The Paramedic's Daughter

by Tara Lyons

  My hand slips down to the bedside table and pulls open the top drawer. I close my eyes and sigh. Snooping is never a good idea.

  I reach in and pull out Rose’s mobile. Why doesn’t she have it with her? This is probably an old one. Her phone contract has been upgraded since being in Brighton, surely?

  After a few tries of the power button, it’s clear the phone is dead. That answers that, then. It is an old phone and she’s keeping it as a backup. Ever the logical one is my Rose.

  As if it’s burnt my hand, I chuck the phone back in its place and slam the drawer shut. I stand up, drawn to the corkboard leaning against the wall on top of her desk – this isn’t prying, because whatever’s on it is there for all to see. Granted, she probably wasn’t expecting her mother to visit. There are a few photos. No faces I really recognise. Some look familiar. I’m guessing it’s because I’ve seen these photos or people on Rose’s Facebook page. There’s also a lecture timetable. Tuesdays are empty. A huge free day for Rose to do as she wishes: study, sleep, socialise, shop. To do anything. Be anywhere. Her first lecture tomorrow isn’t until noon, and suddenly I feel like an idiot being in her room.

  What was I expecting? That I’d hole up in here until… until when, exactly? I have no idea what my daughter is doing or where she is.

  Everything is glaring at me: the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the laptop. It’s as if they’re daring me, tempting me to rifle through them all and… and what? Find the answers I’m looking for?

  Instead, I grab my mobile from my handbag and call Rose’s number again. It doesn’t ring – straight to voicemail. The indecision of what to do is burning my chest as if I’m stuck in a desert storm, choking on the air around me and unable to see anything clearly. This room is suffocating, and I turn for the door. But before I run from my daughter’s room and straight out the front door, something inside makes me backtrack, yank open the top drawer again and snatch up Rose’s iPhone.

  Chapter 18

  The breeze does nothing to shake away the dazed feeling clouding my mind. I retrace my steps towards the train station, despite knowing one thing: I can’t go back to London. The way I feel, I couldn’t care less who wants to call me dramatic, or even too involved in my grown daughter’s life. I need to see Rose.

  At John Street, I stop walking. Like a statue on the kerb, I’m stood staring down the road, directly at the building where the police station is located. What would I tell them? I can see it now: some young officer telling me that Rose is an adult, and with no evidence of foul play, there is little they can do. I’ve met enough coppers over the years to know how it works.

  I’ve never felt such indecision. The tears trickle down my cheeks, slow and quiet, and I feel like a fool. An idiot for standing here, frustrated and alone, not knowing what to do. I’m a grown woman who makes fast and snap decisions to save people’s lives. Why am I finding it so hard to decide what’s best here? I wipe my cheeks, breathe deep and gaze around the tranquil beachside street. That’s when I see him. On the opposite side of the road, walking towards me, his face still burrowed into the collar of his dark leather jacket, is the guy I watched leave Rose’s house moments before I knocked on the door.

  In a flash, I decide to follow him; funny how that bolt of an idea came quickly enough. I watch too many crime programmes.

  Before I can conceal myself, so he doesn’t notice me, he jumps into the passenger seat of a silver Vauxhall Corsa. It’s parked facing away from me, therefore I can’t see him or the person in the driver’s seat. The engine doesn’t rumble to life. There’s no movement from the vehicle, and my feet are put to work again.

  I walk slowly, my focus never leaving the Corsa, my back practically sliding along the red-brick wall to my right. The need to see what’s happening is powering me forward. What if Rose is the driver? When I reach eye-level with the front of the car, I take my phone out of my pocket and pretend to be busy looking at the map, turning slightly to catch a sly look at the people inside it.

  It’s Patrick.

  Even with just a peeping side glance at the man, I know it’s him. If I had not seen him the other day, I would have thought my mind was playing tricks on me. Now I know he’s here, I couldn’t be surer of anything else – or anyone else. That is one hundred per cent Patrick in the driver’s seat. Why the hell is he in a car with the man who just left Rose’s house?

  I cross the road. Despite having no clue what my next action will be, my brain seems to have a line of communication with my body that I’m unaware of. Just as I creep up to the back of the car, the passenger door swings open. The mystery man steps out and slams it shut behind him. Puffs of smoke blow from the exhaust as the engine starts, and my feet are at it again. Suddenly, I’m yanking open the door and sliding myself into the seat which had just been vacated.

  ‘What the f–’ Patrick begins, stopping short when he sees my face. ‘Abi.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ I demand. It would appear that automatic line of communication from my brain is also connected to my mouth. I’m doing and saying things without even needing to think of them. So much for the tearful mother stuck on the street corner just minutes earlier. ‘What the hell are you playing at, Patrick?’

  ‘What do you mean? What are you doing here?’ he retaliates, and I hear my own accusatory tone mirrored in his.

  ‘Who was that guy just now? I saw him leave Rose’s house earlier and now here he is chatting to you. Don’t deny it. Is he some private investigator?’

  I have no idea where that came from, and my question throws Patrick as much as it does me. He frowns, and a look of confusion spreads across his face. But there’s more. He hasn’t shaved since the last time I saw him, and the dark hairy stubble stains his face. He’s wearing the same outfit too. Men can usually get away with buying the same jeans and jumpers and wearing only one coat – therefore always looking the same – but this is different. Patrick looks unkempt. Even the red rim around his eyes makes me think he hasn’t slept for days. Perhaps my revelation about Rose hit him harder than I gave him credit for; he has a secret daughter out there, living so close to him and his family, yet we’ve no idea where she is.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I soften. It could have been my tone, but tears spring into his eyes, and I instinctively reach for his hand. ‘Patrick.’

  ‘Abi, I wasn’t honest with you the other day.’

  I’m frozen, except for the hot rush of blood coursing through my veins. ‘W-what do you mean?’

  ‘When you told me about Rose, I lied. I know who she is. My stupid fault for not connecting the Quinn surname. To be honest, I didn’t even think of it as your surname too.’

  What a slap in the face. I say nothing, too scared to stop Patrick mid-flow when he’s telling the truth… yet I’m also too scared to hear any more. I allow him to continue anyway.

  ‘When I saw you, it was obvious. I knew you were her mother straight away. Not just the surname, but your face, your beautiful porcelain skin, your chestnut eyes with flecks of green, and the hair…’

  ‘Don’t tell me about my hair. Get on with it.’

  ‘Rose is your freaking double, Abi. Just how you looked in Scotland in your twenties.’

  Patrick’s eyes are filled with dark shadows and tears. I shudder, like someone’s walked over my grave – another old saying courtesy of Mum. He clears his throat before saying, ‘I know Rose. And that man you just saw leave the car is my son. His name is Dylan and he’s–’

  I gasp and look away, causing Patrick to stop talking. There’s no need for him to explain who Dylan is. In my head, despite the muffle of the voicemail, I can hear Rose’s voice saying that Dylan knew. The man I’ve wondered about, over and over again… Patrick’s sleepless, red eyes tell me everything I need to know.

  ‘The person Rose is dating.’ I finish his sentence, but the emotional blockage in my throat catches and sounds more like a banshee’s wail.

  Patrick nods in my peripheral vision and he grabs my fingers b
efore my hand slides away.

  ‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ I whisper.

  I can feel it: in the way he’s touching me, in the way his chest hitches with every breath he takes. He continues to nod. My stomach clenches as my thoughts turn to the worst. Rose is pregnant; the reason I can’t find Rose is because she’s in the process of moving in with Dylan; Rose and Dylan are engaged.

  But it can’t be any of those things because they are huge scenarios in my daughter’s life. Jesus Christ, we haven’t had an argument to explain why she wouldn’t have told me any of this. I’m her mother and she knows that she can confide in me no matter what.

  Unless…

  Her voicemail said, ‘Dylan knows’, but what if I misheard her? What if she was telling me that she and Dylan know? What if the two of them discovered the truth about me and Patrick all those years ago? They know they’re not just boyfriend and girlfriend, but also half-brother and half-sister. I choke on the stuffy air, heaving and retching.

  I turn to Patrick, needing to hear what he knows before I pass out from the torturous thoughts swirling in my mind.

  He inhales deeply, his chin quivering as he says, ‘I had an affair… with… with my son’s girlfriend.’

  Chapter 19

  The words spin and crash against my skull like the waves raging towards the sand.

  I pull my hand from Patrick’s and face the few strangers walking along the street as they prepare for university and work and normal everyday life.

  Patrick’s son is Dylan.

  Dylan’s girlfriend is Rose.

  Patrick had sex with Dylan’s girlfriend.

  ‘Abi, say something. I’ve felt terrible. That’s why no one can know. My mind is wild at the moment, but you have to understand–’

  My right hand swings round and strikes Patrick in the face with so much force he yelps, and a trickle of blood soon begins to drip from his nostril.

  His voice. His face.

  How dare he speak.

  The air is completely sucked from the car and I gasp for breath. My storming head is dizzy, the light-headedness threatening to take over. I can’t pass out. I can’t be in here.

  I reach for the door and, although I feel as if I haven’t an ounce of strength left in my body, I push it open and climb out. Patrick’s voice lingers in the background, calling my name, and I hear his door open too. I can’t be near him.

  I set off, back towards Rose’s house at a pace I didn’t know I could reach. Running from a monster, I dash along the road, not stopping to even check if a car is coming or if Patrick is following me. I gain momentum and I’m charging towards the seafront, my legs carrying me away from the car, from him, from the worst thing I could have ever been told.

  Finally, I collapse on to my knees in the cold seaside sand, and the vomit which had gradually been building finally erupts from my body. My eyes water, my nose runs, and I scream. Not a blood-curdling cry of fear, but a painful howl of fury.

  Who am I mad at? Who deserves my anger?

  I’ve run away from Patrick the monster, but is it really just him?

  Me. I’m a monster too.

  No! I’m bloody not. I’m neither a monster nor a liar. I am a mother, willing to do whatever needs to be done to shield her child from pain. To protect her from the truth of knowing she was never wanted by her father. Rose has never needed to know that she was conceived out of some obsessive, sordid affair. No one would want to discover that’s where they came from.

  I half-stand and stumble away from the stench of my own puke, my unsteady legs bringing me closer to the water’s edge, and I plonk down, facing the sea.

  What have I done?

  It would be so easy to hate Patrick. To place the blame clearly with him. But how can I? How can I truly blame a man for sleeping with a woman he didn’t know was his daughter?

  Because he’s married.

  Because she’s his son’s girlfriend.

  My stomach lurches again at the thought of Dylan. The thought of Rose with Dylan. And then the thought of Rose with Patrick.

  The bile swirls in my mouth and I have no choice but to open my lips and let it dribble to the sand again, this time mixed with tears and snot that I have no control over.

  I gaze out to the sea, my vision blurry, still unable to ignore the grey-and-white breakers rolling around. Each wave is crashing into the next. They’re unable to stop themselves, for it’s the way of life… just like with people. The course of the water changes on a daily basis, hourly even, and the tide cannot know where it will strike next or what natural disaster will disrupt its flow and transform it into a tsunami or tidal wave, ready to take apart people’s worlds bit by bit.

  Just like I’ve done.

  I wonder how far I could walk out into the water before it would lift me and carry me out with it, consume me and end me.

  I shed my coat and handbag and allow my legs to lift me up, allow my feet to begin their journey towards the sea. It’s not until I’m standing with the water waist high, the waves knocking against my chest, that I realise the selfishness of my actions.

  With the tide going out, it takes all my energy to push against the water and walk back to the beach. By time I flop down on to the sand again, my legs have given up on me completely. With my face so close to the itchy grains, I spot a shimmer of a jewel near my coat. My fingers reach out, dip into the wet sand, and pull out a gorgeous heart-shaped ruby with a broken silver clasp. It could belong to anyone. I’m sure jewellery and all sorts are lost daily on this beach, but it doesn’t belong to just anyone. I know that.

  The reason I know is because this stunning charm belongs to Rose.

  I run my finger along the very small chip at the point of the heart – small enough that a stranger would never notice it – and release a strangled cry. A family heirloom given to my mother when she was pregnant with me, by her sister, who sadly had no children before she passed away. Then it was given to me when I gave birth to Rose, and finally passed down to my daughter when she left for university last year – so she always had a piece of me with her. The very small blemish to the ruby happened many years ago, my mother once told me, when her sister Nora took part in a mass protest rally in London in the sixties. Nora, an anti-war and anti-bomb activist, was given the precious stone by her childhood sweetheart and fiancé – who died during active duty – and the clasp had broken during the protest, smashing to the ground and slightly chipping the heart’s point. My mother always said Nora never had it fixed because it reminded her of something special: the day she stood up and had her say for what she believed in.

  The thought of Nora’s bravery is shadowed by the idea of Rose being here, at the entrance to the sea, and contemplating the worst. It whacks me with a heaviness I can barely take. I peer over my shoulder at the raging tide and wonder if Rose found the strength to walk back out of the water, like I did – if she ever entered it at all.

  I’m so confused. I’m so lost. My brain feels like a dog’s squeaky toy.

  Squeak.

  The noise interrupts me again and again.

  Squeak. Squeak.

  I turn back to be greeted by morning beach walkers with their dogs – that explains the noise – and eager tourists, all of whom are beginning to peer my way. Fuck me, what a mess I must look to them. Before a Good Samaritan comes my way, I heave myself up and walk – well, stomp is a nearer likeness to what I’m doing – to the street. Hopefully everyone thinks I’m a student who had too much to drink last night and decides to ignore me.

  From my place on the promenade, the line of B&Bs become a dozen beacons in front of me. I draw the air deep into my lungs, pulling my chest and shoulders up, and straighten my back. My only thoughts now are of my daughter.

  Could I really believe it was okay to walk out into the sea and end my own life, when Rose’s is in complete turmoil? Does she even know the truth? What if she stood here, having the exact same contemplations, thinking of ending her life because… because what?
I can’t be sure, because I don’t know what my daughter flaming well knows at this point.

  She needs her mother.

  With more vengeance than I’ve ever had before, as if the sea actually knocked some sense into me, I know exactly what needs to be done, and exactly who needs to be focused on. I stride towards the nearest townhouse with a vacancy sign in the window.

  With renowned vigour, I finally understand why Patrick wanted to keep his knowledge of Rose a secret. But the real question is: how far is he willing to go to make sure that happens?

  Chapter 20

  Rose stood on the beach with tears streaming down her face. She gave a guttural groan of pain every now and then between silent sobs. Facing the sea, with just the full moon as a guiding light, it was difficult to determine how far out the tide really was. She could hear the waves lapping against each other, but the noise was quiet and gentle. Tranquil even.

  She didn’t know how long she had been standing there in the pitch blackness of the night. She paid no attention to the goosebumps growing along her pale skin. She had no care for the chill whipping around her – actually, she embraced it. The fact that she could feel the cold meant she could still feel something.

  Her mind felt as empty as her body, and Rose couldn’t help but wonder how far she would have to walk out before she felt the tip of the water’s edge on her feet. How long would it take for the tide to snake along her bare legs, saturate her skirt with its salty water and taint her body?

  Tainted. Again.

  Just like that, her thoughts flew from the simplicity of the sea and the moon back to Patrick Malone. Rose shuddered at the memory of the last few hours: at the decision she had made to visit Patrick in his office on campus; at allowing her lustful temptations to take her away from a loving boyfriend to his monster of a father; at the way his hand crawled along her thigh; at the way she had told him to stop.