by Tara Heavey
‘I thought you liked me the way I am.’
‘I do. I don’t want to change you, Aidan. Just see the real you.’
‘This is the real me. I’ve had this beard for so long, it’s part of me.’
‘That’s fine. It was just a thought.’ She rested her face against her knees again, apparently resigned.
Suddenly a tidal wave. The waters shifted as Aidan rose up.
‘What are you doing?’
‘If it’s the real thing you want, it’s the real thing you’ll get.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I want to. I want to prove to you that I’m not hiding anything under here. That I don’t have any hideous scars. Or a weak chin.’
‘Perish the thought.’ She was sitting upright now and laughing at him. He watched her in the mirror of the medicine cabinet. How much brighter she was. ‘You’d really do this for me?’
He turned to her. ‘You know I’d do anything for you.’ He returned to the medicine cabinet and she swallowed, taking him all in. His arse cheeks clenched and soapy.
Aidan rooted around until he found what he was looking for – the packet of disposable razors that Helen had left behind. Hardly ideal but all he had to hand. He lathered his face with soap and began the process, creating little landing strips at first. It wasn’t unlike mowing the lawn, which was all he had to compare it with, it had been so long since he’d shaved. Which was one of the reasons he kept nicking himself. The other being the inadequacy of the razor. ‘The right tool is the one that gets the job done’ – he heard his father’s voice in his head. He’d been thinking about him a lot lately, wondering what he’d make of the predicament his son had got himself into. Or maybe he thought of him because he was dead.
It was fast emerging now – the Aidan Ryan jawline. Surprising even him. He’d never let his beard grow into a big bush. It was always well trimmed and had a shape to it. Fiona had told him on several occasions that it enhanced his features rather than masking them, like most beards. He wasn’t sure what that meant but if she was happy, he was, and he hadn’t given his appearance a thought in nearly two decades. So, getting rid of the beard was like a restoration project, chipping away at the growth to reveal the raw material underneath. As he was finishing, Sarah got out of the bath and stood behind him. They stared at his reflection in the mirror. They ran their fingers along his cheeks and chin.
‘Handsome guy,’ said Sarah.
‘Weird-looking guy, more like.’ He peered at himself more closely, viewing his face from every angle. His forehead was normal – tanned and lined – and all the way down to the base of his nose. But underneath that it was virgin territory.
‘How long is it since this skin has seen the sun?’
‘Twenty-one years.’
‘Twenty-one years.’ She shook her head. ‘Your beard has come of age.’
‘Older than Alannah,’ he said. And longer in duration than his marriage. ‘Don’t you think I look like a newly plucked chicken?’
She laughed. ‘No, I don’t. All you need is a couple of days in the sun and it’ll blend in with the rest of your face.’
‘It’ll take more than a couple of days.’
‘Weeks, then.’
‘I feel naked.’
‘You are naked.’
‘Oh, yeah.’
He watched her laugh properly for the first time since Helen had left. And it was worth shaving off his beard. He’d shave his goolies if he thought it would get a laugh out of her. Maybe he’d save that one for the next rainy day.
She shivered suddenly. ‘I’m freezing.’
‘Let’s get back in.’
He turned on the hot water and added more bubbles. She stepped back into the tub. You could almost count her ribs now. He got in beside her, sat behind her, this time with her back pressed into his chest. He soaped down her arms, her swan’s neck, her one remaining breast.
‘I never thought I’d be able to do this again,’ she said.
‘Do what?’
‘Let a man see me naked.’
‘You’re beautiful.’ He kissed the ear closest to him and watched her cheek rise as she smiled.
‘The thing is, I don’t care any more whether I am or not. After all the years I spent obsessing about my body, my looks … to think I used to be self-conscious about my stretch marks. And then this happened,’ she pointed to the place where her right breast used to be, ‘and made the stretch marks irrelevant. It’s all relative, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose it is.’
‘And now that … this is happening to me, well, it just makes me realize that none of it matters. That it’s all going to be gone soon anyway, as if it never existed in the first place.’
He held on, more tightly than before.
Next morning they were having breakfast, eating toast off the same plate, their legs intertwined under the table. Sarah craved physical contact and Aidan just wanted to crawl inside her. They were still getting used to his lack of beard. Sarah would look at him intermittently and laugh.
‘Oh, you think it’s funny, do you?’
‘I do.’
He gave her a crumby kiss.
Maia walked into the room. They had left her sleeping late. She stood in the kitchen doorway and stared at Aidan – at the place where his beard used to be.
‘Oh, God. Here we go. Hi, Maia.’
The child continued to stare. Then she began to talk. ‘Hi, Maia. Hi, Aidan.’ She repeated this several times. Then the hand flapping began, hands rigidly down by her sides, as she walked along on tiptoe. A little penguin. She completed two revolutions of the kitchen table in this way, before sitting in her customary chair, placing her chin in her hand and waiting expectantly for breakfast.
‘I think we got away pretty lightly,’ said Sarah. She stood up and started preparing the little girl’s food. ‘If a change like that had happened, say, a year ago, she would have gone nuts.’
‘Nuts,’ said Maia.
Aidan smiled at her. ‘Don’t you think you should tell her that her father is coming tomorrow?’
‘She wouldn’t understand. She doesn’t know the concept of a father. She’s never had one. Up until now.’ Sarah bent low and kissed Aidan on the cheek. He savoured it. And tried to ignore the fact that he was nervous as hell about Robert Mitchell’s visit.
Chapter 42
It had been more than a year since Mitch had set foot in Ireland. He only came to visit his mother. But mostly he flew her over to visit him. He liked spoiling her, showing her the high life. Showing off his life. She was impressed. She never said it but he could tell.
And now here he was, in Clare of all places, the rain falling softly, like a cliché. Typical August weather. When he’d left LA it had been in the mid-thirties. He shivered in his shirt-sleeves in the back of the cab that was ferrying him from Shannon to Sarah’s place. He could see the driver giving him funny looks in the rear-view mirror. Perhaps it was because of how he was dressed, but more likely it was because he recognized him. He put in his earphones, leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. He didn’t turn on his iPod: it was just a prop to stop the man starting a conversation. Normally his inclination would be to chat away, nineteen to the dozen – it suited his image as the Irish lad made good who hadn’t forgotten his roots. Today he just wasn’t in the mood. He’d bung the driver a few hundred to pick him up again that afternoon – on condition that no reporters showed up while he was in Clare; he couldn’t take the chance that the man wouldn’t call one of the tabloids and get the media on his tail.
Ever since he’d had the call from Sarah, an air of unreality had settled into the corners of Mitch’s life. He had recognized her voice right off, even though five years had passed since they’d last spoken. She had always had a great voice – rich and creamy. Although there was another element to it now. After the initial surprise of hearing from her, he had felt mostly fear. What did she want from him? More money? Something to do with the child? And
then she had told him she had cancer. That it was serious. That she wanted to discuss their daughter’s future. That had really put the fear of God into him. He had started to explain his lifestyle but she had cut him off. Just be here, she had said. Sooner rather than later. So here he was. He didn’t want to be, but he was.
They were coming into the village now. Pretty enough, he guessed. Quaint. Good sea views. Pity he felt as if he was travelling to his own execution. He repeated the address to the driver, who circled around a few times before he found it. A terrace of tiny cottages. Sarah’s was bang in the centre. Again, the word ‘quaint’ came to mind. It reminded him of the set of a film he’d had a part in once. Scene One: the hero arrives in the windswept, rain-sodden, West of Ireland fishing village. Where were all the men in Aran jumpers? That was what he wanted to know.
Even as he thought these thoughts, Mitch was aware that he was trying to distract himself from his anxiety. He refused to call it by its real name, which was fear. He paid the driver and put him on a generous retainer for the day, subject to his discretion. The man had obviously known who he was – he had called him Mr Mitchell as they drove into the town – but he seemed like a decent sort who wouldn’t have needed the extra incentive to keep quiet. Still, it was better to be sure. His heart sank as he watched the cab pull away. There was nothing else for it. He faced the doorway. Faced the music. He rang the bell and waited. Anticipated. Tried to work out how long it had been.
The door was opened by a man in his forties. He had a vaguely intimidating air – Mitch couldn’t tell if this was for his benefit or not – and extraordinarily vivid eyes. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in an Aran jumper. Rugged type. Well cast as a fisherman. Would need to grow a beard first, though.
‘Come in,’ he said.
Good voice too. Rich. Authentic. He didn’t ask Mitch who he was, presumably because he already knew. Mitch held out his hand. ‘Robert Mitchell.’
The man took it. ‘Aidan Ryan.’
Mitch followed him in, taking in his surroundings as he went. The place was charming, earthy. Ordinary. A far cry from his condo in LA. There was a woman standing in the kitchen. He did a double take. She gave him a slight, wry smile. ‘Do I look that different, Mitch?’
‘Sarah. No, of course not. I’d recognize you anywhere. How the hell are you?’ Even as the words passed his lips, he cursed them. He moved forward and kissed her on each cheek. Jesus Christ. She was vaguely like Sarah. She had her eyes. Her voice. His initial crazy thought had been that she must be Sarah’s sister or some other relation. But it was her, all right. A much emaciated version. She was wearing a short, skimpy sort of skirt. Her legs stuck out of the bottom like two sticks with knobbles in the middle for knees. Her thighs were actually narrower than her knees. The Sarah he knew had always had killer legs. And the hair. Where was the lustrous golden hair? She had short, wispy curls now, reminding Mitch somehow of a lamb. It must have fallen out. But there was still a kind of beauty. In her eyes. Which were huge now. And her smile.
When she had said those words on the phone – I’m dying – he hadn’t known what to think, but he’d thought he’d managed to process the information. Now he realized he hadn’t. Not really.
‘I’m off out, Sarah.’
The man had walked into the kitchen behind him.
‘Nice to meet you, Robert.’ He looked him directly in the eye. There was a warning in there somewhere. He turned his attention to Sarah. ‘Will you be all right?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. Mitch saw the look that passed between them. Saw that they were in love. Poor bastards.
The man left and he missed him instantly. He also had an overwhelming urge for a cigarette.
‘Why don’t you sit yourself down, Mitch? I’ll make us some coffee. That’s presuming you haven’t gone all LA and decaff on me.’
‘Fuck, no. Still on the hard stuff.’ He sat down in one of the kitchen chairs and allowed himself to relax a little. She was being nice to him at least. Didn’t appear to have a major axe to grind.
She pulled out a chair and sat beside him. She leaned her elbows on the table, her face in her hands and smiled. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Tell me all about your life in Lala Land.’
She was inviting him to talk about himself. His favourite subject. Of course, she knew that. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Anything and everything. Are you really going out with that girl who co-starred in your last movie?’
‘No, not really. It’s just good for publicity for us to be seen out and about together.’
‘But you have slept with her?’
‘Of course.’
‘And she likes you?’
‘Seems to.’
‘You always were a shallow git.’ She’d said it matter-of-factly, without a trace of rancour in her voice or on her face.
He grinned at her. ‘Sure – you know that’s always been part of my charm.’
‘Oh, I know all about your charms, Robert Mitchell.’
She grinned back, looking in that moment almost like her old self. Except her skin was a funny colour now. Not honeyed. Not the way he remembered it. ‘We had fun, though, you and me,’ he said.
‘Oh, yes. It was great fun being left to raise an autistic child on my own.’
There was nothing he could say to that.
She got up to pour the coffee. The atmosphere was a little bit tense but not too bad.
‘Where is she anyhow?’
‘Maia is … here.’
A little blonde girl walked into the room. She went past Mitch, directly to the sink, picked up a glass of water and proceeded to drink it.
‘Hello, Maia,’ said Mitch.
She ignored him. Sarah didn’t immediately correct her, like the mother of an ordinary child might have done. ‘Maia. This is Mitch. He’s come for a visit.’
The child appeared not to have heard. She was opening a drawer beside the cooker. She took out several pieces of paper and a pencil case and sat down at the kitchen table opposite him.
‘Are you drawing a picture, Maia?’ he said.
Again, she failed to react.
‘I thought you said she could speak now.’
‘She has some words. Maybe she just doesn’t want to talk to you.’
‘Oh. I almost forgot.’ He fished around in the pocket of his jacket. ‘I bought her some sweets in Duty-free.’
‘Thanks.’ Sarah took them out of his hand and placed them directly in the press above the fridge. ‘She’s on a sugar-free diet, but thanks anyway. It really makes up for the last six years.’
‘I sent you money, didn’t I?’
‘You were always generous, I’ll give you that. When you had it, that was.’
‘Yes, when I had it.’
‘And now you have it all the time. How does it feel?’
‘Fucking brilliant.’
‘Can you please not curse in front of the child?’
‘Sorry.’
‘I bet it does feel brilliant.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m happy for you, Mitch. For all your success.’
‘Are you?’
‘Of course I am. Is it everything you expected and more?’
‘Ah, you know. You couldn’t exactly call it a meaningful kind of existence. I’m hardly saving lives. And there’s only so many clothes you can buy, fast cars you can drive, hot women you can fu– sleep with.’
‘So it suits you down to the ground, then?’
‘Basically, yeah.’
They both laughed. It was funny how easily they’d slipped back into the old familiar patterns.
‘What do you think she’s drawing anyway?’
‘It’s a dolphin.’
He inclined his head, trying to see upside-down. ‘How can you tell?’
‘She always draws dolphins. That’s all she ever draws.’
‘Is that normal?’
‘For an autistic child, yes.’
He watched Maia for a while, her little white-gold
head bent, her face intent. ‘She’s gorgeous, Sarah. Just like her mother.’
Sarah smiled serenely, accepting the compliment. And he saw that she was proud.
The picture was starting to take shape.
‘That’s really good. Who taught her to draw like that?’
‘No one. She taught herself.’
‘That’s very good, Maia,’ he said, his words loud and over-enunciated, as if he was talking to a deaf person.
Maia carried on drawing.
‘Jesus, that’s brilliant. You could sell that.’
‘I suppose you’re going to tell me she gets it from your side.’
He laughed. ‘I wasn’t, actually. I was going to ask you if all autistic kids can do this.’
‘No. It’s pretty rare, but not unheard of. Most have trouble even holding a pencil.’
‘Why won’t she look at me?’
‘Because children with autism don’t do eye contact. Jesus, Mitch, do you know nothing about the condition?’
‘How would I?’
‘Well, did it never occur to you to Google it or something?’
‘I saw Rain Man once. Years ago. Can she do that thing with the counting?’
Sarah shook her head. ‘You’re an awful fecking eejit, you know that?’
Mitch was startled. He had been living on the west coast of America for such a long time now that he wasn’t used to these uniquely Irish insults any more. Here to call someone a fecking eejit was almost a term of endearment. Because that was the way she had said it to him. Without any trace of anger against him. Against the world. He imagined that if he were dying at such a young age, he’d be seriously pissed.
‘How old are you, Sarah?’
‘I’ll be forty on September the twenty-third. You can come to the party if you like.’
The words stayed hanging in the air between them. She looked him in the eye and he looked away. Did she believe she’d still be alive by then? Did he? Embarrassed and horrified, he turned his attention back to Maia. ‘Why dolphins?’
‘Because there’s one living here, in the bay. That’s the main reason we came. Would you like to see her?’
‘What – now?’