The Paramedic's Daughter

by Tara Lyons

  The Merlot is doing the trick. I don’t hate myself as much as I did this afternoon. But my feelings are still raging. Now, however, they are aimed more towards Patrick. There he is, living like a lord in Brighton, with his family. Married. Settled. Happy. Ignorant to the lies I’ve told my daughter and my father and the few friends I have. I’ve shied away from anyone who wanted to get close to me, out of fear or guilt or shame. I’m not sure.

  I’m glad he and Sadie have been living the last twenty years in marital bliss.

  Ha, yeah, of course I am.

  Why couldn’t that have been me?

  I can’t help but picture him, as he was yesterday in that dimly lit pub, staring into my eyes like the past twenty years hadn’t aged us, or changed us. His eyes are just as enticing, his skin is just as soft, and he still makes me want to rip his clothes off.

  After everything he told me and despite him having everything I ever wanted, he still affects me as he always did.

  Isn’t it funny how people can do that to you? It doesn’t matter if we love men or women, there’s always someone – there’s always that one person who can get away with so much in our lives. They can love us, control us, make us stand tall as well as crushing us. They have the power to change our moods in an instant, change the way we think and feel and, I suppose, completely change the course of our lives. But is it really them at all? Surely we’ve handed that power to them. We’ve allowed them to have an effect on our thoughts and feeling and ideas. So, actually, can’t we take it back from them whenever we choose? Can’t we decide when they no longer have the power?

  Patrick is that person in my life, yet I still haven’t taken the power back.

  I nodded along to everything he said yesterday. Agreed with what he wanted and let him make me feel guilty for looking for Rose.

  It became about protecting his precious wife Sadie, not Rose. How could I let that happen?

  Why did I let that happen?

  After all this time, am I really just going to trust Patrick again, no questions asked? The man who used me for years and dropped me over the cliff’s edge without a second thought the moment Sadie gave him an ultimatum?

  This isn’t about them. It’s about Rose; it’s about my daughter. What if Rose has already uncovered my lie and that’s the reason she isn’t answering my calls and emails and messages?

  The panic rises. A slow exhale trembles out of my mouth; a deep moan too, as if it’s riding an invisible wave of heartache. Did I really think it would be impossible for her to find out the truth? She’s a young woman, hungry for a story, intent on someday putting pen to paper and writing a bestselling novel. What if the story I created all those years ago has been like fuel to the fire, inspiring her, and she’s secretly been determined to find out who she really is and where she came from? You see those kinds of programmes on television all the time. Long-lost families and the like. Just because she thought her father was dead doesn’t mean she wouldn’t want to know his family – does she have any aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents?

  If that’s the case… if it’s possible and actually has happened…

  She used to love telling her friends and teachers that she was a paramedic’s daughter. Ha. As if she would be proud of me now. I would no longer be her hero – or anyone else’s, for that matter. Rose could have found out what kind of a person I really am. A liar.

  No, it can’t be. Surely, my headstrong and fiery daughter wouldn’t just ignore me if she had uncovered the mother of all fucking secrets like that. She would confront me. I know she would. Well, I think she would. University can change a person, can’t it?

  I’m pathetic. How could I just leave Brighton so easily yesterday without finding her? What, because he said it would be best for his family? What if that’s actually Patrick’s game? He intends on getting to her first and, in actual fact, he wants to break the news to Rose, tell her that her mother’s lied her entire life. That way, he’ll be the hero and I’ll be… what will I be? I’ll be the person who loses everything, that’s who I’ll be.

  No. No fucking way. I can’t let him do that.

  I glance at the time. It’s 10pm – too late to do much now. It took me a few moments to focus on the clock hands, and I realise the bottle of red is empty and the second one from the supermarket bag is on the table and open. I don’t even remember opening that one. Before topping up my glass again, I grab my mobile phone and, with one eye closed to see the screen better, I compose a message to Dave.

  I hope you don’t mind the late text, but I don’t think I’ll be able to come in tomorrow.

  Before the phone is out of my hand, Dave replies:

  It’s always nice to hear from you, Abi. Why? Hope you’re okay, I’m here if you need anything.

  Why? Good question.

  Not feeling great… perhaps it’s a delayed reaction to the situation on Friday.

  I don’t send that. I delete it. Dave will insist on counselling or something if I say that. My thumb dances over the phone as I retype my message:

  I’ve been on the phone to my mum’s carer at the hospice and she’s not doing too great. She needs to see me. I think I need to spend some time with her.

  It’s not a complete lie. It did really happen, just a few days ago, and someone in my family does actually need me.

  Oh, Abi, I’m so sorry to hear that. I hope your mum is okay. Take tomorrow as compassionate leave and we’ll catch up tomorrow evening about the rest of your shifts for the week.

  Thanks, Dave, feel awful to leave you in the lurch.

  No worries, I can cover you – you helped me out today, so only fair.

  Really appreciate it. Thanks again.

  Speak tomorrow x

  And it’s done. I do feel awful, by the way; that part wasn’t a lie. I know people rely on me. Hell, this city relies on the NHS like nowhere else in this country. The amount of emergency calls made every single day proves that. Yes, I’m a paramedic, but I’m a mother first and foremost. For now, I need to put those strangers to the back of my mind, and I need to make sure Patrick isn’t swooping in and trying to be the hero.

  First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll be Brighton bound to end all of this. One way or another. It’s my job to find Rose. It’s my job to protect her from the truth. Patrick will not have the final say over my life this time. He will no longer have the power to do this to me.

  No way in hell will I let my daughter find out about her father. No matter what I have to do.

  Chapter 17

  The weather isn’t as off-putting as it was the last time I walked these streets in Brighton, thankfully. It’s chilly, not wet, but to be honest with you I’m numb to most things right now, including the weather.

  When I passed the student union building, I let my eyes roam over the windows, but I didn’t stop. Not sure why. Even for a Tuesday morning there were a fair few bodies in there – the joys of uni life; I remember it well – but something kept telling me it wasn’t where I’d find Rose. That’s a laugh, really, because it’s not like I can trust my mother’s intuition at the moment. I’m completely off balance.

  Another ten minutes and I’ll be on Rose’s road. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have any lectures this early; if I remember correctly it was one of the things that she loved about her timetable – mid-week lie-ins on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Who wouldn’t love that? The thought of Rose, who never wants to get out of bed, brings a smile to my face. She was the stereotypical teenager, always tucked away in her room. Even in the summer holidays, her curtains would be closed to block out the sun and she would sit in bed reading book after book. As a grown woman, she would need four different alarms on her phone, all pinging and beeping within a half an hour time period. Yes, she’s a snoozer. It gives me a slither of hope for this morning, that snuggled up in bed is exactly where I’ll find my daughter.

  Continuing along Edward Street, my eyes automatically dart to the left and scan the vicinity of John Street. I can’t see
any signs or obvious buildings, but I do know that’s where Brighton Police Station is located. It gave me comfort to discover, when we moved Rose down here, that in between the pubs and my daughter’s residence there was a police presence. I’m not saying all students are youngsters who can’t handle their booze but, in my line of work, you see it all too often: drunken bar fights, lover’s feuds that get way out of hand once fuelled with alcohol, fresher’s week – no need to say any more on that one. Anyway, I’ve made a point of reminding myself where the police are. You know, just in case.

  As I turn onto Rose’s street, with the dull grey sea on the horizon, I notice her front door is open. My teeth beginning nibbling at the skin on my bottom lip. I stop and just observe the man exiting the property. I can’t see who’s on the other side of the door, who he’s saying goodbye to. I wait until his back is to me before I cross the road. It all happened so quick, I only caught a brief glimpse of his face. Some stubble on his chin and cheeks, maybe – which instantly makes me think he’s older than Rose – and a touch of grey to his dark hair. I can’t be sure. He’s off around the corner in a flash, his shoulders slumped and his hands tucked deep in his trouser pockets. He could well be older than Rose. How would I know? The ages of her housemates is something else I failed to ask. They are all female, or at least they were when Rose moved in. Penny is in her year… yes, I think I’m sure of that.

  I knock on the front door and listen to footsteps banging around inside, and a voice asking, ‘Did you forget something?’ She obviously thinks it’s her gentleman caller returned. It’s not my Rose’s voice.

  ‘Oh, sorry, hi,’ the girl says, taken aback by the stranger on her front doorstep. ‘Yes, can I help you?’

  I called her girl, but that’s wrong, I shouldn’t. She’s clearly a woman. Not a woman of my maturity – easily mid-twenties, probably coming to the end of her studies. She’s wearing a beautiful turquoise saree, adorned with beads and jewels, but it’s not wrapped to perfection around her body – her jet-black hair is somewhat dishevelled looking too. It’s a beautiful outfit nonetheless. She catches me taking in her appearance and tries to smooth down the wild strands while adjusting the beaded material simultaneously.

  ‘I’m really in quite a rush… family occasion,’ she says, and fans a hand along her body, as if to explain the saree. I wouldn’t explain the choice of outfit if I were her. They are so exquisitely tailored, I’d happily wear one every day if I wasn’t a paramedic. It would probably cause problems with all the blood and people-carrying. ‘Whatever it is you’re selling, I’m afraid–’

  I raise a hand and stop the petite Indian woman in her tracks. ‘Not selling a thing. I’m just a mother surprising her daughter.’ She frowns, probably at my squeaky voice and fake smile. ‘Sorry for being so cryptic,’ I continue. ‘I’m Rose’s mother.’

  I stop myself from adding, ‘I’m here to take her to breakfast’ and blah blah blah. I don’t owe this person any kind of explanation. Just let me over the threshold for crying out loud. I feel as if I should be flashing some kind of ID.

  ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t realise. Rose didn’t mention anything.’ She finally backs away from the door and lets me in. She doesn’t move too far into the corridor and I feel like I’m invading her space. ‘I’m Sheetal, by the way.’

  ‘Hi, I’m Abi.’ My hand thrusts itself to her automatically. Her limp handshake intensifies the awkwardness. I guess students aren’t hand-shakers any more… who knew? ‘So, is Rose upstairs or…’

  Sheetal frowns again. ‘I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen her since before the weekend. That’s what I mean. Strange she didn’t say you were coming, cos I’m pretty sure she’s not here.’

  My heart sinks. I think I mumble some kind of reply, a weak oh sound. I’m unsure of what else to say – except demanding she give me proof. My stomach squirms.

  ‘Well, surely Rose could be in her room, Sheetal. You don’t live out of each other’s pockets, do you?’

  She fiddles with the waistband of her saree, straightening it up again. ‘Well, no, of course we don’t. I just mean I know I’ve been alone all morning.’

  ‘Except for the man who left just before I knocked.’ There’s a harshness in my tone that can’t be ignored, and I point to the door over my shoulder in a stabbing manner. The intention isn’t to sound like a bitchy detective; yet, it somehow manages to come across that way.

  ‘I… err… oh yeah,’ Sheetal stutters and won’t make eye contact with me. ‘That was just… a friend. Our friend.’

  ‘Our friend?’ I echo. ‘As in yours and Rose’s?’ Okay, I’m nailing the detective questioning now, but it’s her fault. She sounds all nervous and insincere, nothing like she did just moments before.

  ‘Yeah, like, we all know him.’ She glances at me briefly. ‘Listen, as I said, there’s no one here and I really have to get going.’

  I pull my arms up and cross them over my chest. Something is really bugging me here. ‘That wasn’t Dylan leaving by any chance, was it?’

  Sheetal gasps a laugh – I think it’s a laugh – but shakes her head. ‘No, that wasn’t Dylan. Like I said, just a friend, and I really have to–’

  ‘Get going, yes, you’ve said. Well, I’m not stopping you.’

  She trips over her words again. ‘D-d-did you want to leave Rose a message?’

  ‘No, no. I won’t hold you up any more, you head off. I’ll wait in my daughter’s room.’

  The woman’s frown deepens. ‘But I don’t know when she’ll be back. I can’t just let you hang out in there.’

  It’s my turn to mirror the facial expression. ‘You can’t? I’m afraid you have no say in the matter, Sheetal. I’m going up to my daughter’s room, where I’ll wait for her for as long as I see fit.’ Wow, I’ve never adopted such a headmistress tone of voice before; I almost feel sorry for the woman as I reign my new power over the house. ‘If you have a problem with that, I suggest you call the police.’

  Sheetal’s head jerks back as if I’ve raised a fist to her. I want to laugh at all of this. What possessed me to say that? Why in God’s name would she call the police? My daughter lives here.

  Her shock disappears, and I wonder if I went in a little too hard. Sheetal puffs out her cheeks and blows hot air in my direction, as if to say ‘whatever, lady’. If only she knew how I was feeling, then she would understand why my mood is so interchangeable. Actually, in all honesty, she probably wouldn’t – no one else seems to.

  She’s definitely given up on me, and she shrugs her slender shoulders while saying, ‘Do as you like, Mrs Quinn. I’m really not that fussed.’

  I go to correct her on the Mrs title, but what’s the point? She doesn’t seem tetchy any more, or worried by my questions. She looks bored of me. Yet she still stands there in front of me, not allowing me to pass, and the lack of urgency makes me want to click my fingers in her face.

  ‘Didn’t you say you had a family wedding or something to get to, Sheetal?’ I manage, without the impatient hand action.

  The doubt is in her eyes again; they’re shifty and roaming around the house. Doesn’t she want me to be here alone?

  ‘Err… yes, shortly. My dad is collecting me. Rose’s room is upstairs… first on the right.’

  ‘I remember.’ My giant step towards the stairs leaves Sheetal no choice but to shift out of my way. We brush shoulders. ‘Enjoy your family event,’ I say, before climbing up to my daughter’s bedroom.

  I haven’t moved from the same spot on my daughter’s bed for over an hour and a half. Sheetal’s footsteps pitter-pattered past the bedroom door a few times, even lingering outside for a few seconds. She never knocked or called out. Not even after a car horn honked outside, or before the front door opened and banged shut. Then I heard nothing more; the housemate had left for her family occasion, or whatever she’d said.

  I’ve been alert since then, hoping to hear the sound of the door go again, so I could welcome Rose home.

  But it’s been dea
d silent.

  I let my eyes wonder around Rose’s room. Again. It’s so neat and tidy, everything in its place. Just the way she likes it. We’ve always joked that she’s Monica from the TV programme Friends. She’s been that way since she was a young girl. Nothing seems out of place, but how would I know really? After Rose moved in, I only saw the inside of this house, and her bedroom, one other time. If I ever did venture to Brighton – which wasn’t often, as Rose preferred to visit home, she said – we always met up at the station and went shopping or for lunch. I did notice her bed is neatly made, and considering the early hour in which I travelled down here, I can only assume Rose started her day just as early and is studying in the library.

  Or she didn’t stay here at all last night.

  I hate all this second-guessing. The not knowing. It’s driving me insane; I’m creating images and stories in my mind. You know the ones: son or daughter doesn’t answer the phone and it’s because they’ve drowned at the nearby beach; son or daughter doesn’t reply to your message and it’s because they’ve been beaten to death by a scumbag after their wallet or purse. Understand this: these images aren’t just coming from a neurotic mother who’s being ignored by her child, but also from a paramedic who’s come across some nasty things over the years.

  The urge to go through drawers and wardrobes and read letters and notepads is overwhelming. Something is stopping me. I’m not sure what. Perhaps my consciousness has woken up and is telling me I’ve done enough shitty things – especially to Rose. I need to know if she is here somewhere – on campus, at the library or in a lecture – or if she didn’t stay here at all. I need to hunt down this Dylan guy.