with him at the moment. How long does Michael expect to be in hospital?”

  “I’m not sure … are you saying there’s something seriously wrong with Killian?”

  “There’s no deterioration in his condition, if that’s what you mean. He’s still in a deep coma but I was talking to the tea lady before I rang you and she insists there are signs of an increased response. She may have something there. It’s so hard to be certain. If the doctors knew what she’s doing they’d have apoplexy.”

  “But Michael said … are you telling me that Killian is in a coma?” Lorraine’s voice faltered, fell silent.

  “Hasn’t Michael told you about his son?” The woman sounded surprised.

  “No.” His mobile phone was heavy in her hand. “What happened to him?”

  After the phone call ended, she sat at the table and stared towards the window. Her skin felt hot, attacked by a heat rash or a fever. Water dripped like tears from the eaves, shimmered in the glare of winter sunshine. Her eyes were dry as she left the house and drove towards the hospital.

  She knew the Hammond Clinic, a small private hospital where one of Donna’s friends had died after being in a coma for a month. Afterwards, a short memorial service had been held in the oratory. Her abiding memory of that occasion was the deep peaceful silence that filled the corridors. A deceptive silence, born out of desperation as relations waited for a signal, a sigh, a whisper from their loved ones who lay sleeping behind closed doors.

  Snow lingered on the hospital roof but the flower beds were splashed with green. Early crocuses poked spiky stalks above the earth and the snowdrops were once again visible. He sat outside the bedcover. One leg was heavily encased in plaster of Paris from thigh to shin. The devastation on his face confirmed that his aunt had already been in touch.

  He winced when she flung his mobile phone on the bed. “You have to give me a chance to explain,” he said. “Please sit down, Lorraine.”

  “Why?” she demanded. “What possible explanation can you give me? You wanted me to meet your son. To paint his portrait. I don’t understand –” She was unmindful of the other patients, the visitors who paused in their conversations to glance curiously in their direction.

  “I was going to tell you today. I don’t know what I was going to say – but I hoped to make you understand. I’d no idea Harriet was returning so soon from New Zealand.”

  “She said Killian was knocked down in a hit-and-run accident.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you lie to me? What possible reason could there be to tell such a terrible lie?”

  “I believed you were responsible for his accident.” The words fell dully, shockingly, between them.

  Seeing her expression grow more incredulous, he pleaded. “Please give me time to explain properly, Lorraine.”

  She tried to concentrate on what he was saying. His voice seemed far away, unconnected. She pushed the chair back from his bed. She needed distance if she was to hold herself together. He stretched out his hand to comfort her, a jerking movement that disturbed the cast. The pull of his cheeks revealed his pain.<
br />
  “Where did the accident happen?” she asked.

  “On the Great South Wall.”

  A boy on the pier, the ferry sailing towards the horizon. Every word they had spoken was meaningless, every gesture misunderstood. Their loving … she closed her eyes, unable any longer to look at him. How he must have hated her, even as he kissed her mouth and stirred her with emotions she believed had been buried forever. He had raped her with his thoughts, desired what he despised, swallowed her in his dark, deep eyes. “Don’t say anything else. I can’t bear to hear another word. Every time we were together I sensed it. But I couldn’t understand –”

  “I never meant to fall in love with you. It didn’t make sense. You’ve no idea how hard I fought against those feelings but they cut through everything, the evidence and suspicions, all the anger. I went to Trabawn to accuse you.” He forced her to listen. “But that time in your studio … Killian almost died. We didn’t believe he’d make it back.”

  Tears rushed into her eyes. She willed them away. She had shed too many tears over love.

  He mentioned Meg’s name and other names that meant nothing to her. She was unable to absorb what he was saying. His voice was too fast, incoherent almost, his breathing shallow, his complexion as translucent as wax.

  Before Meg and Eoin went to the States, they had thrown a farewell party. The house was so crowded that people spilled out into the back garden. Had Michael Carmody been among the crush of people who raised their glasses and wished Eoin success in his sabbatical? Had they noticed each other among the crowd then passed on by, never registering the moment? Surely she would have remembered his searching gaze. But she would not have been the object of his attention, not then, not when their worlds were intact and secure.

  “I’m leaving, Michael.” She willed her legs to hold her upright.

  If she walked from the ward she could reach her car in five minutes. Spine erect, eyes looking straight ahead. He pleaded with her to stay but then, realising the enormity of his accusation, his head fell back against the pillows and he was silent.