Something in Common (42 page)

She drew in a shaky breath and forced herself to continue. ‘I went to Brian’s mother’s funeral,’ she told him, watching his expression changing. ‘I saw Noreen there. I think I knew that day, when I saw how … defeated she looked. I felt bad for her. I felt bad because of what you had done, to both of us. I was ashamed of what you had done.’

He nodded slowly. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘so that’s what this is all about. You’re getting your own back. I hurt you, so now you’re hurting me.’

‘No,’
she said fiercely, ‘it’s
not
that – I’m not like that. I don’t think like that, you know I don’t. I
was
heartbroken when you left me, of course I was, and the fact that it was for someone I’d trusted and liked made it twice as bad. And when you came back I could see that you were genuinely sorry, and I was prepared to forgive you – I
did
forgive you. It was only when I saw her again that I realised that what you had done had … killed something between us.’

‘That
funeral was weeks ago,’ he protested. ‘You said nothing about it. You didn’t even tell me you’d gone.’

‘No, I didn’t. I was prepared to stay with you because I was pregnant with your child. I thought I owed it to you, and to the baby, to stay together. But now—’ She broke off, biting into her cheek.

‘I’m still Stephen’s father,’ he said, ‘and I’m as much Martha’s parent as you are.’

‘I know that – and you always will be. You’ll be able to see them. We’ll work out an arrangement. But we won’t be together any more. We can’t be. I can’t.’

‘Sarah, don’t do this,’ he said, his voice changing. ‘I’m grieving too, you’re not the only one.’

She looked at him, the man she’d once loved. ‘I know you are,’ she said gently, ‘but it doesn’t change things. I’m sorry.’

‘We need each other,’ he insisted. ‘You do love me – you’re not thinking straight now.’

She got to her feet. She took in the thick, light-brown hair that never lay straight, the little bump halfway down his nose, the squiggle of creases that fanned out from his grey eyes, the twin freckles in the centre of his right cheek. Not at all unattractive, in a roughly put-together sort of way. Good hands too: she’d always admired his hands.

‘I
am
thinking straight,’ she said. ‘I’m telling you the truth for the first time in months. We’re finished. This is finished. I’m not happy about it, I wish it could be different, but it’s not, and it never will be. You need to understand that.’

But she knew nobody would understand it: they’d all think she’d lost her mind. They’d tell her it made no sense, she was acting irrationally, she’d regret it. They’d put it down to her grief. They’d say she was lashing out at the one closest to her, like people often did when they were overwrought.

But
they’d be wrong. She’d never been so sure of anything. It was the right thing to do, like it had been the right thing to do to marry him eighteen years earlier, after they’d met in the nursing home and fallen in love.

She’d managed without him once; she’d do it again, even without the help of her father who was eighty-five, and beginning to show signs of slowing down. She was heartbroken, torn in two with loneliness and anger and grief, but she’d cope. She was healthy and strong, with two beautiful children, a steady job and a successful series of books that was about to be published in the US. She’d find a way.

Later that week, after Neil had packed up and moved back to his mother’s house, after Sarah had explained to the children that they were going to be living apart from now on, but that they’d see him as much as they wanted, after she’d broken the news to Christine and her father, and endured the disbelief and disapproval that she’d been expecting, she sat down to write to the one person she knew would understand.

T
he
number
was
unfamiliar. ‘Hello?’

‘Am I speaking
with Helen?’ A woman’s voice, calm, businesslike.

Helen sniffed the pineapple she was holding. ‘Yes. Who is this?’

‘I’m calling from St Regina’s Hospital. We found your number in the mobile phone of an older lady who was brought in earlier—’

Helen lowered her arm. ‘What lady?’

‘The only identification we could find is a library card in the name of M. D’Arcy.’

M. D’Arcy.
Margaret D’Arcy.

Helen dropped the pineapple and her half-filled supermarket basket, and began walking rapidly towards the exit. ‘What happened? How is she?’

‘May I ask if you’re a relative?’

‘Daughter.’ She rummaged in her bag for her car keys as she strode through the doors into the chilly January evening. ‘What happened?’ she repeated.

‘She collapsed on the street. She was brought in about an hour—’

‘How is she?’

‘The doctor is with her now. If you could—’

‘What hospital did you say?’

‘St Regina’s. It’s along by the—’

‘I
know where it is.’

She hung up and pushed her key into the car door, trying to take it in. Her mother had collapsed on the street: her elegant mother had stopped walking and crumpled onto the path, surrounded by strangers.

Someone, presumably, had phoned for an ambulance, which had taken her to St Regina’s where someone else had rummaged in her handbag and scrolled through the contacts in her mobile phone – the phone Alice had given her for Christmas – and decided that
Helen
, first name only, might be able to identify her. She had no idea who else was in her mother’s contact list, or which other person they might have tried before they’d got to
H.

Alice’s name was surely there, had to be one of the first listed. But Alice’s number was foreign, so presumably they’d have passed it by, searching for a more local one.

She buckled her seatbelt and pushed the key into the ignition. She drove more carefully than usual through the early-evening streets, something inside her head buzzing oddly, until she pulled into the hospital car park.

She turned off the ignition and sat looking up at the three-storey red-brick building. She’d driven past St Regina’s countless times – it was on her route to her mother’s house, barely half a mile from it – but had never been inside. On her mother’s insistence, her father had been brought to the Blackrock Clinic, a mile or two further away, when he’d had his stroke. Nobody around today to do the same for her.

Helen got out of the car and made her way towards the front of the building. She walked up the crumbling concrete steps and pushed through the white-painted double doors. The small lobby, with its long wooden bench set against the lemon-coloured wall to her left, held the plastic smell of hairspray.

‘Margaret D’Arcy,’ she said to the ludicrously young-looking woman – cropped blonde hair, pimples – who sat behind the reception desk. ‘She was brought in earlier today.’

The
woman – girl – set aside her magazine and tapped her computer keyboard. ‘Second floor,’ she said, her eyes not leaving the screen. ‘Left down the corridor and up the stairs, or there’s a lift further on. The nurses will tell you which room.’

The nurse Helen met on the second floor – sixties, harassed, baggy-eyed – showed her into an empty waiting room. ‘I’ll get the doctor for you,’ she said, rushing off.

‘Do you know how my mother is?’ Helen asked – but the nurse had gone, making no sound in her rubber soles. Helen ignored the stack of magazines on the chipped coffee-table and stood at the little window, hands planted on the barely warm, dusty radiator beneath. She watched a man in a white apron cross the yard below with a big tray of something she couldn’t make out. The darkening sky threatened rain for the first time in about a week.

‘Helen?’

She turned. A woman in a white coat had entered the room, hand already extended as she crossed the floor.

‘Jean Carmody,’ she said. Her voice was soft, the kind of whispery voice you’d use in a church, or maybe a library. Her skin was ice-cold, her handshake loose. ‘I was the doctor on duty when your mother was brought in.’

Helen waited, focusing on the lips that were bare of colour, and badly chapped.

‘I’m afraid I don’t have good news for you, Helen. Your mother suffered a brain haemorrhage, quite a severe one. There’s nothing we can do, apart from making her as comfortable as we can.’

‘She’s dying,’ Helen said, the words coming out sharper than she’d intended.

‘I’m afraid so. It could be hours, it could be a few days, but she hasn’t got long.’

Helen looked down at the doctor’s hands, which were clasped tightly now, fingers knitted together, almost in prayer. A long time since Helen had prayed for anything.

‘Can
I see her?’

‘Of course.’

The doctor led the way down the corridor. Following her, Helen felt the echo of a walk down a similar corridor, leaning heavily on Breen’s arm. A long time since he’d crossed her mind too. The wedding day probably, two years last September. Her bouquet sitting in his blue bowl the night before.

‘She’s drifting in and out of consciousness,’ the doctor said, ‘but she won’t make a lot of sense if she’s awake.’ They came to a door and she pushed it open, then stood back to allow Helen to enter.

The tiny room, suffocatingly warm, held just one bed. A small television, perched on a shelf high on the opposite wall, was switched off. Helen’s mother lay unmoving, her face almost as white as the pillowcase beneath her head, her eyes half open. At the sound of their approach she turned her head slightly.

Helen slipped into the tweed-covered green armchair by the bed and reached for the hand – looking, all of a sudden, terribly wizened – that lay unmoving on the sheet. ‘It’s me,’ she said, stroking the papery skin, the swollen knuckles, the perfectly manicured nails that her mother had had repainted every Friday afternoon for as long as Helen could remember.

‘I’m here,’ she said. ‘It’s Helen. I’m here now.’

I
t had
begun, a few months earlier, with a mixed-up word. It was that simple.

‘Grandpa said he went to the geography,’ Stephen had told her. ‘I didn’t know what he was talking about. He meant the library. It was funny.’

Sarah, preoccupied with preparing a buffet-lunch menu for thirty guests to commemorate the nursing home’s fiftieth year of existence, had passed it off as a moment of absentmindedness. The man had just turned eighty-seven: of course he was going to be forgetful.

But a few weeks later it had happened again.

‘He couldn’t remember the word “television”. He kept saying, “That thing in the sitting room,” and we were guessing sofa and fireplace and stuff. It was like a game, but he got cross when I laughed.’

The next time she saw him, Sarah had asked him lightly how he was feeling.

‘I’m fine,’ he’d said – and he appeared the same as ever to her. Slower, certainly, than he used to be, but still driving, still coming to them every Sunday to spend the afternoon and eat dinner.

‘Let me know,’ she’d said to twelve-year-old Martha, ‘if you notice anything about Grandpa – if he gets confused again, I mean, or does something a bit … odd.’

Nothing
else had happened for several weeks. And then she’d dropped by his house one afternoon on her way home from work, and as he was putting the kettle on, Sarah had glanced out of the kitchen window and seen something on the lawn. She’d gone out and picked up his bedroom slippers, sitting neatly side by side.

She’d brought them into the house. ‘Guess what I found on the grass.’

He’d looked at them blankly. ‘What were they doing out there?’

‘I was hoping you could tell me that,’ she’d said, her heart sinking. One slipper might conceivably be a dog that had somehow got into the house and run off with it – but two, side by side, had to have been placed there.

‘I found Dad’s slippers in the garden,’ she told Christine. ‘They were just sitting out on the lawn.’

‘Were they? That’s a bit weird.’

‘He couldn’t explain it. I’d like him to get a check-up.’

‘Ask him so.’

But the suggestion hadn’t gone down well. ‘I don’t need a check-up. There’s nothing wrong with me.’

‘Dad,’ she’d said gently, ‘it’s just that you’re getting on, and it would do you no harm to go to the doctor and let him—’

‘I’m fine,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll go to the doctor if I’m sick.’

She’d had to bring it up, although she’d hated doing it. ‘Dad, remember the slippers I found on the lawn?’

His face had hardened. ‘I didn’t put them out there,’ he’d snapped. ‘Why would I do something like that? Someone else must have.’

‘Who, though?’

‘I don’t know, but someone must have.’

‘I’m worried about Dad,’ Sarah had told Neil. ‘I think there’s something wrong with him.’