by Tara Lyons
Abi nods and mumbles something about making sure she gives Adele a call. Dave can’t help noticing she hasn’t touched the coffee, or even attempted the chocolate twist, and his heart aches a small bit. Without thinking, he reaches his hand across the table and lightly holds her fingers. Shock crosses Abi’s face, but he’s pleased when she doesn’t move her hand away from his.
‘I can’t really stay, Abi. I’ve got that shift I need to cover,’ he says with a wink. ‘I hate to leave you like… looking like…’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘And I don’t doubt that for a second. But at the moment you’re not fine, and for whatever reason you don’t want to talk to me, and that’s cool too. I want you to know I’m here for you though.’
A spark of the usual Abi returns when she smiles – it’s genuine – and she glows a little bit. ‘Thank you.’
‘Take the rest of the week. I’ll write it up as some kind of compassionate leave or that you’re needing a mental break from work after what happened last Friday. Take these next few days and see how you feel. Just don’t lie to me, because I want to help, and make sure you let me know how you’re doing. Can you?’
As she stands up from the table, letting her hand slide out from under Dave’s fingers, she nods and promises to keep him updated. He understands it’s an invitation for him to leave as she walks towards the door, and he wonders if that’s because he said he needed to leave, or because she actually doesn’t want him here any longer.
Back at the front door, he stops to look at Abi. There’s no malice there. She’s not kicking him out, he decides; she just looks like the saddest woman he’s ever laid eyes on.
‘Abi, I don’t know what’s going on, but I want you to know you’re a very special woman.’
She turns away from him and grunts air from her nose like a dragon. ‘I’m far from that, Dave. I’m an evil woman, you mean. A useless mother whose own daughter doesn’t even want to know her.’
So this is all about Rose, Dave thinks, and can’t help himself from reaching out and touching Abi’s face. He uses his index finger to gently move her chin so she’s looking back at him.
‘Abi, you have saved so many people.’ Dave pauses to graze his finger over her lips to stop her talking. ‘Yes, it’s your job to do so. It’s a job you chose because of who you are. A kind and caring and passionate force of nature who inspires me every time I see you in action. So something has happened between you and Rose – fix it. If that’s what it takes to make you feel and look normal again’ – they both smile, and he lowers his finger from her mouth – ‘then just do it. Just fix it.’
She bites her lip, the front tooth trembling, and picks at the pink flesh for a few moments, and he just watches her, knowing that she’s contemplating his words.
‘What if I don’t know how to just fix it?’ she asks.
Dave sighs and gives her a lopsided grin. He wants to have all the answers for her – he wants, more than anything to be able to help her – but these mother–daughter relationships are completely out of his comfort zone.
Then, in one of those foolish cartoon light-bulb moments, he has an answer: ‘Go and visit your mum.’
Abi flinches. ‘What?’
‘I’m not having a go because you fibbed, Abi.’ Dave chuckles lightly. ‘I mean, surely you and your mum have had your own troubles over the years, so I figure if anyone knows how to fix things with their daughter, your mum must, right?’
She smiles and nods. ‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘Look, I don’t get the whole crazy dynamics of a mother and daughter bond. I do know that mums can give some amazing advice and help.’
Dave knows that’s all Abi needed. The beaming smile on her face is testament to that, and it’s his time to leave. Something holds him back. He so desperately wants to touch her lips again, this time with his own, but knows that he shouldn’t. He can’t, rather, so he bids Abi one more farewell and walks away.
Chapter 25
As much as I hated seeing Dave on my doorstep, he had a point, and came at precisely the right time. It’s funny how things can work out like that; just when you think you’re ready to hit rock bottom, you’re sent a sign to remind yourself you’re not alone. I don’t know who sends these signs, and I bet a lot of people think that’s a load of rubbish – signs and fate, coincidences or destiny – but I think it’s something I believe in. I’d like to think there’s someone up there watching over me. Anyway, for me, it’s hard not to believe, because at the exact moment Dave had rang the doorbell, I was sitting in my bathroom with my back against the door and a razor blade in my hand. It’s something I haven’t done for many, many years.
It’s difficult to explain, especially to someone like you who is just glimpsing at a moment in my life, and actually, coming from a paramedic, you probably find it far-fetched. I mean, I’m a strong public figure who saves people. But we all have our own demons to fight, regardless of the daily job we do. Let me try and explain, or at least scratch the surface of an explanation.
The first time I self-harmed, it wasn’t because I wanted to end my life. Quite the opposite, really; it’s because I wanted to feel my life. I had seen Patrick with Sadie, his wife, for the first time after beginning a relationship with him. The two of them looked so happy and in love, and I guess I knew right then and there that he would never leave her for me. I just chose not to listen to myself. Despite being a student, the lure of drowning myself in alcohol didn’t appeal – perhaps due to my studies. Actually, maybe my studies, and the people I had encountered during my training, made the idea of cutting myself something I needed to try.
The first cut was just one slice with the razor along my inner thigh, so it wouldn’t be too obvious to anyone. I didn’t want someone on my course noticing what I’d done. It hurt, the slice against my white flesh, but it was a different type of pain to what I had been feeling over Patrick and Sadie. It was a pain I could control. It was a release that actually helped me breathe. It was like surfacing from the ocean and inhaling the largest, most satisfying breath. I knew it was wrong. I knew I didn’t want anyone to find out what I’d done. It had just been for me, and I promised myself it would never happen again.
It did happen again. The night I discovered I was pregnant. The same night Patrick officially dumped me for Sadie. As soon as I saw that first ooze of dark red blood leaking from my thigh again, I hated myself. It wasn’t the rush of release and freedom that I had experienced the first time; rather it was shame and guilt and remorse, because it wasn’t just my body any longer. Rose was growing inside of me. From that moment on, whenever I felt low or felt I could be spiralling towards rock bottom, I reminded myself that I wasn’t so far in the darkest abyss that my daughter couldn’t save me, that my child couldn’t pull me back to be strong for her. And she always did.
I think it’s helped me in my job. There are so many people out there, crying out for help – not attention, real help. Sometimes, I’ve been the paramedic called to them, and just offering a listening ear and sympathetic tone can do wonders. With others, a little more guidance is needed, and thankfully there are charities who can help people who suffer – charities whose information leaflets I always keep in the ambulance.
Adele once said to me that they make us wear our green uniforms not only for people to recognise us as those who can help, but also for our own good. She believes that when we take it off, it symbolises us being able to let go of all the sad tragedies we’ve had to witness and deal with on any given shift. I loved my crew member even more after that conversation. I loved knowing that’s how she looks at life. I didn’t – and still don’t – agree, but it’s comforting to know there are people like her in this world. Me, on the other hand, I don’t shed what I see after my shifts because I don’t want to forget the pain. The pain I felt in my twenties, and the pain I witness every day from strangers, is what keeps me going. It’s what gets me out of bed, makes me put on that uniform, and it allows me to help those
who need me.
Sitting on my bathroom floor, ready to do something I promised I’d never do again… I won’t lie, it came as a shock. I didn’t realise my mind had returned to the darkness – and the fact that I didn’t see it coming was almost as terrifying as actually being there. Could being on my own – no Rose and no job – really be enough to push me over the edge of the canyon and into self-harming again? Or is it the ghosts of the past doing that? I don’t know where my daughter is, and everyone’s telling me that’s fine. It’s not, is it?
If you hadn’t spoken to your child in over four days, would you worry? Would you listen to friends, and even the police, downplaying the whole thing? Would you let them make you believe that everything is fine and normal, because she’s a student? Christ, what kind of an answer is that to a parent who can’t find their child? I bet if Rose was a smaller child, just ten or even thirteen, and had been walking home from school, every fucker I know would be out in force to search the area. Because she’s a grown woman, am I just expected to ignore the fact that I can’t find her?
Seriously, what would you do?
Would you slide down your bathroom door, sit on the cold tiled floor and give up?
I did.
Until Dave knocked on my door, that is.
Chapter 26
I’ve lost all sense of what day it is, and what time it is. Everything seems to have merged into one recently. It’s dark when I pull into the hospice car park, that much I know. The temperature has taken a dive and I can’t help hoping that Rose is warm, wherever she is. Warm and snuggly – wearing those big fluffy socks she likes – enjoying a hot chocolate and maybe even reading a good book. It’s a fantasy, I know, because why wouldn’t she be doing that at home if everything were so happy and harmonious? But it’s these thoughts that made me put clothes on this evening. It’s these images that prodded me to take Dave’s advice and come to visit my mother.
There’s a comforting warmth in my mother’s room. Mum appears to be quite distant as I shed my coat and scarf and pull the chair around the side of the bed so I’m looking at her while I speak. I hate the positioning of the chairs in hospices and hospitals – they always make me feel like I’m so far away from the person I want to be closest to at the time. I pull it closer, practically tucking my knees under my mother’s bed, and hold her hand. The action seems to rouse her, and she turns her head to face me.
I don’t wait. The door to her room is closed, and it’s just the two of us, so I take my chance to speak. I let the words spill as if there is no barrier strong enough to hold them back. A ‘flapper-trapper’ my grandmother would have called me many years ago, in her strong Northern Irish accent. I’m sure she coined the phrase herself, as I’ve never heard it said outside of our family. It’s usually used when you’ve had a few too many tipples and you let your mouth run away with you, probably just talking idle gossip, but nonetheless talking too much about things you shouldn’t.
And so, here I am, with verbal diarrhoea yet again – I’m really not usually like this – like a drunk woman with a burning secret to share, the epitome of what it means to be a flapper-trapper, telling my mother absolutely everything.
When I’ve finished, my hitched breaths – in and out, in and out, like I’ve run a marathon – are all that fill the quiet room. I look over my mother’s face, unsure of which version of her is with me, and wonder if she’s heard anything of what I’ve said.
She doesn’t leave me hanging, and I watch a seriousness cloud her face as her jaw tightens and her eyes pull away from mine. There’s a fluttering in my stomach, one that makes me feel sick. The clenched lines that pull in around my mother’s mouth are not the product of a pout, but of anger. The feeling literally oozes out of her face, just in case I was in danger of missing it.
‘You’re a great mum, Abi, and everything you did was for Rose. I know you truly believe that in your heart,’ she says quietly, and a deep line appears between her brows. ‘And while I’m a firm believer in not letting your past define who you are, I’m afraid that you have no choice.’
I don’t want to speak, but she’s glaring at me for a reply. Why is she making this about me and not Rose? I take a large swallow of saliva, giving myself a few minutes, hoping to wet my throat enough that my words won’t get stuck there.
‘What do you mean, Mum?’
‘Stop bloody blaming Patrick Malone for this mess.’
The rise in her decibel tells me I was right to not want to speak, and I don’t dare cut in to defend myself. It’s my turn to keep quiet and listen, all the while praying she isn’t about to drag me to the conclusion that I’ve tried so desperately to ignore for the past day or two.
‘Yes, he’s not a nice guy,’ she continues, and a tiny bit of spittle flies from her mouth. ‘I mean, sleeping with young women, cheating on his wife and betraying his son – he’s filthy. I could have told you that over twenty years ago. But my point here is, he didn’t start all this. You did. This godawful wretched mess that you and Rose find yourselves in – and those poor bloody men too, actually – is because of you. Own up to the mistake you made all those years ago, Abi, for crying out loud.’
‘But… but…’
‘But but nothing,’ she snaps. She is right too, of course. I can’t look at her while she delivers the last dagger. ‘While we’re talking of being honest, what you did wasn’t actually a mistake, it was a choice. You took the easy way out and you lied. Well, I’ve always said the truth catches up with everyone. Except this time, it hasn’t just caught up with you, has it? It’s caught up with your precious daughter in a nasty and disgusting web of sex and lies with her biological father and half-brother.’
I throw my head up, not wanting to see my mother’s contorted face or squinting and accusing eyes, but her words, and the ugly rawness of them – were just too strong to ignore.
When I say nothing – and really, what in the fuck am I meant to say to my mother’s last statement? – she continues her attack: ‘Jesus Christ, Abi, own up to what you’ve done. You’re my daughter, my flesh and blood, and I love you. But you haven’t been protecting Patrick, you’ve been protecting yourself. You haven’t been thinking about Rose, you’ve been thinking about yourself. What will others think of me? What will everyone say when they know the truth? Will I be branded a liar forever?’ She’s right, those are the questions I’ve asked myself. It’s her tone that I don’t appreciate; she sounds like a child in a school playground whinging and moaning. That must be what she thinks of me. ‘That’s all you’re worried about, Abigail. Admit it. Admit that it was your lie that created this revolting predicament. Gosh, that word doesn’t even do it justice. It’s a mess, Abi, a terrible and sickening mess.’
As if her outburst has completely wiped her out, my mum – the Kitty filled with passion and rage about my life choices – is gone in a heartbeat. The colour in her eyes dims ever so slightly and she looks away, her face expressionless – as if she hadn’t just powered through hundreds of words in a matter of minutes. It drained her and took her away from me again. I can’t deny a single word she has said. Although part of my brain is telling me to run, escape into the fresh air and gulp it down my burning hot body, I ignore its plea. I won’t run away because I don’t like what was said. I mean, hell, look at all the energy my mother just used, all the energy that took my mother away. The energy I forced her to use. No, I won’t run, I will stay, and I will sit with her, holding her frail and bony hand until she comes back to me.
It transpires that things aren’t exactly that simple when it comes to Mum and her condition. After an hour of sitting with my vacant mother in complete silence, I’m asked – politely – by the nurse on shift to take a break from visiting because Mum probably needs a nap. I wonder then if they heard the raised voices – actually, the raised voice because I’d hardly said a word – and the temper coming from my mother. If they did, they don’t mention it. I bet they’ve heard and seen all sorts in here. If it’s the place you’
ll spend your last days before passing over, then it’s your right to get things off your chest, I guess. And my mother did just that.
The silence after Mum… went away – for want of a better explanation – wasn’t a bad thing. It actually gave me a chance to think. A chance to really absorb the words my mother delivered in her priest-like sermon. Shun yourself from evil, confess your wrongdoings and ask for forgiveness. Could it really be that easy?
No, I don’t suppose it could be.
If I admit the lie that I told Rose all those years ago, it won’t magically make my daughter appear in front of me or ring my phone. I won’t suddenly know where to find her. I’m not daft enough to think it would do any of those things. Maybe, somehow, it would help me. Maybe, just maybe, it would mean I’ll no longer be stuck in the shadows of my past. Perhaps I could stop secretly feeling like a monster, like a liar, like a failure. Possibly I could even stop overcompensating and throwing my whole life into my job with this burning need to always save other people. It’s not those strangers I should be saving at all. Not right now, anyway. I need to start with myself.
As I grip my mother’s hand before leaving her alone to recover from her episode, I whisper: ‘Rose’s life is a mess because of me. Patrick is not the monster. I lied. Twenty years ago, I chose to tell my daughter her father was dead, and I never confessed the truth. That one lie has destroyed her life and I’m to blame. No one else.’
Chapter 27
The cold wind hits me as hard as my mother’s words did, but it’s amazing the clarity that comes with declaring the truth out loud – even if there’s no one around to hear. I said it, finally, and I won’t be afraid to say it again. This time, I embrace the cold like I had welcomed the warmth of my mother’s hospice room just a few hours ago. A chill makes you feel alive more than the heat can, really. It shakes my body into wanting to do something. The goosebumps rising along my skin remind me that there’s life inside me still and, unlike my mother, I can do something – I have the time and the opportunity to put things right.