‘No, I should have known better,’ I swallowed, my voice husky, sounding as if it’d had to travel a great distance. ‘You have Maria, the big party, big day and exciting news to share with the world about your job, so don’t worry,’ I helped him say the words, ‘Let’s forget what happened. And please,’ I placed a hand on my chest and my voice cracked, ‘forgive me. I apologise from the bottom of my heart for being too …’ Damaging? Needy? Selfishly looking after my own needs when I should have been thinking of his? Where was I to start?
He looked sad.
‘It was wrong.’ I tried to keep my chin up, but how could I? I felt so awkward. ‘Sorry,’ I whispered, moving quickly to the bedroom. ‘I don’t want to leave you in case …’
‘I’m fine,’ he said. He was drained, exhausted, but I believed him. My being there wouldn’t help anything now. I would have to risk leaving him alone.
‘I’ll see you later?’ he asked. ‘At the party?’
I froze. ‘You still want me to come?’
‘Of course.’
‘Adam, you don’t have to—’
‘I want you to be there,’ he said firmly, and I nodded, hoping now that Maria would complete the picture so that he wouldn’t need my presence as he thought he might.
I did well to last until I’d arrived in my flat to break down in tears.
I hid in bed in the flat, ignored the phone, the door and the world while I covered my head with the duvet and wished I could take it all back. But the problem was, I couldn’t even wish for that properly because last night had been so good, so incredible, something I had never experienced before, more than just good sex. Adam had been tender and loving, but I’d felt a connection, he’d been so confident and assured as if he knew it were the right thing. There was no hesitation, no tentative kisses or touches. And if at any stage I felt a tiny flutter of doubt, one look in his eyes, one kiss was enough to know that it was the right and most natural thing in the world. It wasn’t like any one-night stand I’d ever had, it was tender, we’d made love, like our history had made it really mean something and silent promises were being made for the future. Or else Adam was just that good and I was an absolute mug.
I had been ignoring my phone and door, but that wasn’t to say anybody had bothered to call me. I knew this because I’d checked. I had the phone with me under the duvet and as I was consciously ignoring it I had to keep checking to see who it was I was ignoring. Nobody. But it was Saturday morning and most people were in bed or enjoying family time and weren’t bothering to text. Not even Adam. It was the first time in two weeks that I wasn’t with him and I missed him terribly, I felt a hole in my life.
The doorbell rang.
My heart lifted at the thought of Adam at the door, heart in his hands, or even better, his heart on a lily pad, offering it to me. But deep down I knew it would not be Adam at the door.
The doorbell rang again, which, when I thought about it, was unusual. Nobody knew I lived there, apart from family and close friends. Most of my friends were busy with their new young families or were hungover in bed. Unless it was Amelia. I knew she’d picked up on my sadness last night over the phone and I wouldn’t have been surprised if she was there with two coffees in her hand, a bag full of cupcakes, ready to help lift me. She had been known to do it in the past. The doorbell rang again and, warming to the idea of coffee and sympathy, I threw off the covers, not caring how I looked, and dragged myself to the door. I pulled open the door, expecting to see my shoulder to cry on and instead was faced with Barry.
He looked more surprised to see me than I did him, despite the fact he’d rang the bell four times.
‘I didn’t think you’d be here,’ he said, looking me up and down.
I wrapped my cardigan tighter around my body.
‘Then why did you keep ringing the bell?’
‘I don’t know. I came all this way.’ He shrugged. He looked me up and down again, clearly unimpressed with my appearance. ‘You look terrible.’
‘That’s because I feel terrible.’
‘Well, that’s what you get,’ he said childishly.
I rolled my eyes. ‘What’s in the box?’
‘A few of your things.’
It looked more like a pathetic excuse to come over and harass me. Chargers from phones I’d long ago thrown out, headphones, empty CD cases.
‘I knew you’d want this,’ he said, clearing away the junk on the top and revealing my mother’s jewellery box.
I immediately burst into tears, my hands flying to my face. He was taken aback, not knowing what to do. It had previously been his job to comfort me, it had been mine to let him, to want him to, but we stood there like two strangers – except two strangers would be kinder, as I cried and he watched me.
‘Thank you,’ I sniffed, trying to compose myself. I took the box from him and he stood there, uncomfortable, not knowing what to do with his fidgeting hands and no barrier for him to hide behind. He shoved his hands in his pockets.
‘I also wanted to say—’ he began.
‘No, Barry, please no,’ I said weakly, ‘Because I honestly don’t think I can take any more of what you have to say. I’m sorry, you know, I’m really sorry, sorrier than you can ever possibly imagine, that I hurt you. What I did was awful, but I couldn’t make myself love you like you deserve to be loved. We weren’t right for each other, Barry. I don’t know how else to say sorry, I don’t know what else I could have done. Stayed? And let us both be utterly miserable? Jesus …’ I wiped my stinging eyes roughly. ‘I know I’m in the wrong here, Barry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Okay?’
He swallowed, was silent for a while and I braced myself for another of the most hurtful things he could think of to say to me. ‘I wanted to say I was sorry,’ he mumbled.
That took me by surprise.
‘For what exactly?’ I said, the anger rising, even though I was trying to suppress it. ‘For smashing Julie’s car? For cleaning out our joint account? Or for insulting my friends? Because I know I hurt you, Barry, but I didn’t go and drag other people into it.’
He looked away. All the sorry seemed to have gone out of him. ‘No, not for that,’ he said angrily. ‘I’m not sorry for any of that.’
I couldn’t believe his cheek. He composed himself.
‘I’m sorry for the voicemail. I shouldn’t have said what I said. It was wrong.’
My heart hammered, he could only mean one voicemail, the one I hadn’t heard, the one Adam had heard and deleted.
‘Which one, Barry? There were an awful lot of them.’
He swallowed. ‘The one about your mother, okay? I shouldn’t have said it. I wanted to hurt you in the deepest way possible. I know that’s your biggest fear so …’
He left a silence and I tried to figure it out. After an awkward pause I got it and realised I’d known it the entire time. Sometimes you can know something and not know it at the same time.
‘You said I’d kill myself like Mum did,’ I said, my voice trembling.
He had the decency to look ashamed. ‘I wanted to hurt you.’
‘Well, that would have done it,’ I said sadly, thinking of Adam listening to the message. So he knew that my mother had killed herself, that in my deepest, darkest moments when everyone told me how alike me and my mother were I’d secretly worried we were too alike. A secret I’d shared with my husband and which had come back to haunt me even at a time when I knew I was not like my mother in that way. My mother had suffered from severe depression all of her life. She had been in and out of clinics and therapy since she was a teenager. Finally, unable to beat the demons in her head, she had taken her life when I was four years old. She had been a thinker, a worrier, a poet. And of all the thoughts and poems she had written throughout her life as she tried to figure out her puzzling head there was one which I had clung to and made my own: the one I had read at the funerals of Amelia’s mother and Adam’s father.
I had always known, even as a child, how my mother had left t
he world. By the time I was a teenager, people were constantly telling me how like her I was, and it made me afraid. I came to dread the words, ‘You are so like your mother.’ Then, as I became an adult and learned about myself, I realised I was not my mother, that I could make different choices to the ones my mother had made.
‘So …’ Barry said, backing away.
I didn’t know what else to say. He walked up the steps to ground level and I started to close the door.
‘You were right about us,’ I heard him say suddenly. ‘We weren’t exciting or romantic, we never went anywhere very much and we probably never would. We didn’t laugh like Julie and Jack, or travel the world like Sarah and Luke. We probably wouldn’t have had four kids like Lucy and John.’ He threw his hands up. ‘I don’t know, Christine, I liked how we were. I’m sorry you didn’t.’ His voice cracked and so he took a moment. I opened the door wider to see him.
‘I’ve wished for the past month for you to be miserable, absolutely in the depths of hell. And now I see you like this – I can’t feel that any more. You look worse than I do.’ He shook his head. ‘If you left me because you thought this would be an improvement, then we were worse off than I thought. I pity you.’
That set me off again. He took off down the road. I closed the door and returned to bed to hide from the world.
A few hours later and I still hadn’t moved. I was hungry but I knew there was nothing to eat in the flat and I couldn’t face going out to the shops, looking and feeling as I did.
My phone started ringing and I checked the screen to see who I was ignoring. Detective Maguire. I was definitely ignoring it. It stopped and then started again. I stared at the ceiling, my heart beating wildly. It only returned to a regular pace when the ringing stopped. I waited for the ringing to end and put it on silent.
The phone rang again.
‘Leave a message,’ I growled.
I got out of bed, feeling dizzy when I stood up. Then I thought about Adam and I panicked. Maybe he had done something. I dived for the phone and hit the button to return the last call.
‘Maguire,’ he barked.
‘It’s Christine. Is Adam okay?’
‘Adam?’
‘The man from the bridge.’
‘Why, did you lose him?’
Kind of. But I sighed with relief that he wasn’t hurt.
‘Listen, I need you at Crumlin Hospital now. Can you come?’
‘Crumlin?’ I stalled. It was a children’s hospital.
‘Yes, Crumlin,’ he snapped. ‘Can you come? Now?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m asking you to.’
I was totally confused. ‘I can’t, I, er … I can’t right now.’ I searched for a lie but couldn’t bring myself to do it. ‘I’m not feeling good today.’
‘Well, snap out of it, because there’s someone here who feels a whole lot worse.’
‘What is this about? I don’t have to go any—’
‘Jesus, Christine,’ he said, and it came out almost a sob. ‘I need you to get your ass down here.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Just get here,’ he said. ‘Please.’
25
How to Ask for Help Without Losing Face
Detective Maguire was waiting for me at the main entrance to the hospital. As soon as he saw me, he did what he had done every other time I’d met him and turned around and walked away. I took the cue to follow him. I jogged to catch up, and as I did I looked around for his partner. I didn’t see him. In fact there was no other back-up whatsoever. I rounded the corner and found it devoid of Detective Maguire. A whistle had me running to the open elevator like the dog he seemed to think I was. I joined him and it was then I saw how awful he looked and my stomach churned, sensing the worst scenario ever. I gulped, trying to steady myself; I was not able for all of this, not so soon after losing Simon, after messing up so spectacularly with Adam, after having to deal with Barry. I needed a day alone, but nobody seemed willing to grant me that small favour. I needed to wallow; much could be achieved from wallowing. Perhaps that’s what my book could be about. Christine Rose’s How to Wallow in Your Despair in Five Easy Ways.
‘You look terrible,’ I said to him.
‘You’re not too perky yourself,’ he said, without his usual malice. He was going through the motions, barely engaging. Something was most certainly wrong. More wrong than usual.
‘Who am I going to see?’ I asked.
‘My daughter,’ he said, his voice hollow, empty. ‘She tried to kill herself.’
My mouth fell open and he stepped out of the elevator and rounded the corner. I had to snap out of my shock before the doors closed and the lift descended. I followed him.
‘Uh, Detective, I’m very sorry to hear that, truly I am …’ I swallowed. ‘But can I ask, why did you bring me here?’
‘I want you to talk to her for me.’
‘What? Wait!’ I finally reached out and grabbed him by the arm and stopped him in his tracks. ‘You want me to what?’
‘Talk to her,’ he said, revealing his bloodshot eyes. ‘There’s people here, but she won’t talk to them. She won’t say two words. I thought of you. Don’t ask me why, I mean I don’t know you, but you seem to have a way with this kind of thing and I’m too close to it, I can’t …’ He shook his head, his eyes welling up.
‘Detective—’
‘Aidan,’ he interrupted.
‘Aidan,’ I said softly, appreciating the gesture. ‘I’m not able. I didn’t help Simon Conway, and with Adam I …’ I didn’t want to get into what had happened with Adam.
‘You managed to get Simon to allow you to call us,’ he said. ‘That was good. You talked Adam Basil off the bridge, and he asked for you after that. I’ve seen you with him, in the station – he respects you. Plus I know what happened with your mother,’ he added.
I looked down. ‘Oh.’
‘You know about this. Just talk to her, please.’
I followed him through the ward, a series of corridors and confusing turns until finally he brought me into the ward. Of the twelve beds in the room, only one had curtains pulled around it completely.
I slowly drew back the curtain and came face to face with Maguire’s wife, Judy, her eyes rimmed with red as she held the hand of the girl in the bed. I looked at the girl: thick auburn hair like her dad, honest crystal-blue eyes like her mother.
‘Caroline,’ I said gently. The girl’s left wrist had been heavily bandaged and lay on the bed, her mother held her right hand tight.
‘Who are you?’ Judy asked, slowly getting to her feet but still not letting go of her daughter’s hand.
‘Aidan called me,’ I said.
She nodded then and looked down at her daughter. I saw Detective Maguire’s face crumble in the moment before he turned away and walked out of the ward, as if embarrassed by his display of emotion.
‘Why don’t you get some coffee?’ I suggested to Judy. ‘Caroline, is it okay if I sit with you for a while?’
Caroline looked at me uncertainly. Judy was still hanging on to her hand.
‘I think maybe your mum could do with a break. I bet she’s been here for a while.’
Caroline gave her a nod and I helped Judy let go of her hand. As soon as she stepped away, I pulled the curtain across and sat down beside Caroline.
‘My name is Christine. I know your dad.’
Caroline eyed me warily. ‘Do you work here?’
‘No.’
‘So I don’t have to talk to you.’
‘No. You don’t.’
She was silent as she mulled it over. ‘They keep sending people to talk to me. Asking me why, why, why. They left a bunch of leaflets. They’re disgusting. Insinuating disgusting things.’
‘What kinds of things?’
‘Like, did my dad touch me – stuff like that. I mean, they didn’t say it in so many words, but I could tell they were wondering. Then they gave me all these leaflets. I’ve seen the
shows.’
‘I’m not going to ask you anything like that, believe me. I’m not a doctor, I’m not a therapist. I want to talk, that’s all. It sounds like you’ve had a really hard time and I want to listen to you, without judgement.’
‘Are you a garda?’
‘No.’
The girl gave me a sidelong look, then played with the sheets on the bed with her good hand. The other remained limp and unmoving. ‘So why did my dad ask you to come?’
‘Because he knows that when I was young my mother killed herself.’
She looked at me then, gave me her full attention.
‘She killed herself when I was four years old. So I understand what it’s like, to live with someone who felt the way you do.’
‘Oh.’ She looked down at her bandage. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I understand why you don’t want to talk to your parents. It’s embarrassing, isn’t it? My dad is still embarrassing and I’m thirty-three years old.’
Caroline smiled weakly.
‘But that’s why it’s okay if you want to talk to me. I won’t judge you, I won’t tell you that you shouldn’t have done this or done that, I’ll just listen. Sometimes it helps to talk, to say things out loud. And if you don’t know where to turn or who to talk to, you can ask me and I’ll do whatever I can to help. There’s always someone to turn to, Caroline. And we can keep it between the two of us – you won’t have to worry about me telling anybody you don’t want to know.’
Caroline’s face crumpled and she started to cry. She tried to hide behind her good wrist, leaving the other one lying flat on the bed as if it had been forgotten, as if it had died in the attempt. Her shoulders shook as she was wracked with sobs.
‘I didn’t think there was anyone,’ she admitted.
‘Now you know,’ I said gently, giving her a tissue. ‘There is always someone to hear you and help you. Always.’
She wiped her eyes, composed herself, seemed to think about things.
‘I slit my wrists,’ she said. She lifted her hand up and showed me her bandage as if I hadn’t noticed it already. ‘I suppose you think I’m a crazy person.’ She studied me.