Bridesmaid Blitz (25 page)

He notices my wince and pulls his T-shirt down a bit. “Sorry. Thought you’d be off to school by now, Amy.”

“Just leaving.” I grab my bag and vamoose.

Dad rings me on Thursday evening. “What are you up to, Amy? Can you talk?”

“Only homework, so definitely yes.”

He laughs. “Don’t let your mother hear you. Listen, we’re thinking of having a welcome-home party for Gracie on Saturday afternoon. Bit of food, champagne, that kind of thing. You free? And do you think your mum and Dave would like to come?”

“Count me in. And I’m sure they’d love to. What about Clover?”

“Of course. She did an amazing job getting Shelly to the hospital so quickly. Quite the mad dash, eh?”

It’s the first time Dad’s mentioned the role Clover played in the Parnell Street escapade. I wait, expecting him to acknowledge
my
part, but he just adds, “Gramps too if he’s around.”

“I’ll tell them,” I say, trying to keep a sigh out of my voice.

“Pauline’s dying to meet Gramps,” he says, oblivious.

“Really? I’d better warn him about her in that case.”

Dad chuckles. “She’s off in Dundrum buying a new outfit for the party as we speak; took Shelly with her. The woman seems to spend half her life shopping. But with Gracie coming out of the hospital tomorrow, I guess it’s the last chance Shelly will get for a while. She wants to buy some sort of special baby blanket with Velcro on it and another thermometer for Gracie’s room. She doesn’t trust the one we have already.”

Is he kidding? Shelly will probably spend 99 percent of her time in Dundrum, shopping and lunching — they don’t call posh new mums Yummy Drummies for nothing, and retail therapy seems to be in the Lame blood. He’ll learn soon enough, though, so I say nothing.

“They wouldn’t let me go with them,” he continues. “Well, Pauline wouldn’t. Shelly wouldn’t be that mean.” (I have to stop myself from snorting.) “I’m a bit sick of being left out, to be honest,” he goes on. “I even took some time off this morning to help bathe Gracie, but Pauline wouldn’t let me near her, insisted she’d help Shelly and sent me packing. And it’s not the first time. Last week . . .”

And as I listen to Dad’s litany of Pauline-related woes and hear how abandoned he’s feeling, I get more and more irritated. He really is clueless. How can he not realize he’s doing exactly the same thing to me? I have to do something.

Finally, I interrupt his moans. “Dad, stop a minute. Look, can you come over? I need to talk to you.”

“Is everything all right, Amy?”

“Not really, but we need to talk about it in person.”

“OK. Nothing too serious, I hope?”

I sigh. “Just come over, Dad, please.”

“Have you eaten?”

“No, why?”

“I was about to order a pizza. If you can wait forty minutes or so, I’ll come by and get you: how about Milano’s in Dun Laoghaire?”

“Sounds like a plan. See you then.” I click off my mobile, my stomach already a butterfly farm of nerves. Talking to Dad isn’t going to be easy, but I just feel that if I don’t do it now, I might never do it.

Here’s the thing (I’ve been thinking about it a lot): Dad ignoring me (unless he wants to moan about Pauline), I can handle, but I don’t want me and Gracie to have the kind of relationship Sophie Piggott has with her half-sister, who she only sees at Christmas and birthdays. I want to be a proper part of Gracie’s life — someone she can rely on. With Shelly for a mum, and Dad the way he is, she genuinely needs me. If it weren’t for Clover, I don’t know how I’d cope. I want to be Gracie’s Clover. And personally, I think that’s worth fighting for.

I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Dad’s car, picking at the skin around my thumb, too nervous to say anything yet. Dad seems happy enough to concentrate on his driving, tapping his fingers on the wheel in time to an ancient Phil Collins song about living separate lives. I try to block it out.

We drive past Dun Laoghaire Park and swing a left toward Milano’s, Dublin Bay stretching out in front of us, the gray blue of a whale’s back. There are dark clouds in the sky and it looks like it’s about to rain. Dad parks outside the Royal Saint George Yacht Club, and the minute the engine’s off, he starts moaning again. “Remember I was telling you about Pauline not letting me bathe Gracie?” (Oh, no, here we go.) “She won’t let me change her nappy either. Makes me sit and watch while she does it.”

“Dad, you hate changing nappies.”

He sniffs. “That’s not the point. Gracie’s my daughter and Pauline won’t let me near her most of the time.” He sits back in his seat and crosses his arms huffily. “My own daughter. I feel so left out.”

I stare at him. “Really?
You
feel left out?” I load my voice with sarcasm, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

He nods. “I wish Pauline would just go off back to Portugal and leave me and Shelly alone. We don’t need her or anyone else’s help at the moment. Me, Shelly, Gracie — they’re the only people I want in the house. Just the three of us.” He realizes the second it’s out what he’s just said, but it’s too late.

My heart starts pounding in my chest and I’m so upset I can hardly breathe. Before I know what I’m doing, my hand is on the door handle and I’m out of the car and sprinting past the yacht club toward the East Pier.

“Amy, wait!”

I hear the bang of a car door, then Dad’s feet pounding the pavement behind me. I pick up speed. When I reach the top of the pier, a stitch is building in my stomach but I keep running.

Dad is just behind me. “Amy!” He grabs my arm. “Stop!”

I give in to him. It’s a relief, to be honest. I bend over and puff and pant a little, trying to relieve the stitch. Dad’s out of breath too.

“Amy, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” he says.

I stay low, putting my hand over my face to shield the tears that are now splattering onto the polished concrete surface.

“Ah, baby. Come here.” He pulls me up and puts both arms around my back, hugging me tight.

I only let him hold me for a split second, then pull away.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again. “I know you’re upset by what I said, but please, don’t ever run away from me like that again. Talk to me; tell me how you’re feeling.”

I turn around and face him. “I would if I could get a word in, Dad. It’s all
me, me, me
with you these days.
Nasty Pauline is picking on me.
Well, boo, hoo. You need to listen to yourself!”

“Amy!” He looks genuinely shocked that I’m so angry with him. “Have I really been all that self-absorbed?” he asks.

“Yes! You never even asked me about Paris,” I say, my eyes sparkling. “You say
you
feel left out. Well, I haven’t seen my sister for nearly two weeks ’cos you’re all too busy shopping to bother about me. Gracie doesn’t need all that stuff you’re buying her. She just needs you both to love her. And pay attention to her. And let her see the other people who love her —” I break off, a lump forming in my throat. “As for saying the only people you want in the house are you, Shelly, and Gracie, how do you think that makes
me
feel?”

Dad sighs and shakes his head. “I know how it must have sounded. I wasn’t thinking, Amy. Of course, I meant the four of us. You, me, Shelly, and Gracie.”

“That’s just it: you don’t think. You say these things all the time.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try not to be so insensitive. And you’ll see Gracie every second weekend, I promise.”

He’s still not getting it. “That’s not what I mean. It’s not about the visits. I know I don’t live with you guys, so I’m not going to see Gracie every day, but I still want to be a
proper
sister to her, not just someone she sees every second weekend. She needs me, Dad. Don’t you understand?”

Dad looks a little awkward. (He’s always hated emotional confrontations. You should hear Mum on the subject.) “You’re right,” he says eventually. “She does need you. And so do I. I’ll try to be a better dad, honest.” He smiles at me and then pulls me into a hug.

I sigh into his shirt, give in, and hug him back. (It’s impossible to be cross with Dad for long.) After a moment, I pull away. “Look, there’s another reason I wanted to see you. I have presents for you and Gracie. From Paris. They’re in the car.”

“You shouldn’t be spending your money on us.”

“But you’re my dad, and Gracie’s my sister — not my
half
-sister, like you said. My proper, 100 percent sister.” My God, do I have to drill it into his big, thick skull?!

He looks embarrassed. “I only called her that because I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“What
I
wanted?”

He nods. “When I first told you you’d have a new brother or sister, way back in the spring, you said
half
-brother or
half
-sister, remember?”

And it comes back to me.
Siúcra
, he’s right. “I didn’t mean it. I was upset.”

“I know. And I want you in Gracie’s life, honestly I do. But she’s only a couple of weeks old, Amy. She can’t even talk yet.”

“Dad, I know you’re not really all that keen on babies —”

“That’s just not true,” he blusters.

I look at him, my eyebrow cocked.

“OK, I admit I find them hard work. Once they can talk and kick a ball around, they get a lot more interesting. But, for God’s sake, don’t tell Shelly or Pauline that.”

“As if. But
I
love babies. You know I love babies. Watching them, holding their tiny hands, smelling their necks — everything about them. You start bonding with babies from day one, Dad. You can’t just plonk yourself into their lives as soon as they’re potty trained; you have to be there for the long haul, changing nappies, bathing them, rocking them to sleep, singing to them — not Phil Collins, obviously, songs babies like, nursery rhymes and lullabies.”

He smiles. “Nothing wrong with Phil Collins. He’s the man.”

I roll my eyes. (When it comes to music, Dad is clearly delusional.) “And, Dad,
you
have to start getting more involved with looking after Gracie. Sounds to me like you’re standing back and
letting
Pauline take over. Tell her how you feel; ask her to show you how to bathe Gracie properly and change her nappies. Prove you can do it on your own. Tell her you want to bond with Gracie. Be more assertive.”

Dad’s staring at me. “Amy Green, how do you know so much about what makes people tick?”

I shrug. “Some of it’s from Clover, but I’m interested in people — I watch them, ask a lot of questions. I listen to them.”

Dad laughs. “I guess you do.” He looks at me, really looks at me, his eyes soft and a little sad. “I don’t deserve you, Amy. I’m a terrible dad.”

“You’re not that bad,” I say, nudging him with my shoulder. (He is pretty useless sometimes, but he’s still my dad.) “I’ll be your starter daughter. You can learn about being a dad using me, make all the mistakes you like, but try to get it right with Gracie, OK?”

He nods, his eyes glistening with tears. “I’m so sorry, Amy.” Uh-oh, I’m used to Mama Meltdown, but Papa Meltdown is a new one on me.

“Dad, it was a joke! Please don’t go all mushy on me. I get enough of that at home.”

He wipes his eyes with his knuckles and smiles gently. “From now on, things are going to change; you can see Gracie whenever you like, I promise. And if Shelly and Pauline have anything to say about it, they’ll have me to deal with. And we’re going to have a regular pizza night, just you and me.”

I give him a hug and then my stomach rumbles like an active volcano. “Speaking of food,” I say, drawing away. “I’m starving. Can we eat now?”

All this drama has made me extra hungry.

By lunchtime on Saturday, Pauline’s in full swing, waving her empty champagne flute around like a sword and yelling, “More glue, Vicar?”— whatever that means. She’s been flirting with Gramps all afternoon, snaking around him in a tiered white country-and-western skirt — which Clover is not finding amusing.

We’re all at Gracie’s homecoming party: me, Gramps, Clover, Mum, Dave, Evie, and Alex. Mum spent the first ten minutes studying the elaborate curtain swags, the tassels on the bottom of the vast cream sofa, the perfect white walls, the delicate angel ornaments on glass shelves — Shelly has a thing about angels — and smiling to herself.