‘I’ll help you clear away,’ said her father, rising from the table.
‘No, it’s fine. I’ll do it. You go and sit down. I’ll bring you in a cup of tea.’
He didn’t argue. It was best that way. Pat would shut himself in the living room and watch the television. He wouldn’t go into the sitting room to comfort Diana, to talk about his feelings, his wife’s feelings or even what Roisin might be feeling. No, this was the Marshall way of dealing with their heartbreak. The remains of their family united in eternal grief, yet disjointed and alone in life.
I’ve just got back from a visit to the hospital. Mum had called both me and Fiona, asking us to come to up. The doctors wanted to speak to the family. I had closed the café early for the day and driven us in my father’s car.
The doctor had explained that although Dad’s condition remains the same: stable but critical, they are considering bringing him out of his induced coma. They want to monitor him for another twenty-four hours before they make a final decision. The doctor has warned us not to expect anything to happen fast or for there to be any great or sudden recovery. It’s a long process that needs to be handled with care. No miracles are in the offing.
I left Fiona with Mum. Sean is going to call in on his way back from work and pick her up before they go home to relieve the babysitter. I got the impression Fiona wanted some time with Mum. She had encouraged me to go home to get some rest. I didn’t argue. The hospital room makes me feel claustrophobic, saps my energy and stokes my guilt. The empathy for my father I thought might come still eludes me. And if that isn’t bad enough, I know Mum is only too aware of this. More guilt.
I climb the steps to the flat, having declined Fiona’s offer to stay over at hers. I feel down and, if I’m honest, a bit sorry for myself. I haven’t heard from Kerry and it hurts. More than I care to admit. I hope he’ll see things from my point of view. I can understand the way he’s reacted in light of what he said about his mother, but it’s not the same. Twice I had composed a text message to him asking him to get in touch, to meet up, but both times I deleted it without sending. He needs to come to me because he wants to, not because I’m asking.
As I reach the door to the flat, I look out across at the bike shop. A few hundred yards and a brick wall is the physical separation, but the emotional separation is far greater. Is it too great a divide for us to meet somewhere in the middle?
I let myself in to the flat. I really should try to stop thinking about Kerry so much. He has occupied pretty much my every other thought and it’s an unhealthy state of mind to be in. I shouldn’t let someone have so much hold over me. I’ve just got rid of Ed for the very same reason, so why I am allowing Kerry to take up so much headspace?
My phone rings, making me jump. I pull my mobile from my handbag and look at the screen.
It’s Ed.
It’s as if my thoughts have managed to conjure him up. I let it ring twice more while I debate whether to answer the call or not. I decide to speak to him. Knowing Ed, he’ll only keep trying if I leave it go to voicemail. I might as well get whatever it is out of the way now.
‘Hello, Ed,’ I say, walking into my parents’ living room and sitting in one of the armchairs. I sink into the sagging cushion. It’s never been comfortable, even when I was a teenager, it’s less so now, having had another ten years of use. I opt for perching on the edge of the seat.
‘Hi, Erin. How are you?’ His voice is warm and soft but it fails to have the same swooning effect as it once did.
‘Not too bad. You?’
‘You know…okay. What about your father, how is he?’
‘No change.’ I have the distinct feeling this call isn’t really to discuss the welfare of me or Dad. I sense there’s more to it. ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.’
‘I’ve wanted to call for a while, but I didn’t want to crowd you,’ says Ed. He seems hesitant, which isn’t like him at all. I wait for him to continue. ‘I wondered if we could talk. I’ve missed you.’
‘Okay, now?’ I’m taken aback by this. Ed’s confession to wanting to talk surprises me. It also puts me on guard. Thinking back to the day of the barbecue at Bex and Joe’s place prickles me more than I care to admit.
‘Yes, now, but not on the phone.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m parked up out the front of the café,’ he says.
I nearly drop the phone in surprise as I jump to my feet and shoot over to the window. I pull the net curtain up and peer into the dusk of the evening. I scan the few cars lined intermittently along the parking bays. A set of headlights flash. A BMW, like the one he has hired before, is parked several bays down from where I left Dad’s car. Three other cars separate them. I hadn’t paid any attention when I had pulled up. Why would I? He must have been parked there all along, waiting for me to get back.