Claire Allan - The Liar’s Daughter

‘Here’s your lunch,’ I say, sitting it across his lap and making sure he has everything he needs.

I don’t want to be in this room with him any longer than I need to be, so I turn to leave.

‘Ciara?’ His voice is thin and reedy – thinner and reedier than it probably needs to be. ‘Come and sit with me. Just while I have my lunch. Then you can get back to hiding downstairs again. Or you can go home. But just give me five minutes of your time, please.’

‘Okay,’ I say, instantly wishing I had the guts to say no.

‘Why don’t you sit down, instead of standing there and growing tall? You’re tall enough already.’

‘I’ll go get a chair,’ I say.

It might be a good idea to have one here anyway, for visitors. Not that there have been many, by all accounts. Despite his supposed status in the community, the house has been remarkably quiet according to Heidi. All those people who he holds court with, chats to in the street, in the library. They’re not really his friends, are they? Where are they now?

‘Sure, there’s no need for that,’ he says. ‘You can sit at the bottom of the bed.’

I hesitate. I remind myself that I’m an adult now and I have my own voice.

‘I’d rather just get a chair,’ I say, clenching my fists tightly to try to stop myself from shaking. Without giving him the chance to argue further, I go and get a chair from the spare room, place it just far enough to the right of his bed that he can’t reach it, and sit down. I’ve left the bedroom door open. I can leave at any time I want, I tell myself.

I watch and listen as he slurps spoonfuls of his soup into his mouth while he tries to make small talk. It’s all inconsequential babble that infuriates me. He wants me here, he says, but he doesn’t seem to have any intention of saying the things I need him to say.

As soon as he takes his final mouthful and washes it down with the last of his milk, I lift the tray from him and walk from the room, not looking back.

‘Would you not just stay another few minutes?’ I hear him ask, but this time I find my voice.

‘No. I’ve done what you asked. I have to leave now.’ I don’t wait to listen to any response – I just get down the stairs and out of the house as quickly as I can.

Joe’s not getting better. Not the way the doctor’s hoped, anyway. I mean, of course, we know that ultimately he is going to die. But they did expect him to recover from his surgery well enough to enjoy some sort of quality of life, for some amount of time.

He’s still confined to his bed, six days after coming home from hospital. He doesn’t even want to try to manage the stairs, to sit in the living room and maybe watch some TV. He complains he is in pain. He complains he feels sick. He complains he is too tired. He complains he can’t sleep. He complains his cup of tea is too hot. Or too milky. Or he wanted coffee instead. He complains the room is too stuffy. Or it’s too cold.

It’s a constant barrage of complaints, which I feel I have to swallow down. Because he’s sick. Because he’s dying.

I’ve tried – I’m still trying – to rally the troops, so to speak, to get help. I’ve spoken to some of Joe’s friends. Asked them if they could maybe take a shift on, a morning or afternoon, or an hour even of looking after him.

They’ve mostly been too busy. They work. Or they mind their grandkids. Or they have plans but they’ll ‘see what they can do’ and disappear off the radar.

With every ‘Sorry, I’d love to but can’t,’ I feel myself crumble a little.

This house has started to make me itch. I only have to get to the bottom of the drive and I can feel my skin prickle. Everything here is heavy and there are shadows everywhere.

We have, at least, managed to secure a care package for Joe. From next week, carers will visit for fifteen minutes each morning and fifteen minutes each evening to help with personal hygiene and the like. It’s not much, but it’s something, and I cling to it.

So far Alex has been on hand to help Joe shave every second day. We’ve put a stool in the bathroom, where he can sit while he brushes his teeth, and each morning I bring a basin of warm water, soap and fresh towels to Joe’s room and he washes himself as best he can.

He needs a shower. I know that. But he’ll have to wait for that.

Ciara has visited twice. Stayed for a few hours. Seemed to be in the foulest of all moods while she was here. It doesn’t help with the atmosphere, so I tend to avoid her. Use the time she’s here to get outside and breathe in some fresh air. I walk the length of the quay along the river over and over again with Lily in her pram, waiting for the peace and calm to wash over me that’s supposed to come with getting out and about. I’m still waiting.

‘Look,’ Dr Sweeney says as he sips tea from a good china cup, the kind kept for company. ‘He’s feeling a bit down, you know. That could be what’s hindering his recovery in and of itself. I know the prognosis isn’t good, but we need to do what we can to get him to make the most of what time he has left.’

I’d nodded, because it was expected. But ‘we’ all know that ‘we’ means ‘me’.

‘He says he gets panicky at night, in case he’s unwell and there’s no one here to help him,’ Dr Sweeney, who has been our family doctor for as long as I can remember, says.

‘There’s always someone here ’til gone eight,’ I say defensively. ‘And then I’m here before nine in the morning again. He has a phone. He can call if he needs me.’

I want to add that I’m doing as much as I can. I don’t actually want to do any of it. I’d spent the bare minimum of time with him before this illness and I’d very much like it if it was still that way. But of course, I keep quiet.

‘Maybe, but he’s a frail, sick man. I’m not one to tell you all what to do, but it might be worth talking with other family members about a rota for overnight care. Even in the interim, until he rallies a bit.’

I can’t help but roll my eyes. ‘Other family members’ – as if there’s a queue. As if I haven’t been spending the last few days calling everyone I know remotely connected with Joe to try to ease the burden on my shoulders.

‘I’ve a young baby to consider, you know,’ I tell him. ‘But I’ll mention it to Ciara. There aren’t many more options.’

‘You’re a good girl,’ Dr Sweeney says, a master at being patronising. ‘And for what it’s worth, babies are very adaptable at this one’s age. As long as they’ve a bed to sleep in at night they don’t mind too much disruption to their surroundings.’

I resist the urge to tell him to piss off.

Thankfully he leaves a little later, after eating the better part of half a packet of biscuits and dusting the crumbs onto the floor. As I close the door behind him I hear Joe call from the bedroom and I climb the stairs, each step feeling heavier and harder than the last.

‘Yes, Joe?’ I ask, opening the door just slightly and peeking in.

‘Was that Dr Sweeney talking to you about night-times?’ he asks, his face a picture of perfect misery.

‘It was.’

‘I don’t want to cause you girls any more trouble,’ he says, ‘but it’s so hard here being on my own, with only my thoughts to keep me company after you all go home to your happy families.’

‘It must be,’ I tell him.

‘I’ll not be round to be a burden on you all for much longer,’ he says.

‘I’ll talk to Ciara,’ I say.

‘Kathleen said she might come over from England,’ he says. ‘Maybe you could call her for me. Tell her I’d like to see her. She might listen to it better from you. Come sooner, you know?’