The point of the dinner party was to get Kate to explain things to Niamh; that part went well. Kate was much better at going through feminist rhetoric, in ways that actually made sense and didn’t sound angry. She agreed that women were always seen as weaker, and therefore more likely to be exploited, but that shouldn’t give anyone the excuse to hate men.
“It’s like what we teach in school about bullies,” Kate explained. “Usually it’s the kid who has esteem issues or problems at home who picks on others.” Cara was liberally helping herself to white wine. She snorted, her face pink from all the wine she’d already had. “I don’t know about that,” she slurred. “When I was at school, it was the most popular girls, the good-looking ones with boyfriends who made life a misery for others, lording their good luck over others!” Kate wasn’t buying that. “If you were truly happy, you wouldn’t need to bring someone else down,” she argued. “You wouldn’t even have time to think about it – you’d be too wrapped up in your own perfect life.” Niamh shook her head at Cara. “I agree with Kate…people who pick on others have deep-seated problems!” Cara rolled her eyes, and drained her glass. I moved the wine bottle out of her reach. Considering the topic of discussion, Cara was a perfect example of someone wallowing in their own misery and lashing out at others. I’d never seen her drink so much so quickly. She reached for the bottle, but I held it away from her. “It’s my wine,” Cara whined at me. “I think you’ve had enough,” I told her. “You’re such a goody two shoes now!” Cara said in disgust. “I remember the good old days, when you were fun. But then you had to go and become a Christian, all because you figured God couldn’t dump you like your boyfriend!” There was a collective gasp around the table, and tears sprang to my eyes. “That was a horrible thing to say!” Niamh hissed at Cara. I put the wine down and wiped at my eyes with my napkin. I wasn’t going to dissolve into tears – not again! Cara laughed, lunging for the wine bottle. “You’re the one who used to say that!” she cackled, pointing a finger at Niamh. Niamh turned beet red, and reached across the table to put her hand on mine. “I’m so sorry…I did say that once, when I was in a bad mood…I apologise!” That was the old Niamh I used to dread. I could picture her saying it, too. New tears rolled down my cheeks, but I squeezed her hand. She had apologised for it, and I could see she was sorry. Kate reached over and took my other hand. “Ooh, look, it’s a prayer circle!” Cara said sarcastically. She let go of the bottle and held out her hands to Kate and Niamh. “Don’t forget about me!” Kate had had enough of Cara. She slapped Cara’s hand down. “Just what is your problem?” she asked her. “I don’t have a problem,” Cara retorted, uncorking the wine bottle and pouring herself another glass. “Just because I’m not in your little God group or marching against sex trafficking doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me! Did you ever stop to think that you’re the bullies? That you need me to have a problem, so you can feel better?” Cara raised her glass at the stunned silence. She swallowed noisily. “Nothing wrong with me,” she sniffed. Niamh let go of my hand to fold her arms across her chest and glare at Cara. “Nothing wrong?” she echoed in a low voice. Cara slammed her glass on to the table. “Shut up!” she hissed at Niamh. Even though she was doing her best to look furious, I could see my little sister was scared. She wasn’t drunk anymore. I wiped the tears off my face with the back of my hand. “Cara?” She wouldn’t look at me. She and Niamh seemed to be having a silent fight, their eyes locked on to each other. “Don’t say anything!” Cara spat. It was my turn to be frightened. “Cara, what’s wrong?” “None of your business!” Now Cara’s eyes were wet. Niamh stopped looking angry. She looked concerned. “You should tell your sister,” she said to Cara. It sounded so serious. I glanced at Kate, who shrugged slightly. She didn’t know what was going on, either. Cara was doing her best to fight off the tears, like I had done, just a minute ago. “There is nothing to tell,” Cara declared, her voice cracking. She grabbed her wine glass. “Now let’s all shut up and have a drink, and keep talking about all the bad things in the world.” She tried a spritely laugh, but it sounded hollow. Niamh wasn’t going to let go of whatever it was. “You’ve got to tell…” she said to Cara. Cara shook her head. Niamh stayed firm. “If you don’t, I will.” Cara slammed her glass down on to the table again. “You’re a fine one!” she told Niamh. “You used to hate Lisa, and make fun of her. You said she was so holier-than-thou and so judgemental. And now you can’t get enough of Saint Lisa. Would you ever pick a side of the fence to be on?” “I was wrong,” Niamh countered in a calm voice. “And things have changed.” “What’s changed?” I asked. “What’s going on?” Cara was crying silently, but she kept her mouth firmly shut. She wouldn’t look at me, but kept her eyes on Niamh. Niamh was mouthing something at her, something I couldn’t read. Cara shook her head stubbornly, and Niamh let out a huge sigh. “Cara had an abortion,” Niamh said. “NO!” Cara screamed, and leapt to her feet. Niamh was crying now. “I said I would tell!” Cara turned away from her, and went to the window. “I had to say something! You’ve been miserable-“ “SHUT UP!” Cara thundered, turning back to Niamh from the window. In shock, I was glued to my seat. Kate sat open-mouthed beside me. Niamh looked to me. “She cries herself to sleep every night lately,” Niamh told me. “I think now is the time the baby was due-“ With a shriek, Cara leapt on Niamh, hitting at her like a madwoman. Kate sprang into action, pulling Cara off Niamh, like she would fighting schoolgirls. She held Cara firmly, trying to soothe her into calming down, but Cara would have none of it. She wriggled in Kate’s grip. “Don’t you act like you’re upset!” she yelled at Niamh. “You were all for it! You’re the one who gave me the name of the clinic!” “It’s true,” Niamh confessed tearfully, looking at me with sad eyes. “I thought it was the right thing at the time…but now…look at her! I was wrong!” NIamh got up and approached Cara in Kate’s arms. “I was wrong!” I was speechless, and motionless. I sat and watched as Cara tried to lash out at Niamh, but Kate held her arms. I saw my little sister in pain, crying and shouting at her weeping friend. I couldn’t move. My heart was broken. “Lisa,” Kate prompted. Everyone turned to look at me, but still I could say nothing. “Come on, Lisa,” Cara wept. “Tell me I’m evil, and that I’m going to hell! I killed my baby!” Each word was like a fist to my gut, but not for the reasons anyone would think. It physically hurt me to hear my little sister call herself evil. I found my feet, getting up out of my chair and running to my sister, taking her from Kate and into my arms. She wailed like a hurt little girl, and I pressed her face against my heart. “You must have been so scared!” I whispered to her. “You thought you were alone…!” Cara was howling, like she did when she fell off her bike and broke her arm when she was ten. Niamh joined me in holding Cara, who wouldn’t stop keening like a wounded animal. “She needs counselling,” Niamh was telling me, nearly shouting to be heard over Cara. “I keep telling her she should have gone to post-abortion care, but she won’t hear anything about it!” I felt Cara shudder at the word abortion, and I understood. “She’s ashamed,” I told Niamh, and Cara started howling anew. I stroked her hair, like my mother used to when we were upset. “I killed my baby,” Cara wailed. I shushed her, rocking her in my arms. She looked up at me. “I’m sorry…so sorry!” She was apologising to me? She wasn’t saying she regretted what happened. From the hopeful way she looked at me, I could see she needed my approval. She felt she had let me down! “Oh Cara, don’t say you’re sorry to me,” I said, sounding harsh. “You don’t have to say you’re sorry to me!” I amended quickly. She gulped for air, looking terrified. “God hates me!” she concluded in a whisper. I shook my head fervently, and Kate joined in the group hug. “He forgives you,” Kate said. “He doesn’t hate you!” I took Cara’s face in my hands. “No one hates you,” I assured her. “I did something bad,” she said. I nodded. She had. “You’re forgiven,” I told her. I took her into my arms alone, now, holding my little sister close. Kate took charge, pulling Niamh aside to find out about post-abortion counselling. We had to get Cara help. In her agitated state, Cara regressed to being a naughty little child. “Don’t tell Mum and Dad,” she pleaded. I laughed a little, and shook my head. After all she’d been through, Cara was still worried most about what her family thought of her. “I’m so sorry,” she said to me again. I kissed the top of her head. “I know,” I told her. “And God knows, too.”
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The dentist Ivan’s sports doctor had recommended was a Romanian by the name of Mitu, according to the name stencilled on the office door. The office was rather low rent and shabby, with paint peeling off the walls and folding chairs in the waiting area. Dr Mitu’s receptionist was a pretty thin woman, with the dark eyes of a Romanian. She kept those eyes lowered as Mircea tried to charm her; he wondered if speaking Romanian to her would get her to smile at him. He didn’t get the chance to test this theory.
“Go in; he is expecting you,” she said brusquely in English to Mircea. As he headed for the door she had indicated, he heard the driver chat to her in a friendly voice, calling her Mrs.Mitu. Mircea glanced over his shoulder – so that was the dentist’s wife? He wondered if the dentist were the type of chauvinist who would hit his wife for being too friendly with men. Dr Mitu was younger than Mircea had expected, but just as the kid said, he had a strong accent in English, which made him sound like an old horror movie vampire. “Please have a seat,” he said to Mircea – pliz hav seat. Mircea slid into the examination chair with a smile. “I have a problem with my jawbone,” Mircea said in Romanian, not wanting Dr Mitu to continue in his fractured English. Dr Mitu’s rather bushy eyebrows raised at the sound of Mircea’s voice. He glanced at Mircea’s outfit, which was wrinkled and smelly, but was still a good suit. Dr Mitu nodded slightly to himself, and Mircea bristled. He knew what that half-nod meant. “I am Romanian,” Mircea told him, wondering if he should produce his passport to prove it. Dr Mitu seemed surprised by this. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a Moldovan say that before,” he commented dryly. “Usually you are too happy to insist that you are a completely different country, with a separate and distinct language.” His accent was faintly Transylvanian. Mircea was tempted to allude to this, calling him a Hungarian or German, but he needed treatment for his jaw. Best to be sweet, then! He smiled brightly at the dentist. “My dear mother was Moldovan…and it is a separate country, with its own language.” Dr Mitu made a show that he wasn’t impressed by this, looking at his instruments rather than Mircea. “But you are Romanian?” “Thanks to my dear Papa.” Whoever he was. Dr Mitu shrugged. “We are not here to discuss history or politics,” he said in his accented English. “I believe you have a problem with your temporomandibular joint?” He was showing off, saying the proper name. “Yes, and I’ve been told I need orthotics to correct the misalignment.” It was Mircea’s turn to show off his English, which was better than the dentist’s. “We’ll see,” Dr Mitu said, touching the sides of Mircea’s face, where his jawbone connected into his skull. He did the usual examination, opening and shutting Mircea’s mouth. He also did the usual inspection of Mircea’s teeth, seeing what dental work he had previously done. He asked him in English if he has any pain in his neck, or heard odd sounds, just as other dentists had done. When Mircea answered no to these questions, Dr Mitu looked faintly surprised. “Usually if someone has such extreme pain, other symptoms are present. I’ll take some x-rays to see the extent of the damage.” The way he said that made it sound like Mircea was faking it. Or worse, that the pain was not that severe, and Mircea was just being a cry-baby. He clenched his teeth, which brought back a shadow of the pain. I’d like to see how you cope with pain like this! Dr Mitu’s office may not have been decorated with the latest style, but his equipment was up-to-date and state of the art. The x-ray he took of Mircea’s mouth was uploaded directly to a laptop, allowing the dentist to confirm the diagnosis in no time at all. He exhaled sharply, looking at the image on the laptop screen. “You have a very bad mouth, my friend,” he said to Mircea in Romanian. He shook his head, and looked at Mircea with some sympathy. “What did you do to get such a mess? Did someone hit you with a crowbar?!” Visions of teeth spurting out of Milla’s mouth flooded Mircea’s brain. He winced, and unintentionally put a hand to his jaw. “No, I have no injury,” he told Dr Mitu curtly. Dr Mitu nodded. “I see no fractures or breakage,” he confirmed. “It’s just that I would normally see this kind of misalignment from someone who had had their jaw broken, or was in some horrific accident.” Again, Mircea saw Milla bleeding. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to chase the image away. “I’ll give you a shot for the pain,” Dr Mitu promised. “I’ve had some…shots and pills,” Mircea admitted, opening his eyes. “I just need to get this corrected, and quickly.” Dr Mitu sighed, looking at the x-ray on the laptop. “I will do what I can, but you really should go to a specialist. It will take a day or two to get the splints and bite plates.” He saw Mircea react to this, and threw up his hands. “I will go as fast as I can, but you need a lot of help. I need to make sure that the orthotics fit your teeth properly, otherwise we may as well not bother.” Mircea hated hearing Dr Searle’s prognosis being confirmed. Dr Mitu dug into a cabinet and came out with a package containing a syringe and a phial of liquid. “First, let’s get you some pain killers,” he said. “We’ll take our chances with what you already have had…at worst, you’ll sleep for hours.” I already have done that. Mircea searched his mind for the name of his hotel – there was no way he was going to sleep on another lumpy couch! “I need to talk to the driver,” he told Dr Mitu. Dr Mitu used the intercom system to call reception. “Alina, get Danny in here. Mr Rotar needs to discuss his transportation.” Dr Mitu went on to prepare the shot while Mircea waited for the driver. The kid came in, and went pale at the sight of the syringe Dr Mitu was holding. “You don’t like needles, Danny?” Dr Mitu teased. “Good thing it’s for me, then,” Mircea mumbled. He remembered the name of his hotel, and gave the general address to the kid. Danny flinched and looked away as Dr Mitu gave Mircea the shot – some son of Anton Kirilenko! “You don’t have to be in here for the next bits,” Dr Mitu told Danny. “Even though it’s only plaster settings of Mr Rotar’s teeth to fit him for orthodontics.” Danny was looking quite green around the gills, and left the examination room gladly. Mircea and Dr Mitu chuckled. “He’s still young,” Dr Mitu said in Romanian. “He’ll have time to toughen up.” Mircea doubted Danny would get any braver. It’ll be a driver’s life for him! “I guess he didn’t get much of his father’s nerve,” Mircea commented. Dr Mitu was preparing the plaster for the mould, but he stopped and looked at Mircea in confusion. “You know he’s Anton Kirilenko’s son, right?” Mircea couldn’t believe that this wasn’t something the kid told everyone. Dr Mitu snorted, and went back to mixing the plaster solution. Mircea was amazed that a dentist could scoff at the name of Anton Kirilenko, connected as he was with the syndicate. Mircea stared at Dr Mitu, until the dentist noticed. He met Mircea’s gaze with a look of surprise. “I thought it was the world’s worst-kept secret,” Dr Mitu said, lowering his voice and glancing at the door. “The man you just mentioned…he’s sterile.” Mircea was a bit woozy now from the painkiller shot. “What?” he asked in English, not sure if he was hearing things correctly. Sighing, Dr Mitu moved away from the plaster. “That Russian man…he can’t have children,” he whispered to Mircea in Romanian. “He surrounds himself with women who need a father for their kids. He builds himself a reputation as a virile ladies’ man, and has an army of bastard children, only they’re not his.” Mircea’s vision was getting blurry. “But…but…” “None of them look like him. None of them look like each other, for that matter.” Dr Mitu motioned to the door with a jerk of his head. “Does that kid look at all Russian to you?” Mircea blinked, trying to steady his vision. Shaking his head, Dr Mitu snorted again. “Danny’s father is probably some cockney low-life, obviously someone the kid’s mother thinks they’re better off without. I can’t believe that they’ve managed to perpetuate the myth of Kirilenko’s army of bastard children in Eastern Europe! Everyone in London knows the truth!” Mircea blinked, the truth sinking in. But that means Piotr isn’t -! He started to giggle inanely. Dr Mitu went back to mixing the plaster. “Yeah, that’s right…you sound like we’re using laughing gas!” He laughed a bit with Mircea. “That’s right…it’s all fun and games with us!” Fun and games! Mircea thought. He couldn’t wait to get back to Ukraine…he’d be looking at Piotr in a whole different light now. He was giggling so much that Dr Mitu wasn’t able to insert the mould when it was mixed. “Okay, enough now,” Dr Mitu scolded. “This stuff is quick drying!” Mircea couldn’t stop. “Piotr…thinks he’s hot stuff!” he gasped. Laughter was bubbling out of him. Dr Mitu sighed, putting the mould down. He realised he wouldn’t be able to make a cast of Mircea’s teeth. “Piotr?” he asked. “Stupid gangster in his tracksuits…he never takes his sunglasses off!” Mircea was laughing so hard he had to cough. Dr Mitu poured a cup of water and handed it to Mircea. “Take a deep breath and drink this,” he advised. He thought about what Mircea had said as Mircea tried to get the liquid into his chuckling mouth. “Sunglasses…oh wait, I think I know the guy you mean. He used to work for Ivan?” Remembering how Piotr had shot Ivan stifled Mircea’s laughter. “Not for Ivan!” How anyone could think that snivelling Ivan was a boss was incredible. Remembering that Ivan was higher in the food chain than he was depressed Mircea. He sighed deeply. Dr Mitu took advantage of Mircea’s melancholy and gestured to the cup. “Drink!” His mirth gone, Mircea did as he was told and sipped from the cup. Dr Mitu nodded in satisfaction and took the empty cup from him. “I know who this Piotr is. You know why he wears sunglasses all the time?” Mircea looked at the dentist in curiosity. Dr Mitu took advantage of the lull in conversation and laughter to jam the mould into Mircea’s mouth. Mircea gagged, and Dr Mitu gave him a warning look. “It’s only for five minutes. Try to keep your breathing steady.” Dr Mitu shook his head, moving across the office to throw the used cup away. Mircea tried to talk through the mould, and Dr Mitu yelped at him to keep quiet. “Five minutes,” he pleaded. Mircea ringed his eyes with his fingers at Dr Mitu, wanting him to explain what he had said earlier. Sunglasses! Dr Mitu rolled his eyes to heaven. “Yes, yes…Piotr needs to hide how dark his eyes are.” Mircea dropped his hands and Dr Mitu busied himself with throwing out the stick he had mixed the plaster with. “The big Russian diplomat has pale blue eyes. Piotr’s Polish mother has blue eyes as well.” Dr Mitu looked over at Mircea, who shrugged at him. What’s that got to do with anything? Dr Mitu groaned. “Does anyone know anything about simple genetics?” he asked in frustration, adding a mild Romanian oath. “Brown eyes are dominant. Blue eyes are recessive. If you have one dark-eyed parent and one blue-eyed parent, the kid will normally have brown eyes. If the dark-eyed parent had a blue-eyed parent, the kid from this dark-eyed parent can have blue eyes. A brown-eyed person can have the gene for blue eyes, but a blue-eyed person can’t have the gene for brown eyes. If both of the parents have blue eyes, the kid can’t have brown eyes.” He noted Mircea’s confused expression, and sighed dramatically. “Look, just take my word for it. Brown-eyed people can have blue-eyed children. But blue-eyed people can’t have brown-eyed children. Scientifically, it’s not possible.” It was beginning to dawn on Mircea what Dr Mitu was trying to explain to him. He tried to open his mouth to ask a question, but Dr Mitu pushed Mircea’s chin closed. “When two blue-eyed people have a dark-eyed child, it’s obvious that the mother was lying about who the father was. A lot of movie casting directors don’t understand this simple fact of nature, but it’s pretty obvious that Piotr does. That’s why he hides his dark eyes behind sunglasses at all times!” He tapped Mircea’s chin meaningfully. “Keep your mouth still, please! Only a few minutes more.” Mircea was glad that the hardening plaster had practically sealed his mouth closed, as otherwise his jaw would be gaping. So the tough Piotr had a weak spot – he wasn’t a well-connected son after all! Mircea reflected on what Dr Mitu had told him about genetics. His grandmother said his foreign father had had blue eyes, which Mircea always took as proof that she didn’t know his identity. But now Dr Mitu’s lesson explained how Mircea’s eyes would still be dark, even with a blue eyed father. So maybe Grandmother was right…I’m not Romanian, after all! Mircea was still and reflective, allowing the plaster to harden into a cast of his teeth. Dr Mitu thanked him for his patience as he removed the mould, and promised he would have bite plates and splints within two days. He warned Mircea that this would be a pricey business, which Mircea took calmly, reaching into the money belt he kept tightly clipped to his underwear. Dr Mitu grimaced at the sight, and Mircea made a big display of how the bills were sealed in a separate water-proof pocket of the belt. Wordlessly, he peeled off a significant number of them, more than enough to cover his dental costs. “It was a pleasure doing business with you,” he said formally to Dr Mitu, handing him the money. “Thank you especially for the lesson in biology.” “Pay my wife on the way out,” Dr Mitu replied stiffly, handing the money back to Mircea. “She’ll give you a receipt.” Mircea chuckled and bowed. Dr Mitu busied himself at the sink in the corner of the room, rinsing his hands repeatedly. Mircea figured it was because of the money he had held, which indirectly came from his underwear, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of the display of cleanliness being directly linked to his being Moldovan. I’m going to seduce the lovely Alina, he thought angrily, looking forward to kissing the dentist’s wife’s hand when he asked her for a receipt. We ended up having a big sleepover at my flat that night. Cara was too upset to go home, and no one wanted to be alone that night. When she was a kid and sick, I would let Cara sleep in my bed; we did the same thing now that she was sick over what she had done. I worried that she wouldn’t be able to drop off to sleep, and went for the Night Nurse I kept in the bathroom, but Cara did manage to fall asleep unaided.
Kate had offered to share the guest bedroom with Niamh, but she insisted on taking the couch. I could tell she wanted to punish herself for having spoken ill of me. I knew I should, but I didn’t have time to talk with her. I wanted to stay by Cara. I have always wanted to take Cara to church with me, but today wasn’t the day. After the night we’d all had, I knew Cara wasn’t up for it. She felt too ashamed, and besides, she wasn’t a fan of church. My mother had to force her to go when she lived at home, and Cara hadn’t set foot in one in years. I prayed to God for strength, and went to consult with Kate. She was up, getting ready for church. “Quite an evening,” she said to me as she opened the guest room door to my knock. I helped her make the bed while we talked, still reeling from the revelations of last night. I tried to find words to describe how I was feeling and what I wanted to do with Cara, but Kate shook her head. “We’ll have time to get her to church,” she assured me. “Not today, but with counselling and care, she’ll feel better. She’ll probably want to go herself, without us having to prompt her.” I was going to say I hoped so, but I remembered how it had been with me. Kate had looked after me, but it took time before I felt moved myself to go to church. I remembered that one Sunday morning, when I had felt like going to church, even though Kate hadn’t texted me a reminder the night before. Her face lit up when she saw me walk in. She said she had been feeling bad, as she had forgotten to call me the night before, but there I was. Seeing me, she said, she knew God was working. I hoped God would work in Cara’s life, as He had done in mine. Being able to read my mind as she always did, Kate gave me a hug in the guest bedroom. “Just like He called you to Him, He’ll reach out to Cara,” she promised. I felt like rejoicing, but Kate and I had been trying to keep quiet, to let Cara sleep. We slipped out into the sitting room and were surprised to find Niamh up. She had straightened out the couch and cleared away the bedclothes, and was waiting for us. “Can I come to church with you?” she asked. Kate and I were gobsmacked. “This is a situation I never thought would have happened,” I admitted with a little laugh. Remembering what I had felt about Niamh, and what I learned last night she had thought of me, it seemed impossible. Niamh blushed, and started to apologise to me again. Kate took control of the situation, and cut Niamh off mid-apology. “I’ll take you to church,” she told Niamh, taking her arm and steering her towards the door. “Lisa and Cara will stay home today. We’ll talk this afternoon.” “I’ll call you,” I promised them. After I had called the Samaritans, and made arrangements for Cara. Niamh had written down the names and details of counsellors and support groups, but asked me to get Cara to a doctor. It was best to have a physical examination to see if she needed medication. I wasn’t sure where I could find a doctor on Sunday morning, but Niamh had some emergency contacts. She suggested I take Cara to a hospital, but I knew that wasn’t an option. I knew my sister, and in the cold hard light of day after the night we’d had, she wouldn’t be able to face many people. I took a deep breath after Kate and Niamh had gone, and then I checked in on Cara. She was still asleep, but looked troubled. She had wrapped the sheets up to her chin and was curled into a ball, the way Mum used to find her after she’d gotten into trouble as a kid. Seeing her like this, reminded me how much I needed to get her help. I made breakfast, even though I suspected Cara wouldn’t want to eat. I wished I had someone to talk to for advice, but I couldn’t call my mother or sisters. I wasn’t sure if we would ever talk about Cara’s abortion, but it was certain that we wouldn’t now. I checked the clock on the cooker and saw that it was after eleven. I knew that we had has a long and emotional night, but Cara should be awake by now. I went back to the bedroom and looking closely, I could see that Cara was hiding under the bedclothes. It was just like when she was a child and didn’t want to go to school – Cara never pretended to be sick, but asleep. It never worked then, and it wasn’t working now. I sat on the bed and pulled the duvet back. “I made coffee,” I said gently. Cara hid her face in the pillows. “I don’t want any.” “You’re going to have to get up,” I told her, pulling the pillows away. “I know you don’t want to, and I know you don’t want to talk, but it’s going to happen.” I took her into my arms where she cried and sobbed. After all the crying she’d done the night before, I was surprised she had any tears or energy left. I could see that I was going to have to take a page out of Kate’s book and take charge. I held Cara out at arm’s length and gave her a small shake. “You’re going to get up, and we’re going to get you some help.” I took the box of tissues from the bedside locker and handed them to Cara. A shower was out of the question – she would just dawdle in the spray, wasting my hot water and patience. I let her blow her nose on a tissue, and then I pulled her to her feet, leading her out to the sitting room. “We’ll take it slow, but we’re going to do it,” I said, reaching for the phone. Cara started to cry again, and I knew I had to act as much like Kate as I could; that woman could handle any situation! “Blow your nose again,” I ordered Cara, and dialled the number of the first emergency doctor on the list. “We need a medical assessment,” I told the doctor’s receptionist on the other end of the phone. “Women’s issues.” Those two words worked like magic – I needed to say no more. We had an appointment in an hour. Cara didn’t want to eat or talk. To tell the truth, I didn’t want to know the details yet. I had no idea who the father of Cara’s aborted baby was – the last I knew of Cara’s social life was some dates she had last year. From the timing, I figured that person was the father, but I didn’t want to know anything more. Keeping an eye on the clock, I tried to make light, airy conversation. “Niamh went to church with Kate,” I told Cara. She gave me an angry look and poured herself some coffee. “What?” I asked, perplexed. “I’m not going to church,” Cara declared. Like you’re in any shape to make decisions, I thought. Again, I thought of Kate, and bit my tongue. I had to let God work in Cara. I shrugged at her. “Okay.” She was a little surprised that I wasn’t pressuring her to go to church. She paused in drinking her coffee – if we were in a silly TV show, she would have spit it out. She put down the mug to look at me, but she didn’t say anything. “Drink up,” I advised her. “We’re going in five minutes.” Again, this woman at my table morphed into a scared child, peering at me with frightened eyes. How she could go from sullen atheist to baby sister in seconds was incredible. Her chin was wobbling. “Lisa, I don’t want to-“ I finished that sentence for her in my mind. Go to the doctor. Face the music. Get help. I steeled myself and handed her the coffee mug. “Drink,” I said firmly. No ands, ifs or buts. I couldn’t get Cara to church, but I would take my sister to a doctor to get her started on post-abortion care. For a split second, I pondered the situation. My little sister had had an abortion, and was too ashamed to take care of herself, or even ask for help. I never would have dreamed that this would be a reality I had to deal with, but here it was. God, help me… “Come on, get your coat,” I told Cara. “Let’s go.” It was only when we got to the doctor’s surgery, and I was looking at the brass nameplate on the door that I wondered if I had done the right thing. Dr John Conroy – shouldn’t I have looked for a female doctor? One look at Dr Conroy, who opened the door to us himself, reassured me. He was a gentle-looking older man, very grandfatherly with half-moon spectacles perched on his nose. He smiled warmly at us, inviting us into the examination room. An older woman in a cardigan was waiting for us in there. “My wife is my nurse,” Dr Conroy explained. She smiled at us, then clicked her tongue at the doctor, taking the glasses from his face. “Those are my reading glasses,” she told him scoldingly, pointing to a pair a glasses neatly folded on his desk. “Those are yours!” She chuckled and shook her head at us. “Men!” she murmured. Although the sight of Dr and Mrs Conroy set me at ease, Cara was in a near panic. I could guess that she didn’t want to have to tell a pair who had probably just celebrated their silver wedding anniversary that she had had an abortion. “Maybe I should wait in the reception area,” I suggested, hoping that taking the older sister out of the picture might help the situation somewhat. Cara shook her head violently at me, and grabbed my arm in a vice-like grip. The Conroys exchanged a glance. “It’s all right,” the doctor said to Cara in a soothing voice. “There’s nothing you can tell me that would shock me. I’ve been practicing for over thirty years.” They probably had a good idea of why we were here – Cara’s rigid silence screamed girl in trouble-unplanned pregnancy! I patted the hand that Cara was gripping my arm with. “Would you like a cup of tea?” Mrs Conroy asked, and again, Cara said nothing, just shook her head. I fought back a groan –I could see that Cara was expecting me to do all the talking. “I’ll have a cup of tea, thank you,” I said through clenched teeth, and steered Cara into a chair. The Conroys again exchanged the briefest of glances – this was a variation of the scene they hadn’t had seen before in thirty years of practice. “I’ll get the tea,” Dr Conroy said, a move which surprised Cara and me. He nodded to his wife as he left, and she turned to Cara with a business-like but understanding air. “Are you pregnant, then?” she asked in a calm voice once Dr Conroy was gone, and immediately patted Cara’s shoulder as she burst into tears. “There, there…”she clucked. “Have you taken a home pregnancy test?” Cara just sobbed harder, and I realised I would have to tell the nurse. “She’s had an abortion.” Mrs Conroy looked up at me with concern, and I anticipated her next question. “Over in England, in a clinic.” Mrs Conroy’s mouth set into a hard line, but she didn’t change her caring expression. “Did they not give you post-abortion care?” she asked Cara. “Did they tell you to have a physical examination a few weeks after, to see if the procedure went properly, and that you’re recovering well?” It was clear that Dr and Mrs Conroy really had experienced it all! Cara was so surprised by Mrs Conroy’s question that she stopped crying. Mrs Conroy was far from done. “Have you had and exam to confirm that you’re no longer pregnant?” I had never considered the logistics and practicalities of an abortion before. “Shouldn’t they have done this exam at the clinic?” I asked Mrs Conroy. She sighed. “If it was a rushed job, like a lot of Irish abortion cases are, women just wanting to get in and out and back home, the clinics just do a preliminary check. Trying to do it yourself when you get home doesn’t work -you can still test positive with a home pregnancy kit for a few weeks after an abortion. You may not be pregnant anymore, but your body is still awash with pregnancy hormones.” Dr Conroy came back into the room, carrying a tea-tray. He looked at Cara and then at his wife. “She needs a post-termination exam,” Mrs Conroy whispered to her husband. Cara found her voice. “I’m not pregnant,” she asserted. “It was months ago!” In a calm but brisk professional manner, Dr Conroy put the tea tray on to his desk. “You’ll still need an exam, to make sure the termination was properly done and there’s no damage.” He turned to Cara and gestured to the examination couch. “It’s standard procedure,” he assured her. I felt it was time for me to step out of the room - I didn’t need to see this! “I’ll be in reception,” I told Cara. She didn’t meet my eyes, but nodded. She got up out of the chair and headed for the examination couch. I went out the door, wishing I had taken the cup of tea Dr Conroy offered. In the waiting room, I wondered if I should have stayed, and told them that she needed counselling, but I trusted the Conroys to know she needed. I sat down in chair by the door, reaching out to look through the magazines displayed on an occasional table nearby. I flipped through a two year old Vogue, thinking how I never would have imagined myself in a doctor’s surgery on a Sunday. Checking my watch, I saw that church service would have ended a half hour ago. I wondered what Kate and Niamh were doing, but found I couldn’t concentrate on that. In the next room, my little sister was undergoing a post-abortion physical check-up; I was beginning to wonder if I needed counselling to sort out the emotions I was currently too numb to feel. I couldn’t imagine having an abortion. No one liked to talk about their private life and contraception, but you had to sort it out if you were going to be sexually active. When I lived with Peter, I was on the Pill; I knew my parents were disappointed that I was living with my boyfriend instead of being married, but I also knew I didn’t want to have a baby. I didn’t see how risking an unplanned pregnancy would make it easier to look my mum and dad in the eye – in for a penny, in for a pound, my dad always said. I had to sort out my birth control. My sister Muiread was the one to broach the subject with me – she was old enough to remember the days when contraceptives weren’t easily available in Ireland. I knew she had had the safe sex discussion with Trish and our brother David, who reportedly assured her he “wasn’t going out in the rain without a mac” – apparently, she had not had the talk with Cara. She probably figured I would be the one to do it, as Cara and I are so close. I sighed, wondering if Muiread would blame me if she ever found out about Cara’s abortion. I closed my eyes, realising I blamed myself. I wasn’t there for her. I felt so guilty, I started to cry. Why couldn’t she come to me? I sobbed, knowing I would not have known what to say to her. If I couldn’t find the words to talk to people about sex trafficking in the world, how could I give advice or comfort to my own sister in her hour of need? Fortunately, the Conroys kept an open box of tissues in the waiting room, and I grabbed two. I had gone through both of them when Dr Conroy came out of the examination room. He patted me on the shoulder. “You could use a cup of tea,” he diagnosed, pulling another tissue from the box for me. “Come with me to the kitchen.” I sniffled and followed him into the house, wondering what I would do with the balled up wet tissues I was holding. He pulled out the bin once we got to the kitchen, and I threw the tissues out. “Mrs Conroy is arranging counselling for your sister,” Dr Conroy told me, filling the kettle. “The examination was fine – there’s no damage.” He smiled at me. “I don’t think I’m breaking doctor-patient confidentiality by telling you that.” I blew my nose. “Thank you.” “You might want to accompany her to the sessions,” he suggested, putting a teabag into a mug. “You need to talk about this as well. I can see how important you are in your sister’s life. I know it’s old-fashioned of me to not regard an abortion as a routine medical procedure; I’m not making any pronouncements or judgements, but every time I have a case like this, I’m dealing with very upset people. It’s not an easy matter, whether you’re pro-choice or pro-life.” The kettle boiled quickly, and he poured hot water into the mug. “Milk and sugar?” I shook my head, but took the spoon he had offered me, fishing out the teabag and binning it. “A lot of people in my church are very vocal about being against abortion,” I told Dr Conroy. “I’ve never felt particularly strong about it…I wouldn’t want to have one myself, but I can’t join these people who want to condemn the person who’s had one.” As I spoke, I realised I now knew someone like that. I teared up again. “I feel like I failed her…I wasn’t there for her!” “Your sister is a grown woman,” Dr Conroy told me sternly, taking the spoon back from me. “She is responsible for her own actions. You haven’t failed her – you’re here for her now.” I took a deep breath. He was right, after all – Cara wasn’t a child anymore. I had to stop thinking of her as one – our relationship was going to have to change. “You’re a good person,” Dr Conroy assured me, dropping the spoon into the sink. “I’ve seen families break up over this; people throwing blame and not speaking to each other. A patient of mine felt she had to move to Australia after having an abortion; her family was so unforgiving.” He shook his head as he poured himself a mug of tea. “It was the right thing to do -if we still had Magdalen laundries, her family would have sent her to one.” He chuckled guiltily. “Now that’s probably violating doctor-patient confidentiality, but I haven’t named names, and you don’t seem like someone who’d turn me in.” I smiled and shook my head. I truly felt lucky that we were able to find such a gentle emergency care doctor. We were drinking tea at the Conroy’s kitchen table when Mrs Conroy and Cara came in. “Everything all right?” Dr Conroy asked his wife. She nodded, and put an arm around Cara. I saw that Cara had a handful of pamphlets. She could look me in the eye now, albeit shyly. “I’m afraid she’s forgotten her purse, so could you settle the bill?” Mrs Conroy said to me. I felt a rush of impatient anger – how could Cara be so irresponsible? She’d had her purse with her last night. Once again, I was having to play the responsible big sister and pay for this visit – it was precisely this kind of thing that was going to have to change. I dug out my wallet. “We are going to a cash machine first thing when we get home!” I told Cara pointedly. She looked at me with incredulity, motioning to the Conroys with her head. She wasn’t happy about being told off in front of the doctor and wife, but I didn’t care. “I can’t always be there to pay your bills!” I said to her. “Now, now,” Dr Conroy chided. “We can all forget a purse after a bit of excitement.” Mrs Conroy joined in. “She won’t be making a habit of it.” She ran her hand up and down Cara’s arm soothingly. I bit my lip and handed over the money. “Remember what I said about going to counselling with her,” Dr Conroy said to me as he was showing us out. I nodded and thanked him. It wasn’t until we were in the car and driving that Cara finally spoke. “Thank you, Lisa.” She took a deep breath, and balled her hands into fists. “And I’m sorry.” I didn’t say anything, and put my hand on her knee. “I’m sorry you had to miss church. I’m sorry I forgot my purse. And I’m really sorry-“ “You don’t have to say it!” I nearly ran a red light, as I was focusing on Cara. She was crying again. I jumped on the brakes, and stared at the red light hanging over us. It was like a light bulb went off in my head. “Say the red light prayer with me,” I suggested. Cara looked up at me, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. I grabbed a hold of her other hand. “Keep your eyes open…safety first of all. Lord, please help those caught in the sex trade. Please change the hearts of their captors, and their clients.” Cara was silent, but then cleared her throat. “Please let the police find more enslaved people,” she intoned in a clear voice. “Please free everyone from that life.” The light had turned green, but I was too busy smiling at my sister. I squeezed her hand. “Amen.” The car behind us tooted their horn, so I drove off. When he went back to Dr Mitu to pick up his dental plates, Mircea made a point of lingering in front of the lovely Alina. She had given him a surprised smile when he kissed her hand last time, but was stubbornly refusing to make eye contact now. He studied her quickly, to see if there was any evidence of violence, although Mircea knew he himself wouldn’t hit his flirtatious wife in any obvious places. He didn’t like to think of himself as a wife-beater, but Mircea knew he would keep his woman in line. Still, he didn’t like to think of Dr Mitu hitting his wife – especially because she hadn’t done anything. Anything with him, at least – he briefly thought of the teenage driver, and how friendly Alina was with him. Maybe Dr Mitu had a reason to be so over-bearing when it came to his wife? Mircea went in to the office to pick up his orthotics, not looking back at Mrs Mitu.
Dr Mitu was very professional with him, greeting him as “Mr Rotar”, and being very precise when fitting the splints and plates. There two sets of these; one soft pair, for day use, and one harder, more sturdy pair for night-time, when he slept. “These will do for now, but you really need to get your fillings redone,” Dr Mitu warned Mircea. “Part of your misalignment comes from the uneven dental work you’ve had done.” So you want me to let you redo my mouth and fill your coffers? Mircea thought. Dr Mitu had an unnerving habit of reading Mircea’s mind. “I don’t have to be the dentist to sort out your mouth,” he told Mircea, removing the bite plates he had slipped in to his mouth. “I would recommend you get it seen to in London, as I think it was the dentists back east who did such a shoddy job in the first place, but by all means. Pick a dentist out of the phone directory.” He made it sound like he was one rejecting Mircea, not the other way around. Mircea experimentally opened his mouth, testing his jaw. “How soon do you think I need to get the fillings redone?” he asked. “Sooner, rather than later.” Dr Mitu packed the plates into their plastic carrying case, and went to wash his hands at the sink. Mircea poked his tongue into some of his fillings. “I can try and be back in London in a month or two.” Drying his hands, Dr Mitu shrugged. “See how the splints and plates work for you,” he agreed. “You’ll need to get your jaw looked at after wearing the splints, to see how it has realigned. They’ll need adjusting.” Dr Mitu’s aloof manner annoyed Mircea. From the state of his rooms, it was obvious that he needed business. Mircea was insulted that Dr Mitu wasn’t trying to secure an appointment with him to fix his teeth, or even to look at his mouth after wearing the appliances he’d just picked up – was his Moldovan mouth too far beneath Dr Mitu’s Transylvanian standards? Mircea got out of the examination chair and grabbed his orthotics. He said a curt goodbye to Dr Mitu, but found himself staring at the framed diploma he kept by the door. Dr Mitu had gone to dental school in the UK, it seemed. Dr Mitu noticed Mircea’s looking at the diploma. “Yes, I came here as a student,” he said. “It was right before Romania joined the EU, and getting that student visa wasn’t easy. Not that it was much easier after 2007, but being qualified here helped.” Mircea could feel the weight of Dr Mitu’s belittling gaze. I did everything legally, he seemed to be sneering. Did you? Mircea made a point of letting his eyes sweep over the room, taking in its rising damp and faded wall paper. Dr Mitu may have done everything by the book, but he was relying on business with gangsters to keep his surgery afloat. Don’t you look down on me! Mircea tried to tell him with his eyes. “Make an appointment with my wife for when you’re back in London, so we can see what progress the splints have made,” Dr Mitu said. Just as Mircea was feeling triumph, that his Moldovan mouth and ill-gotten money were good enough for Dr Mitu, the dentist shrugged again. “You may want another dentist to examine you, though. It’s always good to have a second opinion on phase 1 treatments.” So, I’m dismissed again?! Mircea clenched his teeth. “Phase 1?” Dr Mitu nodded. “Phase 1 is more temporary; if you stop wearing the plates, your teeth could slide back into the original position that was causing you pain. If realigning your jaw doesn’t work, you may need Phase 2 treatment, which is not reversible. Phase 2 involves surgery, and redoing your dental work.” “But you told me to get my fillings redone!” Do you or don’t you want my business?! “For the overall health of your teeth, yes,” Dr Mitu answered evenly. “But in terms of your pain, first see how the splints work. If they help, fixing your old fillings won’t be such a priority.” Mircea felt like a dazed schoolboy during a difficult maths class. Phrases like phase 1 and phase 2 treatment were swimming in his head. He wondered if taking all his teeth out and getting fitted for dentures wouldn’t be a simpler solution. I should look up Vasile when I get back to Ukraine! He thought with a bitter smile, remembering how his old colleague solved the dental problems of the girls. “I’ll make an appointment with your wife,” he told Dr Mitu. “I think it’s best to come back to the person who started me on Phase 1 to see if Phase 2 is necessary.” And hopefully, he could make headway with the lovely Alina in the next appointment. Stealing Dr Mitu’s wife had become something of a priority for Mircea now. He took his leave of the dentist, and gave Mrs Mitu the most seductive smile the splints would allow him. He noticed a faint flush on her cheeks as she gave him his bill, and his smile broadened, even though it was slightly painful. “Until we meet again,” he cooed to her in Romanian as he handed her the money, just as Dr Mitu came out of the examination room. He blazed a look of pure suspicion at his wife, who jumped back defensively. Mircea turned his charming smile to Dr Mitu, enjoying the uncomfortable silence. “Until our next appointment,” he said to the dentist, then gave Alina a knowing look. She looked helplessly at her appointment book, and back to her husband. She shook her head in a pleading manner. Another patient came in to the waiting room, an older woman with a scarf tied around her head to show she had a toothache. Mircea felt comfortable that there was now a witness present – surely Dr Mitu wouldn’t hit his wife now. “Be good to your wife,” Mircea said to Dr Mitu in English. “You work her too hard.” He left Dr Mitu in stony silence, the dentist and his wife under the gentle smile of their next patient. Mircea went to visit Ivan at his club; there were a number of reasons to visit Ivan, even if the main one was to find out more about Piotr’s background. But he had been in London for a week now; business was still happening in Belarus, and soon in Cyprus. It was time for Mircea to take charge of things. Ivan was dressed casually – not in his old tracksuits, but not in the suit Mircea would have worn when running a nightclub. The cast was off his leg now, and he seemed relaxed. He was going through some spreadsheets on a laptop, and barely looked up when Mircea was shown in to the office. “You’re still in London?” he asked, deleting a column. “I had a medical emergency,” Mircea said, trying to make it sound business-like, not whinging. He noticed how he sounded a bit muffled, talking through the splint. Ivan looked up, his interest peaked. “Did you get your jaw wired up?” he asked. That old question! Mircea flashed him a toothy grin. “No.” Ivan squinted, spying the splint on Mircea’s lower teeth. “Ah, that’s why you sound funny.” Mircea figured it was best to get down to business. “The paperwork?” he asked. Ivan glanced at the door to the office, and looked satisfied to see it shut. He opened the bottom drawer of the desk, and pulled out a stack of Russian passports. “Our contact in Minsk will be able to seal the pictures of your Belarussian beauties into the passports; you’ll find the Turkish visas are already there.” Mircea was impressed; a quick count told him that he had more passports than he needed. “I only need eight passports,” he told Ivan. Ivan made a tired face. “This is just your first run. You’ll need more passports when you recruit more girls for Cyprus.” Mircea felt as if he had been shot in the leg. He was being talked down to by Ivan? How could he have asked such a stupid question! He might as well have asked if Minsk was a nice place to visit again. “Sorry...it’s the painkillers.” Mircea pointed to his mouth. Ivan nodded, eyes on the laptop again. “That Dr Mitu of yours is a bit too loose with the shots.” “Dr Mitu is a good dentist. Sometimes he uses extra medication, but anything to hike the bills up. He needs the cash.” Mircea had grabbed a passport off the top of the stack and was examining it. “What does Mitu need money for?” “He used to have some gambling problems. He was seriously low on funds as a student, and couldn’t afford dentistry school. He tried to get rich quick through high-stakes card games, and nearly got his legs broken.” Mircea raised his eyebrows. He tried to picture Dr Mitu playing cards, and figured the temperamental dentist couldn’t keep a poker face. “So the syndicate took over his debts?” Ivan snorted. “We felt we owed him. His wife had taken up with one of our fixers.” Mircea nearly dropped the passport he was flipping through. “The lovely Alina was cuckolding Dr Mitu?” Ivan shook his head. “This was Andreea, his first wife. Don’t try anything with Alina. He watches her like a hawk.” So Dr Mitu was connected...not very well, looking at the state of his office. “How much did he owe us?” “About a hundred thousand.” That didn’t seem like a lot, but Mircea knew that was not the kind of money you wanted to owe this syndicate. He wondered if the shabbiness of Dr Mitu’s office reflected his depression on losing his wife and being kept in the pocket of Russian gangsters. He ran his tongue over the splint in his mouth – maybe it was a good idea to get the dental work looked at by someone else. “I met Danny…Piotr’s little half-brother.” Ivan gave Mircea a long hard look. He said nothing, and continued working on the laptop. “You know…don’t you?” Ivan slammed his fist on the desktop. “Don’t talk about it!” he hissed. “Do you want to end up face-down in a ditch somewhere?” He shook his head in exasperation. “So you think you know a secret…you don’t know anything.” Mircea was surprised by Ivan keeping the status quo. “But…he’s not who he says he is!” This is the guy who shot you in the leg! Ivan swore. “Who cares?! Are you really that stupid? He is who he says he is…no one cares about biology.” Ivan sighed deeply. “You know, you’re going to be dead within a year if you keep on like this.” A cold sweat trickled down Mircea’s back. He remembered how he had everyone trembling in Minsk – who was Ivan to threaten him? “Don’t you try to intimidate me-“ “I’m not trying to threaten you! I’m just saying don’t swagger about like you’re untouchable! You need to keep your head down and move your patch. Don’t think too much, and don’t try to pull anything. Just keep it simple and don’t expect too much.” Ivan gestured to himself. “Look at me, I’m happy now. I have my own club, and I’m away from that psycho in the sunglasses. I have my life, my family…I don’t need more. I don’t need to declare war on the church, just to make myself feel bigger. Mircea, look after yourself. I don’t know what’s wrong with your jaw, but if you don’t have your health, you don’t have anything. You don’t have a woman, you don’t have a family…what do you want from life?” Mircea didn’t like Ivan questioning him. “I want success. Do you have success, Ivan? You have a second-rate nightclub…I want more than that.” Ivan smiled at him patronisingly, not even insulted. “Well, good luck with that.” The office door opened, and a swarthy teenager came in. The kid looked uncertainly at Mircea, and Ivan waved him over. “Come on in. Mircea, this is my son, Thomas.” Mircea had heard that Ivan’s kids were handicapped somehow, but Thomas looked healthy enough, not drooling or squinting. He was also told that they were racially mixed, but this kid looked almost entirely Caucasian. Thomas was dark were Ivan was blond and blue-eyed, but the family resemblance was evident. “Are you ready to take a run at the payroll?” Ivan asked his son. Thomas looked at the laptop screen. “I think we should use a database, not a spreadsheet,” he said with a perfectly middle-class English accent. “My son, the business administrator,” Ivan said proudly. Thomas rolled his eyes. “Come on, I told you – the database has the tax codes,” he told his father in a tried voice. “Look, just give me half an hour and I’ll set it up for you.” Mircea watched Ivan and his son sitting behind the big desk. He felt a definite ache, a jealous pang that rivalled the pain in his jaw. I wish I had a father, he thought. He realised that Ivan had a point. What do I have? Mircea asked himself. He would have to rethink his priorities in life soon. Cara found her purse once we got back to my flat, and amazingly, she had what she owed me in cash. “Thanks for everything,” she said brusquely after paying me, and started heading for the door.
“Where are you going?” “Home,” she grumbled. “I have work tomorrow.” “Maybe you should take a day off.” She rolled her eyes at the suggestion. “I’ll start counselling Tuesday. Until then, I think I have things in hand.” Remembering the previous night, I raised my eyebrows. “Look, the worst part was having to tell you. That’s done, now. Now I have to get back to my life.” I made a face. I didn’t believe one word Cara was saying, and I highly doubted she did, either. I didn’t want to argue – it was best to let Cara realise she couldn’t go on as if nothing had happened. “I’ll take you home,” I offered. “I can take the bus,” Cara sighed. “It’s not every day your sister is willing to be your chauffeur.” As far as I was concerned, it wasn’t up for discussion. I twirled my car keys in one hand and went out the door first. “I don’t want to talk,” Cara mumbled. I shrugged. “Okay.” “Don’t you have things to do?” Cara asked, but I could tell she had given up on trying to dissuade me. She had one last stipulation before getting into the car. “No more praying!” I shook my head. “I’ll do it silently.” I’d been doing the red light prayer for so long now, it was almost second-nature. Cara said nothing for the whole drive to her flat, and I didn’t attempt to start a conversation. It had been so long since I missed Church on a Sunday, I wondered what I was going to do with the day. Normally, Kate and I would have brunch with friends from our bible study. I considered going to the gym after I dropped Cara off, but then I figured I wouldn’t be dropping her off. I had to make sure she was okay – I couldn’t just leave her. Niamh was in when we got to Cara’s flat. She greeted us with a big smile at the door. “So…how’d it go?” “Fine!” Cara said tersely. Niamh wouldn’t be put off by getting her head bitten off. “Did you arrange counselling?” she asked. “YES!” Cara stomped off to her bedroom. I went to follow, but Niamh held me back. “I’ll check on her later. How are you?” It was a strange question – I wasn’t the one who had done something she was ashamed of. “Everyone is worried about me – the emergency doctor you found us was brilliant. But he said I might want to go to counselling with Cara.” “I’m not surprised. You and Cara are close…it was really hard for her to tell you.” “You’re the one who told me,” I pointed out. “I know, but Cara really needs your support.” Switching gears, Niamh grabbed my shoulders excitedly. “I really liked your church!” It took me a second to take in what she was saying. “This is not something I ever dreamed would come out of your mouth.” Niamh laughed. “Tell me about it!” She looked serious again. “Lisa, I just wanted to say…the way you’ve been there for Cara is amazing. I don’t need to tell you what I used to think you were like, but you and Kate have opened my eyes. You’re so non-judgemental…so supportive…I know you don’t want me to apologise to you anymore, but I had you all wrong. I’m so ashamed for being such a rude bitch to you…” I was getting tired of this conversation. If you had told me a few weeks ago that Niamh would apologise to me about her behaviour, I not only would never have believed you, I would have revelled in her saying sorry. But now I kept thinking about how our pastor tells us when God forgives us, he frees us from the past. I didn’t want to think about how Niamh was before, and how I dreaded seeing her. Things were different now, and I was glad. “So…you liked church?” “I have the bulletin somewhere…the sermon was like nothing I’d ever experienced before. Your pastor talked about his life, admitting his doubts and struggles.” She shook her head. “Mass was never like this…it was all fire and brimstone, and how everyone was sinning and wrong. We used to think Protestants were stiff and snobbish West Brits, but everyone was so warm and welcoming. There was actually a moment in the service where the pastor encouraged us to talk with the people around us – I never spoke to anyone in church before. And Kate knows everybody!” I remembered the first few times that I dared say good morning to the people in neighbouring pews in church. It seemed so alien, and I was so embarrassed, but the other people actually made eye contact and wished me good morning as well. And they seemed like they meant it, because they would wish me a good rest of the day when the service was over. They would actually keep talking, asking me about my day and inviting me to brunch. And yes, Niamh was right – it seemed like Kate knew everyone. I was afraid I’d be alone and isolated while she chatted to a million and one people, but she never let me out of her sight. Not that she needed to – I had enough people to talk to. I met Tommy my third time in church. “I think church would be good for Cara,” Niamh said. I nodded, but couldn’t picture her going. “Having a sense of community is good for you when you’ve had a major life event.” I thought about this. “You know, I honestly couldn’t tell you who my community was before church,” I told Niamh. “I had one, I think…it was a loose bunch of friends…” Who promptly dumped me once Peter had! “I know what you mean. There’s your family, and your friends, but everyone seems to drift away with time. I couldn’t tell you when the last time I saw anyone from university was, aside from Cara.” “What about your family?” Niamh cringed. “I pretty much come from a broken home,” she admitted. She offered me a cup of tea, and we went into the kitchen. “Should we ask Cara if she wants one?” Niamh turned the kettle on, and then went to check on Cara. While she was gone, I tried to think of what I knew about Niamh. Aside from her profession and how she knew Cara, I really didn’t know a lot about her. But what she said about being from a broken home made sense; I had sensed that her being so liberal-minded about morality was connected to her not having much confidence in the family. Niamh came back after a moment, frowning. “She says she’s all right and doesn’t want anything,” she reported. “I’ll take in a cup for her, though.” Niamh went to put teabags into the teapot, but I stopped her from getting out three cups. “She says she’s okay…if she wants a cup, she’ll come out and get it.” “Don’t be harsh!” Niamh chided. “I’m not…I just don’t think we should treat her with kid gloves.” “I agree.” Unexpectedly, Cara had come to the kitchen. Niamh and I both froze, and Cara pushed past us to get out a cup. “I wish you guys wouldn’t talk about me when I’m not here, but I guess that’s too much to ask.” “We’re worried about you…that’s all,” Niamh said. “Well, don’t.” The kettle had boiled and Cara poured hot water into the teapot. “We love you…of course we’re going to worry.” I put a hand on Cara’s shoulder, which she shrugged off after a second. “I know everybody worried about me after Peter and I broke up.” “Well then you probably remember how sick you got of that.” She was being abrupt about the lowest point in my life again, but it wasn’t drawing blood as it had of late. “You never get tired of people loving you.” Cara rolled her eyes and poured herself a cup of tea. She held up the teapot. “Anyone else?” I liked my tea strong, and so did Niamh, apparently. We both shook our heads. “Suit yourselves,” Cara said, putting the teapot down and left the kitchen. Niamh looked at me. “It’s okay not to like her very much right now…isn’t it?” I laughed. I liked Cara just fine. She had to come to terms with what she’d done and how she felt about it, just I would have to. “Don’t expect her to be all vulnerable,” I advised. “I know my sister. This is going to be a healing process that will take time.” Niamh poured an experimental bit of tea into her cup. It looked strong enough, so she poured us both a cup. “You know, I’ve really been thinking about where I stand on the abortion issue,” she told me as we sat at the table. “I thought I knew before. I thought I was pro-choice, but after seeing how Cara has been suffering with the decision she made…” “I never believed it when Christian counsellors told us a woman is more likely to be suicidal after having an abortion,” I admitted. “I kept thinking about the X case, and how I believed that poor girl did want to kill herself instead of having her rapist’s baby.” “As a nurse, I can tell you the hormonal changes in your body after a pregnancy is interrupted will mess with your head.” “I just got sick of hearing people argue against abortion,” I sighed. “I mean, it’s not legal here, so who exactly are they trying to impress by marching against it?” Niamh nodded. “So many people were afraid that we would get pressure from the EU about legalizing it. But that’s never happened. Anyway, we’re not the only country in the EU where it’s not legal!” I sipped my tea, thinking it over. “I’m not pro-choice,” I admitted. Not after seeing what it had done to Cara. “But I don’t want to be one of these people who sits in judgement over everyone else. I don’t want to march in a pro-life protest, and I don’t want to hand out pictures of destroyed foetuses. I want to tell these people who find themselves in that situation that they’re not alone. That’s it’s not something new, something no one has ever gone through before or will go through again. That they don’t have to keep the baby and raise it. That God loves them.” I was starting to cry, so I wiped my eyes. “And I want women who’ve had an abortion to know that God still loves them, and forgives them.” Niamh was wiping eyes as well. “I’m so glad to hear you say that. I thought you would be just like those eejits you see in front of the central bank with their posters, condemning everyone, but you’re not. Lisa, I’m not pro-choice either.” She grabbed the roll of kitchen towels. “I thought I was, but after seeing what Cara has gone through, I can’t recommend it to anyone. Yes of course, rape victims should not be forced to have a baby, but it’s not like it’s going to un-rape them.” She pulled off a sheet of the kitchen towel and wiped her eyes. “I can’t comment on that,” I said. “I don’t want to comment on that – I can’t imagine being in a situation like that. Do you know there’s some stupid American politician who said on air that you could only get pregnant from consensual sex – so he’s out and out calling rape and incest victims liars.” “I wish that were true,” Niamh sighed. “It wouldn’t just make things easier, but I would love to think that every baby is conceived in love. I mean, that’s what makes Christianity so nice – to think that God made himself a weak, helpless baby!” I was impressed that Niamh had made the connection of God’s coming to Earth – it’s drummed into you every Christmas, but so awesome when you come to believe it. But I was thinking of women who were coerced into conceiving – women who were trafficked for sex. How many of them had to undergo abortions, or have their baby taken from them, never to be seen again? Oh Lord, how can the miracle of birth be turned against people? Niamh reached out and took my hand. “I said a prayer for Cara today in church. If what you said is true, that God forgives her, I’d like her to feel it.” “It’s not an if; God does forgive our worst sins.” I squeezed Niamh’s hand. Niamh smiled through tears. “I’d like to learn more about this God.” I took this as an opportunity to share with her. I poured us both more tea. “You know, there is a bit in the Bible, in the book of Matthew, where someone comes to Jesus to ask him what the greatest commandment is. He says there are two: Love God with all your soul and mind, and love your neighbour as yourself. Jesus says everything is contained in those two commandments.” I watched Niamh as she considered this. “The love God part is obvious, and the one that everyone seems to remember,” she said slowly. “But they don’t remember the love your neighbour part,” I concluded for her. She nodded. “When you think of a religious person…like I used to think of you, you think of someone who condemns, who points fingers, someone who’s all right with God, but you’re not. But love your neighbour as yourself is not just about not being a hypocrite…it’s put yourself in their shoes.” Something became clear in my head at that moment. “I think that’s why I was so annoyed by the pro-life movement,” I realised. “It’s exactly what you described – I’m all right with God, but you’re not. I can’t offer support to a raped girl; I’m too busy impressing God by telling her she can’t have an abortion. I can’t show forgiveness to someone like Cara, who had an abortion – never mind the fact that God has forgiven me for all my sins, just like he has her.” Niamh thought this over. “You said God forgives our worst sins…that’s everyone. If I’m forgiven, you’re forgiven.” “God doesn’t have a scoreboard – all sin is evil to him. So I can’t say to you, yeah, I’m bad, but you’re worse.” “Even if I’m a mass murderer?” Niamh asked. I remembered how hard this was for me to understand. “God doesn’t think like a human. All sin is sin. If that mass murderer repents, just think of the horrible guilt he must have when he realises what he’s done. He usually doesn’t repent, so he saves himself from feeling bad, but he misses out on being forgiven.” “So all he needs to do is repent?” “Well, you can’t earn salvation…it’s yours already. Repenting puts a light on the truth…you’re already forgiven, but you don’t know it.” I hoped I hadn’t confused Niamh, as I remembered how long it took for me to take this in. “That part about shining a light on truth makes sense…it’s not about your confession, it’s about understanding how what you did goes against what God wants.” She was a lot quicker than I was! “And if you understand that, you don’t want to do it anymore.” I couldn’t help but be a little jealous. “Do you know how long it took me to get that?” I reached over and gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze. She gave me a mock punch. “Well, see it from my point of view. I’ve just become a Holy Joe, someone I used to hate!” She smiled at me. “Well, I’m not going to apologise to you anymore for being so hateful…I know I’m already forgiven!” With that, we both laughed, and then carried our mugs of tea to the sitting room, where we would have a nice chat. I had a nice Sunday afternoon despite not going to church. |