This is only adding to my agitation. ‘Fiona was in a bit of a fluster when she rang.’ I hit the print button on Ed’s laptop and the image of the document on the screen is sent to the printer.
‘Have you booked a return flight?’ Ed moves behind me as I loom over the printer. He squeezes my shoulders in a reassuring gesture.
‘No, I’ll see how things are first. I need to go and make sure Mum’s all right, really.’ Then more because I feel I ought to, I add, ‘And see how Dad is, of course.’ I silence the voice that also wants to add the need to face Roisin.
‘Okay, I’ll sort out some cover at work.’
‘I’m sure Amber will do my shifts, she’s always saying she needs more hours.’ I take the sheet of paper as it glides out of the printer.
‘Keep me in the loop, though, won’t you? You know what it’s like organising the staff rota.’
Whilst it’s nice being the boss’s girlfriend, it sometimes irritates me that Hamilton’s Health and Beauty Spa always comes first with Ed.
‘I’ll do my best,’ I say. ‘I’ll have a better idea once I’m there and can speak to the doctors myself.’
There’s a small silence before Ed speaks again.
‘Will you be okay on your own? Do you want me to come with you?’ I can detect an apprehension in his voice. ‘It will be a bit tricky with work, but I could manage a couple of days away, I should think.’
I withhold the sigh that threatens to escape. I know Ed better than he realises. His priority is work and the offer to accompany me is more out of duty than concern. I take care to respond in a conciliatory manner, not wishing to get into an argument.
‘No, it’s okay. Probably best if I go alone.’
‘Are you sure you’re up to it? You were feeling sick earlier.’
‘It was nothing. I’m fine now and I’ll be all right on my own. Thank you, anyway.’
‘Sure? Okay. Look, I’ll organise you a cab home so you can pack and I’ll book another to take you to the airport.’ This time the relief in his voice is very much apparent. ‘I would take you myself but you know what it’s like at work…really busy…I’ve got meetings …’ His voice trails off.
‘Thank you. And don’t worry. I know what it’s like.’ I ignore the fact that Ed actually has the day off tomorrow.
As I climb into the cab, this time I release the sigh unrestricted. Ireland definitely isn’t a place I want to be going. Since moving to England, my visits home have been few and far between. Far too many unhappy memories linger around the coastal village where I grew up. And now I’m being forced to face them. The unease begins to transform into fear.
Once the cab turns the corner, leaving Ed and his apartment behind, I take my phone from my pocket and find the email Roisin sent me. Her number is highlighted blue and I double-tap. After a few seconds the call is connected and I hear the sound of the phone ringing.
The phone goes to voicemail.
‘It’s me…’ I hesitate. I need to be careful what I say. I’m not paranoid, merely cautious. Maybe overly, but it has stood me in good stead all this time and I’m not about to get caught out now. ‘I’m coming over. I’ll ring you again when I’m in Rossway.’
County Cork, Ireland
Looking at my father lying in his hospital bed, crisp white linen and a cellular blanket surrounding him, his face seems to have taken on a grey tinge. He looks older, frailer and smaller, somehow, as if he has suddenly aged without me noticing. His chest rises and falls as he lies motionless in a medically induced coma. He’s hooked up to a ventilator, which wheezes up and down, helping him to breathe as the heart monitor bleeps a steady beat.
‘How is he?’ I ask Mum who, having embraced me, is now settling herself back into the plastic bedside chair.
She puts her forefinger to her lips and whispers, ‘They’re going to give him a brain scan in the morning. They want to see if the swelling will go down first.’ She gives me half a smile, which I suspect is supposed to be reassuring. ‘It’s all right. Your dad’s a fighter. Don’t go getting yourself upset now.’
I turn my gaze away from the ashen look on her face. The guilt weighs me down. Guilt I feel because I cannot summon as much sympathy for my father as I know I should.
Our relationship has always been a strained one, with any feelings of compassion finally quashed ten years ago. I swallow down the anger that always accompanies the memory. This time I am able to meet Mum’s eyes.
‘What exactly happened?’ I fiddle with my necklace. I need to keep my hands busy. Nerves are making them shake.
‘I came out of the café and found your father at the bottom of the steps,’ says Mum. ‘That’s it, really.’ She sniffs and when I look up, she’s fumbling with her sleeve and finally produces a tissue. She dabs her eyes and wipes her nose.
‘Do you want anything, Mum? Have you eaten?’ I change the subject, not wanting to upset her.
‘No, I’m grand,’ she replies quietly, a fleeting smile of gratitude dashes across her face. She stuffs the tissue back up her sleeve. ‘The nurses have been looking after me, so they have.’
I’m not convinced Mum looks grand at all. She looks tired and strained. ‘I’ll make you a fresh cup of tea,’ I say. ‘I could do with one myself. Back in a minute.’
One of the nurses kindly shows me to the community kitchen, where all the tea and coffee making paraphernalia is housed. While I wait for the kettle to boil I can’t help feeling more concern for Mum than for Dad. I don’t like the dark circles under her eyes or the depth of the hollows below her cheekbones. She looks exhausted. No doubt she has been working herself hard at the café. Now, with Dad incapacitated and set for a long recovery, I wonder how on earth she will manage to look after him and run the business on her own.
The next thought snakes its way from the back of my mind, where it has been lurking, waiting to strike. What if he doesn’t pull through? How do I feel about that? I don’t trust myself to examine the notion too closely. I’m not quite sure I’ll like what I might find. Instead, I focus on producing an acceptable-looking cup of tea for Mum and venture back to collect her. We’re not allowed to take food or drink into ICU so we sit in the small family room at the end of the corridor.
‘You just missed your sister,’ says Mum, resting her cup on her knees. ‘She had to get back for the kids. Sean’s on duty this evening. You know he’s a sergeant now?’
‘Yes, Fiona said. He deserves it. He’s a good police officer.’ It seems a bit surreal talking about normal, everyday things when this situation is anything but normal.
After drinking the tea, we venture back to my father’s bedside. It’s very quiet, apart from the rhythmic bleep of the monitor and the sighing of the breathing apparatus as it wheezes air down the tube. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
‘Time’s getting on. There’s no point in you hanging around with me,’ says Mum, breaking the silence that has settled. ‘You go on back and stay with Fiona
