Authors: Karen Perry
She finished her coffee, pushed the mug to one side, then leaned her clasped hands on the table in front of her, as if she were about to pray. The words she spoke to me then had the rehearsed quality of a prayer, or perhaps a parable, the telling of a story, one she had told herself or others many times over. There was no pleasure in the telling, no spark in the tale. Rather, a kind of bleakness, as if she had learned long ago that, no matter how she told it, the outcome would always remain the same.
She began by telling me about a family whom Zoë used to babysit for while she was still at school. ‘Every Saturday night, religiously, for over a year. Then it just stopped. I asked her about it, but she said it was nothing, told me to mind my own business. I let it go. But then,’ she continued, ‘one afternoon, the mother comes down the road to me all distressed. She tells me that Zoë has been pestering her husband, hanging around his workplace, calling him at all hours of the day and night. The wife had found out about it – she’d looked at his mobile
phone, seen the lewd texts Zoë’d been sending him. She showed me some – disgusting things – not to mention all the poison written about his wife. Zoë believed this man was in love with her, you see, that he was going to leave his wife for her. The way she got between them …’ She leaned forward. ‘She was fourteen years old.’
She kept on watching me to see if I took in the significance of that.
Fourteen
.
There were others, she said. A crush on a teacher that had bordered on obsession. The son of a friend, his girlfriend harassed until she complained to the police. The duplicity, the relentless nature of her intent, her consuming passion for one person leading her to isolate and eliminate anyone who might stand between her and her prize. On and on she went. It was depressingly familiar, as if our story had been written for us long ago and we were merely acting out a foregone conclusion.
‘She wasn’t always like that,’ Celine said, drawing back now. I could see her account had drained her. She summoned the energy to paint a picture for me of a bright little girl, pale and beautiful, vivacious and energetic, always dancing and singing, the centre of attention – the centre of their world. As she said it, I thought of my baby – the baby I might have had – a child who could have given happiness, fulfilment. And if I had kept that baby, would David have gone to Belfast? Might there have been no Linda? No Zoë? A jab of regret came at me and in a bid to swallow it, I took a sip of my cold coffee.
Somewhere along the line, Celine told me, Zoë’s childhood energy became restless. Adolescence came on and spikes appeared in her personality. The vivacious child
became a cunning and devious teenager. Unrelenting, refusing to be appeased or cajoled, her restless energy meant they could never relax, always jolting from one crisis to the next.
‘The one thing that bothers me,’ she said, ‘the one thing I’ve never been able to understand, is what brought on the change in her. It wasn’t always there – I’d have seen it. If I could just know what it was …’
She had plucked a sachet of sugar from the saucer beneath her mug, and was turning it over in her hands, nervous energy overtaking her, like a sudden itch.
‘Something she told us,’ I began, carefully because I was on uncertain ground here. ‘About your husband. She said … at least she implied … that something may have happened …’
The pain that came over her face was unmistakable. It stopped me saying what I had been about to add. Her hooded eyes opened a little wider as if in surprise. But she was not surprised. Dismayed, perhaps. ‘She told you that story?’
I nodded, a feeling of shame coming over me as if I had invented the story of abuse, not Zoë.
‘You don’t know my husband, but he’s the kindest, gentlest person you could meet. To make those claims about him – it was the worst kind of hurt. Those allegations left him reeling. He was never the same afterwards. And the worst part …’ Her voice broke for the first time. ‘The worst part was the cleverness of her lies, the way she worked on me over those few days … For just a short while I began to doubt him. I began to question my own husband, who wouldn’t harm a fly.’
She looked down at her hands. She had twisted the sachet in two, sugar spilling on to the table. ‘My doubts didn’t last. But the damage was done.’
The air between us seemed to deflate. All the stoicism had gone from her now and I sensed our conversation closing down.
‘Did you ever meet Linda?’ I asked.
‘No. I never wanted to. What would have been the point? And besides,’ she said, hardness pinching her lips into thin lines, ‘I knew that once Zoë found her birth mother, all her attention and love would be transferred from me to her. That I would be discarded. That’s how it is with Zoë. Once you’ve outlasted your use, you become expendable.’
Bitter words to speak of your own daughter. I tried to imagine an occasion when I might speak of Holly or Robbie in that way, but could not. She had grown quiet, and I could see what it had cost her, the lengths to which Zoë had pushed her.
‘You still love her,’ I said, an observation not a question.
She smiled for the first time, a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘That’s the thing about love,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter if they knock you down, abuse you, push you to the brink. You still love them, don’t you? You’d forgive them anything.’
After that, things deteriorated. I made no secret of my wariness towards Zoë, and she, in turn, maintained an air of injury. Over dinner one evening, she announced that she had found a part-time job as a waitress in town. She was out more than ever now, and I had the feeling she
was avoiding me. Her occupancy of the attic continued, but a new coldness had entered her presence. The days and nights continued as they had before, but something had changed between us, and I came to believe it had as much to do with the day of the hike as anything else. She knew I suspected her of something, though at the time I couldn’t name it, and I certainly didn’t mention it to her again. But whatever it was, it was foul, and underhand – whether she was, on that day, willing to hurt Holly or simply wanted to plant the notion in my head, it meant we kept our distance from each other. It was noticeable, I suppose. Robbie would often ask me where she was when he got home from school, and when I said I didn’t know, he looked peeved, as if it were my fault that she wasn’t waiting for him.
What she did next, though, I hadn’t expected. Even though it wasn’t yet May, the end of semester still weeks away, she moved out.
I had been in Tesco, doing the weekly shop, the evening light fading as I returned home and parked in the driveway. As soon as I stepped inside the hall, I heard raised voices.
Leaving my bags of groceries by the door, I began to climb the stairs towards the attic.
‘You can’t be serious?’ I heard Robbie say, his voice querulous and shrill.
Zoë, sounding more controlled, said: ‘Please, Robbie. Don’t be like this.’
‘I think it’s disgusting.’
‘Don’t be so dramatic!’
‘He’s old enough to be your dad!’
‘So what?’
‘That beer belly. How can you let him touch you?’
‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
Robbie stood with his arms folded over his chest, while Zoë turned back to the bed. I saw the open suitcase, clothes flung inside. The drawers of her bureau lay open and empty. She began zipping her laptop into its cover.
‘Are you leaving?’
‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’ she replied, a little petulantly.
I didn’t deny it and she put the laptop into her bag, squashing down the clothes, and zipped up the suitcase.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked.
When she didn’t answer, Robbie spoke up. ‘She’s moving in with
him
.’
‘Who?’
‘Tell her,’ he said to Zoë.
‘Tell me what?’
She stood at the other side of the bed, her eyes trained on her bag. There was something shifty in her manner. At last, she straightened up and looked at me, her gaze growing more defensive. ‘I’m moving in with Chris.’
‘Chris?’ I asked, momentarily confused, scanning my memory for some recollection of a Chris in her conversation. ‘You don’t mean
our
Chris?’
‘It’s a joke,’ Robbie said.
‘It’s not a joke,’ she countered, her forehead creasing with annoyance. ‘We care about each other.’
‘Oh, please,’ he said. ‘I’m going to throw up.’
I couldn’t explain the feeling of betrayal that arose.
The thought of Zoë and Chris together. It was not just shock that I felt, but something with a harder burn: she was creeping into every area of our lives.
‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ Robbie asked me.
‘How long has this been going on?’
She shrugged. ‘A couple of months.’
‘The night Chris called over,’ I murmured. ‘You both went for a drink.’ The pieces fitting together in my head. All those nights she hadn’t come home, her withdrawal from the household. Of course someone else was involved. It made perfect sense.
‘He was really kind to me that night, when I was upset. He made me laugh.’
‘He’s, like, Dad’s best friend!’
‘So what? He’s fun. He understands things.’ She lifted the bag from the bed and it occurred to me how young she was – the bag, a monstrous thing, seemed more than she could handle.
‘Are you going now? Right this minute?’
‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Do you want me to stick around for a long, slow farewell?’
I ignored that. My mind was leaping all over the place. Yes, I wanted her gone, but not like this. Not to him. ‘Have you thought this thing through properly? Don’t you have some friend your own age whose couch you can crash on for a while?’
‘What do you care, Caroline?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, Zoë. I love Chris dearly. He’s a kind, funny, caring man. But he’s a lot older than you. And his marriage has just broken down – his emotions are all over the place.’
‘So?’
‘Aren’t there boys in college you’d be more interested in dating? Boys your own age? A girl like you – you could have your pick.’
She rolled her eyes, a strand of hair falling across her face, which she made no attempt to push back. ‘I like Chris. He’s fun,’ she said. I saw the mischief come into her eye, a hard gleam of trouble. ‘And he’s great in bed.’
Robbie looked at her in amazement.
I rubbed my hand along my brow, the throb of a headache starting in my temples. ‘Does David know about this?’ I asked.
She shrugged. ‘I haven’t told him.’
‘I’m not sure this is a good idea. It’s a big step.’
‘I know what I’m doing. It’s best for everyone if I go. You’ll be happier without me.’
On a rising note of exasperation, I said: ‘Is this a permanent thing? Are you moving in together or are you just going to stay with him until you get something else sorted?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll see how it goes.’
Lowering my voice, I said: ‘Zoë, please. This is serious. You might get hurt.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said.
All those weeks of her being in the house, the dread that announced itself every time I walked through my front door. All those meals sitting across from her, the careful way she ate, pulling her hair into a twist over one shoulder. Those nights listening for her voice on the phone upstairs, or for the sound of her key turning in the lock. All the time, I had been waiting for her to leave,
willing it to happen so that we could be free of her constant presence. Now that it came to it, I found no sense of satisfaction or relief.
‘Please just stay until David gets home.’
Part of me couldn’t quite believe I was saying those words. She met my eyes, the corner of her mouth curling up into the slightest of grins. ‘Thanks for everything, Caroline,’ she said coolly. ‘You’ve been so kind – all of you.’
The formality: it was like we were right back to that first Sunday lunch.
I hope we can become good friends, Caroline.
‘Help Zoë with her bag,’ I told Robbie.
‘Is that it?’ he asked in disbelief.
‘I can manage. Really.’
‘Here.’ He took the bag from her arms, pounding down the stairs with it. Zoë followed and I closed the door to what had been her room and would now go back to being David’s office. When I reached the bottom step, she was already at the door, her bag slung over one shoulder.
There were no embraces, no goodbyes. Robbie and I stood together, watching her go.
‘You could have stopped her,’ he said quietly. ‘You blame her for what happened to Holly, on the hike, don’t you?’
‘Robbie …’
‘That’s why she left. You drove her away. You could have made her stay.’
I looked at him, my son, his face narrowing with contempt, and said to him the same words I would say to his
father some hours later when he returned from the office and I gave him the news that she had gone: ‘I’m sorry, love. I tried.’
He turned from me, disgusted, and soon I was standing alone in the doorway, staring down our road, empty of traffic, watching, as if she might change her mind and come running back.
18. David
Caroline and I sat side by side in the darkened auditorium, waiting for the music to start. I’ve always loved that hush, the rush of nerves and excitement that comes with the dimming of the lights, the last few coughs as people prepare themselves for the performance. But that night, as I sat in the National Concert Hall with my wife, looking up at the orchestra full of youthful, expectant faces, I felt no excitement.
The low hum of muted percussion started, the plucking of harp-strings, and slowly, elegantly, the rising progression of the melody above the droning bass as Debussy’s
La Mer
filled the room, little ripples and waves as the string section took over and the brass joined in. I felt Caroline straining beside me to catch a glimpse of Robbie, and there he was, pale-faced under the lights, bowing away at his cello. Dimly, I recalled the chords and melodies I had heard him practising for weeks – how disjointed and odd they had sounded, but now a piece fitting neatly into a puzzle, surrounded by the flow and harmony of the other instruments. I watched him, aware of my paternal pride – his concentration, his seriousness, the way the conductor and the musical score in front of him held his attention. I tried to focus on this fatherly love, hoping it would drown the shock and indignation I
continued to feel forty-eight hours after Caroline had broken the news to me that Zoë had moved in with Chris.