wash bag and some clean clothes.’
Mum stands up. I take this as a signal it’s time for me to leave. I walk round and give her a kiss.
‘It will be okay, Mum. I’ll see you in the morning,’ I say, hoping to sound positive before I beat the retreat. ‘Do I need to ask for anyone in particular at the bike shop?’
‘Er, yes…Kerry,’ replies Mum distractedly as a nurse approaches us.
‘I’m just doing some routine observations,’ the nurse explains.
‘I’ll get out the way,’ I say, giving Mum a reassuring smile. ‘Bye, Mum.’
‘What about your Dad?’ says Mum. ‘You should say goodbye to him too.’
‘We like to encourage family to still communicate with the patient,’ explains the nurse. ‘Sometimes, it can help with their recovery.’
I hesitate. ‘What should I say?’
‘Just speak to your father as if he’s awake,’ says the nurse. ‘It seems a little odd at first but once you’ve done it a few times, it becomes much easier.’
I go over to the bed and reach out to touch his hand. ‘Bye, Dad,’ I say, feeling terribly self-conscious. The nurse smiles encouragingly and I feel I need to say something else. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
It’s awkward and it’s not without relief that I escape the hospital and head over to Fiona’s.
*
Mini lights and precision-planted marigolds line the brick path to Fiona’s front door. The outside light bathes the garden, highlighting the alternating dark-and-light-green stripes running up and down the lawn. Tidy to the point of being manicured. The black gloss of the door with shiny chrome furniture is smart and exact. Fiona, my older sister by eight years, opens the door before I reach the end of the path.
Meeting me on the doorstep, she draws me into an embrace. The familiar smell of Fiona’s perfume clings to me in the same way I cling to her. A feeling of relief seeps out. Fiona has always been able to do that. To take away my troubles. To fix whatever needs fixing.
‘Hi-ya, hun,’ she says, giving me a squeeze. ‘How are you? How’s everything at the hospital? No change, I expect.’
‘I’m fine. It’s lovely to see you. Dad’s still sedated and Mum is happy to be there by herself.’ I give a little shiver in the night air. ‘I didn’t want to leave her, but she insisted.’
‘I know, but there’s nothing we can do. Anyway, come on in out of the cold. The kids are fast asleep, so we’ll go quietly.’
Sitting in Fiona’s immaculate kitchen, I hold my hands around the fine-bone-china cup. The heat from the cup warms my fingers. On the fridge door there is a family snapshot of the Keanes: Fiona, Sean, Sophie and Molly. It looks like it was taken last year on their holiday to Spain. Sean is giving Sophie a piggy-back. Fiona and Molly are looking up at them and everyone is beaming with happiness. Sean is a tall man and none too skinny either. He must look very imposing in his Guard’s uniform. In this picture, though, he reminds me of Roald Dahl’s BFG and I think how aptly named their daughter, Sophie, is.
‘How’s Sean?’ I ask, as Fiona sits down beside me.
‘He’s fine. Well, that’s not entirely true. He’s exhausted, if I’m honest. We both are. His mum needs a lot of looking after. We’re thinking about moving her in with us.’
‘Is she getting to that stage where she needs a lot of care?’ I ask.
‘She can’t cook properly, she’s a danger to herself.’ Fiona gives a weary sigh. ‘Not so long ago, she left the frying pan on the stove and burnt right through it, setting off the fire alarms. There was smoke everywhere. The fire brigade turned up, it was chaos. Since then, I’ve been cooking for her. She’s lovely, though, so I wouldn’t mind her moving in. After all, she is the reason we came home.’
I nod, remembering the day well when Fiona and Sean packed up their little family in London and headed back home to care for his recently widowed mother. I had managed to hold back my tears until the car and removal lorry disappeared around the corner.
Funny how Fiona regards it as coming home, whereas I look on her return as leaving home. To me, home means a place of love and fond memories, a feeling of being safe and cared for. Coming to Ireland is not coming home for me.
My thoughts turn to Roisin’s email again and my stomach lurches as the fear that has pitched up and taken residency gives another kick. I had thought I’d tell Fiona about it but now I’ve changed my mind. Maybe I can get this sorted without her knowing. She has a lot on her plate at the moment, what with Dad and Sean’s mother. I’ll tell her only if I have to. I’m sure I can handle this. At least, I hope I can.
Fiona’s mobile phone cuts through my thoughts. From this side of the conversation, I guess it’s Sean. I busy myself with making another cup of tea while she wanders off into the living room for more privacy.
She returns a few minutes later.
‘Sean’s going to call by the hospital at some point in the night to check on Mum and Dad.’
‘What exactly happened? How did Dad end up falling down the steps?’ I ask.
‘I’m still not entirely sure. Apparently, Mum was in the café tidying up at the end of the day and Dad went upstairs with the day’s takings to put them in the safe for the night. When he didn’t come back down, Mum went out to look for him and found him at the foot of the stairs.’
‘Was there anyone else there? Did they see anything?’
‘No, just Kerry from the bike shop across the way.’
‘What time did all this happen?’
‘Soon after six,’ says Fiona after a moment’s thought. ‘That’s what time he always puts the takings in the safe. Of course, we’ve no way of knowing if that’s what he did.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mum can’t find the key for the safe, so we can’t check to see if Dad fell before or after he went upstairs. There was no bag beside him.’
‘You don’t think he was robbed, do you?’
‘We just don’t know,’ says Fiona. ‘It’s all a bit worrying.’
‘Doesn’t Mum know where the key is so we can check?’
‘No. She can’t remember,’ says Fiona. ‘I tried to ask but she was so distracted with Dad, I didn’t like to push it.’
‘I don’t suppose you know where the key would be or even if there’s a spare one?’ I ask half-heartedly.
Fiona gives a wry smile. ‘You know what Dad’s like. Top-secret information that is.’
‘I’ll have a look round when I’m at the flat,’ I say. Much as my feelings towards my father are stifled, the thought that someone mugged him is not nice.
‘To
