‘Hello, Dad,’ I say softly. ‘It’s me, Erin.’ I stroke his hand, hoping for a response, some sort of acknowledgement that he’s heard me. I look over my shoulder. The nurse is at her desk, doing something on the computer in front of her. I’m not quite sure if she really has work to do, but she’s definitely making a point of being occupied.
I turn back to Dad.
‘I hope you can hear me, Dad,’ I begin. ‘I’m not very good at this and not sure I’ll be able to do it again, so you’d better be listening.’ I swallow an unexpected lump that has found its way into my throat. This is going to be harder than I imagined. ‘I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye about everything. Okay, that’s not quite right. When I was a teenager and living at home, we clashed a lot. And that animosity somehow found its way into our relationship, it got in all the little corners and grooves. It embedded itself and became the norm for us.’
I look for a response. I’ll take anything – the flicker of an eyelid, a twitch of his hand, but there’s nothing.
‘After the accident, when I went to England, I was very angry with everyone. You, Mum, Diana Marshall. Even Niall himself. He wasn’t supposed to go and die on me. And the adults in my life weren’t supposed to cause me even more pain by insisting I have a termination. I couldn’t cope with everything that happened. It hurt. It hurt so badly.’
Oh God, it had been so painful. The feeling of utter hopelessness comes rushing right back as if I’m living that moment all over again. It’s as clear, as sharp and as fierce as it had been then. I double up, my face resting on our hands. A wave of tears comes and races down my cheeks, spreading across my hands, following the channels between my fingers, seeping through the gaps, reaching my father’s skin.
I allow myself a moment to deal with the acute pain. It’s the worst torture I can imagine. It feels as if my heart is being cut from me while it still beats.
After a minute or two, the pain dissipates enough so I can concentrate on what I need to say. I’m aware Mum could walk back in any time now.
‘Dad, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Really sorry. I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to understand. I couldn’t deal with it. As time went on, I began to have small inklings of what it was all about. How you thought you were doing the right thing by me. But I couldn’t admit that. It would mean having to deal with the pain and loss all over again.
‘If I was angry with you, it was easier. I could deal with anger. I could channel all my feelings into that anger. The more I felt, the more I began to think I understood your reasons, the more mature I became and the more life experiences I had to deal with began to make me realise that the world isn’t black and white. It’s full of many, many shades and tones.’
The words are tumbling out. I keep going, fearing if I stop now, I’ll never say them.
‘But I wouldn’t let myself apply that to you. It was easier to hold you up as the villain. I could direct everything I was feeling at you. It meant I didn’t have to deal with that pain.’
I pluck a tissue from the box on the bedside table and dab at my eyes and nose. I rise and put my lips to his ear.
‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ I say. ‘So very sorry. Please forgive me.’ I kiss his cheek.
At first I think the dampness on his face is that of my own tears, but as I pull away I realise the tears are coming from Dad. A tear forms in the corner of his eye from under the closed lid and, as it pools, it overflows the small well between his eye and bridge of his nose. The tear follows the path of the one before, sliding down his face. And then his eyes flick open.
‘Dad?’
His mouth opens and closes. There is the tiniest of breaths and the quietest of sounds. I move my face closer. He’s trying to speak, I’m sure of it.
‘Erin.’ It’s a rasp on a small breath, barely distinguishable, but I know he’s said my name. He knows it’s me.
‘Yes, Dad. I can hear you,’ I say, my voice barely more audible than his.
‘Forgive me,’ he says.
I move my head to look at him and let the words sink in. After a moment I speak. ‘There’s nothing to forgive. Not now. Once upon a time, I might have wanted that from you, but not now. Not any more.’
His fingers move against mine. I bury my face against his and, once again, our tears merge as a tidal wave of emotion hits me. I allow myself to succumb to the feeling. I’m done fighting this battle. It’s been a pointless war with no winners, only losers.
Eventually, the crying subsides. I draw back. Dad is still awake, but the rims of his eyes are red. I can see myself reflected back in those green eyes. All those feelings I thought were just my own, all that pain and hurt, it’s there, plain to see in him, but I have never chosen to look for it. I’ve been too ready to cast him as a terrible father. My stubbornness and need to blame has prohibited me from looking at him through my adult eyes. He’s forever been seen through the eyes of an angry, naive teenager, who thought the world was against her.