by Tara Lyons
Her words ring in my ears like the klaxon at the start of a race: ‘You haven’t been protecting Patrick, you’ve been protecting yourself. You haven’t been thinking about Rose, you’ve been thinking about yourself.’ My mum has never said a truer thing to me. In that room, the way she spoke to me, the words she used, was done in a way that only a mother can.
I can see that somehow, without me even knowing, I’ve let this become all about me, and more importantly, I’ve protected the lie I told. As a parent, how could I do that? This should always have been about Rose. It’s not as if I were betraying a friend, or a colleague. This should always have been about my daughter.
I’m obviously running on autopilot because half an hour after leaving the hospice I’ve driven home and am sitting on Rose’s bed in her childhood room. In our house – the place we built our family of two. It’s not easy being a single parent, and I won’t be the first person to admit that, but does that give anyone the right to play with other people’s lives? Does it give anyone the right to determine what they know about where they came from and who they really are? It’s what I’ve done to Rose, isn’t it?
The room hasn’t changed in the year since Rose left for university. I come in and dust and polish, hoover and, sometimes, change the bedding – Rose has come back to stay on occasion. Other than that, it looks exactly the same as when she lived here. Anyone coming in for the first time would describe it as a girlie room, I think, with its different hues of pink – from the wall paint to the curtains and carpets, from the blankets to the cushions. They all complement each other and give an air of tranquillity and calmness to the room. It’s contrasted by Rose’s love of all things animal print, with splashes on the rug, the duvet, the artwork on the walls and her various accessories, like her make-up mirror.
The bedroom just screams Rose. Perhaps I’ve never changed it not because I couldn’t, or because she asked me not to, but because I haven’t wanted to. Sitting here, I can see that the room is my daughter’s nature, with its calm and peaceful undertones, which have always been evident in her personality. She’s grown from a caring and loving girl into a kind and considerate woman. I made her feel guilty to ask any questions about her father; it would crush her to hurt me or to see me cry, so she never pushed me, unlike so many other people would, I’m sure. Those who would be desperate to know more about the other half of the couple who created them, and therefore would go out of their way to know something, anything, about their biological father. Even back then, I made it about me, and so my beautiful daughter never antagonised me or showed any interest in the subject. Then there’s the hint of wildness in the room. I wonder if those bits represent the real Rose, the one who has been hiding from me, the one who does actually want to know who she is and where she came from. Perhaps her wildness is her way of ignoring the fact that she’s never had a father and her way of feeling free: move to university, get with a guy, sleep with his father at the same time…
My stomach whirls at the thought.
I breathe in deeply. This time I don’t shake the sickening image from my mind. I don’t push it away or convince myself that Patrick is a monster who brought this upon us.
It’s me. I did this.
I gaze around the room; the dim bedside lamp is the only source of light protecting me from the night shadows trying their best to creep in through the windows. To creep back into my mind. It’s impossible to ignore the few that have actually managed to get in. The sway of the long twigs and branches dance on the wall opposite me, tempting me back to the darkness. Back to the place where I wasn’t the monster; back to the place where I wasn’t the sole reason for the ruining of Rose’s life.
As tempting as it is to return, that place no longer exists for me, and I avert my eyes from the prancing silhouettes.
The tears come. I can’t stop the gush of emotion from pouring down my face.
As a university student, it was me who nearly broke up a long and happy marriage, and it was me who pushed a woman so far into devastation that she was willing to take her own life. That’s what I’ve truly been defending: myself.
For twenty years I’ve shielded myself because I believed that leaving Rose fatherless and telling her that he had died so I would never have to face what I did was protecting her. That’s a load of bullshit, isn’t it? Who am I to make that decision for another human being – daughter, son, sister, whoever? If Rose had known the truth all along, then she never would have…
I gulp down the bile.
If Rose had known that her father was alive, she would have known his name – and Dylan’s name – and even if she had decided not to go looking for him, she would have known who he was – who they were – when she met them at the university in Brighton.
What a twisted fate to have met them there, when all along I thought Patrick Malone was tucked away in some dark corner of Scotland, living his own life.
‘The truth will always out, for the truth catches up with everyone,’ as my mother so simply put it.
If Rose has already found out the truth, there’s no telling where she is or what she might have done to herself.
If Dylan knows, there’s no denying he will feel just as ruined as she does. If neither of them knows, then the pain of watching them discover what they’ve been caught up in – thanks to my lie – is a devastating prospect.
It’s a lie I can no longer ignore.
Like a right-hook to the side of my head, I know exactly what it is that I need to do.
Chapter 28
Do you think an only child is a lonely child? Or a spoilt or even selfish child? The former is definitely said quite often, and I suppose it’s because, the majority of the time anyway, an only child receives everything, and I’m speaking about things greater than presents and treats. That one child, be it for medical reasons or plain preference, is submerged in the parents’ love and time and energy. That one child is front and centre their entire life. Of course, with all that emotion comes the added benefit of the gifts and treats.
I guess that’s why people assume an only child is a spoilt child.
It never felt that way when I was growing up. From a young age I was well aware that my mother couldn’t have any more children. My parents tried to conceive for years to have me and, just when they had given up being blessed with a baby, my mother fell pregnant. It’s always the way, isn’t it? When you stop putting pressure on yourself, the thing you want happens, or the idea comes to you, or you find what it is you’ve been so desperately looking for.
Sometimes, mainly throughout my teenage years, I watched how my friends interacted with their siblings: the fights and arguments, the shared joke or trick, the way they would protect and rely on each other. I’d be lying if I said I never wondered how it felt to live a life with a brother or sister. But I always had my parents, and if I was enough for them, then surely they were enough for me.
Was I spoilt?
Yes, I had pretty much everything I asked for, and my parents gave me their undivided attention all the time, but I’ve grown into a woman who saves strangers for a living. I don’t put myself first. I want to help others. Surely that proves I wasn’t so pampered as a child that I’m a ruined adult because of it.
I can’t help thinking that that’s the picture I’m painting because… well, would you want to admit to being a spoilt-rotten child?
I won’t pretend to remember – it’s actually funny how much of our own lives that we forget – but I imagine the loneliness, or rather the being alone, can become quite a dark place. As loved as you are, and despite the attention you receive, you’re missing out on that connection. You’re missing out on a special bond that only comes with having a brother or sister – or so I imagine – which so many other people have. Does it have a lasting effect on future relationships? Does it make you a stronger person or does it screw you right up?
I’m not even sure why I’m questioning it. Perhaps, after hearing my mother speak to me the way she did, it�
��s got me wondering: if I’d had a sister, would she have put me right all those years ago, in a way only a sibling can? If so, would that mean I would have told Rose the truth many, many years ago? Maybe I wouldn’t have lied in the first place. I wouldn’t have been allowed to lie. I wouldn’t have been allowed to control everything.
Control.
Yes, I’m a paramedic hell-bent on saving others but, deep down, am I so used to getting what I want when I want it, that this profession is another way to stay front and centre? Must I be the hero to get the attention I’m used to? Did I lie to Rose about her father because I wanted to be in control, because I wanted to decide who she would become?
After Rose, the thought of having another child never interested me. I always thought it was because of how I became pregnant in the first place – the secrets and affair behind it, not the deed itself, you understand. Now I can’t be sure. If being an only child really has made me attention-hungry and controlling, have I in turn inadvertently passed those qualities – or flaws – on to my daughter?
What have I done to Rose?
Do I really know my daughter at all? Is she a selfish woman, dead set on getting whatever she wants whatever the cost? The past week has proved that I barely know her at all. Despite her not having all the information, she’s still a person who is happy to have an affair with her boyfriend’s father; she lives miles from the university, when she had made me believe the distance was merely minutes. I don’t know any of her friends or where she hangs out, or even what her bedroom looked like before I forced entry into it.
As my mind throws up more and more doubts about Rose, I can’t help wondering if this all stems from me. My daughter is my best friend, and we have the closest relationship, but if I’m starting to feel like I don’t know who Rose is, could it be because I don’t really know myself? I’ve lied and cheated and had an affair. What else am I capable of?
Chapter 29
It’s windy and drizzling – that fine rain, the type that makes you squint and wets your face in seconds. I’m in Brighton again. I never should have left really, but if I hadn’t, my mother wouldn’t have been able to put me in my place. Dave wouldn’t have been able to remind me that there are beautiful people in the world; people who are kind and considerate for no other reason than just to be that way.
Wait. What? Why am I thinking about Dave? I shake him from my mind and concentrate.
I can’t believe I’m walking this same path again. It feels like Groundhog Day – if the film were filled with lies and betrayal and sordid secrets. Another image I try to push from my mind, yet it leaves behind a sickening taste in my mouth that will probably never leave.
Patrick and Rose.
It’s time to be honest. It’s time to confess my lie. It’s the only way to uncover what’s really happened to my daughter.
I hover at the crossroads of the town. One road leads to the police station and the other to the pub where Patrick took me for a drink. God, that feels like weeks ago rather than days. While I know what I need to do, the way in which I’ll go about it is what has made me hesitate. If I turn left, it’s to report Patrick Malone to Officer Bellamy, tell the police officer everything from my affair with Patrick to his own with his daughter.
I swallow the fiery sick back down my throat.
Surely, once the police have all the information, they’ll realise that Rose isn’t merely over-partying with friends, but that Patrick – or Dylan, for that matter – has hurt my daughter in some way. Or at least that he knows where the hell she is. It’s all part of him keeping this secret, something I know only too well: doing whatever needs to be done to keep the control.
If I turn right, it’s to plead with the bartender to tell me everything he knows about Patrick and where I might find him. Failing that, I’ll hop on a bus over to the university and do everything in my power to obtain Patrick’s address. It feels like such a long shot, but there’s an urgency deep within me, telling me it can be done – the idea I had before but never had the chance to see it through.
And then a third door opens itself to me and I wonder if it has legs.
Officer Bellamy was a kind man. A parent. A kindred spirit. He’s from the area and his daughter studied Paramedic Science at the university. Surely one, if not both of them, have access to Patrick’s address. Even if I don’t tell him the whole dirty truth of our mixed-up relationships, I’m sure Bellamy will tell me. Won’t he? Could he actually give me that information? As lovely as he was yesterday, he did seem quite straight. It’s one thing to ask a copper to find your maybe missing daughter; it’s quite another to make him give you a university professor’s address.
As I take a step in my chosen direction, the decision is yanked away from me. There’s the sound of a prolonged car horn. The screech of tyres on the wet ground. The impact of metal crushing bone.
Chapter 30
My body reacts so quickly, it’s as if my brain hasn’t needed to communicate with it at all. Just like when I attend any job, the moment I jump from the ambulance, full concentration mode is in play. Adrenaline takes over. This isn’t like the high you get from bungee jumping or that first pull on a morning cigarette. A paramedic’s adrenaline is a methodical and calming one. It means I can face each job with a stillness that allows me to see past the blood and broken bones and assess each patient’s needs. It means I have the confidence to rush into a situation with authority and reassurance and take command of what needs to be done.
Right now is no different.
It all happened at once. As I lifted my foot to turn in the direction of the police station, a person lightly nudged my shoulder, but it happened swiftly, as if they were running past me. It was then the driver, who simultaneously slammed his hand on the horn and his foot on the brake, who caught my attention and caused me to spin around in time to see the woman – the figure who had breezed past me just seconds before – run out into the road. The driver’s wheels were no match for the heavy downpour of the last week and, instead of coming to an emergency halt, the car slid at some speed into the woman. Screams and gasps could be heard as the bumper smashed into the slim woman, sending her crashing onto the bonnet before ricocheting down to the wet gravel. A crowd gathered in moments. Through all that turmoil, I couldn’t help noticing the bag flying in slow motion from the woman’s hand. My eyes focused on a single can of Diet Coke – Rose can drink at least four a day, despite my protests – as it spun through the air, cracked on the ground and sprayed dark, frothy liquid like a Catherine wheel firework.
I don’t recognise her at first. I’m too busy going through the motions: the woman is unconscious, with no obvious head wounds, with a broken right femur which has punctured through the skin. Priority is given to limiting the amount of blood loss, and I tear my wet jacket from my body. I use the material to create some kind of gauze in an attempt to put pressure on the gushing blood without disturbing the cracked bone, which is on show for everyone to see. I make a decision, despite being alone, to apply manual traction in an attempt to realign the femur bone. It means pulling the woman’s leg straight until the paramedics arrive, but in the long run, it’s the best thing for the patient.
‘Call an ambulance,’ I yell, though I’m sure – as is the way in these circumstances – this task will have already been done. The poor call centre will probably have received numerous calls from a variety of bystanders about the same incident. It happens all the time. Better than no one phoning at all, I say.
The crowd doesn’t disperse; people like to watch a crisis unravel like a soap opera until the very end, if possible. I keep talking to the woman. There’s always hope that unconscious patients can hear, but my eyes are roaming her entire body, looking for other injuries. I feel lost without my bag. There’s only so much I can do without my tools.
Luckily, the wait isn’t long, and the surge of two people clad in starched green uniforms taking over from me happens in an instant. As they set to work on the broken woman, I explain w
ho I am and relay what exactly happened, what the patient’s visible injuries are, and observations on her breathing. They take it all in without looking at me once – it’s what we do. Our hands, eyes and minds are everywhere, but we’re calm and controlled.
Control.
It’s where I find myself again – in the middle of it, demanding it, seeking it. In control. Despite being caught up in my own disaster, I’ve somehow allowed myself to be submerged in someone else’s catastrophe and demanded the attention and authority.
The male paramedic swoops in with a traction splint and applies it to the woman’s leg; I can finally let go of the patient. I wipe my bloodied hands up and down my jeans as I stand up, my kneecaps wet and my thighs stained with a stranger’s bodily fluids.
‘Hello, love, can you hear me? I’m a paramedic and my name is Fiona,’ the petite red-headed woman explains. ‘We’re going to take you directly to the hospital.’
The male paramedic works quickly and quietly, grabbing the board to transport the woman.
‘Does anyone know this woman? Is anyone with her?’ The red-headed paramedic speaks to the crowd – without looking at them – as she seamlessly helps her crew member lift the woman from the ground.
When I stand back out of their way, and take in the scene in its entirety, I release a long and staggered breath. I know the patient. I know the woman.
‘I’m coming with you,’ I whisper.
The male paramedic runs from the van’s back door to the front, obviously the driver, and the redhead frowns at me. She clearly thinks there’s no need for me to attend. I’ve done everything I can. The woman is their patient.