Claire Allan - The Liar’s Daughter

I feel tears prick at my eyes. I have to hold in a low groan of pain myself. I’m not sure who I want to cry for most right now. Him, or the little girl I was, who was so hurt all those years ago.

‘Dad,’ I say softly. ‘It’s Ciara.’

He should know, of course. I’m the only person who has ever called him ‘Dad’. Despite their many years together, Heidi has never given him that title. He stirs. I can almost hear his bones creak as he does so. He’s still a relatively young man, only in his early sixties, but the way in which he tries to pull himself to sitting in his bed is more fitting to a man much older. I wince at the sight of him – the thinness of his hands as he reaches out to lift his glasses from the bedside table and put them on.

‘Ciara?’ he mutters. ‘Open those curtains. Let me see you.’

I fall into the role of dutiful daughter quickly, to my annoyance, and pull open the curtains. Not that it makes much difference. The gloom outside is such that the light barely lifts in the bedroom. I reach over and switch on the bedside lamp instead.

Then I sit at the bottom of the bed. Far enough away that he cannot touch me. I have drawn my lines. I have to. Self-preservation is everything.

‘I didn’t know if you would come,’ he says, his hand shaking as he reaches for a glass of water from the bedside table.

I lift it and hand it to him, watching him take a few sips before I take it from him again.

‘I didn’t know if I would come, either,’ I say. There’s a harshness to my voice that makes me feel both proud and ashamed of myself.

‘Well, I’m glad you did. And Heidi told you, did she? My news?’

‘That you’re dying? Yes.’

He winces a little at the word dying, as if my uttering it will summon the Grim Reaper sooner.

‘If I can get over this operation, I might get back on my feet again,’ he says. ‘For a while anyway.’

I nod. I don’t know what he expects me to say.

‘Ciara, I don’t have much time, but I wondered if I might have enough time to make things right with you. We’ve wasted so many years. If there’s any chance at all that we can even start to reconcile … it would mean more to me than I can say.’

I wait for him to say he’s sorry. I will him to say it. I’ve wanted him to say it for twenty years. Surely now, when time is running out, when he says he wants to reconcile – when he wants that more than he can say – surely now he can force those words out.

Maybe, if he does, I can think about a reconciliation. He’s scared now – I can see that in his eyes – in the way he looks at me. I need to know if he is really interested in acknowledging the pain he caused, or if he’s just scared of the judgement he’ll face from his God.

‘Heidi says you have maybe three months. Six at most,’ I say, picking imaginary fluff from the blanket on the bed.

‘I’ll not see six,’ he says. ‘I feel it. I can feel it getting closer. The cancer’s spreading.’

I look at him. There’s so much I want to say that I don’t know where to start. I could quip that the cancer started to spread a long, long time ago. But I don’t.

‘I’m scared, Ciara,’ he says, his voice weak. Pathetic.

I close my eyes. Just once, Dad, I think. Just say sorry once.

I can feel tears prick at my eyes. A well of emotion I know wants a release rises up in me. It’s a mixture of anger and grief and fear. I’m that thirteen-year-old again having her heart broken, asking her daddy to say he loved her enough to stay and that he was sorry that he ever hurt her.

I swallow them down and look him straight in the eyes. He will not see me cry. He will never know how much he hurt me, or how scared I was.

‘I’m not sure what you want me to do about that,’ I say, not caring in that moment about the icy tone in my voice.

I don’t like being in this house alone any more. I used to enjoy the silence. I’d be happy lost among my books, or out in the garden. Now, no amount of books can distract me from the knowledge that my body is giving up on me.

I should have known I wasn’t well. Maybe I did and I was in denial. I’ve felt myself slowing down for the last few months – having less energy, less drive. I was foolish to think, or hope, it was merely my age.

Time is running out and I don’t know what’s ahead of me. Will it be a painful death? Will I just slip away? What will be waiting for me on the other side? I’m a believer, of course. I believe in a God who forgives all sins when the sinner repents, but is there is a cut-off point in His tolerance for wrongdoers? Are some sins unforgivable?

Ciara has been so cold with me. I’m not sure what I expected. A hug? A tearful reunion? It’s been almost ten years or more since we last saw each other. Ten years since she said I was no longer part of her life and never would be again.

I suppose I expected some sign of love. That she cared. She’s not the thirteen-year-old girl I moved out on any more. She’s a grown woman, old enough to know that adult relationships aren’t always straightforward. She should have a bit more savvy by now. Then again, maybe I don’t deserve to be forgiven, by Ciara or by God.

Maybe I’ll ask Heidi to call Father Brennan for me. Get him to come to the house and provide some spiritual counsel. I’m too sore and too tired to get out of this bed save to shuffle to the bathroom and back again. I’m definitely too sore for a trip to chapel.

What will he think, though, if I tell him? Will he stay impartial as priests are supposed to? Will he dole out the penance of a couple of Hail Marys and Our Fathers and all will be forgiven, or will he never think of me the same again?

The clock in the hall is ticking loudly. I used to find it a comfort – a constant companion on quiet afternoons in front of the fire, reading my books with a cup of tea at hand.

Now, though, it’s just reminding me that every second passing is one that I won’t get back, and brings me one second closer to facing the judgement of God.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

Ciara’s face was incandescent with rage. Her blue eyes narrowed. Her mouth set in a snarl. She was lashing out, swiping at him with her arms while he tried to subdue her.

I was standing in the corner. If I could have pushed myself further into it, disappeared through a crack in the plaster, I would have. I was cradling my favourite doll and trying to understand what was happening. My mother was trying to coax me to come and sit beside her, but I’d never seen such rage before and it scared me.

Ciara was angry and Joe was doing his best to mollify her. Although she was thirteen – tall and lanky with a smattering of teenage acne – she started to cry like a baby. To cry the way I wanted to cry at the sound of their raised voices.

‘You can’t make me be friends with these people!’ she howled. ‘You can’t make me like them. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home. LET ME GO HOME!’

She kicked him square in the shins and he let out a roar of pain, while she darted around him and made for the front door. Quick as a flash he went after her, blocking her escape.

‘Ciara, pet, there’s no need to react like this. Natalie and Heidi just want to spend more time with you.’

‘Heidi! What kind of a stupid name is Heidi? Does she live up in the mountains with her granda or something?’

I shrank into myself. I was all too aware of my literary namesake, but most people had told me how pretty my name was. How unusual. They didn’t mock me – not like Ciara was mocking me.

‘She’s a nice girl,’ I heard Joe soothe.