The Girl Who Lied. Sue Fortin

the tissue back up her sleeve. ‘The nurses have been looking after me, so they have.’

      I’m not convinced Mum looks grand at all. She looks tired and strained. ‘I’ll make you a fresh cup of tea,’ I say. ‘I could do with one myself. Back in a minute.’

      One of the nurses kindly shows me to the community kitchen, where all the tea and coffee making paraphernalia is housed. While I wait for the kettle to boil I can’t help feeling more concern for Mum than for Dad. I don’t like the dark circles under her eyes or the depth of the hollows below her cheekbones. She looks exhausted. No doubt she has been working herself hard at the café. Now, with Dad incapacitated and set for a long recovery, I wonder how on earth she will manage to look after him and run the business on her own.

      The next thought snakes its way from the back of my mind, where it has been lurking, waiting to strike. What if he doesn’t pull through? How do I feel about that? I don’t trust myself to examine the notion too closely. I’m not quite sure I’ll like what I might find. Instead, I focus on producing an acceptable-looking cup of tea for Mum and venture back to collect her. We’re not allowed to take food or drink into ICU so we sit in the small family room at the end of the corridor.

      ‘You just missed your sister,’ says Mum, resting her cup on her knees. ‘She had to get back for the kids. Sean’s on duty this evening. You know he’s a sergeant now?’

      ‘Yes, Fiona said. He deserves it. He’s a good police officer.’ It seems a bit surreal talking about normal, everyday things when this situation is anything but normal.

      After drinking the tea, we venture back to my father’s bedside. It’s very quiet, apart from the rhythmic bleep of the monitor and the sighing of the breathing apparatus as it wheezes air down the tube. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

      ‘Time’s getting on. There’s no point in you hanging around with me,’ says Mum, breaking the silence that has settled. ‘You go on back and stay with Fiona tonight, she’s expecting you.’

      ‘What about you? I don’t want to leave you,’ I reply frowning. ‘You can’t stay all night, surely.’

      ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ My mother pats my knee. ‘Please, go to Fiona’s. Get some rest and then come back in the morning. I’ll ring if there’s any change. Besides, they won’t let you stay here on the ward.’

      I’m not entirely convinced, but deciphering her subtly placed eyebrows, I determine she isn’t going to take no for an answer.

      ‘Okay, only if you’re sure,’ I relent.

      ‘I’m positive. In the morning go over to Wright’s motorcycle shop and get the keys for the flat and the café. You can nip up to the flat and bring my wash bag and some clean clothes.’

      Mum stands up. I take this as a signal it’s time for me to leave. I walk round and give her a kiss.

      ‘It will be okay, Mum. I’ll see you in the morning,’ I say, hoping to sound positive before I beat the retreat. ‘Do I need to ask for anyone in particular at the bike shop?’

      ‘Er, yes…Kerry,’ replies Mum distractedly as a nurse approaches us.

      ‘I’m just doing some routine observations,’ the nurse explains.

      ‘I’ll get out the way,’ I say, giving Mum a reassuring smile. ‘Bye, Mum.’

      ‘What about your Dad?’ says Mum. ‘You should say goodbye to him too.’

      ‘We like to encourage family to still communicate with the patient,’ explains the nurse. ‘Sometimes, it can help with their recovery.’

      I hesitate. ‘What should I say?’

      ‘Just speak to your father as if he’s awake,’ says the nurse. ‘It seems a little odd at first but once you’ve done it a few times, it becomes much easier.’

      I go over to the bed and reach out to touch his hand. ‘Bye, Dad,’ I say, feeling terribly self-conscious. The nurse smiles encouragingly and I feel I need to say something else. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

      It’s awkward and it’s not without relief that I escape the hospital and head over to Fiona’s.

      *

      Mini lights and precision-planted marigolds line the brick path to Fiona’s front door. The outside light bathes the garden, highlighting the alternating dark-and-light-green stripes running up and down the lawn. Tidy to the point of being manicured. The black gloss of the door with shiny chrome furniture is smart and exact. Fiona, my older sister by eight years, opens the door before I reach the end of the path.

      Meeting me on the doorstep, she draws me into an embrace. The familiar smell of Fiona’s perfume clings to me in the same way I cling to her. A feeling of relief seeps out. Fiona has always been able to do that. To take away my troubles. To fix whatever needs fixing.

      ‘Hi-ya, hun,’ she says, giving me a squeeze. ‘How are you? How’s everything at the hospital? No change, I expect.’

      ‘I’m fine. It’s lovely to see you. Dad’s still sedated and Mum is happy to be there by herself.’ I give a little shiver in the night air. ‘I didn’t want to leave her, but she insisted.’

      ‘I know, but there’s nothing we can do. Anyway, come on in out of the cold. The kids are fast asleep, so we’ll go quietly.’

      Sitting in Fiona’s immaculate kitchen, I hold my hands around the fine-bone-china cup. The heat from the cup warms my fingers. On the fridge door there is a family snapshot of the Keanes: Fiona, Sean, Sophie and Molly. It looks like it was taken last year on their holiday to Spain. Sean is giving Sophie a piggy-back. Fiona and Molly are looking up at them and everyone is beaming with happiness. Sean is a tall man and none too skinny either. He must look very imposing in his Guard’s uniform. In this picture, though, he reminds me of Roald Dahl’s BFG and I think how aptly named their daughter, Sophie, is.

      ‘How’s Sean?’ I ask, as Fiona sits down beside me.

      ‘He’s fine. Well, that’s not entirely true. He’s exhausted, if I’m honest. We both are. His mum needs a lot of looking after. We’re thinking about moving her in with us.’

      ‘Is she getting to that stage where she needs a lot of care?’ I ask.

      ‘She can’t cook properly, she’s a danger to herself.’ Fiona gives a weary sigh. ‘Not so long ago, she left the frying pan on the stove and burnt right through it, setting off the fire alarms. There was smoke everywhere. The fire brigade turned up, it was chaos. Since then, I’ve been cooking for her. She’s lovely, though, so I wouldn’t mind her moving in. After all, she is the reason we came home.’

      I nod, remembering the day well when Fiona and Sean packed up their little family in London and headed back home to care for his recently widowed mother. I had managed to hold back my tears until the car and removal lorry disappeared around the corner.

      Funny how Fiona regards it as coming home, whereas I look on her return as leaving home. To me, home means a place of love and fond memories, a feeling of being safe and cared for. Coming to Ireland is not coming home for me.

      My thoughts turn to Roisin’s email again and my stomach lurches as the fear that has pitched up and taken residency gives another kick. I had thought I’d tell Fiona about it but now I’ve changed my mind. Maybe I can get this sorted without her knowing. She has a lot on her plate at the moment, what with Dad and Sean’s mother. I’ll tell her only if I have to. I’m sure I can handle this. At least, I hope I can.

      Fiona’s mobile phone cuts through my thoughts. From this side of the conversation, I guess it’s Sean. I busy myself with making another cup of tea while she wanders off into the living room for more privacy.

      She returns a few minutes later.

      ‘Sean’s going to call by the hospital at some point in the night to check on Mum and Dad.’