Blood And Water (21 page)

“We strive each day,” he had remarked after the encounter, “to be different, to make a difference, so I’m baffled as to how one who continually achieves such an ambition can be so humble.”

The memory of her husband’s remarks aroused her curiosity and lifting her legs up onto the bed she curled up and started to read, eventually drifting into a deep sleep.

When she awoke it was pitch black outside. She must have slept through the rest of the day – and perhaps the night. She flicked on the reading lamp and winced as the light hit her eyes. It was midnight according to William’s alarm clock. She noticed the book back on the bedside table and a blanket over her. Her head felt a little woolly but clear. The marshmallow-like softness of the pillow and the heat of the duvet under her made it difficult to do anything else but snuggle deeper.

Reluctantly she got up and made her way to William’s en suite where she stripped and got into the shower. She let the hot jets pelt down on her for a minute before turning the dial and the heat down, extracting as much energy from the freezing-cold spray as she could. It felt good. Refreshing. Now she was awake. And cautiously ready to face the day – or, rather, the night – ahead.

Wrapping herself in his bathrobe she went to her own room and dressed, then returned to his room to pick up the book. His overnight case and wash bag weren’t where they should be – she wasn’t expecting them to be, assuming Ciara had already taken them to him.

She gathered her things and left the house.

She could only imagine what he’d be like cooped up in that hospital room. He hated being indoors too long. It wasn’t always the case, but a health check about three years previously had given him a warning: shape up or face the medical consequences. Heeding the consultant’s counsel, he accepted the prescribed medication and defiantly took up running, swam every day at the local health club and once a week in the freezing Irish Sea. He was, it seemed, a fit and healthy man and if he survived this would soon, she reckoned, be driving the doctors to distraction looking for answers, and cures, for his health failure. It was a sobering thought: he had almost died.

Unsettled by the fondness in her thoughts, she drove on autopilot and unseeing to the hospital. These were affections she had wished to feel for years now, so why then did she feel disquiet when it appeared that her wish to a degree might be coming true? She thought about their children. In normal circumstances like this, she supposed, families regrouped and comforted each other, but not hers. She, it appeared, had been left to her own devices. They didn’t come near her.

Now, Barbara, she chastised herself, how would you know who came or went? Sure you were too pissed to notice. And why in the name of God would they even bother? And anyway, it’s a two-way street: I wasn’t there for them either.

It was self-criticism, which she accepted gracefully.

At the hospital she had to ask at reception where he was because she couldn’t remember. Once directed she walked the long insipid corridors and rode the lift to the fourth floor, the smell of disinfectant stifling and the presence of all those sick people nauseating. Tentatively she pushed open the door, afraid and wondering what to expect. But she needn’t have worried – he was sleeping and alone.

Quietly she slipped into the room, took off her coat, lifted the chair closer to the bed and sat in silence to watch him sleep in the soft light of the overhead lamp. He was whistling rather than snoring – he never snored – he was far too dignified for that, she always mocked. He was looking older and greyer than he ever had before and she noticed the wrinkles that seemed more pronounced along with the dryness and flakiness of his skin. Leaning in a little closer, comfortable in the safety of his slumber, she took a good look and tried to remember his good bits, the bits of him that had made her laugh, the part of their life together that they had actually enjoyed, that she had enjoyed. She tied to re-imagine those moments, those smiles, their best bits. But the memory was terribly fuzzy; it was after all a very, very long time ago. Was there anything left? There were more unhappy times than happy. Instinctively she placed her hand on his chest to feel its gentle rise and fall, his every breath, feeling its rhythm – closing her eyes, she imagined its journey through his body, keeping him alive, making her drowsy.

“You’re here,” he muttered and as if burnt she withdrew her hand instantly and he smiled.

“I am,” she replied, self-conscious at having being caught red-handed.

Neither said anything more, each lost in their own thoughts, thinking along the same lines: how had it come to this? Both equally surprised by the idea that she had acted to save him. Both intrigued at the obvious sentiments she was experiencing. Why should that be a revelation? Probably because their marriage was a wreck and had been for some time and they both knew it. It wasn’t just over between them: they actually hated each other, couldn’t stand to be in each other’s company. Or so they had thought. But there in his hospital room, after their brush with death, the hours slowly ticked by and something triggered between them. A mutual and tired concession of regret perhaps, that sparked a fragile pulse in their once unyielding bond to keep it alive along with the delicate rhythm of his heart.

The night came and went. Barbara stayed and dozed in the fake leather chair. She didn’t dare leave, afraid that if she did she might not come back.

William fell in and out of sleep, disturbed by the regular interruption of the nurses on their rounds. Each time he woke he knew if she was there still when he opened his eyes then she would be with him forever, however long that would be. Between them there was a lot at stake in that single night.

A quiet polite knock preceded Ciara’s entry into the room and immediately the atmosphere tensed. Barbara felt her nerve-endings prickle all the way down her spine, the halted step at the door demonstrating that Ciara reciprocated those same uncomfortable feelings.

Casting a glance towards her father and then back to her mother, Ciara entered the room and closed the door behind her.

“Mother,” she greeted curtly in a whisper, afraid to disturb him. “How is he?”

“He’s doing well, the doctors said,” Barbara replied politely, sitting up in her chair.

“Have you been here all night?” Ciara asked, noticing her slightly dishevelled state, surprised by her attendance in the first place.

“I have,” Barbara responded.

“Why?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why? I mean, you’re no Florence Nightingale. Did something happen?”

“Don’t speak to your mother like that,” William quietly ordered from the bed without opening his eyes or lifting his head.

Both women turned in quiet alarm towards him.

“Dad?” Ciara went to stand beside him. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?” She took his hand and leant over to kiss him on his forehead.

Barbara couldn’t look at the display and instead stood and picked up her bag.

“I’m going to get a coffee.”

“I’m here now so you don’t need to come back,” Ciara told her.

“Excuse me?”

“I said I’m here so you don’t have to come back,” Ciara repeated, looking back at her mother over her shoulder. “If you don’t want to, that is.”

“I heard you,” Barbara fumed. “I just can’t believe you said it.”

“Why not? We all know you’d rather be somewhere else,” Ciara told her with feigned innocence.

“Is that so?”

“It is,” Ciara continued childishly. “So you can head off and do what you do best, if you like.”

“If you two are going to start bickering you can both leave,” William told them, feeling stronger than he had in days, but not strong enough emotionally or physically to deal with the women.

“Right,” Barbara said, smarting, knowing that Ciara had every right to feel the way she did and, in the absence of the courage needed to take her on, she decided it was time to go. “Don’t worry,” she told them both, “I have things to do anyway.” And, picking up her coat, moved to the bed and placed a hand over William’s. Without seeing it she could feel Ciara’s glaring scowl in response to the rarely shared gesture.

“I’ll pop back later, okay?” she told him and from the corner of her eye saw Ciara throw her eyes and chin upwards.

Barbara looked up at her, wanting nothing more than to slap her face, hard. But there were bigger things at play – both she and William knew that. She wasn’t the ‘cold turkey’ kind and each had a pretty good idea where she was going and what “things to do” actually meant. For William there was a silent acceptance that, while he had his choices to make, she had decisions of her own to deal with.

Despite her little squabble with Ciara, Barbara’s composure was still intact as she pushed her way through the hospital doors and went back to her car. Making her way home she made a quick stop en route. Getting out, she ran straight into the off-license where she bought herself a litre bottle of the best whiskey they had on the shelf, got back into the car and continued her journey home.

The house was silent and empty. She had no idea where Gladys might be and didn’t really give her a second thought. Throwing her coat and bag over the back of a chair in the kitchen, she placed the long bottle on the counter, grabbed a glass from the cupboard, threw a few cubes of ice in and topped it off with a double measure of the whiskey. But she didn’t pick it up: instead she listened to the ice crack and watched the cubes sink into the rich caramel-coloured liquid.

There were two voices in her head. The first, the voice of reason, which spoke firmly to her. It said: ‘
Don’t touch it, Barbara
.
You can’t control it but it controls you.’

The other was the voice of seduction: ‘
Drink it, Barbara,’
it said bewitchingly. ‘
It’ll make things feel so much better, just for a while. That’s just what you need. Isn’t it? You can always call it quits tomorrow. Not today. Tomorrow.’

Picking the glass up she held it in her hand, swirled the liquid round, watching it cling to the sides of the glass as it spun. The smell was so tempting, so smooth. The fumes tickled her taste buds. It would be so easy, just one sip. Why stop now? Just one tiny drop.

‘We can start tomorrow
,’ the voice of seduction repeated. It was so sweet, so alluring and so much louder and convincing than reason.

The front door slammed, shaking the foundations of the house, their vibrations breaking through the reverie of her moral dilemma. She put the glass down. She could guess who it would be but didn’t try to hide either the bottle or her thoughts. This was just Barbara and her conscience. She recognised the familiar click-clacking on the expensive parquet floor and, letting out a deep sigh, waited for her to appear.

“Well, isn’t that just lovely?” Ciara launched her attack, her arms folded across her chest and her hip cocked to one side. “How did I know you’d be here with ...” she nodded towards the glass, “with this.”

Barbara looked across at her from the far side of the counter. How smug, she thought, observing the bitter and contorted face, the face of a woman she found so difficult to look at and so impossible to love.

“Well, I’m glad not to disappoint,” she mumbled, raising the glass to catch the sunlight that poured in through the kitchen window. But she didn’t let it touch her lips, she just watched the ice cubes swirl and dance in the delicious liquid.

“I thought you were going to stay with your father?”

“They took him for tests. So,” Ciara continued, irritated and unnerved by the eerie calm being displayed by her mother, “what did you do to him?”

“What do you mean by that?” Barbara threw back, allowing herself be distracted from her ruminations.

“You heard me – what did you do to him?”

Barbara shook her head in disbelief. “Now you’re being ridiculous,” she snapped. “Of course I didn’t do anything to him.”

“Well, you must have done something. Normally he can’t stand to be around you, then all of a sudden you’re the loving couple holding hands by his sick bed?”

“You listen to me, madam.” Barbara turned to look straight at her. “Don’t come into my house –”

“
Your house?
” Ciara shrieked dramatically. “It’s Dad’s house too, you know – don’t forget that.”

“Like you’d ever let me forget it,” Barbara muttered under her breath, recognising the venom for what it was and the fact there was no point in rising to her hysterical challenge.

“Look at you,” Ciara sneered. “You’re a disgrace, hardly fit to be a mother, never mind a wife.”

Barbara carefully placed the glass of very tempting and now slightly diluted whiskey on the counter, breathing steadily through her nose.

“Who do you think you are,” she asked with quiet calm, “to come into
my
house and speak to me like this?”

“Actually,” Ciara continued, unhearing, her tone laced with sarcasm. “I don’t even know why you bothered to have us at all!”

“Oh for God’s sake,” Barbara interrupted, exasperated and irked, “don’t be so childish!” She sensed control slipping from a situation that was fast developing into something dangerous.

Ciara yanked out a stool from under the counter and sat her bottom on its edge.

“You know,” she said bluntly, “all of us, we spent our entire childhood wishing you’d be a mum: a real mum, not some lush half pissed most of the time.” She shook and bowed her head. “You were – no – you
are
a shit mother.” Then she looked up with a sad, forlorn smile. “I spent years hankering after you but you were always somewhere else.” It was a simple but honest statement, filled with heart.

“How dare you!” Barbara replied nervously, knowing what Ciara had said was true, but pride combined with a substantial dose of shame refused to let her admit it. Why now? she thought. Why does she have to do this now?

“You ignored me for as long as I can remember, you made me feel like I was nothing, like I was a piece of dirt on the sole of your shoe.” Ciara stopped to take a shaky but measured breath. “I never felt the same as the others, you made sure of that. You really were an absolutely rubbish mum and …” She paused, as if realising something for the first time or at least admitting it openly for the first time. “And I despise you, really I do. I actually loathe you.”