No Kiss Goodbye (20 page)

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say bending down to kiss the reddened tenderness around his palm. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. I would never hurt you.’

Lorcan gazes at me with his big, beautiful eyes. The adorable sparkle that had shone so brightly yesterday is faded now and patched over with fear. My heart sinks so deep it rattles around my ankles.

‘Was I naughty?’ Lorcan asks sadly. No tears form in his eyes, but his bottom lip quivers.
Is he too afraid to cry?

‘Of course not,’ I explain, hugging him against my chest.

He doesn’t lift his arms to wrap them around my neck as I hoped he would. ‘My mommy says I’m naughty all the time. That’s why she throws things at me. I make her angry.’

I glance at Nigel. Any hint of anger is missing from his face. He’s pale now and upset.

‘Is that why your back hurts?’ I ask softly. I’d noticed some old bruising on Lorcan’s back when I bathed him. I assumed he’d taken a fall, just like five-year-olds do every so often. I should have realised sooner.

‘I spilt my mommy’s special drink. She was very angry.’

‘Your mother hurt your back?’ Nigel asks walking slowly towards us.

‘She was very cross,’ Lorcan repeats tears finally falling from his eyes. ‘Do I have to go back now?’

Nigel stares at the timid little boy. Sad disgust contorts his face. He smiles at me and nods. Relief sweeps through my entire body. I could keep him. Nigel would help me save him.

‘No, Sam, you don’t have to go. You can stay watching the cartoons,’ Nigel softly assures as he playfully tosses Lorcan’s soft curls.

I scowl at him. ‘Sam?’ I say.
Who the hell is Sam?

‘This is Sam,’ Nigel explains pointing towards where Lorcan climbed back up on the sofa

I shake my head confidently. ‘No. That’s Lorcan.’

‘No,’ Nigel says, ‘I promise you, the scared little boy sitting on the sofa is Sam.’

I follow Nigel into the kitchen where he makes two very strong cups of black coffee. He takes a large mouthful from one and places the other at the end of the counter.

‘Drink that,’ he orders.

‘I don’t like coffee,’ I lie, resenting Nigel’s bullying.

‘I know damn well you’re addicted to the stuff,’ Nigel says.

It’s a clear accusation, but there’s no harshness in his tone. It’s a simple matter of fact. He does know I’m a coffee lover. I begin to wonder if Nigel knows a lot more about me than I realise. I dismiss the silly thought. I don’t have time to play cryptic mind games with myself. We have a frightened little boy to look after.

I pick up the coffee and savour the smell of the rich blend before drinking half the cup in one large gulp.

‘What now?’ I ask, twitching from the caffeine rush.

Nigel stares into his cup and doesn’t look up.

‘What are we going to do about Lorcan? I think I should take him home to Ireland with me.’

‘Are you mad?’ Nigel snorts, spilling his coffee all over his crisp white shirt. ‘How would you even get him past airport security?’

‘I would…I would…I eh…’

‘Exactly,’ Nigel snaps as he grabs a cloth from the drawer and tries to minimise the coffee damage to his clothes. ‘We have to take Sam to the police station.’

I slam my cup on the counter and prepare for an argument. Nigel doesn’t allow me the pleasure.

‘You can protest all you like, but he is an abused child and he needs the state to protect him, not some silly misguided woman with her own selfish interest at the forefront.’

Nigel throws the cloth into the sink and stares at the stain with disgust. He blames me; I can see it in his burning glare. He seems to blame me for many things, none of which I understand. But his anger is blunt and obvious and there can be no misunderstanding there. He really dislikes me. Nigel gathers up Lorcan’s scattered clothes and stuffs them into a couple of carrier bags. He throws in a couple of large chocolate bars and a few cans of ice tea also. He holds both bags in one hand and scoops Lorcan up in the other arm.

‘Time to go, Sam,’ Nigel says kissing Lorcan on the head. ‘Say goodbye to Laura.’

‘Bye bye,’ Lorcan says like a trained parrot.

‘Please, Nigel, don’t do this,’ I beg, crying hysterically. ‘Don’t take Lorcan away from me; he’s all I’ve got.’

‘Bye bye, Laura,’ Lorcan says once more.

My legs give way beneath me, and I fall to the ground with a rough thump. I’m desperate to scramble up again, but my lifeless limbs are no longer under my control. I want so badly to kiss Lorcan goodbye, but I remain in a disgruntled heap. ‘Please,’ I continued to plea, ‘don’t do this.’

Nigel rests the bags beside the front door and stands Lorcan beside them. ‘Wait here, Sam.’ He smiles.

Lorcan does as he’s told. No matter how much I call out to him, he remains by the door. Nigel paces towards me, catches my slump body, and lifts me roughly upright. I slouch forward. My full weight draped over his strong arms. ‘Stand up,’ he shouts.

‘I can’t.’

‘Stand. The. Fuck. Up.’

I try. I really do. I know what to do, my brain knows I should simply wiggle a little and place my feet on the ground with the rest of my body resting on top, but I don’t remember how.

Nigel lets go and I fall in a painful heap.
Ouch.

‘I’m not soft like Mark,’ he scowls, his jaw clenched in temper. ‘I’m sick of your selfish crap. I have a friend in a precinct downtown. I’m taking Sam there.’

I begin to cry uncontrollably, but it only makes Nigel angrier.

‘Clean yourself up, we’re having guests later.’

I run my fingers under my tear-soaked eyes and wipe away large clumps of last night’s mascara.

‘Can I at least kiss Lorcan goodbye,’ I ask.

‘Of course,’ Nigel says, ‘just walk over to the door and kiss him. I’m not stopping you.’

A tearless cry scrapes the back of my throat. Nigel is cruel. He knows I can’t find the strength to carry myself forward. I shake my head – defeated. Nigel also shakes his, but his is a shake of disapproval.

‘Goodbye,’ he says as he pulls a photograph out of his back pocket and drops it on the coffee table. It’s close enough for me to see the various colours of the people’s clothes but too far to make out their faces.

‘Sam and I are leaving now. If you want to see Lorcan, walk to the table. Goodbye.’

He slams the hall door behind him.

Time ticks by in slow motion. Hours feel like days. The cold of the floor has worked its way through my fluffy pyjama bottoms and numbed the cheeks of my bottom. I strain my eyes to see the photograph on the table, but I have no further success in making out the images. I do however manage to cause a headache that pounds in my skull like butter in a churn. It takes hours for me to realise that the light tapping sound I originally suspect is a leaky tap in the bathroom is actually the tapping of the sole of my slipper off the edge of the coffee table. My legs are shivering as the cold drives down my calves and into my feet. I have feeling – sharp pain from the icy floor, but I’m delighted. The shock from Nigel’s aggression has worn off and my body is once more prepare to surrender itself to my brain's commands.

I scarper shakily towards the table. Pins and needles pinch the backs of my knees, and I want to yield to the pain and sit back down but I don’t. I grasp the unframed picture from the table and drop it just as quickly. It lands upright and stares at me. I slam my eyes shut, convinced that if I can’t see it, then it isn’t real. But the brief second I stare at the picture is long enough to burn the images into my mind. I can’t escape from the faces I know are resting on the ground. I peel open one eye and then the other. A cloud of disbelief hazes over the image, and I have to squint to make sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me. I pick the picture up between my shaking fingers.
It can’t be,
I tell myself.
It just can’t be.

Two little boys smile happily in the centre of the print. They wear matching superhero costumes. Their arms are draped over each other’s shoulders, and it’s obvious they’re the best of friends. They’re a similar build; like brothers. Their defining features are their different hair and slight height difference. The smaller, younger of the two has a thick mop of raven dark hair and his face is hidden behind a Batman mask. The elder boy’s face is framed with soft, blond curls. A happy birthday banner hangs in the background just above their heads. I’m in the picture, too, sitting beside the boy with blond hair. I can’t take my eyes off his perfect face.
It’s Lorcan
. I can tell his smile a mile away. He’s a lot thinner now and his greeny-brown eyes in the photo have faded to a light blue, but it’s still him.
I’m sure.
My heart pounds so fast it almost blocks air from circulating around my chest.

I recognise the room in the background. How could I not? I’m standing in that very room now. The colour of the walls has changed, but it’s definitely Nigel’s sitting room. It’s undeniable evidence that I’ve been in this place before.

Mark stands behind me in the picture; one hand on my shoulder and the other reaching forward to hold my hand.

Nicole is on the opposite side of the picture, looking fresh-faced and pretty. The Nicole I know is gaunt and drawn.
Why has she changed so much?

She stands behind the raven-haired boy; her arm snuggled against his waist affectionately. It’s just a strange mix of people. And we all look so genuinely happy, and so at ease in each other’s company.
Is this some fucked-up Photoshop joke? But why?

I turn the print over and examine the handwritten words on the back. It’s my writing.
Lorcan’s 4
th
birthday!

I catch the corner and begin to tear. I rip the picture to shreds and leave the pieces on the ground where they fall, stomping my foot on the scattered pieces.

Even ripped up, the picture is freaking the shit out of me. I jump onto the ground and try to piece it back together; I want to hold it close to my heart. I piece the jagged edges together and Lorcan’s face peers up at me, smiling. I flick my hands across the pieces and they swirl in the air and rain down like confetti. I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

The picture has opened a window into my past, and I can’t get away from this. Closing my eyes doesn’t help. The photograph is painted across the back of my eyelids like a mural. My thoughts map out like a giant jigsaw puzzle in my mind. Except all the most important pieces are still missing.

I know I’ve been to New York before, and I’ve obviously been in Nigel’s apartment. So, Nigel knows me better than he’s letting on. And he knows Nicole. That’s too weird. Why didn’t he ever say anything? They’re friends, obviously. And his loyalties might lie with her and not me…maybe he’s even helping Mark and Nicole. Reporting in with them regularly, telling them where to find me.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!

The phone rings and I jump. I try to ignore it, but it’s incessant. Whoever is at the other end isn’t going to give up. I wait for the answering machine to cut in, but it just rings and rings and rings.

‘Hello,’ I bark, finally.

‘Laura.’ The voice on the other end twitches.

‘Ava?’

‘Yeah, it’s me. Is Nigel there?’

‘No, he left a few hours ago.’

‘Really?’ Ava asks sounding unusually drained.

‘Everything okay? Where are you? Are you still at the airport?

‘Airport?’ Ava echoes.

‘Yeah, Nigel said he had guest later. He didn’t say, but I just assumed you’d gone to pick them up or something. Where else would you be?’

‘Oh, right. I didn’t know he’d mentioned the guest. What time are you expecting him back? I really need to speak to him, and I can’t get in touch on his mobile,’ she explains.

‘I dunno.’ Just thinking about Nigel is pissing me off. ‘He was really angry when he left. I was hoping you’d be back before him. I don’t like being on my own with him. I wish you hadn’t left without telling me.’

‘Angry,’ Ava says, like repeating my words is a habit that she’s struggling to break. ‘Why was he angry?’

‘Long story, I’ll tell you later. What time will you be back?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ava mumbles.

I feel something is very off, but I can’t put my finger on what. It’s like speaking to a stranger on the other end of the phone. ‘Everything okay?’

I know the honest answer is no, but I wait to see what Ava will say. She’s sniffling. I can hear muffled sobbing through what I imagine is her hand covering the receiver.

‘Ava,’ I say sharply. ‘Is something going on? Where have you been all day? Nigel has been gone a lot longer than I expected, too. Hours. What is going on?’

I glanced around the apartment. My eyes dart from wall to wall. The stifled conversation resurrects strong paranoia, as if I’m a mouse in a cage, racing frantically on a spinning wheel but going nowhere.

‘Ava, please tell me?’

Ava takes a deep breath. I hold mine.

‘Nigel has gone to collect Adam from the airport,’ she stutters.

I don’t say a word. I’ve lost track of how long we’ve been in New York now, but it’s understandable that Adam would come to see Ava. In fact, the only thing that surprises me is that he wasn’t on the first flight out after us, or that he let her go at all. I wonder why she seems so reluctant to share that harmless nugget of information with me.

‘I thought they would be here ages ago, but there’s no sign of them,’ she explains.

‘You thought they’d be where? You still haven’t told me where you are.’

Another large pause fills the air, and the habit is becoming exhausting. Ava is so silent I worry that the line has dropped.

‘Ava,’ I called breaking the calmness. ‘Hello…Ava?’

‘Sorry,’ her meek voice answers. ‘I’m in the hospital; I started to bleed last night.’

I almost drop the receiver.

‘Oh no, not that baby,’ I cry. ‘Oh Ava, this is all my fault. I stressed you out and now you might lose your baby. I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me.’

Suddenly, all Nigel’s anger makes sense. He blames me for Ava’s situation. If I had never brought Lorcan here, then Ava wouldn’t have been so stressed. And it was all for nothing. I’ve already lost Lorcan. And now Ava might lose her baby, too. I feel sickeningly guilty.

Ava begins to laugh. I am not sure if it’s to disguise her own worry or if she really thinks my panicking is funny.
What the hell?

‘You’re as bad as Nigel. He’s so freaked out, too,’ she snorts. ‘Everything is fine. I’m just here for observation. The baby is perfect. Ten little fingers, ten little toes. I even got my first scan picture last night. I can’t wait to show you.’

‘I’ll come visit,’ I say without hesitation. ‘I’d love to see it.’

‘I’m really tired, Laura.’ Ava sighs. ‘I’ll be released tomorrow, and I’ll show you then.’

Ava’s reluctance to see me is worrying. Maybe she’s more pissed off than she’s letting on. She’s alone in a hospital in a foreign country. She needs a friend.

‘Okay,’ I find myself agreeing. I don’t want to upset her any further.

She must notice my disheartenment because she throws me a long-winded explanation about strict visiting hours and about how dangerous crossing the city is for a woman to navigate on her own. ‘You might get lost again, Laura.’

‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. ‘I’ll wait here until Nigel gets back. I don’t think he’ll be much longer.’

Ava’s worrying about my poor sense of direction is a wasted effort. I know the route to the hospital as if I was there daily, and I know it’s just another memory from my past that has dusted itself off without me even searching for it. I grab my coat and Nigel’s spare set of keys. Racing out the door, I don’t leave a note and I catch the bus on the street corner just in time.

A little over an hour later, I pause outside the automatic doors of the dauntingly large hospital. A nervous quiver forces the hairs on the back of my neck to stand spiky and straight. I don’t want to go inside. It’s not my first realisation that the accident has affected me badly, but it still freaks me out. I harbour a bitter distaste for the clinical sanctuary confined within the walls of the hospital. I consciously associate it with hurt and misery.

I refuse to tolerate my squeamish misgivings. I allow myself one giant shiver and force myself to walk inside. I read the information board in the reception area at least five times, but I still have no idea where the maternity unit is. It’s marked clearly on the board, but I just can’t concentrate long enough to get the words to resonate in my head. I give up and decide to wander the corridors instead.

For such a large, busy hospital, the corridors are eerily quiet. I’m almost alone apart from the odd nurse or clerical administrator passing by. I’ve never spent so long admiring my shoes before as I keep my head down. I memorise each stitch in the leather. But my pathetic effort to avoid eye contact is having the reverse effect and compounding how ridiculous my jitters are.

I wander around hopelessly. I’m deep within the bowels of the hospital now but none the wiser about what direction I should be heading. The lift doors open beside me and a mother and her little girl step out. The child is six or seven, I guess. She holds her mother’s hand and hugs a tattered teddy bear under her chin. I imagine he’s so threadbare from seven years of little hugs. She’s small for her age and too thin. She wears a sparkly pink bandana on her head. Although it is pretty and suited for her small face, it’s obviously not a fashion statement. The mother’s face is pale and her bloodshot eyes spoil her pretty features. They walk slowly, almost tiptoeing. The little girl wilts after a few steps, and her mother stops walking to lift her daughter into her arms.

I can’t bear to watch them any longer. It’s breaking my heart;
no mother should have to know that fear.
But when the little girl drops her teddy, I find myself racing to pick it up for her.

‘Thank you,’ the mother says struggling as she tries to smile.

‘You’re welcome.’

The little girl grabs a grateful hold of her teddy and kisses and cuddles him with love.

‘I hope you get better really soon,’ I encourage.

Tears well in the mother’s eyes and her shoulders shake as she tries to fight back tears, and I instantly regret my words.

I watch them walk away. The mother’s arms wrap around her daughter’s back. She’s brave and defiant, but she knows they’re cheating death and soon will be outsmarted. I empathise with her pain. I recognise it. I understand her fight against it; her desperation to protect and save her child.

I clench my chest and tug at my clothes. It’s hard to breathe, as if the weight of my blouse against my skin is crushing me. It’s too hard to be here.
I can’t, I can’t.
I want to turn around and run back to the sanctuary of fresh air, but I have to do this for Ava.
I have to.
It’s just this place…the stench of disinfection and the undertone of death… I lean back against the wall, and breathe.
Just breathe.

In less than a minute, I have my racing pulse and closing airways under control. Turns out Doctor Hammond knows some shit because his meditation technique has just calmed me down. Relieved that it worked but pissed off that I needed to draw on his advice, I begin to wander around some more. I peer into corridors and rooms that tell the story of others’ lives. We’re all just strangers surrounded by bricks and mortar. But there are so many stories unfolding under the one roof. I can’t help but wonder how many people will be affected today by the news that someone they love is never coming home.