“Everything looks good here,” Dr. Copeland said.
“The test was very simple.”
“It’s standard.”
“But Mum, she’s been so . . . different.”
“Example, please.”
“She doesn’t understand money any more.”
“She’s just demonstrated that she does.”
“She’s only being polite. Because you’re a doctor—”
“Consultant.”
“Consultant, then. When we leave here, she’ll turn into a madzer again.”
“Madzer isn’t a term I’m comfortable with.”
“Nutjob, then.” When he didn’t show any sign of warming up, she said, “Can we send her for a scan?”
“I see no reason.”
“She thinks I’m her dead sister.”
“Do you think that?” He addressed Ellen.
“Lydia looks almost identical to how Sally looked when she died,” Ellen said quietly. “Sometimes the wrong name slips out.”
Dr. Copeland nodded. “Sometimes I call my son Sophie. The dog’s name.”
“She’s stopped cleaning the house,” Lydia said. “It was always, like, perfect, really clean and that.”
“She’s entitled to kick back a little. Don’t you think she worked long enough taking care of you and—” he consulted his notes—“your brothers?”
That’s just what Ronnie had said.
“But the place gets disgusting. Sorry, Mum, but it does. Like, abnormal. I’d be worried about rats and things.”
Ellen chuckled gently. “I’ve seen your flat. Yourself and Sissy live in a pigsty.”
“But Mum, I’m twenty-six. I’m irresponsible. I don’t care about things being clean. That only happens when you get older. And,” she added, in distress, “I don’t live with Sissy any more. I moved out two months ago. That’s another thing you’ve forgotten.”
Dr. Copeland was doodling on his pad. He seemed to be wrestling with an unpleasant choice. Eventually, he looked up and spoke. “Lydia, let me tell you something. I get adult children in here, worried because their parents are suddenly going on a trip to Australia and, quote, ‘spending their inheritance.’ They tell me their parents have taken leave of their senses.”
It took a moment. “I’m not trying to get Mum sent to some bin so I can steal all her money! There isn’t any. Mum doesn’t even own the house she lives in.”
Copeland gazed hard, like he was trying to mind-bend Lydia into confessing to the crime of false accusation, and Lydia suddenly remembered what everyone knew: all head-doctors were nutters, far madder than their patients.
After another long pause, Dr. Copeland said, “Lydia, what do you want for your mother?”
“I just want a name. Like, of whatever is wrong with her, then she can be given tablets and she’ll be grand again.”
“And start cleaning the house again?”
“Be back to her old self.”
Day 37 . . .
Naomi was wrong to say that Conall had never gone on holiday with Katie. There had been a weekend in Budapest, four days in a fabulous hotel in Ibiza (which ended up being only two because of a delayed flight), but Katie’s fondest memory was of their first trip away. They’d been going out with each other less than a month when Conall showed up with tickets to Tallinn. He was still trying to make amends for the Glyndebourne fiasco. “I picked Tallinn because they have a six-hundred-year-old apothecary,” he explained. “And I know you love drugstores.”
They’d arrived late on a Friday night and the very first thing they did the next morning was go directly to the apothecary. Actually, it was more like the third or fourth thing they’d done, she remembered. They’d woken up in the curved, carved bed and had long, languorous sex, then they’d had breakfast with champagne and strawberries, because, say what you like about Conall, call him flashy if you must, but he knew how to do things in style. Eventually, they’d got dressed and had a chat with the concierge about maps and locations. Well, Conall did. Katie had no interest in that sort of stuff. She thought it was only for men: they loved it—highlighter pens, x marks the spot, all that. When the discussion ended, Katie headed toward the door and the sunlight outside, only to discover that she was being steered by Conall back toward the stairs.
“A few moments of your time,” he’d murmured, a gleam in his eye.
They’d tumbled back into the suite they’d just left, falling noisily across the room and on to the bed, where they had an unexpected but very sexy quickie.
“Okay.” Conall had got Katie to her feet and helped her to put her bra back on. “Visit to the drugstore, take two.”
It was the Taj Mahal of dispensaries, a beautiful, old-fashioned apothecary. The walls were lined with small square wooden drawers, and high up on shelves were brown glass jars labeled with chemistry symbols. The light, reflected by fly-blown mirrors, was dim and respectful. But this was a working drugstore and, to Katie’s pleasure, a plethora of modern-day products were also on display.
“Come on,” Conall asked, “please walk me through this.” He pulled her to him. “Are you . . . look, don’t be embarrassed.”
“Of course I’m embarrassed,” she said. “I’m the only person I know who browses in drugstore.”
“But I browse in hardware shops. For our next holiday we’ll be going to the world’s biggest widget outlet. And we both browse in stationery places.”
“Are you really sure you’re interested?”
“I swear to God. I want you to show me the things you love.” He picked up a box. “So what’s this here?”
“A special soap to prevent acne.” Nothing special.
She didn’t linger on the skin and hair products—no matter how energetically he nodded, she suspected he was faking it. Anyway, her favorite was the first-aid section. They were so cunning, all these developments.
“What’s this?” He picked up a plastic cylinder.
“Oh Conall.” She couldn’t prevent her enthusiasm spilling over. “It’s a wound wash, and it’s brilliant. Remember when you were a kid and you’d fall and cut your knees and there’d be bits of stone and grit, and how awful it was, having it cleaned with a disinfectant. None of that now. You just spray this on, and I think it must have a mild local anesthetic, and of course it’s antibacterial.”
Conall studied the instructions. “I see, it washes out ‘foreign matter’. Is that—”
“—the stones and grit. Exactly!”
“Christ, I actually wish I was injured so I could give it a go.”
She flicked him a glance and they both began laughing and he exclaimed, “Katie, I’m not making fun. I do think this is interesting. And what’s this here?”
“Spray-on plaster. For awkward areas, where you can’t get one to stick. All you have to do is just spray it on.”
He pressed the nozzle and a drop of liquid hissed on to his finger. “It’s dry! Already! See.” He waved his hand at her. “And that acts just like a Band-Aid?”
“It seals it from infection.”
“I see what you mean, this is exciting.”
“This must be new.” She’d picked up something that she’d translated as echinacea gargle. “Sometimes you see things abroad that you wouldn’t get at home. This would be brilliant for the winter . . . like, if you thought you were getting a sore throat.”
He insisted on buying it for her.
She knew he didn’t really get it, the whole drugstore thing, no one really did. But the point was, he’d been willing to try.
Day 37 . . .
Four hundred euro it cost. Four hundred euro to be practically accused of trying to get Mum committed so she could get at her money, like they were in some nineteenth-century novel, maybe by one of the Brontës. Lydia wasn’t a reader, so she couldn’t be sure, but they’d made her read something at school and this sort of reminded her of that.
William Copeland, what a fool.
But the thing was, Lydia acknowledged, that
in a way this whole Irkutsky mess was about money. As soon as Mum had started to go off-side in the head, Lydia had been seized by fear—fear of Mum changing and fear of Mum disappearing and fear of Mum dying. And working her way down through her fears, through all the different levels, she found that underlying every other fear, the way it had been her entire life, was the fear of not having enough money. What if Mum had to go into residential care? Someone would have to pay for it and, unlike other families, the Duffys had nothing.
Mum didn’t own her house, Lydia had no money, Murdy had no money, Raymond had no money, Ronnie behaved as if he had none, but he was the sort of person who, after he’d snuffed it, would be discovered to have assets of millions; but even so, he wasn’t the type to share it in the here and now.
As her brothers had become more and more shouty that nothing was wrong, Lydia had gone the other way and started planning for a catastrophe. She’d launched into working flat-out, she’d stopped buying cute trainers, she’d moved into a cheaper flat, she’d started doing the lotto.
She’d even visited a couple of nursing homes, and love of God, the horror! Wall-to-wall crocks, everyone was ancient. She’d never seen old people before, not in real life, and this crew were the living dead. Never smelled the likes either! It was all true what they said about those places smelling of pee. I mean, Jesus. When the time came, Mum couldn’t be put into one of those homes. Not that Lydia could afford to. In both cases the astronomical cost had been the decomposing cherry on top of the maggoty cake.
“Get in the car, Mum.”
“No.”
“Come on, we’ve to go home now.”
Ellen struggled out from Lydia’s hands. “Sally, will you let go of me!”
“Oh now you decide to be mad again. Hey!” Lydia yelled up at the second floor of the building they’d just exited. “Hey, your Godness, Copeland, my mum’s gone again. Come down and do your IQ test now.”
“Sally! Hush, Sally! Stop shouting!”
“My name’s not Sally! I’m Lydia, your daughter !”
Ellen’s eyes were huge and her bottom lip trembled. She looked like a chastised child and guilt almost brought Lydia to her knees. “Sorry, Mum, sorry, sorry. You can’t help it, I know you can’t help it.”
“I’m sorry too.”
They fell, weeping, on to each other.
“Don’t be cross with me,” Ellen said, her voice muffled against Lydia’s shoulder.
“I’m not cross. I’m sorry, Mum, I’m so sorry.”
“You’re my own girl, Sally, my pet, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”
Lydia stared ahead without seeing the road, way too crushed to care about her driving.
She’d had to fight so hard for today’s appointment, and she’d had high hopes that a real doctor would see what she saw, that Mum would be sent for a scan, that whatever had happened to her brain would become evident and she’d be cured.
What could Lydia do now? Go back to Buddy Scutt and ask for another referral? Stupid old gobshite probably wouldn’t give one, or else he’d just send them to another one of his mates, who’d sing from the same prescription pad. What did you do when doctors couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see that someone was sick, ill, losing it, whatever you want to call it? Maybe she could try to get Mum to see a different GP, a doctor who wasn’t an old pal, a doctor who wouldn’t be worried about the fall-out of giving an unpleasant diagnosis. That would be some job. Mum was terrified of causing offense in the town by switching loyalty; she still went to the same butcher who’d sold her a pound and a half of gone-off ham for Murdy’s confirmation party, twenty-five years ago.
She wouldn’t think about it now, she decided. She’d think about something else, something nice. But her brain wouldn’t stop. It kept throwing up more and more horrible scenarios. What if things got worse? What if the time came when Mum couldn’t be left on her own? Apart from Flan Ramble, most of the neighbors from the old days were gone. Nearly every house in their crescent had been sold to young suits who commuted to Dublin and were gone all day and had no interest in taking care of a senile woman.
And why should Mum be dependent on the goodwill of neighbors when she had four children? But the lads wouldn’t agree to a schedule and Lydia couldn’t make them. She could force most people to do almost anything, but her brothers were cut from the same cloth as her.
They kept saying she should move back to Boyne if she was that worried. But she was better in Dublin; she could make more money there . . . And, actually, she didn’t want to move back to Boyne. To put it mildly. She’d go out of her mind. It would be like being buried alive. She’d be as mad as her mum within a month.
Oh Christ, the regret she felt for the person she used to be—before she’d had to live with this huge big shitey worry. She’d been shiny and hard and immune to pain, and everything was possible because she was afraid of nothing. Now she was crisscrossed with wounds, and as raw and vulnerable as meat.
She was too young for all of this. Mum wasn’t going to get better, but no one would share the burden and you shouldn’t have to endure that love and pain and fear and loneliness when you were a selfish, irresponsible twenty-six-year-old.
In her lap her phone double-beeped and her nerve endings frizzed. Gilbert! But it was only a text from Poppy. Right! That was it! It had been eight days now and eight days was long enough. Gilbert wasn’t going to ring her; she wasn’t going to ring him. Line in the sand and all that. No more checking the phone. No more being sappy and hopeful. And even if he were to prostrate himself with some gesture of remorse, she wouldn’t take him back.
She pulled over to the hard shoulder.
“Sally, what’s happening?” Ellen was confused.
Quickly, Lydia deleted Gilbert’s number. There! Gone, now. Even if she got smashed she wouldn’t be able to ring him. There was a tricky little moment when she wondered if she might cry again—the business with Mum was really taking its toll—but she leaned her head back against the headrest until the squeeze of eye water went away.
Then she set her sights on Boyne and pulled back out into the traffic.
Day 37 . . .
Matt and Maeve got dressed for bed, then it was time to write their Trio of Blessings. Matt was enjoying a great run on them at the moment. Tonight, like he’d done every night for the past ages, he just scribbled down:
A mysterious lump of ice didn’t fall on my car.
A mysterious lump of ice didn’t fall on my flat.
A mysterious lump of ice didn’t fall on my wife.
Ten seconds it took him to write this; no agonizing, no soul-searching, just bish-bash-bosh and it was done. Maeve didn’t even inspect it any more. He tossed the notebook across the bed and returned to his magazine.
Long after Matt had finished, Maeve remained in deep thought, doodling spiky mountain ranges in her notebook with her gold-colored pen. There were good things, there were blessings.
Eventually, she wrote, “Today’s first blessing: Matt didn’t leave me.” After another long pause, she wrote, “Today’s second blessing: I didn’t leave Matt.”
Her third blessing? She couldn’t think of anything. She closed the notebook to study its cover, the Chagall painting. All that was keeping the woman earthbound was the man, but his grasp on her fingers looked so tenuous. It would be so easy to let go and, if he did, she’d rocket skywards, lost forever.
She opened the notebook again. Today’s third blessing? Come on, third blessing, she urged herself. Finally, and with an air of defeat, she wrote, “I didn’t have a panic attack.” Then she snapped the notebook shut and turned the light off.
Just one thing that I feel I should mention because it’s so bloody peculiar—when Maeve has her morning shower, she wears her swimming costume, like she’s in Big Brother.
Day 36
On my way, keep dem talking.
Late for work, Katie galloped down the stairs, trying to text Danno at the same time. Then, probably because she had t
he phone in her hand, she addressed head-on the thoughts that had burgeoned and grown more real over the last three days. Conall has learned his lesson, he loves you, he’s serious about a future with you. She’d been too harsh, insisting that he had a ring on him there and then—it was a spontaneous act, he’d acted out of irresistible emotion. And what she kept coming back to was this: he had asked her to marry him. And he had said he loved her . . .
She was almost at a breaking point. Why suffer the pain any longer? Maybe she’d just ring him, have a conversation, see what came out of it and—Hold on a minute! She knew that van! The one that was parking outside her house and that she’d expected never to see again. It was Cesar, the flower-delivery guy.
Oh Conall.
Cesar jumped out of his seat. “Morning, Katie.” Conall had sent so many bouquets over the past ten months that she knew Cesar quite well by now.
Cesar went round to open the back of the van and Katie followed. Her heart was rising, rising, rising. The sun had burst free from behind a blanket of cloud.
Cesar reached into the interior and Katie leaned around him, trying to see. Just how big would the bunch be, she wondered. The size would be an indication of the seriousness of Conall’s intentions.
With much crackling of cellophane, Cesar drew out the bouquet and it was a monster, right enough. But there was something odd about it, it was made up of strange spiky blooms, sharp, almost aggressive. Was that . . . a thistle . . . lurking in the middle of it? Conall usually sent lilies—stargazers, tigers, callas, elegant and fragrant. Why was he sending these ugly, pointy things?