Love & The Goddess

by Coen, Mary Elizabeth

  “Me too, Kate. You’re a lovely woman and easy company.” He stood up to plant a kiss on my cheek. As I walked away, I half turned, glancing back. Catching my eye, he smiled and waved goodbye. For some strange reason, I suddenly felt lonely, disappointed that he hadn’t asked to see me again.

  I hate hospitals with their smooth easy-clean surfaces and lack of texture, the clatter of nurses’ shoes and over-sanitised smells. No matter how many plants or designer chairs they place in the foyer, the corridors and rooms remain soulless, demoralising places. My father looked vulnerable as a newborn, propped up on puffy pillows in a yellow-painted, metal-framed bed. He had been surprised to see me arrive alone and I could sense his apprehension as I sat in the chair close to his bed. I was usually the one who had felt ill at ease in his company. “Dad, I want you to know something I never told you or Mam.” At this, he raised his eyebrows. “I’ve suffered from anxiety ever since David died. At times it’s been very acute with my thoughts racing – terrible reprimanding thoughts that nearly drive me crazy. I’ve had feelings of guilt and remorse that made my life a living hell.” I rubbed my hands across my face. “I just want you to know that I understand what anxiety is. I’m telling you this because I know you haven’t been yourself lately. I know you’ve been depressed since Harry’s death.”

  “My poor little Katey.” He put his hand out to me. I took it in both of mine and, looking up, saw his eyes well with tears.

  “No, Dad. I don’t need sympathy. I’m fine. I cope better lately. It’s you I’m concerned about. I want you to feel you can share your thoughts with me.”

  Just then a knock at the door signalled the arrival of a nurse and a tall bespectacled man in a grey suit. “This is Mr Tynan’s psychiatrist, Doctor Waldron. Would you mind waiting outside for a few minutes?” asked the nurse.

  Damn it, I thought, just when I was getting somewhere. “No problem,” I said aloud, stepping outside. After waiting several minutes, walking up and down the corridor, the door opened and Doctor Waldron stepped out. I introduced myself: “I’m Kate Canavan, Jim Tynan’s daughter.”

  “I’m glad to meet you. Your father seems to think you have a better understanding of mental health issues than your mother or your sister. It’s good he has someone he can talk to. I believe I was in college with your husband, Trevor.”

  “Yes. My ex-husband now.”

  “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry. I’d like to help my father, Doctor Waldron. It seems strange that he was on anti-depressants and yet wasn’t advised to see a psychologist or indeed yourself. What’s bothering him?”

  “Doctor-patient confidentiality, Mrs Canavan. I can’t tell you myself, but I do believe your father is ready to talk to you. Regarding him talking to a professional, I’m sure you’re aware that was recommended when he was first prescribed Prozac. Now, good day.”

  “Thanks,” I said weakly. Though I’d married a medic, I’d never become accustomed to how cut and dried they were. They had a way of making me feel inferior. I knocked on my father’s door before entering.

  “Come in,” he called.

  Taking the chair at his bedside, I said, “I want to tell you that you were always the best, Dad. You’ve always been so kind to less fortunate people. You are the kindest person I know.” I’d remembered all the times he’d brought me with him to visit the homeless, bringing blankets and flasks of soup on Christmas Eve. The countless people he had given free legal aid to. I had always looked up to him, seeing him as a modern day Messiah who never looked for thanks or praise.

  “No, Katey, I haven’t been. That’s the problem.” His eyes grew misty as he continued: “I had another brother. He would have been your uncle. Charlie was his name.” I was shocked. I had thought my father only had one brother and three sisters. I remained silent, trying to look unperturbed. “He was six years older than me and I looked up to him. He was funny and kind and like you he spoke his mind. Charlie was thirteen when Mamma was confined to a wheelchair. I don’t know what happened but he had grown impulsive and a little aggressive. Then six months later, he suddenly disappeared from our lives. I asked about him but was never given a satisfactory answer until one day my father said he would bring me to visit him.”

  “Where had he gone to?” I asked, the blood draining from my face.

  “We drove for what seemed like hours, until we eventually came to a large set of gates leading to a huge grey building. My father was a silent man, believing children should be seen and not heard so I knew it was futile to ask questions. Inside, we were met by a nun who told us she would bring Charlie to see us. After a while she returned with him, except it wasn’t the Charlie I knew. It looked like him all right, apart from his slow shuffle and his vacant eyes which seemed unable to even register who we were. The three of us went out for a walk around the hospital grounds and Charlie never spoke a word during our time with him. As we drove back I asked my father, “Dad what happened to Charlie?” to which he replied impassively. ‘Charlie had a nervous breakdown. He can’t live with us anymore.’ I accepted what my father told me, though I was deeply saddened. I didn’t know then that Charlie had had several bouts of shock treatment and a prefrontal lobotomy.”

  “Oh God. But why …?”

  “Oh Katey, it could have been something as simple as autism. I see Liz’s youngest little fellah and he reminds me so much of him and he’s been diagnosed with ADHD.” His voice caught. “It was so cruel! He spent his whole life living in a mental hospital. I should have done more. He died seven years ago but it’s only in the last few months when …” His voice caught in his throat. “When Harry died and I was under stress at work, I began to have a lot of memories. A nurse from the hospital took Charlie out to live with her and her husband during his last three years when the hospital closed down. She contacted me recently when she was visiting Dublin to talk about him and give me his rosary beads. A very simple humble woman. Her kindness towards him made me feel so selfish.”

  I could feel my father’s excruciating pain. The torment he’d felt as a little boy was evident in his shaky voice, as he gasped for breath. I shuddered to think how cruel my grandfather had been; an intolerant army doctor from another era. Squeezing my father’s hand, I said, “But they were different times, Dad, and you were too young to be able to help him.” This explained my father’s strange moods over the years. I’d never understood how he could be so happy one minute, playing with Liz and me on holidays or at Christmas, and then the next moment his joyous face would turn glum and he would wander off to be alone. As a child I used to wonder had I done something to upset him. Later it just angered me, because I didn’t understand the reason for such odd behaviour. I came out of my reverie. “Does Mam know?”

  “Yes, she came to visit him with me a few times. She baked cup cakes for him. You could see that he liked that.” All of a sudden I felt anger towards my mother for having kept this from us, for having denied us the chance of knowing our uncle.

  “Why were we never told about Charlie? I would have liked to have met him.” I twiddled my empty ring finger.

  “Ah, you know your mother. She was afraid it would upset you and Liz. But it’s not her fault. I also was ashamed and worried about the stigma of having a brother who was institutionalised. I hope Charlie forgives me, wherever he is.” He glanced heavenwards.

  “Of course he does, Dad. He’s in a better place now and he’s possessed of a higher intelligence than to hold any earthly grudge.”

  “Thank you, Katey. That’s a lovely way of putting it. You’re a blessing to me.” A knock on the door signalled the return of the nurse, this time to check his blood pressure and change the needle in his hand, which was attached to the drip. I took it as my cue to leave and gave my father a hug, checking to see if there was anything he wanted from the shop downstairs. “No Katey, thanks for everything.” He smiled, looking less strained, as though he had unloaded a boulder from his broad shoulders.

  I arr
ived back to my parents’ house to find Billy Costello sitting in the kitchen having tea with my mother. Julie had gone to town to catch up with some friends from college. “Goodness, Billy, you appear everywhere. You survived Machu Picchu then?”

  “I did, all right – great place. I was just visiting my mam when she told me about your father. Thought I’d drop over and see how he is. It’s great to hear he’s on the mend.”

  “I’ve just been to visit him. He’s only got a few scratches, really.” His cup was empty. “If you’re finished, I’ll walk you down as far as your mam’s house, Billy.”

  “Have you thought about my offer to you?” Billy asked, as we walked.

  “I’m very flattered. But you know me of old. I’m a bit of a stick in the mud when it comes to relying on the good old permanent pensionable job. No offence to you or anything.”

  “Is it worth it? I mean you as much as said your present job was a drag. I’ll match your salary and set you up with a pension policy.”

  “No, honestly, Billy. I can only cope with so many changes in my life at one time. I’m too long in the tooth for uprooting myself and starting all over again.” As I spoke, my sister Liz’s black Mercedes passed us, heading towards my parents’ house, Liz waving out the window.

  “I think you underestimate yourself, Kate. Give it some thought, will you? Maybe come out to visit me in Wicklow. We could catch up on old times.”

  “I will do, Billy. I’d better get back to my mam, now.” I knew I was distracted, but my father was on my mind and if I’d learned nothing else in Peru, I had to deal with one issue at a time. As I walked back up the drive, I breathed into my belly and visualised my connection to the earth below me, while calling on Spirit to be with me, in an effort to ground and centre myself for what I needed to do.

  Liz was just getting out of her car as I arrived and I followed her into the kitchen. “I need to talk to you both.” I pulled up a chair to join them around the kitchen table. I told them everything my father had told me and finished by saying, “All this has weighed very heavily on his shoulders over many years. I’m not an expert but it’s obvious his recent depression following Harry’s death brought back memories. I think he should be encouraged to see a psychiatrist on a weekly basis.”

  “But your father’s not mentally ill.” My mother’s voice hinted at hysteria.

  “Mam, it’s time to stop talking like that. There’s no stigma any more about depression. It can happen to anyone and Dad had a complicated childhood. I think he could have done with seeing someone a long time ago. His regular disappearances and anti-social behaviour indicated a problem.”

  “Oh for God’s sake!” Liz said. “Daddy was a very good father. You shouldn’t criticise him like that.”

  God she could be exasperating, always shoving accusations down my throat. “Liz, I’m not criticising Dad. No offence, but you’ve always had your head in the sand. Dad needs help and we have to encourage him to get it.”

  “Kate’s right, Liz,” my mum said, as Liz visibly reeled. “Life is short and it’s not worth putting on an act for anyone. No more than your Jonathan’s ADHD. You want to do the best for him and you don’t love him any less because he’s finding school more difficult than the other three, do you?” My mother spoke softly. Liz sighed. Mam had hit a nerve by mentioning her youngest child who’d been a worry since the day he started school.

  “I’ve been finding it difficult but I suppose you’re right. It’s hard when things don’t go according to plan,” Liz said earnestly and I could feel her letting go.

  “The three of us have to do everything we can to support Dad and help him put the past behind him,” I said. “That means we have to all sing from the same hymn sheet. If that means encouraging him to get help, are we on?”

  “Yes, Kate. He has been acting very confused lately and the hospital suggested he see someone. I suppose I’ve always had a problem with hearing the word depression and in Daddy’s case I just hoped it would go away. But I want him to go privately … I mean I wouldn’t want him sharing a waiting room with some psycho.”

  I smiled inwardly. At least she was coming round even if she wasn’t quite willing to let her prejudices go. I leaned over, stretched out both arms, to touch both of them. I remembered Raúl’s words about coming into my heart. The past twenty-four hours had been harrowing for me and I felt drained, yet in some strange way I felt a genuine heart connection to Spirit guiding me. I had initiated something positive by addressing an old problem which had affected us as a family. Some good had come out of my father’s accident, since I felt closer to them than I had done for a very long time.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  If August anywhere is a wicked month, August in the west of Ireland is even more so. Clammy weather beloved of fungi, moulds and wild mushrooms, along with congested traffic, made me decidedly uncomfortable. Oh don’t get me wrong, I was relieved to have left the madness of Dublin behind, delighted to arrive back to Galway City. My father had come out of hospital and Julie had moved into a new apartment and now I had time to meditate and meet up with friends.

  But that’s where the problem lay. All my friends were elsewhere. Ella had gone to stay with her daughter in London and James had gotten back with his partner Alex and was driving Alex’s band around the country doing various gigs. I obviously hadn’t achieved enlightenment. In fact, in my present state I felt as though I’d taken two steps backwards after having taken one forward. I felt very alone, especially since I was acutely aware that Julie would soon be going on a week-long break to the Algarve with her father. I had plenty to do to keep me occupied between catching up on laundry and planning classes for the college year ahead, and I should have been content with peace and quiet but for some reason I was discombobulated. A lovely word that, and you really only know what it means if you feel that way, a bit like an old scarecrow with lots of stuffing hanging out and with a brain that doesn’t really work. Except I had no Wizard of Oz to go to, and I had been to enough shamans to last me a lifetime.

  I wondered was it the coca tea … Maybe it really had had an effect and I was suffering from withdrawal from that as well as the sleeping pills. I had been meditating twice daily but that too seemed to space me out even more. In fact when I researched it by typing into a search engine “Can meditation space you out?” I got loads of hits confirming that yes, in certain circumstances, too much meditation could make you feel spacey, if not balanced with other more active pursuits. Great! And here I was too woozy for active pursuits, so what was I to do in my solitary state?

  I found myself wondering about dating sites. Geoff had said he had moved to a different one and Ella had mentioned trying a selection of sites. Finally, I gave in to curiosity and found Geoff’s site. He had a brand-new profile, this time calling himself “Warholesqe”. I liked him and was disappointed he hadn’t found me attractive. But then I had looked like something the cat dragged in on the day we met, and I’m sure he had lots of women running after him.

  I decided to put up a new profile under the name Demeter, Goddess of the Harvest; she was the closest any Goddess comes to Mother Earth, since her role as Persephone’s mother also meant she was known as the Mother Goddess. In Peru, I’d loved the feeling that Pachamama could work through me. It would be interesting to see what would happen if I invoked her energy so I logged on and started putting my profile together. To find that, damn it, the name was gone. Okay, I’d use a variation of the name. Demetra … no … Demetriana … that’s it, the exotic sounding “Demetriana”.

  Next, I uploaded some pictures of myself in Peru; one of me standing on a mountain on the way to Machu Picchu and another one in national costume on the floating island. I also uploaded a recent photo James had taken of me wearing a navy dress with delicate art deco embroidery around the neckline and just for good measure another of me in a little black number.

  It struck me that I looked a lot more confident and happy in these pictures than in the very poised photos
I had used as Persephone. Odd, since the previous set had been taken while I was married to Trevor. My shrink was seemingly correct when he said our marriage had been under strain long before we broke up and that I had been in denial. I had obviously been more like my mother and Liz than I cared to admit. But not anymore. Now I believed in tackling issues head on before they spiralled out of control.

  Cyber communication was so convenient yet it could be endlessly time consuming as blocks of days passed with me spending hours in front of my laptop. I kept in regular contact with my father through Skype and was delighted to hear about Mam and Liz supporting him in getting therapy. Emails flew back and forth to Julie helping to banish my insecurity about her spending time with her father. This was helped by the fact Martha had chosen not to join them in the Algarve. But the bulk of my time-wasting was spent on the dating site as the romantic in me still hankered after a knight in shining armour. That I couldn’t fight this longing was further evidence that I had an addictive personality and found it difficult to break old habits. Living in the now was easier on a mountain top and enlightenment was a slow process. I had however become shrewder in my use of the site, discarding the chancers and charlatans after brief correspondences, and I was no longer interested in empty flattery or a quick fix ego boost.

  One guy managed to provoke my interest all the same. His username was “FordmodelT”, which was a bit more interesting than “drightone” or “ilovecheese”. I presumed it referred to an interest in vintage cars, until I saw his picture. Reclining against a wall, in an immaculately cut anthracite sports jacket over an open-neck white shirt, his stance drew attention to a well-honed physique. The dark brown hairline formed an exaggerated widow’s peak above a tanned brow. Deep-set brown eyes smouldered at the camera. On first impression I was convinced he had downloaded a photograph of the designer Tom Ford. The similarities were uncanny, right down to the designer stubble looking like a two or three-day shadow. I wondered was the image a composite, perhaps a photo shopped version of Tom Ford superimposed over this guy’s photograph – the face shape was squarer and the nose more aquiline. I looked at two other pictures he had posted on his profile and he looked a bit more normal. Less incredible, less like a movie star, less like Tom Ford, yet similar to the main picture.