Rain and Revelation (2 page)

Chapter Two

I stand in the doorway looking in. Frozen.

Ma’s eyes, wide and deep set, stare past me at the light. Her thin, parted lips twitch. It looks like she’s going to say something. But no words come out. Her eyes close. I can see her ribs as her chest rises, then lowers. Across her small, saggy breasts lies a shiny knife. She has her right hand on the black handle, almost clutching it.

Ma’s hand moves. A jerk. More blood. The knife clangs against the side of the tub. Jarred, I lurch forward and yell, “Oh, my God! No!” One step takes me to the edge of the cast iron tub. My knee hits the claw foot. Grabbing the hand towel near the basin, I slap it on Ma’s wrist. Blood leaks through. I grab the thicker towel on the rack and wrap it tightly.

With my hand clamping down on the towel, I whip my head around, looking for something. What? Someone to come. Someone to help. Someone to tell me that this is not real; that it is a hallucination, a dream. But, there is no one else.

And there is no time.

With one hand on the blood-soaked towel, I dig with my other hand for my phone in my back pocket. I stare at it. Who can I call? There is no doctor or clinic in town and no ambulance to call that could get here in time. The closest hospital is in Castlebar, a forty-five minute drive in good weather.

Rushing into my parents’ room, I grab the white chenille bedspread and drag it into the bathroom. I lift her out of the tub, straining to keep the towel on her wrist, and collapse on the tiled, ceramic floor with her in my arms. Wrapping her in the blanket, I clutch her close to me. A soft groan rises from her parted mouth. Rocking back and forth, I tell her to hold on. Her breath is warm on my cheek. She feels limp and small, almost like a child, not a grown woman. Not my mother.

My mother would never do this.

As my heart pounds, my breath quickens. Tears flood my face. No words of comfort or pleas come out of my mouth. Mute, I try to think of what to do.

There is only one thing I can do. Drive to Castlebar and pray that there’s still time.

Chapter Three

Ma feels like a sack of potatoes slung over my shoulder, wrapped in the bedspread that I’ve pulled tight around her. I’m afraid I’ll drop her. It’s her faint breath in the nape of my neck that weighs me down. Still warm. I wait for each breath. Still there. I hold my breath until I feel the next one.

Rain pummels us as I carry her to my car, the rusting Ford Escort parked near the door. I try to protect her from the rain, but her naked body in the bedspread is penetrable, defenseless.

I lower Ma into the backseat. Limp, like a sleeping newborn, her body doesn’t move. It stays where I lay her. She doesn’t curl up. I bend her legs so she will fit, and scatter the magazines and running clothes so they aren’t by her face. Pale and barely visible in the blanket, her face doesn’t look peaceful or in pain. It doesn’t, I realize, look like the mother I thought I knew.

The wipers struggle to scatter the rain pounding the cracked windshield. Sitting hunched over, my hands clenching the wheel, I can barely see a few feet ahead of me on the road to Castlebar.

My chest constricts. It feels like my breath is being squeezed out. I look for sheep. For cars. For time to be on our side. The pounding rain and furious wipers beat in my head. I look in the rearview mirror. Ma lays motionless. I don’t know if she’s still breathing. The spot on my neck where I felt her breath is cold. I crank the heat. I never noticed how the car takes bumps, its shocks useless. It seems like I’ve been driving for hours. I glance at the clock. Ten o’clock. I have been driving twenty minutes.

A light on the side of the road catches my eye. It spotlights a wooden, engraved sign with white painted lettering: Westport Veterinary Clinic. Pumping my brakes, I slow, barely making the turn into the gravel lot. The car skids to a stop. Ma bumps the front seat. In the mirror I see her mouth open slightly, but no words come out. Her eyes are still shut.

Quickly I get out, open the rear door and lower my face to her mouth. At first I don’t feel anything. My gut clenches. Then I feel her faint breath. It’s softer, it seems, than before. Lower, near her side, where I’ve wrapped her wrist in towels, I see that blood is soaking through the white bedspread.

I run into the clinic through the sheets of rain and scattered puddles. Barging through the door into the reception area, I yell for Doc, who helps Da during lambing. My voice doesn’t sound like my own. It’s higher, louder and frantic. A man, who is talking to the receptionist, moves out of my way.

Leaning on the counter, I repeat to the woman behind the desk, “I need Doc. Quick. My ma’s in the car.” I turn, not looking to make sure she heard me or to see if anyone is coming.

When I get to the car, the man who was standing at the counter talking to the receptionist is behind me. Wearing only a wool shirt and jeans but no overcoat, he lowers his lanky body into the rear seat. “Holy Mother Mary, what happened?” He is touching Ma’s neck with his hand.

The rain pours over me. “She cut her wrist.”

Without a word he lifts Ma out of the car and carries her toward the clinic. He yells, “Get the door!”

Inside he barks, “Call an ambulance. Get Imogene.” I follow him to the door, but the receptionist rises and plants her body between him and me. With her hair standing as tall as her hips spread wide, she blocks me from following. I look past her girth, but the door closes and Ma and the man disappear.

“Let him take her. You come with me, dear.” She grips my arm and steers me down a hall to a windowless room numbered two. A pedestal exam table fills the room. Mounted above the polished, stainless steel top is a computer monitor with a screensaver of sleeping golden retriever puppies curled together. There are wood cabinets mounted above the sink. On the counter beneath the cabinets is a bottle of disinfectant and clear, glass canisters with dog bones and cotton gauzes. I sit down on one of the metal chairs in my soaked jeans and sweater. I never grabbed my jacket. It dawns on me that I never shut the cottage door. Shuddering, I stare at the dull linoleum floor scattered with my muddied prints. I can’t stop shaking.

The woman drapes a blanket over my shoulders. “Can I get you anything, dear?” I can smell her breath ripe from cigarettes and coffee. I shake my head and look at the door, straining to see or hear anything that would tell me what was happening. She lowers herself into the other chair. Her polyester-covered thighs spill over the unpadded chair. Touching my arm, she whispers, “Dr. McCullough will take care of her.”

“That’s not Doc McCullough.” I jerk my head back toward the closed door.

“’Tis his son, Ryan. He just joined us. Right out of school.” Her voice swells with pride.

I try to picture the man’s face, but can’t. Young. That’s all I recall.

Doors slam shut somewhere down the hall. There are voices and words that I can’t make out. They rise and fall. I try imagining what is going on with Ma, but can’t. I strain to hear the sound of sirens. There are none.

“Would you like me to pray with you, dear?” She reaches for my hands which are stained with Ma’s blood. I yank them back, fold them in my lap and shake my head. “I’m really fine. Thank you.”

She smiles in a sugary way. “Then I’ll get you something hot to drink. Just wait here, love.” With her trousers riding high, the woman waddles away. The hollow door shudders shut.

Why would Ma do something like this? Squeezing my eyes shut, I see stars. Then a red glow. Quickly I open my eyes.

I think back to yesterday. Everything seemed fine when I came home after my afternoon run. She was sitting at the table. Her spot. I don’t recall our conversation, except she asked if I would be home for dinner. I said, “I don’t think so.” I couldn’t tell her that Mikey was picking me up, and we were meeting Fiona at Paddy’s pub after Maeve replaced me at the B&B. Ma liked Fiona, but not Mikey. She never liked any of my boyfriends. She just nodded without looking at me. She didn’t try to make me feel guilty for not eating. Mostly she wanted to know when I’d be home.

She always wanted me home, and I always wanted to be somewhere else.

A siren silences my thoughts. Feet pound past the closed door, down the hall. Should I leave or stay put? I stand frozen, staring at the shut door. Voices, muted but urgent, disappear. There’s a buzz of activity, but I am forgotten.

Then the door swings open, nearly hitting me before I step back. The man who carried Ma from the car stands there with his brow furrowed and his freckled face framed in brown curls.

“They’re loading her now.” He steps aside, motions me out toward the lobby area and then puts his hand on the low of my back and steers me out the front door.

“Is she still…?”

He nods.

Two attendants are about to close the ambulance’s rear door. Its blue lights are flashing. I can see Ma strapped to the gurney. She’s covered in layers of blankets. An oxygen mask covers her face.

“Hold on,” Doc’s son tells them.

They turn. He tilts his head toward me. They take my hands and hoist me inside and I mutter thanks.

I fall into a seat in the rear, away from the attendants who hook Ma to a monitor. I watch lines on the monitor without comprehending their meaning. The red lights flicker. Ma’s chest rises and then collapses. The attendant grabs something—I’m not sure what—from the white metal cabinets.

The door slams shut. I grip the seat. My knuckles turn white as the ambulance jolts forward.

Chapter Four

The last thing I remember is the doors of the ambulance slamming shut with Ma and me inside, and the piercing siren. Now the doors are open and I’m still slumped in the jumpseat. An attendant is hovering over me.

I don’t see Ma.

“What happened?” My voice sounds like a croaky whisper as I straighten up.

The attendant tapes the gauze down on the side of my head. “You fainted just after we took off and hit your head on the metal corner of the cabinet.”

Touching my head, I cringe and prop myself up. “I need to find Ma.”

He puts his supplies aside, jumps out of the ambulance, and extends his hand. I feel wobbly for a minute, but he steadies me. He asks if I’m okay walking through the emergency room door on my own, or do I need a wheelchair? I thank him, tell him I’m fine and walk the few feet to the door.

The rain has stopped, but dark clouds hover. A gust of wind whips my hair into my eyes. A strand catches in the tape and I nearly pull the bandage off when I tug the hair free.

Inside, fluorescent lights hurt my eyes. I can’t see Ma, only people standing in the hall, huddled in conversation. Then I see a desk. Behind it sits a grey-haired woman with a tight perm. She’s explaining something to an elderly couple. I stand behind them. The man, clutching his walker, jokes about the football team’s botched game. They don’t seem to notice me. His wife digs through papers with no sense of urgency.

Finally it’s my turn. “My ma just came in. I need to find her. Annie Conroy’s her name.”

The woman smiles and slides a clipboard with papers towards me. “Please take these papers, fill them out and then bring them back.” She spots someone wheeling a cart and waves. A chuckle escapes from her mouth as she looks down and begins typing something on the computer.

My breath quickens. “Do you know if she’s okay?”

She looks up. “I’m not sure, Miss, but we will find out. First, fill out the forms.”

“She just came in with the ambulance.” I consider lowering my voice, but don’t. “
Please
, can you tell me where they took her?”

“I don’t know, but don’t worry. She’s in good hands and someone will attend to you shortly.” She looks to the people behind me and waves them forward.

I don’t move. “Can
you
check?” The couple that was ahead of me stops a few feet away. They whisper to each other like people do when you come late to Mass and have to sit in the front pew.

She pushes the clipboard closer. In a deep, measured tone she says, “If you could
please
fill out the papers, Miss, I can help you. And, these fine people, too.” She motions towards chairs lining the wall.

I grab the clipboard and nearly knock over a cart of flowers. I mumble an apology and sit in the only open chair. Sandwiched between a woman cradling a crying infant with snot running down her red, blotchy face, and a long-haired boy dressed all in black, staring out the window with a set jaw, I start filling out the form.

Name of Patient: Annie Marie Conroy.

Reason for visit: Cut.

Date. I stop. What day is it? I fumble in my bag, digging for my phone, to check the date. I write the date, then stop and stare at what I’ve just written. It can’t be.

It’s Ma’s birthday. Her fortieth.

The fact that her birthday was approaching never crossed my mind. She hated her birthday or any fussing over her. Why would she do this today? Why would she do this at all?

I finish the forms and return the clipboard and forms, and then return to my seat as directed, to wait for news.

I call Da. He doesn’t answer. No surprise. I consider calling Paddy’s phone since he usually picks up, but instead I leave a message for Da saying that Ma cut herself and is at the hospital in Castlebar. I tell him to call me right away and to get here quick. I hang up but then call back and tell him that I don’t know if Ma will make it. I try not to sound like I’m crying. I try sounding like I’m okay. I make it short because my battery is almost dead.

I wait without any word about Ma. The woman with the baby and the boy leave and others claim their seats. The person distributing chipboards finally reports that they are attending to Ma, but she knows nothing else.

Granda calls. Four times. Each time I let it go into voicemail. I know what he wants, but I can’t bear to call him back when I don’t have any news.

I sit and stare at the door where I think they took Ma. I’ve seen other people come in on stretchers and get wheeled through the windowless, grey door.

Hours pass.

Finally a speckled, older man calls my name. I raise my hand like I’m back in school and then walk toward him. He looks gravely at me over his glasses and says, “I’m Dr. O’Brien and I’ve been attending to your mother.”

“Is she…”

“Weak, but stabilized.”

“Will she live?”

“She lost a lot of blood, but she should.” He looks past me to the people occupying the row of chairs. “Is your father here?”

“Not yet. Soon. I think.”

He nods. “I’ll be back when I have more news.” Then he disappears behind the unmarked doors.

I stand there alone.

Then I spot Styrofoam cups and a steel container of coffee and go pour myself a cup. It is thick, black and bitter. I can’t drink it. Sitting back in the chairs, I wait. On the far wall is a mounted television. I don’t recognize the show. Others in the room stare at it, too. Luckily, no one tries to talk to me. My eyes feel heavy, and my head throbs.

I must have dozed off because a familiar voice booms and jars me awake.

“Where the hell is my wife?”

Staggering through the sliding glass doors is my disheveled father, followed by Paddy, his best mate. I intercept Da. He steadies himself on the wall and looks at me blurry-eyed. “My Eliza,” he slurs.

“Nice of you to finally get here.” My face is close enough that his grey stubble scratches my cheek. His breath reeks of cigars and whiskey.

“How is she?” Paddy leans in to kiss me.

Da staggers to the chairs. A family promptly vacates. “You sounded so serious.” He contorts his face and tries focusing his bloodshot eyes on my face.

“It is serious,” I say, my teeth clenched.

Paddy stares intently at me. “What happened?”

“She slit her wrist in the tub.” My voice cracks.

Da wails, “Oh, bloody hell.”

“It was.” My tone is sharp.

Paddy puts his arm around me, and I cry. I don’t want to, but I can’t stop. I bury my head in his wool overcoat that smells sweet and familiar. He strokes my hair. After a few minutes he points to the bandage on my forehead. “What happened to you?”

“It’s nothing, just a bump. I fainted in the ambulance.” I pull away when I hear footsteps.

Dr. O’Brien says to Paddy, “Mr. Conroy?”

Da nearly tips over as he gets up. “I’m Seamus Conroy. Not that bloke.”

As Dr. O’Brien shakes Da’s hand, Paddy puts his hands in his suit pockets and steps a few feet back and looks down at his polished shoes.

“Your wife lost a lot of blood, but luckily your daughter got her to a clinic in time to stop the bleeding. She is stabilized, but we are still watching her closely.”

“Aye, Eliza’s a smart one.” He takes off his tweed hat and runs his hands through his flattened brown hair.

Paddy clears his throat and steps forward. “I’m a friend of the family. Paddy McDonald.” He shakes Dr. O’Brien’s hand.

Dr. O’Brien steers us down the hallway, outside the hearing of others waiting for news. “I’ve recommended that Mrs. Conroy be admitted to St. Patrick’s Hospital in Dublin. They do an excellent job treating people with depression and have an in-patient program for which she qualifies. I’ve already been in contact with them, and they can admit her once we are confident she can travel.”

“Annie’s always been a bit off in the head, but she’s not a nut job,” Da bellows. Paddy grabs his arm and tells him to mind himself.

Dr. O’Brien grimaces. He says, “Mr. Conroy, your wife needs help. This isn’t the first time she has done this.”

“What?” I say.

Dr. O’Brien turns to me. “There are scars on her other wrist. It doesn’t look like it was a deep cut, but still I am concerned that if she doesn’t receive treatment, she may try to harm herself again.”

Da shakes his head. “Hell, that was when she was a wee thing. She was just twelve or thirteen. Just playing around, she said.” Da turns to Paddy. “Didn’t she tell us about that? Her ma was pissed and gave her a beating for it. Remember?” Paddy shrugs.

“I don’t think she’s playing around, Mr. Conroy. She needs help.”

“Jaysus. What will people say? They talk, you know.”

I swat the sleeve of Da’s jacket, which nearly knocks him over. Paddy steps forward and steadies Da.

I say, “Can I see her?”

Dr. O’Brien shakes his head. “I’m afraid she doesn’t want to see anyone, including you and your father. I’m sorry. She has agreed to go to St. Patrick’s—so, Mr. Conroy, your permission is not necessary.”

Da huffs and staggers back to the chairs. With cap askew, he stretches and closes his eyes.

Dr. O’Brien digs out a piece of paper from his pocket and holds it out to me. “It’s an excellent facility. Here is the name of the contact person. They will arrange transfer.”

I take the paper. The small, nearly illegible writing blurs through a veil of tears. I nod. Paddy thanks the doctor, who excuses himself to see other patients.

Tucking the paper in my pocket, I turn toward the door. “I’m out of here.”

Paddy puts his arm out and stops me. “How are you getting back? Let me drive all of us home.” He tries to hug me, but I dodge his embrace and shake off his sympathy. Casting a glance at Da, I see he’s now spread himself over two chairs and has closed his eyes.

“Don’t mind me. I’ll take care of myself.”

I walk outside, through the now empty hall and out the main entrance. Then, I call Mikey.