by Tara Lyons
I return the smile, giggle slightly and try to engage her in some professional banter. ‘Well, we’re never really off-duty, are we?’
‘No, you could say that.’
‘The amount of phone calls and text messages I receive from friends and family asking what they should do about the burn on their arm or the boil on their flaming arse, you’d think I offer a private service,’ I say, with an added laugh.
It’s all lies, but these are different lies. These are fibs; they won’t hurt anyone. Plus, there is some truth to it: Laura from work is forever telling me that she has friends who constantly message her when one of their kids falls over or hurts themselves and they want her opinion. One time, Laura’s sister walked into the corner of the bedframe and busted her foot – you know, that blinding pain when you walk into the bed – and she thought she had broken her little toe. Laura gave her step-by-step instructions on how to strap it up, because that’s all they would have done at A&E. She saved her sister a trip to the hospital, anyway. I’m hoping this paramedic can relate to Laura.
‘Oh my God, ain’t that the truth,’ she says, with an exaggerated hand-throw in the air. ‘Just the other day, my best friend called me because her four-year-old son whacked his head on the coffee table, and she wanted me to go round to her house on the double.’
The redhead continues with the story, and I know I have her. The connection with Laura’s experiences is therefore a connection to me, and I have my way in. When she’s finally finished recounting her tale, she seems more at ease, more comfortable with me and less professional.
‘How’s Sadie doing?’ I ask. ‘The nurse said her husband is on his way, but I’m worried that her being alone will freak her out.’
The redhead frowns in a tell-me-more way. ‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. Poor Sadie has suffered with panic attacks in the past. I didn’t want to step on your toes – you were the attending paramedic after all, and I’m sure you have to get on – but I hate the idea of her being alone. The shock she must be feeling from what happened.’
She bats her hand. ‘You’re not stepping on my toes. As I’m sure you know, we’d love to hang back and make sure every patient is okay after their traumatic experience, but now we’re finished with the handing over and the write-up, it’s back to the road for us.’ As if on cue, the male paramedic beckons her from his position at the ward’s entrance. ‘Your friend is in cubicle four. Go and wait with her until the family arrives. Duty calls.’
The redhead says goodbye. It’s her description of Sadie that echoes long after she’s walked away. Your friend. She’s hardly that, but I’ve been given the permission I need and turn in the direction of where Sadie is. This time, I don’t hesitate, I don’t wait for someone to drag me back. I swallow the lump in my throat and march forward.
Chapter 34
I won’t bore you with the details of our I-said-she-said chat – you know the story well enough by now – but needless to say, I left Sadie in a worse state than I found her in. She is bruised and battered externally, thanks to the car ploughing her down, but she now has those scars internally too, thanks to me verbally bashing her with abhorrent details that no one would want to hear.
One thing she did say, and which will haunt me forever, was how, because of what I had told her about Rose and Patrick, she wished she died all those years ago in Scotland. She actually wished – and I could tell she meant it by the painful way she closed her eyes and let the silent tears escape – that she had been successful in taking her own life. That blame lies with me.
Do you think she wished that because then there would be a chance that Rose would have known her father? There would have been no reason to lie about his death if she hadn’t had been in the picture. Or do you think it’s purely because she wouldn’t have had to hear those words or picture those vile images in her mind, which I’m sure are scorched on her brain like they are on mine? Her husband slept with his own daughter.
I swallow the scream threatening to explode from within.
Maybe it’s me who should have ended my life all those years ago in Scotland. If I had, none of this would have happened. Or perhaps I should have chosen to tell the truth when I was a young mum finding her way in life. Either way, the truth will always out, just like my mum tried to warn me.
As I step out of the hospital, I don’t care if I bump into Patrick and his son. There’s a glimmer of relief in my chest, allowing me to breathe easier. Surely it can’t just be because I’ve told my secret to someone after all this time?
Yes, of course it is.
I’ve carried that secret with me for so long, told no one except my mother – who quickly forgot she knew the truth which, as awful as it is to admit this, has always worked in my favour – and it has slowly eaten away at me.
The relief that has come with telling Sadie doesn’t outweigh the feelings of regret and dread that still darken me. I do feel somewhat lighter. Just slightly. Just enough to know it was the right thing to do.
The wave of weightlessness flowing through me is short-lived when that inner darkness reminds me that I have no idea what I’m doing. Spinning round, I wonder where in the hell I actually am. The sign on the hospital tells me I’m just leaving the Royal Sussex County Hospital. Not that that makes me any the wiser of where–
I don’t hear the ping of an incoming text message, but the vibration inside my pocket disturbs my thoughts, and I pull out my mobile phone. My heartbeat quickens when I see a number that I don’t recognise – I wish the phone had been set to preview the first few lines of the messages before opening them. It’s as if I need a little teaser of what’s to come. It’s rare to receive a text message as it is – everyone I communicate with either uses WhatsApp or makes an old-fashioned phone call. To receive a text message from a number that I don’t have stored in my phone… that’s what’s got my heart beating like a drum.
What if it’s that officer I spoke to? Maybe a search for Rose has started because of some vital evidence they’ve found. No, the police wouldn’t give me that information via a bloody text message. What if it’s Patrick? What if he’s watching me with his son from the shadows of those trees? He knows I’ve spoken to his wife and he’s playing with me, taunting me, before he fulfils his warning. No, there’s no way he could have my number, is there? Knowing my luck, it’ll just be someone from work asking me to cover their shift.
Just open the damn message, Abi – a screech comes from inside my head; the banshee is still in there somewhere.
My fingers shakily dance over the screen, tapping in my passcode because my thumbprint didn’t work – must be the sweat. Why am I so nervous about a bloody text message? The rarity of one, like I just concluded to myself – that has to be the reason. I hold my breath as I click on the unknown number and nearly drop the phone. Taking a second to readjust my grip, my fingers locking themselves around the iPhone, I also let the air, which had been holding tight in my lungs, escape. Through teary, blurred eyes I read the message over and over again:
Mum it’s Rose, call me.
Chapter 35
Rose is alive. Rose is safe.
Oh God. It’s like a mantra singing in my head. Rose is alive and Rose is safe. Rose is alive and Rose is safe. I’m almost skipping down the road.
Did I really think there was a chance Rose might be dead? I stop and think. Yes, if I’m honest with myself, I thought that was the only possible explanation for her not getting in touch with me.
That doesn’t matter now; I can’t even begin to explain to you the feeling of relief filling my body at this exact minute. Wait, I can. It’s as if my chest was shackled inside a metal cage for nearly a week, and every single breath I took was painful and full of fear. I felt guilty for breathing when I had no idea where my child was or what state she was in.
It’s okay now. All is right with the world again, because I rang the unknown number that had texted me. It was Penny’s, Rose’s housemate, and the pair had been away somewh
ere. I don’t have all the details. As soon as Rose told me that she was home – her Brighton home – I explained I wasn’t far.
Oh God, it’s back. That gnawing pain in my chest.
I remember why I’m close to Rose’s house: because I was at the hospital which, luckily, is only a fifteen-minute walk from hers, and because I was with Sadie and Patrick and… I gasp for air, feeling the restrictions of that cage trying to enclose around my chest again. My joyful skip is rendered to a slow walk, and a dark cloud descends over me as I realise that the reunion with my daughter won’t be full of hugs or laughter at our miscommunication. It will be one of confessions and tears.
Do I have to tell Rose? By her tone of voice on the phone, it’s pretty obvious she doesn’t know the truth. She actually sounded excited to speak to me.
I hate myself. How can I even debate whether or not to tell Rose the truth? It’s no longer a choice. The truth is already out there, whistling in the wind, preparing to be next week’s gossip – because dark lies like this always become Chinese whispers. This is my wrongdoing and I need to be the one who tells Rose. It felt so good confessing to Sadie. Perhaps this will also give me an unburdening feeling – I know, deep down, that Rose has always wanted to ask questions about her father. If I can do this, Rose will understand why I lied in the first place… Yes, I lied to protect myself, but really, it was also about protecting her.
I shake off the feeling of dread. I literally shake my arms loose, away from my body, and stretch my neck from side to side as my legs lead the way; the way that’s being shown to me by the little figure on the map on my phone app.
Standing in front of Rose’s student house, I’m taking a moment to steady my breathing and hoping my legs will stop trembling when my phone sparks to life in my hand. It’s a number I know, a number I know well, and I ignore it. A rush of guilt punches my stomach – I never disregard a call from my mother’s care home but, right now, it’s about prioritising. The nurse will be calling about my mother having another episode, calling for me and needing me to calm her down. Sadly, as much as she needs her daughter, the need to see my own daughter outweighs her demands.
Everything around me is a blur, hazy and unfocused, until Rose opens the front door. I exhale so deep my body lurches forward, and I drink in every ounce of her appearance: long, straight, shiny hair as black as coal, flawless white skin and bright red lips. Her figure has filled out since she left home for university, but it’s healthy and she carries the extra weight fantastically in a close-fitting jumper dress.
‘Mum.’ Her voice. Her tone. Hearing my name, it’s all too much and the tears – happy tears – spring from my eyes uncontrollably. ‘Oh my God, Mum, what’s wrong? Come inside.’
Rose tucks me under her arm, leads me into the house, further down the corridor and into the living room, and ushers me onto the couch. She offers me a cup of tea, but I can’t let go of her hand and I plead with her to sit next to me. I just need to look at her face, hear her voice again, to know that she really is okay.
‘I’m so sorry I didn’t call you again, Mum,’ she explains. ‘I had no idea about the terrorist attack in London. Not until I came home today and Sheetal told me you were here… and about what happened in town. It was on your shift, wasn’t it?’
I merely nod. It’s all I can offer as I wait for the tears to dry up. Rose is babbling on. Her lips are moving quickly, her focus fully on me. I see the worry in her beautiful brown eyes and realise I’m probably scaring her. I clear my throat and don’t let go of her hand.
‘Everything is fine,’ I croak. ‘I mean, obviously not in London – the situation was terrible – but that all seems like a distant memory to me now. Where have you been? I’ve been so worried. I went to the police and–’
‘Wait, what?’ Rose interrupts. ‘Why the hell did you go to the police?’
Her tone has changed. She sounds annoyed, pissed off even. Another one who will think I totally overreacted about the entire thing.
‘Well, when you didn’t reply to any of my phone calls or messages, when you weren’t at home posting on Snapchat, I thought… well, I thought a lot of things, mainly bad things.’
‘Bad things?’ She echoes my words with a frown and a curl of the lip. ‘What the hell are you on about, Mum? I left you a voicemail on Friday.’
‘Y-yes, I know…’ I stutter and hesitate; Christ, pull yourself together, Abi. ‘I couldn’t really understand what you said in your message. It wasn’t very clear, it–’
‘Damn this bloody house.’ I’m momentarily stunned by her anger. ‘The reception in this place is crap. We can barely ever make calls or use the Internet without needing to step outside into the back garden. I made that call from my room upstairs, and that’s probably the worst possible place for reception. I’m sorry, Mum.’
It’s my turn to frown. ‘I don’t understand. What did you say in the message? All I really got was that you were sorry and that Dylan knew.’ I gulp hard, sure that a bead of sweat runs from my forehead at the mere mention of his name.
Rose breaks my gaze, and my hold of her hand, and starts to fidget. ‘I went away with Penny. It was a spur of the moment thing. I hadn’t planned to go with her.’
‘So why couldn’t you reply to any of my missed calls? Why didn’t you know about the attack in London?’
She sighs, in a way that makes me feel like she can’t be bothered to explain her goings-on to me. When did that become a thing? We always had great chats about our adventures. Well, Rose’s adventures. I could only tell her about work stuff.
‘Penny had been planning this glamping retreat for weeks, it’s all she talked about, and she was due to travel Friday afternoon. Then, Thursday night… well, something happened, and she insisted I go with her. It had a strict no phone policy – no technology, actually – so there were no phones, TVs, radios or computers there. It was about taking time for yourself in this social media-crazed world and, like I said, something had happened, and it was just what I needed.’
And there it is, my window to tell Rose the truth, to tell her I think I know what the something is. First, my thoughts mock me, openly laugh at me for thinking she ran away or that she was dead or that Patrick killed her. My job really has had an effect on me. Just like Officer Bellamy said, Rose went on a trip with a girlfriend – okay, not partying away the weekend like he thought, but still, he was right. My mind pauses on the large officer for a moment, when I think about why I didn’t tell him about Patrick and his involvement with my daughter. I had a chance to tell the police about Professor Malone: the lying, cheating monster who destroyed my daughter. Why was I protecting him? As I look into Rose’s eyes, I know exactly why I didn’t tell Officer Bellamy about Patrick in that police station. I wasn’t protecting Patrick. I wasn’t even protecting Rose – which is what has always got me through this lie. I was protecting myself. I lied to my family to protect myself. Just like my mother said. She was completely right.
‘Mum, what’s going on? You’re so pale.’ Rose sparks me back to the here and now. ‘I mean, I get that you must have been worried if you didn’t understand my voicemail, but this is a bit extreme. Actually, I can’t find my phone.’ Rose interrupts herself with a new train of thought. ‘After I left you that voicemail, I switched off my phone and put it in my bedside table – I knew I would be tempted to check it if I brought it with me and, really, the last thing I needed was to hear from Dylan–’
She stops herself short and I feel the emotions rising in me again, getting stuck in my throat and threatening to choke me. The phone, Dylan… tell her the truth.
Tell her the truth, my mind screams at me.
I have no choice. The truth is the only option here. No more lying to my daughter.
‘Rose.’ My voice is a whisper. ‘This something that happened. I know what it was.’
My daughter’s face contorts right in front of my eyes – the look of concern for me becomes one of fear because of me. Her neck tightens as she atte
mpts to swallow her saliva and speak, but what comes out are only stuttered sprays. I think she was trying to ask: how do you know?
I hold up my hand to stop her from trying again. There’s no need to put her through the agony of asking me questions, dodging my interrogations and trying to come up with a quick lie or story.
‘R-Rose, I know about Patrick Malone.’ Her jaw drops open, and my heart pounds so rapidly that I have to open my mouth wide to inhale and exhale fast enough. ‘But there’s something I need to tell you. Something you need to know about Patrick. I’ve lied to you all your life, Rose. Now it’s time you knew the truth.’
Chapter 36
She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t lash out. She doesn’t sob.
Rose sits there, her hands clasped together and wedged between her thighs as if in prayer. Perhaps it’s her way of stopping herself from lashing out, but I doubt it. This is shock. I’ve seen it a thousand times.
My daughter continues to stare ahead, her face vacant – another look that I’ve seen a thousand times. I can imagine her mind is repeating everything I’ve just told her. The truth I’ve finally confessed. Me and Patrick, who Patrick is to her and, consequently, who Dylan is to her and what that means for the events that have taken place in her life over the past week, or even the past year, because I’m unsure how long these… these relationships have been in full swing.
I don’t know what to do. I want to reach out and hold her hand, touch her arm, brush her glossy hair behind her ear, but I can’t move. Either I’m mirroring my daughter’s shock or it’s fear – fear that if she remembers I’m here, she’ll go nuts. Not that I could blame her, of course, I just don’t want her to tell me to leave. It feels like it’s been weeks rather than days since I knew she was okay, and although I know she’s not, I want to be here for her. I need Rose to understand the lie I told when she was a small child was done out of love.