Fragile Lies (29 page)

“That depends on whether we’re discussing a male or female,” Lorraine replied, still puzzled on the gender issues surrounding this particular friend.

“You think Fran’s a
girl
?” Outraged, Emily stared at her mother.

“It’s the eye shadow that makes me uncertain.”

“So? Has anyone ever stopped you wearing aftershave?”

“I don’t wear aftershave.”

“But Fran wouldn’t stop you if you wanted to. Why can’t he wear eye shadow? Your generation are always labelling people. It’s so …
so
old age stuff.”

“All I asked was – oh, never mind. I’ll ring his mother and check if it’s OK.”

“We’re planning a surprise birthday party for the goths.” She bared her teeth, stuck two index fingers to the sides of her mouth. “We’re going to dress up as vampires and invite them over to his house. Then we’re going to jump out on them from behind the kitchen door.”

“Have you considered the possibility that Janis and Joplin could drop dead from shock?”

“Then we suck their blood.” She guffawed heartily.

Mother and daughter had reverted to their natural roles.

K
illian

S
nowflakes in a glass orb
. Still and peaceful, shining like a diamond on his grandmother’s mantelpiece. He shakes the world. Shakes it in his fist. Watches the snowflakes swirl. Watches them settle. He waits for the night shift.

A
broken tibia
, Killian. What on earth was your father doing in Trabawn? Never heard of the place. Don’t fret, he’ll be back soon. Duncan got a star in school today. Best boy in class. He’s with me now. Say hello to Killian.

Hello … hello … can we go home now?

Another boy band in the charts, Killian. White suits, ugh! I’ve got a rose tattooed on my shoulder. See? Mum is threatening to lock me up and throw away the key. Lorcan’s a suit. Can you believe it? He showed me his business card. Advertising Executive. He’s even carrying a briefcase. Says it impresses the hell out of his old man.

Knock Knock. Who’s there? B-4. B-4 who? Let me in B-4 I freeze to death. Ha Ha Ha.

The job’s crap, my mate. Guy’s a snowflake. He doesn’t see me. Just the old man’s money. She’s a bit of all right but a real ball breaker. Wake up, Killian. Wake up! I want to talk to you proper.

My daughter text tonight. She has a boyfriend now. A biker boy. Angel from hell. I worry he will go too fast. Soon I see my family. Soon, little soldier, soon.

Killian, it’s Meg. See what I’ve got.
The Cat in the Hat
! Bet you remember every word. But I’m going to read it again, anyway. Eoin’s here too. He brought you a xylophone. Listen to the notes … doh ray me fah soh lah tee doh. Listen again … and again … sing with your heart, Killian, and we will hear you.

I’ve put on weight. Comfort eating. My wedding dress is too tight. Fuck! Why did I ever say yes?

There you are, Loveadove. I’ll park my trolley and we’ll begin. Am I holding biscuits in my hand? One blink for yes, two for no.

Blink
.

How many biscuits am I holding up?

Blink! Blink! Blink!

Three it is. A genius … a bleedin’ genius, that’s what you are! What’s with those goats in their white coats? Don’t know their arses from their elbows. Goats in white coats – listen to me. I’m a bleedin’ poet. Isn’t that what I am?

Blink!

Killian my wandering boy. Where have you gone? Further than any of us, I should imagine. Wait till I tell you about the Milford Sound! Such magnificence. Such adventures. I’ll bring you with me next time. Maggie says you’re counting. How many fingers have I got? Three, you say. Three fingers and a thumb. Lost one in Alaska. Bet it’s preserved better than I am. Where on earth is your father? Lucky I had the key to his apartment or I’d have spent the night on the corridor. His phone is off. It’s not like him to be out of contact. Must ring Jean, see what’s going on.

“
I
s this Michael’s phone
?” The voice at the other end had the huskiness of a heavy smoker.

“Yes, it is,” Lorraine replied.

“Can I speak to him, please? I’ve been trying to contact him since last night.”

She had been clearing the breakfast dishes from the table when she remembered his mobile phone. The call came shortly after she removed it from the charger and switched it on.

“I’m afraid he’s still in hospital.”

“Jean told me about his accident. How is he?”

“He’s over his operation. Yesterday, his temperature was still high but I’ve been speaking to him this morning and he sounds fine.”

“Who are you, my dear?”

“My name is Lorraine Cheevers. Michael’s accident happened close to where I live. I’ll be visiting him shortly.”

“I’m his aunt, Harriet Carmody. Could you give me the telephone number for the hospital? I flew in from New Zealand late last night but he wasn’t expecting me back for some weeks yet.”

Lorraine flicked among the papers on the telephone table and called out the hospital number.

“I’ll ring him right away.” The woman thanked her. “He must be extremely worried about Killian.”

“Is Killian all right?”

“There’s no change, at least not that I can notice. But I’m afraid the prognosis remains as bleak as ever.”

“Prognosis?”

“I’m in the clinic with him at the moment. How long does Michael expect to be in hospital?”

“I’m not sure … are you saying there’s something
seriously
wrong with Killian?”

“There’s no deterioration in his condition, if that’s what you mean. He’s still in a deep coma but I was talking to the tea lady before I rang you and she insists there are signs of an increased response. She may have something there. It’s so hard to be certain. If the doctors knew what she’s doing they’d have apoplexy.”

“But Michael said … are you telling me that Killian is in a
coma
?” Lorraine’s voice faltered, fell silent.

“Hasn’t Michael told you about his son?” The woman sounded surprised.

“No.” His mobile phone was heavy in her hand. “What happened to him?”

After the phone call ended, she sat at the table and stared towards the window. Her skin felt hot, attacked by a heat rash or a fever. Water dripped like tears from the eaves, shimmered in the glare of winter sunshine. Her eyes were dry as she left the house and drove towards the hospital.

She knew the Hammond Clinic, a small private hospital where one of Donna’s friends had died after being in a coma for a month. Afterwards, a short memorial service had been held in the oratory. Her abiding memory of that occasion was the deep peaceful silence that filled the corridors. A deceptive silence, born out of desperation as relations waited for a signal, a sigh, a whisper from their loved ones who lay sleeping behind closed doors.

Snow lingered on the hospital roof but the flower beds were splashed with green. Early crocuses poked spiky stalks above the earth and the snowdrops were once again visible. He sat outside the bedcover. One leg was heavily encased in plaster of Paris from thigh to shin. The devastation on his face confirmed that his aunt had already been in touch.

He winced when she flung his mobile phone on the bed. “You have to give me a chance to explain,” he said. “Please sit down, Lorraine.”

“Why?” she demanded. “What possible explanation can you give me? You wanted me to meet your son. To paint his portrait. I don’t understand –” She was unmindful of the other patients, the visitors who paused in their conversations to glance curiously in their direction.

“I was going to tell you today. I don’t know what I was going to say – but I hoped to make you understand. I’d no idea Harriet was returning so soon from New Zealand.”

“She said Killian was knocked down in a hit-and-run accident.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you lie to me? What possible reason could there be to tell such a terrible lie?”

“I believed you were responsible for his accident.” The words fell dully, shockingly, between them.

Seeing her expression grow more incredulous, he pleaded. “Please give me time to explain properly, Lorraine.”

She tried to concentrate on what he was saying. His voice seemed far away, unconnected. She pushed the chair back from his bed. She needed distance if she was to hold herself together. He stretched out his hand to comfort her, a jerking movement that disturbed the cast. The pull of his cheeks revealed his pain.

“Where did the accident happen?” she asked.

“On the Great South Wall.”

A boy on the pier, the ferry sailing towards the horizon. Every word they had spoken was meaningless, every gesture misunderstood. Their loving … she closed her eyes, unable any longer to look at him. How he must have hated her, even as he kissed her mouth and stirred her with emotions she believed had been buried forever. He had raped her with his thoughts, desired what he despised, swallowed her in his dark, deep eyes. “Don’t say anything else. I can’t bear to hear another word. Every time we were together I sensed it. But I couldn’t understand –”

“I never meant to fall in love with you. It didn’t make sense. You’ve no idea how hard I fought against those feelings but they cut through everything, the evidence and suspicions, all the anger. I went to Trabawn to accuse you.” He forced her to listen. “But that time in your studio … Killian almost died. We didn’t believe he’d make it back.”

Tears rushed into her eyes. She willed them away. She had shed too many tears over love.

He mentioned Meg’s name and other names that meant nothing to her. She was unable to absorb what he was saying. His voice was too fast, incoherent almost, his breathing shallow, his complexion as translucent as wax.

Before Meg and Eoin went to the States, they had thrown a farewell party. The house was so crowded that people spilled out into the back garden. Had Michael Carmody been among the crush of people who raised their glasses and wished Eoin success in his sabbatical? Had they noticed each other among the crowd then passed on by, never registering the moment? Surely she would have remembered his searching gaze. But she would not have been the object of his attention, not then, not when their worlds were intact and secure.

“I’m leaving, Michael.” She willed her legs to hold her upright.

If she walked from the ward she could reach her car in five minutes. Spine erect, eyes looking straight ahead. He pleaded with her to stay but then, realising the enormity of his accusation, his head fell back against the pillows and he was silent.

She ignored the urge to run but once outside the hospital she hurried towards the car-park. She gripped the steering wheel and drove carefully away. How was she to make sense of anything? A portrait of his son. She was mired in lies. Surrounded by illusions.

He rang her house and left messages. She ignored his entreaties, his declarations of love. He was discharged from hospital. Fred Byrne arrived and removed his car. The grass where it had rested was flat and withered.

His manuscript arrived in a Jiffy envelope a week later, sheets of printed paper stapled together. He had handwritten the brief note accompanying it.

I wrote this when I was in a dark place. Please read it and try to understand how I could have been so wrong.

She read about his son. The bitter struggles to claim his love, his loyalty. What a picture he painted. Tug love eventually replaced by tough love. She read about a wino with a clown’s name, a vandalised car, painting materials in the boot, a bracelet in the dashboard, uniquely designed, stolen by a homeless youth called Ferryman.

Silver was a colour of many hues: the moon above the sea, a shimmer of mist on hedgerows, the gleam in the edge of a sharpened blade. It reflected in the plunge of a needle, glittered on a woman’s wrist. In the dead of night, silver was a bullet waiting to strike.

B
rahms Ward
, 5 p.m.

K
illian
, I’m here now. Don’t mind me lumbering around the ward. I’m an awkward ass on these crutches. What a time I’ve had of it … what a time. Never mind. Onwards march, as Meg says. She gave me a right tongue-lashing, I can tell you. You look stronger today. Good colour on your cheeks. I like the new pyjamas.

Maggie says you’re pressing her hand, blinking with your eyes, sending signals.

“Goats in white coats.” She thinks she’s the new poet laureate. “Your lad has a grip as tight as a crab’s claw and he means business. Go on, see for yourself.”

Here’s my hand. Tell me – did you miss me when I was in Trabawn? Ouch, Maggie’s right. A real bone crusher that was … oh Killian … Killian … don’t mind me. I’m a fucked up mess. I’m sorry for staying away so long. As they say, the matter was out of my legs. Sorry, bad joke. Almost as bad as Terence’s knock knockers.

Count my fingers. Five blinks, excellent. How many fingers has Harriet? All present and correct, my man. I was fifteen years old when I told her I wanted to follow in her footsteps, figuratively speaking, not literally. Unlike your great-aunt, I’d no interest in paddling the waters of the Ganges or trekking to the roots of the Grand Canyon. I filled pages with unremarkable poems which she slashed with her eyes and said, “Dead words, Michael. I want to live inside your head, not stare at your thoughts through a window that shines too brightly from other people’s elbow grease. Bring me on a journey where I touch, smell, see, breathe, love.”

I sent your story winging through the post, addressed to Trabawn. Did she read it, I wonder, or did she scatter the pages to the wind? She never replied. She found me in a boathouse, a gaping mouth facing the sea. She held me in her arms. I didn’t care about the pain. That’s the way it is with love.

You remind me of my mother when you look at me like that. Eyes like pennies. Lorraine’s eyes closed me out. Her face seemed to break apart when I tried to explain. From the beginning we were on different wavelengths yet they joined together and everything seemed possible. Strange things, telephone calls. The one that brought an ambulance to the pier saved your life. The one Harriet made destroyed mine.

Do you think your father is a crazy, sad old man? Blink once for yes. Twice for no.

B
link
!