The Delaney Woman (11 page)

She stood, her hands shaking. “I'll start breakfast. Why don't you check on Heather? She's slept a long time.”

He watched her leave the room, a thoughtful expression on his face. Small chinks in the armor of her reserve were coming loose. Pain, unresolved and suppressed, was rising to the surface. He realized now that she'd been in shock when she arrived, but the numbness was disappearing. Soon, very soon, it would all come to a head. He wondered if she would be ready when it happened.

Heather slept soundly, her cheek buried in her pillow, her breath even and sweet. Tom sat down on the bed and touched his daughter's arm. “Wake up, love. It's late.” The child didn't move. He frowned. She was unusually flushed. He felt her forehead. It was clammy and hot. Her pulse fluttered beneath his fingers. Again he tried to wake her, his voice urgent, peremptory. “Heather, it's time to get up.”

Still no response. Kellie appeared in the doorway. She took one look at Tom and another at Heather. Then she ran down the hallway to the telephone.

Tom heard the ring-ringing of the medical van and saw two men he often shared a pint with at Feeney's Pub enter his daughter's room. He stepped aside while one checked her vital signs and the other asked the necessary questions. Kellie answered automatically.

“Heart rate and breathing are normal,” announced the medic.

Relief flooded through him releasing his tongue and the muscles in his arms and legs. “What's the matter with her?” he managed.

“She's out of danger, lad,” said the medic, “but she needs a hospital. My guess is that her blood supply was cut momentarily.”

“Is she in a coma?”

“Aye.”

“Will she come out of it?”

The two men looked at each other. “I don't know,” said one. “Better get her to a hospital and a doctor.”

Somehow Kellie's hand was in his. “Go with her in the lorry,” she said softly. “I'll call your mother and follow you in the car.”

The doctor was sympathetic but practical. The Banburren medical facility was a small one with no provisions for intensive care. Heather would have to be airlifted to Belfast. Tom watched the ground disappear beneath him as the chopper rose into the air. Filled with tubes, Heather lay pale and still beside him. A nurse kept a careful watch on her vital signs. The noise eliminated all possibility of conversation. The diagnosis wasn't yet conclusive but all signs pointed to a swelling on the brain. Heather would need surgery.

When he thought too deeply of the consequences, a horrifying blackness threatened to consume him, wiping away reason and rational thought. How could this happen to his healthy, beloved child?

The Royal Victoria in Belfast hummed with activity. Nurses in starched uniforms patrolled the sterile floors. Doctors perused charts, orderlies administered medicines and pushed wheelchairs. Disinfectant and efficiency prevailed. Tom was immediately reassured. Surely, this was a place where his child would recover.

Heather's physician was a young woman with cropped hair, smooth skin and a soothing smile. She confirmed the original diagnosis. “She has a swelling on the brain, possibly from some sort of trauma, perhaps a fall. It's large enough to put pressure on the artery which temporarily cut off her blood supply. She needs surgery to drain the swelling and relieve the pressure. We'll need blood for the surgery, Mr. Whelan. We prefer that you or the child's mother donate. Is that possible?”

Tom looked surprised. “Of course. Why wouldn't it be?”

“If you're HIV positive or if you've had hepatitis, we can't use you,” she explained, keeping her tone ever professional, “or if your blood is of a different type.”

“I haven't had either of those but I don't know if Heather's blood type is the same as mine.”

She smiled. “We'll find out. The lab is down the hall. I'll show you the way.”

* * *

Two hours later, after he'd forced himself to eat several biscuits and down a large glass of juice, the doctor found him in the waiting room. This time her smile was regretful. “We don't have a match, Mr. Whelan. Your daughter's blood type is B positive and you're an A negative. We don't have enough B positive blood in storage to attempt the surgery. Where is the child's mother?”

The child's mother. Good God
. He knew less than nothing about genetics. “Is B positive an unusual blood type?”

“Most people are O positive. About twenty percent of the population has blood type B, however those that do cannot receive blood from any other type. We have stored units, of course, not to worry, but it works best if we receive donated blood from family members.”

He cleared his throat. “I see.”

“When will your wife be arriving?”

His wife. When would his wife be arriving?
The young doctor looked pleasant enough, friendly, just the right amount of personal mixed with professional. She was obviously Protestant, from East Belfast. What would she say when he told her his wife was a Nationalist sympathizer, a terrorist, a murderer, serving time in Maidenstone for the murder of a British lord? Would her smile disappear? Would her pleasant manners and her resolve to administer the Hippocratic oath to all patients despite their religious persuasion change? Would Heather suffer?

Over the woman's shoulder he saw the double doors of the hospital open. Kellie walked in and Tom made an instant decision.

“She's here now,” said Tom. “Perhaps she has the same blood type.”

“There is no perhaps, Mr. Whelan. One of you must have it. A child has one parent's blood type or the other's. There are no exceptions.”

Kellie walked up in time to hear the doctor's comment. “Has what?”

“Your husband doesn't have the same blood type as your daughter, Mrs. Whelan. We're hoping you can donate several units for Heather's surgery.”

Kellie didn't blink an eye. “What type do you need?”

“B positive.”

She drew a deep breath and nodded. “That's me. What shall I do?”

Tom released his breath. Luck was with him.

The young doctor smiled at her. “Don't go anywhere. I'll see if I can get something set up right away. Have you ever given blood before?”

Kellie shook her head.

“It's quite simple.” She smiled brightly. “We're preparing her for surgery now. You'll be able to see her one more time before the procedure. If you need anything, check with the nurses' station.”

Tom watched her walk away. His hands balled in his pockets. “I shouldn't be doing this to you. I didn't even ask.”

“Did you think I would refuse a few pints of blood?”

He ran his hand through his hair. “I don't know what I thought. I didn't want the doctor to know about Claire.”

“What difference does that make?”

“I just don't think it would help Heather's cause to have anyone know her mother for what she is.”

“What is she, Tom?” Kellie asked softly.

He opened his mouth to answer and then closed it again. “I don't know,” he said. “We never talked in the end. Suddenly she was gone and it was over.”

“Do you want to know?”

He thought a minute and when he spoke his answer was honest and painful. “I don't know that, either.”

S
he looked no more than asleep, her cheeks porcelain and slightly pink beneath their spattering of freckles. Her small chest rose and fell with each steady breath. It was a peaceful scene except for the occasional bleating of the monitor, the tubes that fed her thin body and the knowledge that she wasn't asleep at all, but rather in the throes of a coma that could sap the memory from her brain and the strength from her limbs.

Tom sat by her bed, his eyes fixed on her face, his mind someplace outside himself. Kellie did not attempt to interrupt his thoughts with small talk. No one knew where a parent's mind was at a time like this, except the other parent and that wasn't possible. Tom was alone in this.

Involuntarily, she reached out to grip his hand. “I've heard that it helps to talk to her,” she said.

He nodded and said nothing.

Still holding his hand, Kellie sat down on the side of the bed. She wasn't Heather's mother or Tom's wife but she'd fallen in love with the little girl and it wouldn't hurt to try. “Hello, love,” she said in the soft, sweet tones she'd used with Danny. “You've had an operation to remove pressure in your brain.

The doctor says everything went well. She expects you to rest now. But, soon, you'll need to wake up and tell us how you're feeling. We miss you, love. Your da is here. Can you see him?” Kellie took one of Heather's hands. “If you can see him, squeeze my hand.” Nothing. “He's quite worried about you, you know,” she continued. “I, on the other hand, know how strong you are.” Tears formed in the corners of Kellie's eyes. She blinked them back and looked around, searching for more words. “The room they've put you in is lovely, blue and white with animals painted around the ceiling and cartoon pictures on the walls. When you open your eyes you'll see them. I'm sure they'll cheer you up.”

Tom's jaw was very tight and his grip on her hand crippling. Men didn't cry, especially Irish men, and not in front of women. They found solace with friends in the pubs and with God in the confessional, but never with their women.

Gently, Kellie extricated her hand from Tom's, rummaged through the large bag she carried and pulled out a book. “I visited the library, Heather. I found the book we were reading. Would you like to continue with it? Squeeze my hand, darling. Let me know you can hear me.” Nothing.

Undaunted, Kellie opened the book. “Why don't you find the cafeteria and eat something,” she said to Tom. “I'll be here when you get back.”

He shook his head. “Not yet. I can't bear to leave her yet.”

Kellie began to read, punctuating the beloved sentences of the C. S. Lewis book with the expression that Heather loved.

Beside her, some of the tension left Tom's face. She read for a long time, stopping for sips of water at chapter breaks. Tom's eyes had glazed over long ago. Heather lay still as death.

The young female doctor stepped into the room. She picked up the chart hanging at the foot of the bed. Then she felt the child's pulse. She smiled warmly at Kellie. “She's doing fine. The surgery went well. Don't worry. Children are resilient.”

“When will she wake?”

“Give her some time. The anesthesia is still in effect. We'll know more in a few hours.”

Susan Whelan tiptoed into the room, took one look at the child on the bed and another at her son's face. This was not to be. She shook him. “Tom”

Startled, he jerked awake. “Mam, thank God you're here.”

“The doctor said the surgery was successful.”

Kellie walked into the room with two cups of hot tea. Her eyes lit up. “Thank goodness. I didn't know you were coming.”

“And where else would I be I'd like to know with my granddaughter in the hospital and everyone at all sixes and sevens. How is she?”

“The same,” Tom said dully. “She's still unconscious.”

“That's to be expected,” Susan said practically. She reached for the tea. “I'll take one of the those and sit with the child while you two get some rest. Have you booked a room?”

Kellie shook her head. “Not yet.”

Susan adjusted Heather's blanket, tucking it around her chin. “There are some lovely places on the Stranmillis Road. You'll find one to cheer you up.”

“I'm staying here,” said Tom.

“They won't give you a bed,” said his mother. “You won't be any help to Heather unless you're thinking clearly.”

“I'll look into it,” Kellie said quickly.

“Meanwhile you need food,” said Susan. “Off with you, now.” She tugged at her son's arm. “Things will look better on a full stomach.”

Tom ignored her. Kellie knelt down beside him. “Your mother is here to help, Tom. She'll call us if there's any change. Please, come with me.”

He looked at her, unseeing at first, and then his expression changed and he stood. “Thank you, Mam,” he said to his mother. “You're right. I'm not thinking clearly.”

Susan nodded. “Call as soon as you're settled in.”

Belfast was home. Kellie had walked these streets for most of her childhood, not the trendy, upscale Stranmillis neighborhood with its quaint tourist shops, its tea and coffee houses and touristy eateries, but her old haunts bordered by the Ormeau Road, the Protestant Shankill and the Catholic Falls, working-class streets with graffiti on the walls and giant-size murals depicting the oppression of the last thirty years. Still, she knew Stranmillis. Anyone who'd been educated at Queen's knew it. It was an area that catered to students.

She pulled into the Lisburn Road and turned east on Eglantine. The guest house she had in mind, a charming brick structure set back on a long green lawn, had recently been renovated. One of the rooms was available. She booked it with a credit card.

Tom fell asleep immediately. Kellie frowned. How long had it been since he'd eaten? Ignoring her own rumbling stomach, she pulled aside the duvet on her own bed and crawled in. Perhaps she could persuade him to eat something after they'd both had a nap.

Her nightmare was a recurring one. The small blond child and the large man, the luxurious automobile and the mountain road narrowing into a series of twisting turns, the car picking up speed, the gathering momentum, the squealing of tires and, finally, the dreadful careening of the car off the road, down the mountain onto cliffs jagged and slick with ocean spray.

She jerked into consciousness with a scream in her throat. Tom sat on the side of her bed, his eyes warm with pity, his hand holding down one of her arms. She stared at him, muscles tensed, eyes wide, horror filled.

“Easy,” he said softly, “easy now. It's over. It's all over. You're all right.”

She nodded. Slowly her body relaxed.

He released her arm and whistled under his breath. “We're a pair, aren't we?”

She laughed raggedly. Embarrassed and exposed she turned her head to the wall, bracing herself for the questions she was sure would follow.

Surprisingly, they didn't. “I could eat something,” he said. “How about you?”

She thought a minute, gauged the level of her hunger and nodded again. “Where shall we go?”

He checked his watch. They had slept less than an hour when her screams woke him. “There's a restaurant near the City centre on the Donegall Road. It's called The Merry Monk. The last time I was there the food was decent. Shall we try it?”

Kellie sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Yes. Give me a minute.”

“Take your time. I'll call and check on Heather.”

The restaurant was dim with white tablecloths, ivory candles and a respectable wine list the kind of establishment Kellie could not afford in her student days at Queen's. Grateful for the full-length coat that covered her casual sweater and slacks, she waited for the maître d' to leave before slipping it off and hanging it over the back of her chair. Tom did not seem concerned that they were underdressed.

“I recommend the fish,” he said.

“Fish sounds perfect.” She looked at him curiously. “Do you come here often?”

“I've been here several times, but I'm not a regular customer if that's what you mean. I don't come into town often enough.”

“I wouldn't have thought—”

“What?”

She shook her head. “Never mind.”

His eyes glinted in the candlelight. “Let me guess. You wouldn't have thought that a blue collar lad from Banburren would know anything about fine dining.”

The red tide washing over her face was answer enough.

“I could say the same about you. Catholic girls from the Six Counties are more likely to wait tables than to dine in establishments like these.”

“That's a dreadful comment,” she admonished him.

“Is it true?”

She hated to give him the hand even if he was right but her innate sense of honesty prevailed. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“From where in Belfast do you hail?” he asked casually.

She saw no point in keeping it from him. “From Andersonstown. How did you know?”

He shrugged, lifted his glass and swallowed a healthy portion of Guinness. “No hesitation at street corners. No looking at signposts. You know the lay of the land, so to speak.”

Not for the first time did she wonder what she was up against. “I told you my undergraduate degree is from Queen's.”

“So, where do the nightmares come from?”

She kept her expression neutral, a woman in white wool with hair the color of toast. “From my head,” she said simply.

He changed the subject. “You're very good with children. Were you married, Kellie?”

Carefully, she lifted her wineglass to her lips and sipped. “No. Why don't we talk about you?”

The glint came back into his eyes. “My life is an open book. What can you possibly want to know that you don't already?”

She hedged. What she wanted to know was unspeakably rude. “Have you always wanted to be a musician?”

“God, no. It's enough for me to kick around with a few of those who have a bit of talent, fill in with the pipes when they need me and go home when the music is done. I'm not one for wanting to stay up half the night to tour the countryside.”

The server arrived and Tom ordered the white fish for both of them.

She waited until they were alone. “What about your writing?”

He drained his glass. “What about it?”

“Are you published?”

“Aye, but not enough to pay the bills.”

“Does your pipe making pay the bills?”

“Didn't your mum ever tell you that's a rude question to ask a man?”

“Yes, but I assumed we were beyond that.”

“All right then,” he said agreeably, “the pipes pay the bills to the tune of about five thousand pounds each.”

“You make twenty-five thousand pounds on the pipes alone?”

“I do. With that, a gig now and then and my poetry, I'm a fairly good catch. Maybe you want to get married.”

“The last time I checked you were already married.”

Tom grinned. “I forgot about that.”

She laughed back at him. “A minor roadblock.”

As they enjoyed a moment of comfortable silence Kellie decided not to mention the files she'd come upon, files stored in the hard drive of Tom's computer. The verses were deceptively complicated, serious, throat-catching, filled with everyday images, hazy pubs, smoky mists settling over the peat bogs, the smells of wet wool and bus exhaust, the grind of milk trucks on gravel roads, sheepdogs barking at their flocks, the sounds and sights and smells of Ireland. Tom Whelan had a voice, the voice of his world, subtle and unique, that tenuous quality that could be learned but never taught. She wondered if he knew how talented he was. How ironic to be in the presence of innate talent, she who'd been taught along with minds gifted enough to be admitted into the hallowed halls of the finest universities in England. No, she wouldn't mention the verse. Every instinct she'd grown up with shouted
invasion of privacy
. She was ashamed of her deception, ashamed of the role she played. More than anything she wanted to confide in him, to make him her ally, to enlist him in the conspiracy to find out why Connor was targeted. It was more and more apparent that she couldn't manage alone. In all this time she'd found nothing, more than likely because there was nothing to be found.

The wine was excellent, the fish thick and flaky, perfectly prepared by a chef who knew his food. Ireland was no longer a land of mushy vegetables and overcooked meat. Kellie, who thought she wouldn't be able to manage more than a few bites, worked her way through her plate quickly. She noted that Tom had done the same. “We were hungrier than we thought.”

He wadded up his napkin and dropped it on his plate. Once again, Kellie noticed his hands, wide, capable, neat hands. Perhaps it helped him to play his pipes.

“You love her, don't you?” he said abruptly.

The question was blunt, unexpected. She had no time to construct a safe answer. “Yes,” she said simply. “Who wouldn't love a child like Heather?”

“Do you want children, Kellie?”

She shrugged. The question had never been more painful.

“If that's a no, why not?”

The beep of his mobile phone interrupted them. Tom answered. Kellie waited, a tense anxious knot filling her stomach.

His face changed, every emotion raw and exposed. It was too much to watch. She looked down at her plate.

“Thank God.” He laughed. “We'll be right there. Thank you.” He pocketed the phone. “She's awake. Mam said the doctor had been in again and Heather is responding.” He reached across the table and clasped both of her hands. “She's going to make it, Kellie. She's all right.” His voice cracked.

Tears clouded her vision. She blinked and they rolled down her cheeks. She would have spoken but her throat was closed, the words crowded, locked inside her. Shaking her head, she pulled her hands away, folded the napkin and pressed it against her face.