The Triumph of Katie Byrne (22 page)

Going home to Malvern was also a chance to go and see Carly at the hospice. I went to see her this past Christmas when I first got back from London. I hadn’t seen her in over a year, and she hadn’t changed at all. She was just the same as she’s been for the last ten years.

I didn’t expect Carly to be any different now. But I had a
real need to go and see her, a pressing need. I wanted to hold her hand and talk to her as I had in the past. I wanted to let the love I felt for her spread over her, in the hope that she would somehow feel it, and that it might help her.

On the drive up from the city, I told all this to Mom. She confided that she believed Carly knew when she was there, she didn’t know why she believed it, but she did. And she said Carly would know I was with her in the room. Because she would feel my love flowing to her. I wanted to believe my mother, needed to believe her, I suppose. She’s a Celt, very fey at times, and very much in touch with herself and her feelings.

I dozed part of the way. I always do in cars. It must be something to do with the motion…it sort of lulls me to sleep. Anyway, I slept my way to New Milford, and then I awakened. We’d just left the town behind when it hit me. All of a sudden I understood the flashback, understood what it was all about.

It should have been the three of us up on that stage, doing this play about the Brontë sisters. Three sisters so close and loving, just like the three of us had been all those years. And we had always dreamed of acting together in a Broadway play.

As Mom drove us back to Malvern it was crystal-clear. So simple. Yet it hadn’t been at eleven o’clock this morning. There is another thing. Charlotte has the same colouring as Carly and Petra is a blonde just like Denise. In their sweaters and skirts at rehearsal they had reminded me of them…and something had been triggered.

I needed to write this down, to see it on paper. Writing helps me to understand things, to make order out of chaos. If I didn’t act I think I would be a writer. I enjoy it. But would I enjoy it professionally? I’m not sure.

Mom was surprised when I didn’t go to the supermarket with her because she knows I love the local supermarkets up here. I always have. Just as I like bookshops. I’m a bit of a browser in both. I didn’t go because writing in my diary was more important. Pressing.

I was really surprised when Melanie told me that Jack Martin was a fan of mine. He’s a brilliant director, but has a reputation for being difficult. Very irascible. However, I do know he likes my interpretation of Emily, different as it is from Janette Nerren’s in London.

Rex truly helped me to understand Emily. He gave me a book about her that contains what he considers to be one of her great epic poems, one of six. It was composed when she was twenty-six, just a year and a half younger than me. I’ll be twenty-eight this year. Anyway, Rex said the poem delineates the obsession with memory that Emily had. I only know one thing, I love it, too.

Katie stopped writing, put down her pen, and went to find her carryall. She rummaged around in it, found the book Rex had given her and took it back to the desk. Opening the book, she found the poem, which she knew was one of Emily’s most famous, and propped the book against the base of the lamp. She read it through quietly to herself, and then she slowly began to copy it into her diary, wanting to have it there, so she could read it whenever she wished.

Cold in the earth, and the deep snow piled above thee!

Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!

Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee
,

Severed at last by Time’s all-wearing wave
?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover

Over the mountains on Angora’s shore;

Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover

That noble heart for ever, ever more
?

Cold in the earth, and fifteen wild Decembers

From those brown hills have melted into spring
–

Faithful indeed is the spirit that remembers

After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive if I forget thee

While the World’s tide is bearing me along:

Sterner desires and darker hopes beset me
,

Hopes which obscure but cannot do thee wrong.

No other Sun has lightened up my heaven;

No other Star has ever shone for me:

All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given
–

All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.

But when the days of golden dreams had perished

And even Despair was powerless to destroy
,

Then did I learn how existence could be cherished
,

Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy;

Then did I check the tears of useless passion
,

Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;

Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten

Down to that tomb already more than mine!

And even then, I dare not let it languish.

Dare not indulge in Memory’s rapturous pain;

Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish
,

How could I seek the empty world again
?

Once she had copied it, Katie sat back, staring at the poem, thinking of all the things Rex had explained about it. She loved it most for the use of the language, the cadence, the rhythm, and the emotions it evoked in her. Rex had told her that the woman voicing the thoughts in the poem was Lady Rosa of Alcona, a character
borrowed from Emily’s juvenile writings.
Memory
, Katie thought. It’s about the memory of a dead lover, and yet in me it also evokes thoughts of Denise and Carly…

Picking up her pen, Katie continued writing in her diary:

I told Melanie I’d never been to a psychiatrist to talk about my traumatic experience, when my girlfriends were attacked, and I don’t intend to go. I must work things out for myself. I think I’m getting there at long last. I feel comfortable living in New York now, and I’m very preoccupied with the play, with my work, and work is a wonderful healer. As my mother has always told me.

I want to see Carly more than I have. I shall go to the hospice tomorrow, and then again on Sunday before I go back to Manhattan. Mom said she’d drive me in, but I can always take the bus to the city.

I’m glad I now understand the flashback, and what brought it on. I thought for a moment in the theatre that I was going crazy. Although I’ve been rehearsing with Georgette and Petra for some weeks, we were working in the rehearsal hall at 890 Broadway that once belonged to Michael Bennett. It’s only these last few days that we’ve been in the theatre, and being on a stage with my co-stars definitely took me back in time. Took me back to the old barn…triggered my memories so vividly I was reliving that last day. But I’m all right, in good
shape…as long as I understand what makes things happen and why, I can cope.

I feel that I must go forward now. Put the past behind me as much as I can…

Katie heard the door slam, and she closed her diary, put it away in the desk drawer, went out of the bedroom. She was running down the stairs to greet her mother when she heard the door close a second time, and a voice calling, ‘It’s me, Mom!’

Her mother answered, ‘Hello, Niall. Katie’s here from New York.’

And a moment later she was rushing into her brother’s arms, laughing as he swung her around, lifting her feet off the floor.

‘Katie! It’s great to see you!’ he exclaimed as he put her down and hugged her to him. ‘And what brings you home? I thought you were busy on Broadway, becoming a star?’

She grinned at him. ‘I got the weekend off. A short rest before plunging into dress rehearsals next week.’

‘Is that the famous voice of Katie Byrne I hear?’ a strong masculine voice asked.

Katie swung her head, saw her father and ran across the kitchen to him. ‘Yes, it’s me, Dad!’ she said, laughing again.

Michael Byrne put his arms around his daughter and
held her close to him for a long moment, thanking God, as he did very often, that she was alive.

The four of them sat around the kitchen table having a cup of tea.

There was a lot of talk about the play, and opening night, and the party afterwards at Tavern on the Green.

Her father and brother asked Katie questions about the production, opening night, and a variety of other things to do with her Broadway debut. She answered them as best she could.

Maureen poured tea, passed the currant cake, and smiled contentedly, happy that they were all together for the weekend. Having Katie here was an unexpected bonus. And if only Fin were present, the circle would be complete, she thought. But he had gone back to Oxford earlier in the month, to continue his studies at the university. But Michael had bought him a ticket to come back for the opening of
Charlotte and Her Sisters
, although this was a secret from Katie. A surprise.

At one moment, Katie sat back in the kitchen chair, listening to her father and mother discussing the arrangements for the weekend in New York when the play opened. As she looked from one parent to the other, she couldn’t help thinking how well they had weathered the years.

Her father’s dark hair was touched with silver, and
he was a little more weather-beaten from being outside so much on building sites. But he was as handsome at fifty-seven as he had been ten years earlier.

And her mother looked wonderful, Katie thought. She was slender, and her face was remarkably unlined. If her bright-blue eyes had faded ever so slightly, her hair was still that lovely, burnished red of her youth, with not a grey hair visible, even though she was now fifty-five. Katie sometimes wondered if her mother touched it up at the hairdressers. But even if she did, what did it matter? Maureen had always been a beautiful woman. There was no other person like her mother, as far as Katie was concerned.

As for Niall, he was a younger replica of their father. A true Byrne. Black Irish. They had always been similar in appearance, but to Katie that resemblance seemed more marked than ever these days. Niall was fit and in good shape, with a trim athletic body, which Katie knew came from dedicated physical activity and consistent working out. Tanned from being outdoors on sites, like their father, his handsome face was rugged, and his thick black hair flowed back from a broad brow. No wonder women fell for him.

A carbon copy of Dad, Katie thought. But although they looked alike they were quite different in personality. Niall was not quite as outgoing or as charming as their father, and over Christmas she had even thought he had become somewhat introverted.

Like her mother, Katie often wondered why Niall wasn’t married. Suddenly, she thought of Denise. She truly believed her brother had always had a thing about her girlfriend. But was he still carrying a torch for her? Now after all these years? After her death?

Katie had no answers for herself.

Niall had offered to drive Katie to the hospice to see Carly, and so they set off on Saturday morning just after nine o’clock. It was a beautiful day, with a blue sky, no clouds, a bright sun and no snow, which had been predicted by the television weatherman the night before.

As they came out of the house together, Niall turned to Katie and said, ‘I just bought myself a new car, shall we take it?’

‘Why not? And what is it?’

‘A BMW, and it’s a beauty.’

‘My, aren’t we getting fancy, Niall Byrne!’

Her brother laughed. ‘No, not fancy, just practical. It’s a good car, the best, and it’s my only indulgence in life, if you can call it that. I consider it an essential, especially for business.’

‘Don’t you use a pickup truck any more?’

‘Sure I do. Every day. For working on sites. But when I go to New York, or up to Litchfield, places like that I’ll take the car.’

By this time they were in the garage, and after opening the door for her, Niall hurried around to the other side and got in. He backed out slowly, and within seconds they were on the main road heading towards Warren and New Preston just beyond.

They drove in silence for a while, and then suddenly Katie asked, ‘Why do you still live at home, Niall? Why haven’t you found a place of your own?’

‘A number of reasons. First of all, I didn’t want to leave Mom and Dad alone…you’re gone, Fin’s gone, and I felt they needed me to be around, especially Mom. But there are other reasons.’

‘Such as what?’

He looked at her quickly, out of the corner of his eye, and began to laugh. ‘Living at home with my parents is protection.’

‘From whom, for heaven’s sake?’

‘Women.’

Katie chuckled. ‘
You.
Needing protection? Come on!’

He smiled knowingly, muttered, ‘Sure I need protection. I don’t want to find myself getting pushed into a permanent live-in relationship. Or any kind of permanent relationship, for that matter.’

‘Nobody special then?’

He shook his head, kept his eyes straight ahead on the road, obviously not wishing to continue this conversation.

Katie said, ‘But listen, Niall, you’ve dated quite a few
women from time to time. So I’m assuming they all have their own places?’

‘Sure they do.’

She noticed the sly smile playing around his mouth and she punched his arm lightly. ‘You’re a devil. But seriously, Mom would love you to settle down.’

‘I am settled down. With them. And they love it.’

‘She’d love a grandchild more.’

‘And what’s wrong with you? The same rules apply.’

‘I know, but I haven’t met anyone that really interests me. Unfortunately.’

‘What happened to that guy we called The Face?’

‘Long gone and forgotten. Anyway, he’s getting married. ’

‘Bully for him.’

‘So you plan on being a bachelor?’

‘Yes, why not? The world is full of bachelors.’

Katie realized he wanted her to drop this topic, and so she did. She sat back in the deep leather car seat, thinking about the visit to Carly. She always got butterflies in her stomach, never knowing what to expect. And yet she did know, because nothing ever changed. ‘Oh Niall, stop at that plant place, in New Milford, please. I need to buy flowers for Carly,’ she suddenly exclaimed.

The man came barrelling through the swing doors, almost knocking Katie down in the process. She stepped
back swiftly, dropping the bunch of flowers, backing away to avoid collision.

After stepping on them, the man said, ‘Oh my God, I’m sorry, so sorry. My apologies. Here, let me retrieve the flowers.’ He gave her a weak smile as he bent down to pick them up.

Katie stood staring at him, thinking what a clumsy fool he was.

Straightening, the man said again, ‘I’m so sorry.’ He tried to rearrange the crumpled paper around the flowers and dusted them off, adding, ‘I shouldn’t be rushing around like this in a hospital, of all places.’

‘That’s right,’ Katie said, glaring at him.

He attempted another smile as he handed her the bunch of flowers. ‘Not too badly damaged, I don’t think.’

Katie accepted the flowers silently, looking down at the blooms. But he was correct, the flowers were intact.

He suddenly said, ‘Oh my God, you’re Katie Byrne!’

Katie looked at him coldly. ‘Yes, I am.’

He stuck out his hand. ‘Christopher Saunders.’

Katie had no alternative but to shake his hand, and as she did, she said, ‘But I don’t know you, do I?’

‘No, no, you don’t. But I saw you in an off-Broadway show a couple of years ago. It was the revival of
A Lion in Winter.
You played Alice.’

‘
The Lion in Winter
,’ she corrected. ‘And yes I did have the part of Alais.’

‘And I saw your picture in
The New York Times
, one day last week. You’re in Melanie Dawson’s new play, the Charlotte Brontë play.’

Katie nodded, trying to edge away, wanting to get to Carly’s room. Clutching the bunch of flowers tightly, she tried to step around him.

‘I hope to come to one of the previews.’

‘Yes, good,’ she answered, nodding.

‘You’re playing Emily. I bet you can really get your teeth into that part. She was quite the enigma, wasn’t she?’

Katie was startled by this comment, and for the first time she really looked at him, half smiling as she did. ‘Yes,’ she muttered.

He smiled back, a wide, generous smile, showing very white teeth, and his brown eyes were warm, and slightly questioning.

Her eyes locked on his and she found she couldn’t look away. He was very good-looking in a sort of freshly-scrubbed, collegiate way, and he was staring at her so intently Katie grew uncomfortable.

Finally, she said, ‘I have to go.’

‘Oh yes, of course. I’m delaying you. Sorry again about almost knocking you down. See you at the play.’

She stepped around him and went through the swing doors, walking rapidly down the corridor, thinking there was something quite disconcerting about him.
Christopher Saunders.
The name didn’t ring a bell.

One of the young women at the nurses’ station recognized her, and came over, smiling. ‘Hello, Miss Byrne. You’ve come to see Carly.’

‘Yes, I have, Jane. How is she?’

‘More or less the same. Shall I take the flowers, put them in water for you?’

‘Thanks.’ Katie smiled and handed them to her, then opened the door and went into Carly’s room. It was filled with bright sunlight, and there were several vases of flowers on the chest against the wall.

Carly lay on her back in the hospital bed, the feeding tube in place. Her eyes were open, as they sometimes were, and Katie looked down into them, seeking a spark, a hint of life. But they were blank, like a blind person’s eyes. Those beautiful eyes, wide open but seeing nothing, were startling in that pale face. It, too, was passive, bland, showing no animation whatsoever. And very little ageing.

Katie sat down in the chair near the bed, put her shoulder bag on the floor, and then reached out for Carly’s hand. It was cool, unresponsive as she held it in hers. Katie stroked it, slightly tightened her grip. ‘Hi, Carly, it’s me,
Katie.
I’m here from New York. I wanted to see you, Carly, to tell you I love you, and that I miss you. I wish you could hear me. Perhaps you can.’

There was a noise behind her, and Katie swung her head as Jane, the nurse, came in with the vase of flowers.
‘I’ll put them with the others,’ she murmured, did so, and left.

Katie looked into Carly’s face, and continued talking to her in a soft and loving voice. ‘We’re in the theatre now, Carly, after weeks in the rehearsal hall. It’s very exciting to be on stage at last. Thrilling, really. And next week we start dress rehearsals. I told you when I was here in December, I’m playing Emily Brontë. I have the second lead. And I’m on Broadway. It’s what
we
always dreamed about. Mom keeps saying that I’ll have my name in lights at last. But I don’t think it’ll actually be in lights. Georgette Allison’s, yes, and Harrison Jordan’s too. They’re the stars. But nobody’s ever heard of me.’

Except for Christopher Saunders, she thought, and pushed the compelling image of his face away from her. Leaning forward, she stroked Carly’s pale, passive face, and went on, ‘The play’s at the Ethel Barrymore Theatre on West 47th Street. Just over a thousand seats. Imagine, Carly, a thousand people at a time in the audience. I wish you could be one of them.’

Katie leaned back in the chair, and closed her eyes, swallowing hard, trying to keep the sorrow from erupting, as it was now threatening to do. It was more than sorrow, though, she knew that. It was frustration and anger as well. There was a man out there who should be paying for this, paying for what he’d done to Carly. And to Denise. There’s no justice. None at all, she thought.

Sitting up straighter, Katie concentrated on Carly once
more. ‘I think about you all the time, Carly. You and Denise are always in my thoughts. I told you when I came at Christmas that I took this part for both of you as well as for myself. I was a bit ambivalent about it, and then I realized I was afraid of failing. And I thought if Carly and Denise were here with me I wouldn’t be afraid at all. And one day I understood that you
are
with me. In my heart and in my mind, and you always will be. Xenia helped me to make the decision to do the play. You’d like her a lot, Carly. She’s different from the three of us, yet like us, one of us. She’s the only friend I’ve ever had in all these years since you and Denise were…’

Katie stopped, choked up again.

She sat for a long time, holding Carly’s hand, stroking it, squeezing it from time to time, and talking to her quietly. She recited some Shakespeare, because Carly had always loved his work, and whispered part of Emily Brontë’s poem,
Cold in the Earth.

But eventually she fell silent, and after a short while she stood up, leaned over the bed and kissed Carly on her cheek. ‘I have to go now, Carly darling, but I’ll come back soon.’ Blinking back the tears, Katie found her bag on the floor, and went out, closing the door behind her quietly. For a moment or two, she leaned against the wall, trying to compose herself, but the tears suddenly flowed, and she fumbled in her shoulder bag for a tissue.

‘Are you all right?’

Startled, Katie glanced up and saw Dr James Nelson standing outside another patient’s door, holding a chart in his hand. She had met him briefly at Christmas. He was new at the New Milford Hospital, where he was head of Neurology. And he also supervised the Neurological Wing at the hospice. Her mother had told her he had worked here for about a year.

‘I’m okay, Dr Nelson,’ she replied. ‘I still get a bit upset when I see Carly like this…lying there in a coma.’

‘That’s quite understandable, Miss Byrne.’

‘Oh please call me Katie, everybody does.’

He inclined his head. ‘How’s the play coming along?’

‘Very well, thanks.’

Katie moved away from Carly’s door, and he fell into step with her. He was tall and thin, sandy-haired, an attractive-looking man, in his mid-thirties, she thought, and she had liked him the first time she met him. He inspired confidence with his competent and very direct manner, quiet and thoughtful demeanour.

They walked along the corridor together, making for the front lobby. It was he who broke the silence when he suddenly said in his quiet voice, ‘Carly’s not actually in a coma, you know.’

Katie stopped dead in her tracks, and so did he.

She swung to him, stared up into his face. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, her voice rising an octave.

‘Carly was in a
true
coma for about five or six weeks after she first suffered her injuries,’ he explained. ‘She
then went into what is known as a vegetative state, and she’s been in that vegetative state ever since.’

‘But nobody told me that!’ Katie exclaimed, still staring at him. ‘And what does it mean? Why is it
different
from a coma?’

‘From a medical standpoint, a person is in a coma when his or her eye opening, verbal response, and motor response, on the Glasgow Coma Scale, total eight or less. And it’s typical for a patient’s eyes to be closed, and he or she is never awake. Do you understand, Katie?’

‘Yes, so far.’

‘Now, a
vegetative state
is a condition in which the patient’s eyes are frequently wide open, and the sleep/wake cycles are intact. However, the patient does not speak, and does not exhibit any behaviour that indicates an awareness of loved ones, or an awareness of the environment in which he or she is living. Do you follow me still?’

‘Oh yes, I do.’

‘Good. By the way, the term vegetative state was coined by two doctors, Jennett and Plum, at the Royal Hospital for Neuro-disability in Putney, London, in order to provide a clinical diagnosis based on behavioural observations of patients. Let me put this as simply as possible, in layman’s terms. The word
vegetative
was very specifically chosen to describe
merely physical life
, or existence if you like,
devoid
of sensation and thought. I’m sure you’re understanding all this, Katie.’

‘Yes, I am, Dr Nelson. But there is one thing I’d like to know. Could Carly come out of this vegetative state?’

‘I obviously can’t predict anything like that,’ he said, shaking his head.

‘But has anybody ever come out of it?’

‘To my knowledge, no.’

‘Does Mrs Smith know Carly’s not actually in a
coma
, as such?’ Katie asked, her brows drawing together in a puzzled frown.

The doctor nodded. ‘I did explain this to Carly’s mother last year. I pretty much said what I’ve just said to you. But to be very honest, I think she really believes Carly is in a
true
coma, and nothing will change her mind.’

‘I see.’ Katie bit her lip, looking reflective. After a split second, she said, ‘I haven’t seen Mrs Smith for a very long time. I called her when I came back from London at Christmas and left a message, but she never got back to me. And she hasn’t responded to any of the overtures my parents have made. But I do know my mother’s run into her once or twice here. I can’t imagine why she didn’t say anything to Mom…about this vegetative state Carly’s in, as opposed to a real coma.’