Sisters and Lies

by Bernice Barrington

  I didn’t answer, didn’t move a muscle.

  ‘Rachel?’ he called again.

  ‘Yeah, I’m here,’ I said, throwing down my mobile onto the bed and opening the bedroom door.

  ‘Oh, there you are. Listen, I picked up a few beers on the way home and was wondering if you’d like one.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well, okay. Give me a second and I’ll be there.’

  A few minutes later, when I reached the living room, Donnagh was already pouring me a glass of pale ale. We didn’t talk much – just smoked and drank – but I was grateful for the window of respite. It meant I didn’t have to think about Jacob. About the ‘urgent’ text message I should be replying to. About the fact that our marriage was dissolving right before my eyes.

  And it also meant I didn’t have to dwell on my failed detective work – the pointless time spent down at Business Matters. The fact that I had made no progress whatsoever.

  In fact, it was almost as if Donnagh had given me permission, for one night, to stop thinking completely. Just to sit quietly and sup beer and be a normal human being. As if I really was normal. As if nothing bad had happened at all.

  44.

  Evie

  So I am still in a coma, and I am still having panic attacks and delusions. And though there is no sign of any recent memories resurfacing, a really old one has come back to me: a flashback from years ago, of me as a little girl, standing outside our cottage in Leitrim, half frozen and with no shoes on, wearing just a flimsy nightdress.

  In the flashback, I’m sleepwalking – something I used to do quite regularly as a kid. And I can still remember that night, my teeth chattering, hearing Mammy and Granny talking – well, fighting, really. Saying stuff I knew they wouldn’t want me to hear.

  I feel a rip of adrenaline pass through me. Could that explain things – the sleepwalking, I mean? Could it explain this coma? Why I drove a car without a licence? Could it explain why I crashed Donnagh’s Porsche into a ten-foot wall?

  I have no recollection of recent sleepwalking incidents, but then again I have no recollection of most things. But let’s just say it’s true, does that mean I’ve been barking up the wrong tree, accusing people unfairly … accusing Donnagh unfairly?

  Jesus, is it possible that he’s actually innocent? That it was just a case of me caught in stage-three non-REM sleep, walking out of my bedroom, out of my flat, getting into his car and losing control?

  Could it really be as simple as that?

  When I think about it, this explanation seems such a good one. So neat. But then again, is it a bit too neat? And why would I have started doing it now, twenty years later, without any warning?

  Okay, maybe there had been some warning. I know I was under a lot of stress before the crash and I’d probably been taking a few more drugs than normal. But then again, I was under a lot of stress when Mammy died and when my relationship with Artie broke down, and I didn’t sleepwalk then. At least, I don’t think I did.

  And thinking about it further, would I really have been able to find Donnagh’s keys, walk down the stairs, get into his Porsche and turn on the ignition – all while fast asleep? It seems so unlikely. The worst Rachel ever reported was finding me in the kitchen trying to put bread in the toaster. Surely I couldn’t have stretched to a fifteen-minute drive to Lewisham in a car I was unfamiliar with?

  Could I?

  Speaking of Rachel, she seems very down. I know my being in a coma can’t be helping, but it seems more than that – like she is broken somehow. When she speaks, she sounds exhausted and there is something else: a type of sadness I’ve never heard before. There is no sign of Jacob and I can’t understand why he hasn’t been to see me. It’s odd. Until very recently, he and I were best of pals.

  Even though he’s the polar opposite of me – logical, tidy, good with money – Jacob and I are surprisingly close. He’s a sociology lecturer. He and Rachel met when she was doing her MA in Social Studies – and I wish he was here now, so he could tell me how my coma is just an ideological construct and I am no less human now than I ever was. On that point I would agree with him. Ironically, I’ve never felt more conscious or more real than I do right now.

  Other people have been to visit too. Donnagh, for example. He’s been to see me at least once, and spent the whole time stroking my hair and saying my name over and over again. I should have felt scared. At the time he was my chief suspect, and, quite frankly, he still is. But, much to my surprise, I held my nerve. I’ve come to realize that if I am ever to get out of here, I need to stop panicking and think logically. Much as I hate to admit it, Janet was right: I need to put my neuroses to one side. I need to start believing in myself.

  Astonishingly, Artie also dropped by. I thought I’d never see him again. Not after the last time. For ages he said nothing. And next thing all I felt were these wet splodges on my chest: he was crying. He didn’t say much – barely touched me. Just at the end, he squeezed my hand and said, ‘Get better, Evie.’ Then he left. No kiss on the cheek. Nothing.

  I never felt as impotent as I did then. Every part of me wanted to rip all the IV lines off, swing my legs out of the bed, run after him and beg him to stay.

  But, of course, I didn’t because I was in a chronic vegetative state and couldn’t move one finger, let alone all the muscles in my body.

  Fucking coma.

  There was another visitor too. Very strange.

  That person didn’t touch or talk to me at all. Just stood over the bed – I could detect their toxic ‘energy’ – and breathed down on top of me in a strange, creepy way. For a while I began to think I was imagining it. That my brain was starting to play tricks on me and that I was suddenly conjuring up strangers. But then a nurse bustled in and said, ‘I’m sorry, visiting hours are over.’

  And the stranger grunted something and walked off. For a second, I thought I recognized the grunt. It sounded kind of familiar. But in the end I couldn’t attribute it to anyone I knew.

  Should I be suspicious of this person? This grunter? Are they in some way linked to the crash? I wish I could say yes, but the truth is I don’t have a bloody clue.

  I lie here in this coma, thinking it all over, and for some reason my mind lurches back to that earlier memory – of me standing on the porch at our cottage, wearing only a flimsy nightdress. Even now, all these years later, it’s as if I could still hear the voices of Mammy and my grandmother Eilish, clear as crystal, and the extraordinary things coming out of their mouths.

  ‘I take it you never hear from him.’

  This one from Granny, who didn’t visit us very often. She and Mammy didn’t get along too well.

  ‘No,’ Mammy snapped back. ‘Of course I don’t. You know I don’t.’

  ‘I always told you he was a waster. That you should never have had anything to do with him.’

  Mammy harrumphed. ‘Oh, yes, you were very clear on that.’

  ‘And yet you never listened,’ Granny said, and I could practically see her lips purse into a cat’s bottom. ‘You always were a very stubborn girl.’

  ‘You got two beautiful grandchildren out of it, didn’t you?’ Mammy retaliated, her voice high and squeaky now – a sure sign she was about to blow it.

  Granny didn’t say anything for a bit. Then: ‘Sometimes I think you should contact him. He owes you a fortune in maintenance.’

  ‘No,’ Mammy barked, and I noticed her voice had changed. It was harder, colder now. ‘That man can never come near my children again.’

  Granny tutted. ‘In an ideal situation, no, but you work as a barmaid and there’s a recession on. You need the money.’

  ‘Mother, didn’t you hear me?’ Mammy said, not shouting exactly but angry. I could hear it in her voice. The power of it suffused the air.

  ‘Katherine, I know he did a terrible thing.’

  ‘Stop,’ Mammy shouted, and Granny did just that. Finally, in a lower tone, Mammy said, ‘Mother, don’t you understand? He could do it all again, with
out a second’s thought. There’s no way I’ll ever take that risk.’

  I moved closer to the window now, desperate to hear more.

  ‘The children must never know about what happened,’ she continued. ‘They have enough baggage to be dealing with, without knowing about him, about what he did to them.’

  ‘Well, they won’t hear anything from me,’ Granny said huffily. ‘In case that’s what you were implying.’

  Mammy stayed silent. I suspected that was exactly what she was implying.

  A minute or two passed before Granny declared, ‘Well, seeing as you refuse to see reason, I’ll head for my bed.’ I heard her stand up and make for the doorway. I nearly puked – she might see me. Luckily she disappeared down the hallway and into her bedroom without incident. Once the coast was clear, I crept back inside and scampered to my own bedroom, waking Rachel as I ran in.

  ‘Feckin’ hell, Evie, what’s all the commotion?’ she said, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. ‘Have you been sleepwalking again?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, about to explain what I’d stumbled across. But then I stopped myself. How could I explain everything to Rachel when I didn’t even know what I was describing? When I hadn’t even processed it myself.

  Later that night, as I lay in bed, I sifted through the words spoken by Mammy and my grandmother, trying to make sense of them.

  ‘I know he did a terrible thing.’

  What the heck had Granny meant by that? What terrible thing had my father done?

  I asked Mammy about it eventually, though I’m not sure when. All I really recall was her reaction: how her face had turned pale and ghost-like; how she’d dropped the mug she was holding on the hard kitchen tiles beneath us, where it had smashed. ‘I’m so sorry, Evie, I don’t feel well all of a sudden. I need some air.’ She’d staggered out of the room, swaying from side to side, almost as if she was drunk.

  A few minutes later, after I’d cleared up the cup, I’d walked out to find her. She was sitting on the big granite step at the back of our house, a cigarette in her hand, gazing at the rolling fields beyond. ‘Mammy, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘You didn’t upset me, darling,’ she said, smiling wanly and patting the ground, encouraging me to sit down.

  I did.

  ‘I’m sorry if I gave you a fright there. I think I might be coming down with something – a bug or the flu or that.’

  I ignored the lie, just kept my eyes focused on the earth beneath me, tracing a line on the ground with my finger.

  After a few moments, Mammy shifted her body so she was facing me. ‘Evie, look at me for a second. You were asking about your father and there’s something I want to tell you.’

  I raised my eyes just as my mother had asked – my pulse racing at the thought of finally getting a proper answer.

  ‘Evie, the thing you need to know is that you are not to blame for your father leaving us.’ Mammy was facing me full on now, holding my hand in hers.

  ‘I know that, Mammy. But I just want to know why he left us. The terrible thing Granny said he did to us. To me and Rachel.’

  ‘Don’t mind Granny,’ Mammy said, trying to sound dismissive. But I could see that her cigarette was trembling in her hand as she spoke, causing ash to spill all over her faded yellow skirt.

  ‘You agreed with her, Mammy. You said you would never risk it happening to us again.’

  For a moment she didn’t say a word, just took a long drag of her cigarette and looked off into the hills. I didn’t realize it at the time and I still can’t know for sure but, at that moment, I think she was on the verge of telling me something.

  The truth, maybe.

  However, almost as soon as I felt that, the moment was gone.

  ‘Evie, you were sleepwalking again, weren’t you? You might have become confused, darling.’

  I stared at her. I hadn’t been confused. I’d been perfectly lucid.

  ‘The thing is, your father wasn’t capable of being a parent. Can you understand that?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not really.’

  Mammy sighed. ‘I know it’s hard to grasp.’ She flicked ash off her cigarette. ‘But the truth is, not everyone has the temperament for it. Some people just aren’t cut out to be parents.’

  ‘But I thought he loved us?’ I asked, genuinely baffled.

  Mammy stared straight ahead. Very quietly she whispered, ‘So did I.’

  For a minute we stayed there, locked in silence. ‘Maybe we should contact him. Maybe he’s better now and he’ll be able to take care of us properly.’

  ‘No.’ Mammy took my hand again. ‘Evie, there are some things I will never be able to explain to you about your father. But you must trust me when I say it’s better the way things are. And, anyway, we’re doing perfectly well as we are, aren’t we? We lead a grand life.’

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered, snuggling into her shoulder. I didn’t want to tell her the truth. That sometimes I felt so lonely I could hardly breathe … as if I was a stranger in my own life.

  Mammy kissed my forehead and leaned her weight against me. ‘So are we okay now, darling? Will you promise me you’ll forget about what you think you heard?’

  I nodded, ignoring the word ‘think’, even though it was irritating. ‘Yes, Mammy,’ I said, because what else could I say? Then we got up off the step and made our way back towards the house, leaving Mammy’s cigarette butt smouldering on the step.

  Things got back to normal pretty quickly after that, and I never again asked questions about our father or what he had purportedly done to us. But I couldn’t forget it. That whispered conversation between Mammy and my grandmother lodged in my soul, like a bullet, and I knew I wouldn’t rest until I’d found Daddy and asked him about it. I’d studied like a lunatic in French class, convinced, somehow, that this would be my ticket to finding him. Sure enough it had garnered me a scholarship to Normandy, which, when I looked on the map, was only a train ride away from Calais. His hometown.

  I had hoped for so much from that meeting, but it had been a dismal failure. An utter, abject disaster.

  Recently, I had taken to writing him endless letters. Reams of paper, asking him every question under the sun.

  For ages I didn’t have the guts to send any – I’d just allowed them to build and build in my bedside locker. But then one morning when, frankly, I was so pissed from the night before that I could barely see straight, I’d got one out, attached a stamp and sent it off – as easy as that.

  Of course I hadn’t heard back. And now, when I thought of it, all I felt was mortification. There should be rules against that: drinking and posting. What had I been thinking? As if my father would want to hear from me. As if, after all this time, he could ever love me back.

  You may think it strange I never told Rachel any of this. Not when we confronted our father in France. Not even when I demanded that he reveal his secret. But the thing was, I knew the conclusion she would jump to: that he had abused us. Or was violent towards us.

  I know he did a terrible thing …

  Sure, what else could she be expected to think?

  But the thing was, I was willing to give our father the benefit of the doubt. Allow him to explain himself. Rachel wouldn’t have done that. It would have been more grist to her mill: that he was a coward. A waste of space. Maybe even a paedophile.

  I did not think he was a paedophile.

  Sometimes, as a little kid, I used to imagine that my father and I were cut from the same cloth. Artistic, temperamental, sensitive. It had to be so, because I had so little in common with my mother or even with Rachel. Don’t get me wrong, I would have loved to resemble Mammy: to have her kindness and gentleness and grace, but it was pretty obvious I had none of those qualities. As for Rachel, she and I were like chalk and cheese. Not just looks-wise, but also in terms of pragmatism, confidence, self-worth. No, I was nothing like her either.

  Which left my father.

  Okay, so maybe he had tried to hurt us. Maybe he was
a bit mad. Who cared? I was a bit mad too. Sometimes, as I lay in bed, the weirdest stuff would go through my head and I would wonder, does he think like this too? Is this why he couldn’t be a parent, why he couldn’t lead a normal life? I thought if I met him, got to know him, we could share our madness. Make peace with it. That was why I had travelled over to Calais, and why I had posted the letter.

  Mammy had tried to deny it, but I knew there was a story. A secret. I knew that.

  And there was something else I knew.

  That I wouldn’t rest until I had found it out.

  45.

  Rachel: day eleven, 1 p.m.

  I was beginning to lose faith now. I’d followed every lead I could find, checked and rechecked Evie’s apartment for clues, but nothing was forthcoming. I hadn’t even cracked something as basic as the password to Evie’s laptop. It seemed like the whole venture had been utterly pointless.

  I headed into the hospital, feeling a sense of utter defeat. I had failed in my role to unlock Evie’s last days and, as a consequence, I had failed Evie. Without that knowledge, I felt convinced she would never wake up.

  Head bowed, I approached the corridor where her room was located, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’d convinced myself that if I unpicked Evie’s secrets, the shackles of her coma would spring open and she would be released to the world, alive and conscious. But it wasn’t working out that way. Not even remotely.

  ‘Rachel.’

  I looked up and could hardly believe my eyes. Jacob was standing in front of me, his eyes puffy and bloodshot. ‘Jesus Christ. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m here to talk, Rachel, plus I wanted to see Evie – I tried calling you yesterday evening to tell you I was coming over.’

  ‘Did you?’ I said unconvincingly. ‘I must have missed it. In any case, I thought I told you to stay away.’