The Godforsaken Daughter (22 page)

“Jesus, Ruby, are you all
right
?”

She opened her eyes. May’s frightened face floated above hers.

“Wha-wha-s . . . what’s . . . happen . . . ing?” She tried to speak but water, rank and bitter, churned up in her throat. She turned aside and retched.

“Oh, thank God you’re all right.”

Ruby attempted to sit upright. Only then did she become aware of her nakedness. She was appalled. She crossed her arms over her breasts and started to cry. Her whole body shaking, great shuddering sobs of deep despair.

May pulled off her nightgown and threw it about her sister’s shoulders.

“Ruby, Ruby . . . Oh God, Ruby,” she gasped. “You . . . you just tried
to kill yoursel
f
!
”

“No-o-o-o-o-o-o!” Ruby wailed, letting out a long, low, tear-jerking lament. The sound stretching away from her, slipping away from her, a wingspan flapping out of sight, everything, now, out of sight, out of reach, all her dreams gone: crumbling, fading, gone to dust in the catch of her prying sister’s hand.

She howled, the howling despair of the soul that has just glimpsed the golden gates of paradise, only to be snatched back, cast down, down to the very depths of the netherworld.

Out of those depths she fought to find the voice that would let her sister know that she’d committed the most treacherous of acts—an act of the direst, deepest, darkest kind.

When she finally found that voice, it had all the force and fury of a dying soldier finally succumbing to the open arms of a Valkyrie.

“
I was
not
trying to kill myself! I was only . . . tryin’ to . . . to see
Daddy . . . and you . . . you
s-t-o-p-p-e-d
me-e-e-e-e
. . .
I
. . .
h-a-t-e
. . .
y-o-u! O-o-h . . . G-o-d . . . I . . .
h-a-t-e
. . .
y-o-u
!”

Chapter twenty-seven

H
enry had just gotten into bed when the phone rang. A distraught woman calling herself Mrs. Clare was pleading with him to come quick, because her daughter had just tried to drown herself and was in need of urgent attention.

Now, in the semidarkness, behind the wheel of his car, negotiating a series of country roads with no signposts, Henry hoped her garbled directions would take him to a set of wrought-iron gates with the nameplate
Oaktree Farmhouse.

“Oh Holy Mary Mother of God!” Martha Clare stood shivering, rosary beads in hand, as May guided the half-naked, shuddering Ruby into the house. May’s size 8 nightgown barely covered Ruby, and when the mother saw her daughter with hardly a stitch on, flecked with algae and dripping waterweeds, she very nearly fainted. May might well have been parading Satan himself before her.

Ruby could not meet her mother’s eye. She wept and wept. The embarrassment she felt searing, scorching, burning into every part of her, taking her mind to the darkest of places imaginable. She saw her aunt in that tub chair in St. Ita’s. That was the fate that awaited her. She was sure of it. Her mother had won. Better now to just flee the scene, race back down to Beldam and throw herself in. It’s what they believed she was going to do anyway. At least the whole sorry episode would be over. She’d have no defending or explaining to do. No shame to endure. No guilt to carry for the rest of her days.

“What . . .
what
in under God was
she doing
?”

Mrs. Clare, not affording Ruby the dignity of a direct question, knew how to make her daughter suffer.

“She said she was trying to see Daddy,” May said.

Then the mother exploded. “Get up them stairs and cover yourself up! You’re an absolute disgrace to this family. I
knew
you were taking bad with your nerves, but God, I didn’t know you were as bad as this. I’ve rung the doctor. God grant it, he’ll get you into St. Ita’s before the night’s out.”

“I’m not goin’ nowhere!” Ruby bawled. She ran up the stairs. On the landing, she halted at the sound of a scream—her mother’s.

“
Oh Jesus!
”

“What is it, Mummy?
What is it?
” May’s frantic voice.

“The footprints . . . oh my God, the
footprints
.”

“What
about
them? They’re Ruby’s.”

“
No-o-o-o-o,
you don’t understand.
She’s
back!”

Ruby understood none of it. She flew into the bedroom, slamming the door, locking it against them all. No doctor was going to put
her
in the loony bin. She’d kick. She’d scream. She’d fight. She’d rage against the moon.

She threw off May’s nightgown, tried to wipe off the algae with a towel, but the rubbing action only made things worse, turning her skin green. She needed to get into the bath, but not now. She would not be leaving the locked room. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and was shocked at the sight. With her green body and
wet hair trailing leaves, she could have passed for the Incredible Hulk.

She pulled on her own nightdress and collapsed onto the bed, exhausted, and sobbed her heart out.

The desolation only matched by the pain she’d suffered seven months before as she crashed onto her knees by her dead father in the field; the scorching flame-hot pain of loss. Of knowing that in this cruel world you’re on your own. That it was ever thus. That she wouldn’t be seeing her father again. Not in this life. He was gone. He would not be coming back. That her dreams would not come true. That her three wishes had turned to ashes, quite literally, and vanished on the air. That the Goddess and Edna had abandoned her when she needed them most.

Henry pulled up in the yard of Oaktree Farmhouse. At the door he was met by a young woman whom he thought he recognized.

“I’m May Clare,” she said sheepishly. “You must be . . .”

“Dr. Shevlin, yes.”

She led the way into the kitchen, where an older woman came forward immediately, hand extended. “Oh, thank God you’ve come, Doctor! Ruby’s in a bad way. I’m her mother.”

Henry noted the hand, proffered first. This woman was clearly in charge. He glanced at the table. On it, a collection of bizarre items: shells, stones, a candle, two small dishes, a sickle, a length of blue material with holes burned through it, and a playing card lying facedown.

“It’s what Ruby had at Beldam . . . the lake,” Mrs. Clare explained. “They were on that stool, like it was an altar or something. God knows what she was at . . . calling up the Devil himself. She needs to be admitted tonight, Doctor . . . there’s no other way of dealing with her . . . I’m not having her here . . . upsetting
me
. I know what she’s like.”

Mrs. Clare already had the situation well under control. Had diagnosed the daughter, was telling him what to do. The stress on the word “me" indicated a narcissist of the first order. No surprises there. The controller, the manipulator, and the narcissist were common bedfellows.

He studied the table, turned over the card.

“She was probably trying to imitate
her
,” the sister said.

He turned, stared at her.

She smirked. “But Ruby’s hardly a star.”

It was then that Henry remembered. It was the smirk, the dismissive toss of the head. Of course! Boots the Chemist on Royal Avenue. He’d gone there to inquire about Connie’s prescription after her disappearance last year.

This one was certainly her mother’s daughter. The lack of empathy: striking.

He put the card back on the table.

“These things were private to Ruby. You shouldn’t have them displayed like this.”

“Hardly private, Doctor,” said Mrs. Clare defiantly. “She was consorting with the Devil and there’s the proof.” She picked up the silver paten and thrust it at him. “That five-pointed star. It’s an occult sign. She’s just like her grandmother before her, God help her! May found
that
evil card outside her bedroom door. What more proof do you need?”

“Hmmm.” Henry glanced briefly at the paten but did not take it from her. Clearly irked, Mrs. Clare tossed it back onto the table.

“I’ll hold onto these things, if you don’t mind,” he said firmly. “It’s best you don’t mention finding them to Ruby. We wouldn’t want to cause her any further upset, would we?”

He saw mother and daughter exchange glances. Looks that said: “Whose side is this doctor on?”

“Well, she’s caused enough of that already,” the mother muttered. “Enough
upset
.”

“A carrier bag will do.”

May produced a plastic bag and proceeded to fill it as the mother looked on, arms folded, mouth set in a grim line. Then: “When will the ambulance be here?”

“Ambulance?”

“Yes . . . to take her to St. Ita’s.”

May handed him the bag.

“Backseat of my car . . . if you wouldn’t mind. It’s open.”

He turned back to Martha.

“Now, let’s not rush things, Mrs. Clare. I know you’ve had a shock. I’ll talk to Ruby now, if I may?”

Through her tears Ruby heard a gentle knock. She sat up abruptly.

A man’s voice out in the corridor. “Ruby, are you in there? Can you let me in, please . . . I’m Henry . . . Henry Shevlin
. . .
the doctor.”

“Go away! I don’t need no doctor . . . I’m not goin’ near no hospital.”

“I’m not going to put you in hospital. But—”

“You’re lying.”

“I assure you, Ruby, I’m not lying. But, if you refuse to open the door I’ll have no option but to call the police and have them break it down. In which case you will most definitely have to be admitted to hospital, for your own safety.”

Ruby grew fretful, imagining the worst-case scenario.

“I don’t want to have to do that, Ruby . . . and I know . . . I know you don’t want that happening, either.”

Something in the man’s voice told her she’d better heed him. She got off the bed.

“I . . . I only want to talk to
you
. . . not . . . not my mother . . . or . . .
or my sister.”

“I promise, only me. Your mother and sister are downstairs.”

Ruby opened the door, and knowing what an awful sight she must look, immediately turned her back. She again went to the bed and flopped down.

Henry, for his part, was greeted by a spectacularly odd sight. Ruby did indeed appear like someone who’d just tried to drown herself. Wet hair, blotchy green face; she was wearing a pink nightdress that came to her knees, showing equally green calves and feet.

He entered the room lit by two small bedside lamps. But he could see enough to form an impression of its occupant. The color scheme was pink. Cushions and frills everywhere he looked. There were stuffed toys lined up on an ottoman. Several dolls crowded the windowsill. It resembled the room of a little girl.

He found a chair with a large teddy bear on it and gestured. “Do you mind if I . . .”

“Sit where you like.”

He positioned the chair in front of the door. Meeting a new patient in such a fragile state meant that precautions had to be taken. Ruby might well try to escape. But he’d cleared the first hurdle: she’d let him in.

“Now, Ruby . . . how are you?”

Ruby sat on the bed, her whole body turned away from him, arms folded. Body language screaming: “
No! Get out of here and leave me alone!
”

“All right,” she said.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

She shook her head.

“In your own time . . . there’s no—”

“She wants to put me in the loony bin. She’s always wanted to put me in St. Ita’s. Ever since I was seventeen . . . ever since I went to Donegal and had to come home ’cos . . . ’cos . . .”

“Your mother?”

“Yes,
her
. . .
she’s always hated me. Always.”

“Why would that be?”

“I don’t know. You better ask
her
. Since . . . since Daddy died she’s hated me even more. She took everything off me . . . the farm and everything . . . Daddy and me did all the work and . . . and now I’ve . . . I’ve got nothin’. . . .”

“That’s too bad,” Henry said. Given what he’d seen of Mrs. Clare, he didn’t doubt for one minute what Ruby was saying.

“So she’s the one that needs to go in the loony bin and not me . . . so you should be down there talkin’ to her and not me, ’cos . . . ’cos there’s nothin’ wrong with me.”

“Hmmm . . . parents can be difficult, I know.” He noticed a deck of cards on the bureau, picked them up. “Your mother and May say you tried to drown yourself. Is that true?”

Ruby twisted halfway round on the bed, kneading a hankie in her hands. She imagined how awful she must look to the doctor, and felt awkward and embarrassed. At the same time, she realized she needed to be very careful about what she told him. It was no time to talk about the case and the Goddess and the voices, even though all of that was true.

“No, I wasn’t . . . I just . . . I just wanted to swim in the lake . . . to see . . . to see what it was like at night ’cos . . . ’cos it was . . . it was too warm in bed.”