Sisters and Lies Page 5

‘I just wondered if you were coping okay. I know how traumatic this kind of thing is for relatives. We have a counsellor available if you wish to speak to someone.’

  ‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  ‘The thing is, Ms Darcy –’

  ‘Rachel,’ I interrupted.

  ‘The thing is, Rachel, it’s been more than forty-eight hours now and we still have no clear indication of when your sister will wake up. Many patients do so between two and four weeks after going into a comatose state. But some take longer.’

  ‘And some never wake up.’

  She held my gaze. ‘Yes. That is true sometimes.’

  I blinked, desperate to keep the tears at bay.

  Dr Bartlett continued, ‘I know you’re based in Dublin so I just wanted to say that if you need to go home for any reason – to see family members, to collect belongings – you should do that. We’ll keep you abreast of any developments.’

  I stared at her, appalled.

  Dr Bartlett sighed. ‘Rachel, your sister is still heavily comatose. It could take several more days, weeks even, for this thing to play itself out.’

  The tears I’d been holding back stung the corners of my eyes.

  ‘I promise I’m not trying to panic you but if there are things you need to organize, work, children, family stuff …’

  I shrugged weakly. ‘Yes, some of those things.’

  ‘… then go home and organize them. You’ll feel better. If your sister wakes up we’ll ring you immediately. If not, then at least you’ll be sorted for the long haul.’

  She touched my hand briefly. ‘I wouldn’t advise this if I didn’t think it was for the best.’

  I looked at my hand where she had touched it.

  ‘I’ll leave you to mull it over,’ she said quietly, making for the exit.

  Before she left, I called to her, ‘You will ring me if she wakes up?’

  ‘Of course, Rachel. That goes without saying.’

  After she’d left, I stood beside Evie’s bed for a second, barely moving. Then I was lunging for my jacket, reaching for my bag, and then I was kissing her. Over and over again. Telling her how much I loved her. That I would be back in no time, before she knew it.

  Next thing I was running out of the door and into the corridor, nearly bumping into a group of nurses. It reminded me of something. A memory. A feeling.

  Like I was a panther. Running all the way home.

  I didn’t even bother going back to Evie’s flat. Instead I rang Donnagh and told him what my plan was. It seemed only polite now that we were flatmates. Crazy though it sounded, I hadn’t actually kicked him out when he’d come round to pick up his stuff. I’d asked him to stay.

  ‘Are you sure, Rachel?’ he’d replied, clearly shocked. ‘You don’t even know me.’

  ‘True, but I trust Evie’s judgement,’ I said, even though I wasn’t sure I did. The truth was, I wanted to find out more about him, about his life with Evie. How could I do that if I booted him out onto the street? I might never see him again.

  ‘If you’re sure,’ he said, putting his bags down on the carpet, looking at me doubtfully.

  ‘I’m sure,’ I said, and I meant it. Of course, it was a little risky to live with a stranger, but I’d had far more dubious flatmates in my time. In any case, I wanted the company. I couldn’t bear the idea of wandering around London like I’d done in Australia: tormented, depressed, drinking too much. I needed someone to keep an eye on me. To remind me I wasn’t entirely alone.

  Once I had told Donnagh of my plan, I caught a taxi to the airport and booked myself onto the next available flight to Dublin, my mind racing. There was so much to organize: my cat, work, Jacob. I still hadn’t rung him. And now that so much time had passed – nearly three days – it seemed wrong to blab out Evie’s condition over the phone. I felt compelled to tell him in person.

  He was going to be so mad with me. Actually, ‘mad’ was the wrong word. ‘Chronically disappointed’ was more like it. I could practically see his face falling, his eyes drooping. He would see this as yet another sign that I wanted our marriage to end and that it was all over bar the shouting.

  The trouble was we still loved each other. But, as the cliché goes, we wanted different things.

  To be specific, Jacob wanted a baby. He hadn’t always wanted one. Before we’d got married I’d explained that I didn’t want children and he’d been fine with that. ‘You’re all I’ll ever want,’ he’d said, and I’d believed him.

  But then his little sister Grace had died, aged ten, from leukaemia. For about six months Jacob had staggered through his grief, like a man flailing in a ditch of briars. One night he came home and started to cry. He didn’t speak for a long time. Afterwards I understood why. It was because he was launching an atomic bomb at our relationship and was trying to put off the inevitable devastation for as long as he could.

  ‘I want a child,’ he whispered eventually, and I felt as if I had plunged off a precipice, the earth racing up to meet me.

  He explained that grief had altered him, like when your skin is burned and you’re left with a permanent scar. He talked about cycles. Lack of permanence. Wanting to have something ‘real’, though.

  Until then I’d followed what he was saying. The grief stuff I understood. Mammy had been gone a few years longer than Gracie, but my loss was still a giant rent down the middle of my soul. Something real? ‘Am I not real enough for you?’

  He’d looked at me as if I was being obtuse, but then his eyes softened and he took my hands. ‘I can’t describe it, Rach. I just need something to begin again.’

  He had saved himself with that line because I understood immediately what he meant. After Mammy had died, my new beginning had been him. Our relationship had been in its infancy, and he had dragged me across the line of grief into a world where things were possible again. Where I was possible again. But that had been six years ago. New love was not an option for Jacob. He needed a new life.

  We tried. For a month I went off the pill, and we had unprotected sex five times. Each time I felt as if I was floating above my body. I felt no pleasure at all. Only a sense that I was a vessel. It was the first time in our entire love-making history that I had felt disconnected from Jacob.

  Maybe my body sensed my hostility because it didn’t take. I got my period in a remote wood in Wicklow, to which I had driven when I should have been working on my third book. Nobody was around so I pulled down my jeans, stared at the rusty stain on my knickers and cried. I cried so hard my throat felt sore afterwards. But it wasn’t out of disappointment. It was out of relief.

  Later I told Jacob I loved him but I couldn’t give him what he wanted and if he really needed to be a father the only sensible thing to do was to leave me.

  ‘You know I’ll never leave you,’ he said. ‘You’re my life.’

  But it’s easy to say that. Over the next few months I watched as his eyes landed on kids when we were out in restaurants: the way he smiled unconsciously at something cute a toddler said or did, then tried to hide it when he realized I was looking at him. And the way his eyes dulled. I didn’t want to be the reason his eyes dulled.

  It was me who ended it.

  ‘You want children,’ I said, fighting to get the words out, ‘and I don’t want to deny you that.’ Tears were trickling down both our faces. ‘I think we should separate.’

  ‘No,’ Jacob said, grabbing me by the shoulders. ‘Can’t you see that this can’t be it?’

  I gently removed myself from his grasp. ‘But if you want a family, you need to find someone willing to give you one. I know it’s hard, but …’

  He tried to hold me again, but I wriggled free.

  ‘It’s like ripping off a bandage,’ I said, immediately regretting how flippant that sounded.

  Something seemed to change in his eyes. ‘You want this, don’t you?’

  I didn’t say anything. But he was right.

  Losing Jacob was li
ke losing a limb. But if it had to happen I wanted it over with. Quickly. Also, I was tired of being the person who was denying him his ‘real’ life. I wanted to hand him back control.

  9.

  From Dublin airport I caught a taxi straight to my flat – the one I’d been living in since leaving Jacob. It was one of the soulless modern ones built near the docklands during the Celtic Tiger era, complete with paper-thin walls and beige everything. It wasn’t beautiful but, in a strange way, it suited me: sterile, monochrome, the exact opposite of everything Jacob and I had shared.

  I made myself a quick cup of coffee, then tapped on my neighbour’s door. ‘Hello, Mrs –’

  ‘Oh, hello! Rachel, isn’t it?’ she said, extending her hand. ‘I’m Mrs Flanagan. Well, call me Edith. Come in, come in.’

  I entered her sitting room, and sat down at her behest. I could see Erica Jong in the kitchen and psshed at her to come over and join me. She ignored me. ‘She’s angry,’ I said.

  Edith Flanagan frowned. ‘Cats can be like that. Don’t take it personally. How is your sister? Better, I hope.’

  I shook my head. ‘That’s why I’m here. She’s still in a coma and the doctors have no idea when she’ll come out of it. If she’ll come out of it …’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said, putting her hand to her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I’m just back for the day. Trying to sort things out …’ I gestured at my non-responsive cat.

  ‘Oh, goodness, don’t be worrying about her. I can take care of her, if you want me to.’

  ‘Mrs Flanagan – Edith, I couldn’t possibly expect you to do that,’ I said. ‘A friend looked after her recently, when I went away travelling for a few weeks. I’m sure she’ll help me out again.’

  ‘Oh, no, please,’ she said, quite forcefully. ‘Please let me take care of her.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I said, wondering why she was being so insistent.

  ‘I’m sure,’ she said. Then, in a quieter voice, she added, ‘Ever since my daughter convinced me to move into this place I’ve felt like a fish out of water.’ She waved in the direction of the kitchen. ‘I know it’s modern and that I should be grateful but …’ She glanced at Erica Jong. ‘Everyone is so young and so unfriendly. The cat is the only thing that’s made me feel welcome since I moved in.’

  For a moment we were silent as I looked down into my lap, feeling guilty that I was one of the unfriendly people she was talking about. ‘Well, you must keep her,’ I said. ‘And, here, please take this.’ I rooted around in my purse and withdrew a few fifty-euro notes. ‘That should take care of her food and stuff for at least a month. After that, I can transfer more into your bank account if Evie still hasn’t …’ I was afraid I was going to start crying.

  ‘Goodness, Rachel, it’s okay. I don’t need your money.’

  I looked up at her, blinking hard. ‘I want you to have it.’

  ‘No,’ she said softly, pushing my hand back towards my chest. ‘You have enough to be worrying about. So please don’t worry about your cat.’ She took a biro out of her handbag and wrote something on a piece of paper. ‘Here, take my number. You can ring me to check on her anytime.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said softly, and then, without warning, we embraced.

  Later I called my editor, Antonia, who was based in London. It would have made sense to call into her office when I’d been over with Evie at the hospital, but I hadn’t been able to face her. Instead I did my explaining over the phone.

  ‘My God, Rachel, I’m so sorry to hear that,’ she said. ‘To be frank, I’m amazed it hasn’t reached the papers yet.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone in the hospital recognized me.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope it stays that way. Or do you want us to issue a statement?’

  ‘No. I’d rather keep it under the radar for the moment, if you don’t mind. Cross that bridge if and when we come to it.’

  ‘Sure, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘It is.’

  After that I told her the rest of the bad news: that, because of Evie’s accident, I wouldn’t be able to do any more speaking engagements, or have my third manuscript ready in time.

  ‘Of course, Rachel,’ she said, in a slightly tighter voice. She’d sounded concerned before, but now I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was pissed off. Not with me necessarily, but with Evie. Or karma. Or whatever cosmic forces had caused this terrible misfortune to occur.

  I couldn’t blame her. Apparently I was ‘hot right now’ – I’d actually heard a publicist use the phrase – and they were eager to rush out my new book on the heels of Sanctuary, my second, which had somehow made it onto the New York Times and Sunday Times bestsellers lists.

  And now my silly comatose sister was derailing everything.

  Well, fuck that and fuck them, I thought. I was going to stay by my sister’s side as long as it took and they could stick their publishing deal up their –

  ‘Rachel, are you okay?’ Antonia said, sounding less pissed off now. ‘Take as much time as you need. We all completely understand. Or if you want to send me what you’ve written and we’ll see what can be done?’

  ‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll get it finished.’

  What I didn’t mention was that, as yet, I had failed to write one solitary word.

  I had never intended to become a writer. I was the nomad of the family – Evie was the brainy one. After finishing my politics degree, I’d spent most of my twenties wandering around the globe, working in such varied jobs as tattoo assistant, cattle rancher and, briefly, receptionist in a Melbourne brothel. Finally bored of the peripatetic lifestyle I’d returned to Ireland, completed a master’s and started working in a women’s refuge. Then Mammy got sick.

  Evie did the really hard work – the washing, accompanying her to chemo sessions – while I earned enough to cover the bills. Then, when I came home at weekends, it was my job to entertain. I would regale Evie and Mammy with stories from my travels, about the inspiring women I met through the refuge, my thoughts on politics, culture, feminism. At some point Mammy asked me to write them all down.

  ‘And don’t be censoring them. I know you’ve got up to all sorts. Tell me about it. I promise I won’t be shocked. I’ll be proud.’

  I made an ironic face at her. ‘Hmm.’

  ‘I will. I love that I’ve raised such a feminist for a daughter. I love your tattoos and your Doc Martens and your fearlessness. I want to hear all about it.’

  So that was what I did. I wrote her little vignettes, which seemed to spill out of me, then emailed them to her every week. Of course I edited them. I wasn’t going to tell her about my ‘summer of ketamine’ in Budapest or that time in Chicago, when I’d had the lesbian fling.

  Obviously.

  But I gave her the gist.

  And then one day, about four months after my mother died, I had a call from somebody called Antonia Lloyd, telling me she ‘loved’ my manuscript.

  ‘What manuscript?’

  ‘The Restless Feminist. The one you sent us six months ago.’

  Mammy.

  ‘It’s so beautifully drawn: your travelling experiences, the underlying feminist message, your belief in the sanctity of human choice. Can we meet?’

  I put down the phone and walked to my bedroom where a picture of my mother was framed beside my bed. ‘What have you been up to, lady?’

  A few days later I met Antonia, who was wildly enthusiastic about publishing my vignettes as a book. At the end of the meeting, she handed me an envelope. ‘This came with the manuscript. Did you write it to yourself?’

  She held out a thick cream envelope with the words: ‘Only to be given to Rachel if you decide to publish her book. VERY IMPORTANT’.

  ‘Um, yes,’ I mumbled.

  She was clearly confused, but didn’t comment any further. At home, I opened a bottle of wine, locked the door and began to read.

  Dear Rachel,

&nbs
p; If you are reading this you have got a publishing deal or as near to one as makes no difference. I don’t know anything about that world, but what I do know is that you have a remarkable story to tell and a remarkable talent. I want the whole world to know about it.

  At this stage I am probably gone and you are probably sad. Don’t be! Life is a river, it flows on. I will always be in your memory, I know that. What I want you to do now is to live fearlessly. Triumphantly. Carpe diem! Tell others how to do so.

  Be brave, my darling girl. I love you so very much. I hope I am now looking down on you (I think I am), but the most important thing is that we had each other. For some time. And it was wonderful.

  I know you will look after Evie. She is gifted beyond words also, but needs to recognize it. Please help her to.

  Love you always,

  Mammy

  PS That boy you introduced me to, Jacob? Marry him.

  I thought of Mammy’s advice now as I sat in my freezing Dublin apartment in the half-light. I had married Jacob, on a sunny June Friday, wearing daisies in my hair and a long blue dress I’d found in a vintage shop. By then Mammy had passed away, but Evie had accompanied me down the ‘aisle’, the centre of a Victorian orangery, and Jacob’s baby sister had read an extract from The Little Prince.

  We had been so happy then. Jacob still had Gracie, with no inkling of what was to come, and I had started healing through him. Because of him.

  Now, though …

  ‘Live fearlessly’. The words Mammy had written in her letter came back to me. For so long that had been my motto, but now I just felt tired. As if I didn’t have the energy to fight any more.

  ‘Cop yourself on,’ I muttered. I picked up my jacket and made my way to the DART. I was going to see Jacob. This was not the time to be falling to pieces. I had learned the hard way that fearless was the only option.

  10.

  On the DART I tried ringing Jacob’s mobile to tell him I was on my way but it went straight to voicemail. Still, there was no backing out now. Whatever happened, there was no way I was going back to England without telling him what had happened to Evie. Not after I’d trekked all this way.