The Night the Angels Came (21 page)

The following morning my dilemma as to what I should tell Michael about his father’s condition became redundant when I went into his bedroom to wake him. Michael was already awake, lying on his back, gazing into space and looking very sad. I approached the bed and before I had a chance to ask what was the matter, he turned his gaze to me and said. ‘I think the angels will be coming for my daddy soon. Very soon. By the end of the weekend.’

I was taken aback. Certainly Michael couldn’t have overheard the conversation I’d had with Eamon the evening before; he’d been asleep and his bedroom door and the sitting-room door had both been closed. And even if he had overheard our conversation there’d been no mention of the weekend.

‘What makes you say that, love?’ I asked gently, sitting on the bed beside him.

Michael shrugged. ‘I can’t explain. I just have a feeling, that’s all.’

While I was aware that loved ones can sometimes have premonitions about those they are close to, I needed to remain practical. ‘Uncle Eamon phoned last night,’ I said choosing my words carefully. ‘He and Colleen visited your dad with Nora and Jack yesterday. He said your dad was sleeping most of the time. They are going to visit again this evening and then we’ll see when you should visit. Is that all right with you?’

Michael nodded.

‘Your dad was hoping to be home at the weekend,’ I added to put it into perspective.

‘I know,’ Michael said, matter-of-factly, getting out of bed. ‘But I don’t think he will be.’

I straightened his duvet and then left him to get dressed, ready for school.

At breakfast Michael was quieter than usual, which was hardly surprising given what must have been going through his head. I asked him a few times if he was all right, and he nodded. Once I’d taken the boys to school and Paula to nursery, I phoned Stella and asked if she’d heard anything from St John’s Hospice. She hadn’t – not since Patrick had phoned her on Wednesday to say he was going in. I told Stella what Eamon had said and that I wasn’t sure if and when I should take Michael to visit his father. I didn’t want to go against Patrick’s wishes, but on the other hand Michael needed to see his father if this was goodbye. Stella said she’d phone St John’s straight away and get back to me. When she returned my call twenty minutes later she said there was no change in Patrick’s condition and that he was still unconscious. I asked her again if and when I should take Michael to visit. Stella said that as Patrick was unconscious and couldn’t talk to Michael there didn’t seem a lot of point in taking him now.

‘But surely Michael needs to say goodbye to his dad?’ I said.

‘Let’s stay positive,’ she said. ‘We’re not at that point yet.’

I wasn’t so sure. What Michael had said that morning had stayed with me. Michael was very close to his father and if he’d had a premonition I wasn’t going to dismiss it.

C
olleen phoned that Friday evening before Michael was in bed and told me there was no change in Patrick’s condition. I asked her what she and Eamon now thought about me taking Michael to see his father over the weekend and she said they thought I should. Colleen then offered to take Michael with them when they visited and I said that if she didn’t mind I would like to take him, as I too wanted to see Pat. I didn’t say I wanted to see him to say goodbye but that was the implication.

‘Of course,’ she said apologetically. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. You need to see Pat. Will you take Adrian and Paula?’

‘No. I’ll ask my parents to babysit. We’ll probably go on Sunday afternoon.’

‘Yes, there’s no restriction on visiting, although they ask you to avoid twelve thirty to one thirty, as it’s a quiet time. I expect we’ll go as usual in the evening, and I think Nora and Jack are going on Saturday.’

Colleen then asked if she could speak to Michael, as he was still up and I called him to the phone. They chatted for about five minutes while I read Paula a bedtime story. When they’d finished Michael seemed relaxed and reassured by speaking to Colleen; she and Eamon were Patrick’s oldest and dearest friends and Michael had known them all his life. I told Michael we would be going to see his dad on Sunday and then I telephoned my parents. Mum answered and I explained that Patrick was now in a hospice and that I needed to take Michael to see him. Straight away Mum offered to look after Adrian and Paula, and then became upset because Patrick was so ill. I felt bad at upsetting Mum, but that’s what happens in fostering: the whole family becomes involved and suffers the sadness and losses of the looked-after child, just as they would their own child or grandchildren.

That night Michael had said his prayers before I went into his bedroom to say goodnight. He was in bed, waiting for me to tuck him in and give him a goodnight kiss. I had suggested earlier in the evening that we all went swimming the following day and Michael was looking forward to it. ‘I’m going down the chute with Adrian,’ he said. ‘Are you coming down this time?’

Michael was referring to our previous swimming trips, when he and Adrian had spent most of the time going down the water-chute ride while I’d stayed in the shallow end, using Paula as an excuse. ‘I could look after Paula if you want a go on the chute,’ Michael added.

‘We’ll see,’ I said. ‘You’re a better swimmer than I am.’

‘Do you remember when we all went swimming and Dad watched while you came in the water with us?’ Michael said thoughtfully.

I smiled. ‘I do, love. We had a great time, didn’t we?’

‘Yes. I just wish we could do it again.’

I hugged Michael, and then sat on the bed holding his hand until his eyes closed and he fell asleep.

Going swimming on Saturday, with lunch out, followed by the afternoon in the park, was a good idea. It filled up most of the day and kept everyone happily occupied, so there was no room for fretting or worrying about what Sunday would bring. It was six o’clock by the time we arrived home and we were all pleasantly exhausted. After dinner the children watched a short film on television and then I took Paula up to bed while the boys took turns in the shower. They were all yawning madly by the time they were washed and in their nightwear and no one objected going to bed. Adrian and Paula were looking forward to seeing their nana and grandpa the following day and Michael was looking forward to seeing his father. I’d already explained to Michael that his dad probably wouldn’t be awake and Colleen had said something similar when she’d spoken to him on the phone, so Michael was realistic in what to expect when he visited his father.

‘It will be nice if Dad wakes up while we’re there,’ he said thoughtfully as I tucked him into bed.

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Although Colleen did say he was sleeping a lot,’ I reminded him.

We all had a lie-in on Sunday morning and weren’t up and dressed until ten o’clock, when I cooked a big breakfast – sausage, bacon, egg, tomatoes and beans. My parents arrived at twelve noon as arranged, and as usual Paula and Adrian rushed to greet them in the hall, eager to see them and tell them all their news. I noticed that Michael didn’t join them in the hall, although having met my parents before he felt comfortable around them and usually rushed to greet them as Adrian and Paula did. I found him in the sitting room, seated on the sofa and vaguely flicking through a book.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked, as my mum and dad followed me into the sitting room.

Michael nodded.

Mum became distracted by Adrian and Paula, who wanted to show her something, while Dad went over and sat on the sofa next to Michael.

‘How are you doing, lad?’ my father asked gently. ‘OK, I guess.’ Michael shrugged. ‘When you see your dad will you say hello to him from Nana and me, please, and send him our love?’

‘Dad probably won’t be awake,’ Michael said despondently.

Dad knew this. He nodded. ‘Just because someone isn’t awake doesn’t mean they can’t hear you. His eyes might be closed but his ears are still open. I want you to remember that when you talk to your dad. Tell him everything you want him to know: he can still hear you.’

Dad’s message was so obvious I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it, for I could see the comfort Michael now found in my father’s words. I felt quite choked up because I knew Dad had shared something very personal which had come from his own experience: he’d spent hours by his father’s bed in his last few days, comforting and reassuring him as he’d slowly passed away.

‘I will,’ Michael said, looking appreciatively at my father. ‘I’ll talk to Dad and tell him all my news, just like I do when he’s awake.’

‘Good lad,’ Dad said. ‘That’ll make him very happy. And don’t forget to tell him how much you love him.’

‘I won’t,’ Michael replied, smiling.

Michael and I left the house at 1.30 p.m. and I drove to St John’s Hospice with the radio on low and Michael looking through his side window at the passing scenery. I’d never been to St John’s before but I’d driven past the building, so I knew where it was. The roads were clear and we arrived at 1.50. Built about fifteen years ago, St John’s was a red-brick single-storey building, set back from the road and surrounded by beautiful gardens. There was a small car park nestled in the trees to one side and I drove in and easily found a parking bay.

‘Isn’t this lovely?’ I said, referring to the gardens. Michael didn’t reply.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked, making my voice light, as I opened the rear door to let him get out.

Michael nodded but still didn’t say anything. I sensed his apprehension and anxiety. I felt it too. It wasn’t so much seeing his father that was making us anxious but seeing him in the hospice rather than at the hospital, which we were both very familiar with.

Opening the outer door to St John’s we passed through a bright spacious lobby with large potted plants, and then entered the reception area. It was also very light, and decorated in pale blue with carpet, sofa, armchairs, coffee table and a magazine rack, reminiscent of a comfortable sitting room. Reception was empty, apart from us and the lady who was seated behind a low beech-wood reception desk, straight in front. She smiled as we entered and then asked: ‘Can I help you?’

We went over. ‘We’ve come to see Mr Patrick Byrne,’ I said.

‘Patrick is in Room 8,’ she said, without having to check. ‘It’s just along that corridor down there.’ She pointed. ‘His room is on the left. Would you like a member of staff to show you?’

‘I think we’ll be all right,’ I said. ‘Here’s our little leaflet showing you where everything is,’ she said, handing me a pamphlet of St John’s. ‘Tea, coffee and soft drinks are always available in the lounge: through that door over there. Let me know if you need anything or if you would like to talk to someone later.’ She smiled at Michael and me.

‘Thank you,’ I said. The receptionist’s friendly manner and the welcoming atmosphere of the place had put me more at ease.

‘Would you sign the visitors’ book, please?’ she said, turning the open book to face me.

I signed for Michael and me, adding the date and time, and returned the book. I could hear classical music playing faintly in the background, adding to the relaxed atmosphere of the place, although Michael was still looking worried. As we began in the direction the receptionist had pointed Michael linked his arm through mine and I threw him a reassuring smile. A middle-aged man with a teenage boy, also visiting, came towards us and said a friendly hello as they passed, and I returned their greeting. The rooms were numbered consecutively, going up from one; some of the doors we passed were open, revealing large airy rooms with carpet, upholstered chairs and modern built-in furniture. The door to Patrick’s room was closed and I felt Michael’s hand tighten on my arm. Giving a brief knock, I slowly turned the door handle and pushed open the door.

We were in a large bright room at the back of the building, overlooking the gardens. A gleaming white en-suite bathroom led off through a door to our right. The bed, in the centre of the room, was positioned so that the person in it could look out and see the gardens. Pat was asleep in bed, on his back with his head slightly raised on two pillows. There were two armchairs by the bed and an oxygen cylinder. ‘You sit here next to your dad,’ I said, pushing one of the chairs up to the bed. ‘And I’ll sit beside you.’

Michael sat in the armchair and leant forward. ‘Hello, Dad,’ he said, appearing more at ease now we were in the room and he knew there was nothing to fear.

Patrick didn’t stir and looked as though he was simply asleep. There were no tubes coming from his mouth or nose, no wires leading to monitors and no drip. His breathing seemed easier than it had been for a long while – he wasn’t rasping, perhaps because his breathing was more shallow; and his colour, while not ruddy, was not unhealthily pale. His arms lay over the covers either side of him and his hands were relaxed and slightly open. The wedding ring he always wore on the third finger of his right hand in memory of his wife had become loose with weight loss and had slipped down to his knuckle. I gently moved it back into position so that it wouldn’t slip off and be lost.

‘Dad, it’s Michael here,’ Michael tried again, touching his father’s arm. Patrick didn’t move. As Colleen had said, he was deeply unconscious.

I glanced around the room. Furnished in beech wood with a built-in wardrobe, chest of drawers, television, telephone, radio, and curtains matching the bedding, it was very comfortable and like a four-star hotel room. The view through the window was truly beautiful and inspiring, and I knew when Patrick had arrived on Wednesday and had been able to appreciate the view how much pleasure he would have drawn from it. I just wished Michael and I had been with him when he’d been admitted and had still been conscious, but Patrick being Patrick had arranged his admittance and then told his social worker, friends and me.

‘Dad?’ Michael tried again, but Patrick still didn’t stir. Only his chest rose and fell with his breathing. Michael looked at me, disappointed, and unsure what to do or say next.

‘Remember what Grandpa told you,’ I reminded him. ‘Your dad can hear you, so talk to him.’ Then I wondered if Michael felt a bit self-conscious, talking to his father and getting no response. ‘Shall I start?’ I suggested. Michael nodded.

Sliding my chair right up to the bed and leaning slightly forward, I said softly, ‘Hello Pat, Cathy here. It’s Sunday afternoon and a lovely summer’s day. The birds are singing and through your window I can see a beautiful climbing rose with masses of pink flowers. You would know the name of the rose. You’re good with flower and plant names. There’s a large rhododendron bush too, but that’s finished flowering for this year. It needs a trim. I’ve had a busy week, as usual. Adrian and Paula are fine. My parents are looking after them. They all send their love. Michael is here right beside me and I know he has lots to tell you.’

Now I had begun, Michael was clearly less self-conscious about talking to his dad. Folding his arms on to the bed and resting his chin on top, he began: ‘Hi, Dad, Michael here. I love you. I played basketball on Friday and we won 38–35. The other side were good, though. It was a difficult game. All the team will have to stand up in assembly next week and everyone will clap. That always happens when a team wins. Father Murphy knows you are in here and he said he’d visit you this weekend. Perhaps he’s already been? He asked me if I wanted to come with him so we could say a prayer together but I told him I was coming with Cathy. It’s not that I didn’t want to pray for you but I didn’t want him telling me what to say. I say my prayers every night but they’re personal – between me and God – although I don’t mind Cathy hearing. I thought you’d understand. We had a maths test at school last week and I got 90 per cent, and a spelling test and I got them all right.’

Michael continued telling his dad his news from school, then about a television programme he and Adrian had watched about flesh-eating dinosaurs; and then he described how our cat, Toscha, had caught a bird and I’d rescued it from Toscha’s jaws. He made me sound very brave. Now Michael had begun talking to his dad he found plenty to say and chatted as though his dad was awake and could hear every word.

As Michael talked I flicked through the leaflet the receptionist had given to me and then I tucked it into my bag. I looked again at Patrick; there was little outward sign of the illness that ravaged him within; he just looked tired and old. Occasionally his arm moved slightly or a muscle twitched in his face but that, and the steady rise and fall of his chest, was the only movement he made. He looked very peaceful and at rest.

As Michael continued to talk, my thoughts went back to the first time I heard of Patrick, when Jill had said: ‘Cathy, I need to ask you something, and you must feel you can say no’; when she’d told me that Michael had lost his mother as a small child and his father had brought him up but was now very ill. I remembered I’d said I needed time to think before I committed myself because I was concerned of the impact looking after Michael could have on my children. I also remembered how Adrian and Paula had told me they knew what it was like to lose a father and they could help and comfort Michael when he was sad. I thought back to the first time I’d met Patrick: at the council offices with Stella and Jill, and how impressed and humbled I’d felt by his strength and courage. In the meeting I’d agreed to look after Michael but afterwards I’d had doubts. Had I made the right decision, I wondered now as I had then? Would I make the same decision again? Yes, I would. For despite the sadness, and the grief I knew was to come, my family and I were better people from knowing Patrick and Michael, and I hoped Michael had gained something from knowing us.