The Things We Know Now Read online

  Ella’s delicate face was paler than usual, and I could recognize all too clearly the grief that stalked her. I sat very still and waited.

  ‘Fintan was kind, came to visit, held my hand. But even on that first day, I sensed a relief in him – as though he had had a lucky escape.’ She shrugged. ‘As it turns out, I think I was the one with the lucky escape.’

  I looked at her, more puzzled than shocked.

  ‘I don’t mean losing the baby, Patrick. I mean losing Fintan.’ Her eyes were very blue just then. I could see the corners of her mouth tremble.

  ‘Ah. Go on.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘I couldn’t contact him the following day and so I discharged myself early from hospital. The doctors were very reluctant to let me go, but I couldn’t bear being surrounded by other women’s babies.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I insisted. Said I had plenty of help at home. When I got back to the apartment – devastated, grieving, beside myself with unhappiness – Fintan was there. I was surprised: he hadn’t answered either his mobile or the phone in the apartment.’

  ‘What was wrong?’

  ‘What was wrong was he’d been having an affair. It had coincided almost exactly with the news of my pregnancy.’ Ella looked at me. ‘And, yes, I can see by your expression that you don’t need a diploma in psychotherapy to work that one out.’

  I nodded. It never ceases to surprise me how those who are supposed to know themselves the best often know themselves the least. The chaos that it causes.

  ‘And Fintan then told me that he’d decided he didn’t want to be a father after all – at least not with me, and not at that time. He claimed I’d shut him out once I got pregnant, that I had damaged our relationship.’ Ella took a sip of wine. I noticed how the beads of condensation had gathered on the curve of her glass. ‘Then he started to cry. He insisted that I had got pregnant deliberately in order to compel him to marry me when he wasn’t ready. He said it was my behaviour that had forced him into the arms of another woman.’ Ella’s voice finally came to rest on the last two words: ‘another . . . woman’.

  I wanted to punch this man, whoever he was. ‘He blamed you?’ I was stunned by the violence of this sudden bolt of anger. I wanted to go and find this Fintan person right away. Instead, I asked: ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I packed my bags. I called him all the names under the sun: coward, liar, traitor – that’s only some of what I can remember. It was not a pretty sight. And then I left. I called a taxi and went to stay with a colleague – a friend from university days.’ She paused. ‘Karen was wonderful. She was a nurse as well as a therapist, and she looked after me. I stayed with her for three months. She came with me to every hospital appointment and every therapy appointment. She used to drive me over to see my father, as well. With Dad, I’d pretend that everything was fine, that nothing had changed. He wasn’t fooled though, not for a moment.’ Ella smiled at the memory. ‘He told me afterwards that he hadn’t liked Fintan at all. He told me I needed to set my sights higher.’

  ‘I will never do anything to hurt you, Ella,’ I said quickly, remembering the last time I had made such a promise to a woman. I was profoundly grateful that I had always kept that vow to Cecilia, as I now would to Ella. She reached across and squeezed my hand.

  ‘They say things happen in threes,’ Ella went on. ‘I’d lost the chance of a baby, I lost my relationship and, three months later, my father had a stroke. I moved home at once.’

  ‘How long did your father live?’

  ‘Six months,’ she said. ‘I employed carers as well, because there were some things I couldn’t do for him: some intimate, personal things he didn’t want me to do. He said he needed to maintain his dignity.’

  My eyes fell on the old man’s photograph on the table in the conservatory. His face is pressed close to Ella’s, his expression proud, his gaze direct.

  She followed my glance. ‘That was on his eighty-fifth birthday. We had a small party here – some old neighbours and Karen and Christopher and Donna. He had such a good time.’

  I had not yet met, at that time, these friends and acquaintances of Ella’s. She had been cautious around her friendships, too, guarding them until she was ready. Even without knowing her, I felt enormously grateful to Karen and thanked her privately the first time we met, for the way she’d looked after Ella during that crucial time. I found her warm and engaging, and we took to each other at once.

  ‘It’s your job now,’ she’d said, smiling at me. ‘I’m so glad she’s with you, Patrick. She deserves to be happy.’

  I was more circumspect with Christopher. He’d been Ella’s supervisor and I was nervous that he might discover a fatal flaw in my character. I worried that he might dissuade Ella from being with me. But he and I got on better than I might have hoped.

  ‘Your father must have been very happy to have you back with him,’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘We had a wonderful six months. We spent every day together, in this room and outside in the garden if it was fine.’ She looked around her, as though seeing this lovely house all over again, through her father’s eyes. ‘It gave him so much pleasure. Those last months with him healed me a lot more than I was able to heal him. I’m glad we had the time.’ She looked at me. ‘It’s so much easier to let go that way than with a sudden death. One morning, Dad simply didn’t wake up. He just slipped away – and on the previous night he’d told me that he hadn’t liked Fintan one bit. That was his phrase: “Not one bit,” he said. He told me that I needed someone kind, someone who would look after me and appreciate what he’d got.’

  She was smiling at me, almost mischievous now.

  ‘I do,’ I said, unable to keep the earnestness from my voice. ‘More than you know.’

  She took my hand. ‘There is something else you need to know.’

  I waited.

  ‘Because of the damage done by the pregnancy, it’s unlikely I’ll ever be able to have children.’ She paused. ‘It’s just one of those things. One tube was completely destroyed at the time, and I found out that the other one had never worked properly anyway – something which I hadn’t known. It was a complete fluke. So,’ and she looked at me, her eyes bright with sadness, ‘I need you to know that about me before you and I go any further.’

  I stood up and pulled her to her feet, wrapping my arms around her, feeling her warmth against my chest. I felt a rush of pure elation. She had handed me my opportunity. It was time.

  ‘I want to be with you, Ella,’ I said. ‘I want to make you happy. A child is not my priority, but I understand you may feel differently. What do you want us to do?’

  She shook her head, looking up at me. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I’ve had time to get used to the idea. I’m resigned to it. I wish it could have been different, of course, but it’s not. I’m just glad I have you in my life.’

  I was aware that it was not right to want to rush this gentle, lovely woman, but I could not contain myself. I was filled with longing to be with her, to protect her, to make her laugh. I held her closer. ‘Marry me,’ I said. ‘God knows, I’m old enough to know what I want. And I don’t want to wait. Let me make you happy.’

  She counselled patience again, of course, and taking things slowly, gradually, getting to know each other better. All of which I heard, even though I did not wish to listen. The only thing I was conscious of was this astonishing realization of having been gifted a second chance, a second life.

  I believe that our being together was sealed on that night – that Ella knew, as I did, that it was the right, the inevitable thing for both of us. But I had to wait another year before she finally gave me the answer I had been waiting for.

  I have returned to that occasion many times in my memory. It stands out from dozens of others because so much that was important passed between us. I am sure that my recollection of the words we spoke is accurate.

  Knowing what I know now, I have often wondered since that night what makes God play such tricks on us. The God in
whom I had started to believe again, once Ella had come into my life; the God whose existence Ella still doubted. At that time, all our chances to become parents together seemed to be outside our reach. Ella’s difficulties, my – to be frank – initial, secret reluctance to embark upon fatherhood again in my fifties: it seemed that the odds were stacked against us.

  Daniel’s arrival, his brief stay with us, altered everything: my life, my view of the world, my view of myself.

  However, it has always felt perversely cruel to me that the odds of which I speak altered so dramatically, and then altered back again – taking from us the very thing we believed that we were never destined to have.

  Rebecca

  THE PHONE CALLS began almost at once. Certainly by the middle of February 1990, just a couple of weeks after my mother’s death. Once the usual fuss had abated. I don’t mean that unkindly. I just mean that neighbours, acquaintances, even friends had all gone back to their own lives after the funeral – as people must. I certainly had: I’d no choice. But I don’t think my father realized he’d be thrown back onto the scant resources of his own company quite so quickly.

  Frances and Sophie soon started calling me, one after the other. At that time, during the first six months or so of 1990, I was travelling a lot, particularly to and from the States. The private college I worked for back then had a sister organization in Boston. Their senior lecturer had absconded with one of the secretaries and the whole business had been thrown into chaos.

  And so I got roped in; although my PhD was on hold, I was more than qualified to lecture to the junior students. Much against my will, I got shunted back and forth for months. I felt like the stopgap that I was, and I was all too aware that I was being treated like this because I was the youngest – and a woman.

  I hated all the travelling: the endless airports and the hotel rooms and the time differences. But in a way, such busyness distracted me from my grief, and from what was going on at home. It was also, in a way, a relief not to be always available, not to be physically present back home, but the twins’ calls certainly took their toll in other ways. I don’t much like being a distant participant in a situation over which I have no control.

  Dad, my sisters said, wasn’t eating. He wasn’t leaving the house. He was drinking way too much whiskey. I listened. And listened. And listened. And then I was furious with him. We three had all had to get on with our own lives, despite the yawning, grief-filled gap that each slow day did nothing to lessen. Why didn’t he at least make an effort?

  My mother’s absence was still a physical ache, a weight that pressed down upon me, waking and sleeping. I knew, no matter what, that my father had to be suffering similarly. I tried to make allowances. Each time my sisters phoned I was, I believe, both sympathetic and sensible in my suggestions as to how to handle him. But nothing worked. It felt like a very long few weeks to me – and, in fairness, even longer for my sisters. I returned home from the States, hoping to fly back, as it were, below my sisters’ radars. I’d been deliberately vague with each of them about the date of my return.

  I know now that it was Adam who told them, not only the date, but the time and the number of my flight. I’ve often wondered about that. Was it an early attempt by my husband to punish me for abandoning him every couple of weeks? I’ll never be sure: but I do know that he never had any problem spending all that I earned. No problem at all.

  And so I’d barely landed when they called again: Frances early on the morning of my arrival, just as I was getting into my car at the airport. Sophie called late that same afternoon, waking me from that awful, sluggish, post-time-difference sleep. And then Frances phoned again in the evening. Both of my sisters sounded distraught.

  It was a Friday, I remember. I’d had the week from hell – and that’s apart from the developing jet lag. I was longing for an evening without interruptions. Before my sisters’ outbursts, an empty weekend had stretched out languidly in front of me. I couldn’t wait to kick off my shoes and curl up in front of the television. I wanted to doze my way through Saturday morning, then go for a walk, maybe have lunch by the sea somewhere with Adam, whom I’d hardly seen in nine weeks. The last thing I wanted was to drive right into the epicentre of an emotional ice storm.

  ‘It’s not just about looking after himself, Rebecca; it’s not just the practical stuff that’s causing problems. All that can be taken care of.’ I heard Frances take a deep breath. ‘Dad has imploded – I can’t think of any other word for it. It’s not just sadness: it’s as though he has given up living. I’m actually frightened he might do something to harm himself.’

  Frances is not an alarmist. I decided I’d better go and support her and Sophie as soon as I could manage it. ‘I’ll drive up early on Sunday,’ I suggested. I tried to sound both firm and tired.

  There was a pause. ‘You don’t understand,’ Frances said. ‘I wouldn’t have rung you again if I didn’t think it was an emergency. Sophie and I haven’t slept in two nights. You have to come now.’

  ‘What about Doctor Eugene?’ I stalled. My father had always had great time for stolid, unimaginative Eugene. Personally, I thought he was old fashioned, out of touch with current medical practice and limited in his diagnoses. But then, who was I to be choosy at a time like this?

  Frances’s reply was chilly. I knew the tone well, from all those other occasions in the past on which she and I had crossed swords.

  ‘Eugene is away. He has a locum – a woman I’ve never even met. Do you really think it’s wise to bring a stranger into the middle of this crisis, given the state Dad is in?’

  And that is how, at eight o’clock on a Friday evening, I found myself driving through freezing early March rain to meet my sisters at my father’s house.

  I’ll admit that his condition shocked me. He looked gaunt, old. He’d always taken great pride in his appearance – I think he has always had a wide streak of vanity in his nature – but now he was unshaven, his corduroy trousers stained and baggy, his shirt reeking of perspiration.

  ‘Come with me, Dad.’ I dumped my overnight bag in the corner of the living room. I hadn’t even taken off my coat. He looked at me, finally registering my presence. Almost without thinking, I’d used my mother’s tone. I think it was my voice that sparked that instant of recognition, that flash of something in his eyes that looked like hope. I know, too, that I look like Cecilia did when she was young, much more so than either Frances or Sophie do, and I played on that, shaking my hair free of the combs I’d used to restrain it.

  My father stood up, followed me like a lamb. I think my sisters were relieved to have me take charge. To them, his disintegration had been gradual; he became just a little more unkempt every day, a little more cranky, a little more solitary. To me, the change was astonishing – like a slap in the face. We took the stairs slowly and I became aware of his laboured breathing.

  What on earth? I thought. And: Why didn’t they call me sooner? But wisely, on that occasion, I said nothing. Nothing at all.

  When we reached his room, he sat heavily on the bed and I left him. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ I turned on the shower and led him, by the hand, into the bathroom. ‘You need to wash, Dad.’ My tone was stern. ‘Take your time and I’ll have clean clothes ready when you are.’

  He showered and dressed; we made tea and sandwiches and all of us sat around the kitchen table. On that occasion, my father wept and shuddered and drew long, shaky breaths. Other than that, he was uncommunicative. He shook his head every time one of us spoke, and eventually, we helped him up the stairs to bed.

  I sent both my sisters home. Their exhausted faces were too much for me.

  I told them to sleep, to take time out, to stay away from our father’s house until Sunday. Then I called Adam to say I’d be away until Sunday night at the earliest. And then I began a silent rehearsal of what I was going to say to my father over breakfast.

  The following morning, Dad came into the kitchen just as I was making coffee. He looked def
eated, his face grey and hollow. He seemed to sag, as though the effort of projecting himself to others was too much for him. I began to understand the depth of my sisters’ alarm.

  We talked. Or, at least, I talked and he listened, or seemed to listen. He looked up at me from time to time, his eyes empty.

  ‘Dad,’ I said, as gently as I could manage, ‘Mum would hate to see you like this. We all miss her. I miss her too, desperately, but she was always someone who believed in getting on with things.’

  He nodded. ‘I know, I know.’ He suddenly blurted, ‘Sometimes I’m ashamed of myself. But I just can’t seem to make myself care about anything any more.’

  It was the first coherent sentence he had spoken since I’d arrived. I felt we were getting somewhere. ‘This can’t go on, Dad. Sophie and Frances are beside themselves with worry. And I live so far away—’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said again, interrupting. ‘I know you all have busy lives. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ And he began shaking his head, his distress growing all over again. ‘I just don’t know what to do.’

  My cue. I jumped in, at once, before he forgot what he’d just admitted to. ‘I’ve called someone – a man recommended by Doctor Eugene,’ I said. A lie, but we’ll let that pass. I’d phoned a doctor friend of mine, living close by. At least he’d be able to prescribe medication, if that was where we were headed. I thought of it as a holding mechanism until Eugene returned.

  ‘We’re all very worried about you. This man, Doctor Morris, has agreed to see us – or to see you on your own, if you prefer – at eleven.’ I paused, waiting for an indignant response. My father has always hated being told what to do.

  To my astonishment, he nodded. ‘That’s probably a good idea,’ he said. He never even asked why Eugene wouldn’t, or couldn’t see him.