bully -- had been reduced, as age and illness made him little more than skin shrouding bone. Then he died, and I had to accept that both versions of him -- the young and the old, the frightening and the fearful -- were gone.
The strong arms that used to reach so readily for the strap: gone. The sour smell of his sickroom breath: gone. The size fourteen feet that had to have shoes and boots specially made: gone. The shriveled genitals and wispy, grey fuzz that surrounded them: gone.
All gone, gone, gone. I knew it but something about it was unknowable.
So when the Inspector told me he was arresting me, a part of me was unable to take it seriously.
What I said, according to The Wicklow Gazette , which took a personal interest in my arrest and subsequent trial, was: "You must be joking." But, already, another, deeper part of me was whispering something I didn't understand, something that didn't really want to be heard.
Establishing values other than, better than, my father's; pulling together the pieces he'd ripped apart, making myself whole again: these were the aims that had guided my life since I ran away from Doolough. I had traveled far in my effort to escape him -- more than 6,000 miles -- but, even at that distance, he held me. My body might be in Santa Paola, California, but my thoughts stayed in Doolough, County Wicklow; regurgitating what had been, what should have been, what might have been.
Each I-wish twist and if-only turn of my mind only tightened the tie I longed to loose.
Then, when his health failed and I was needed, I came back to Doolough to tend him. To try to find the closure my Californian friends recommended. He was no easy patient, but I prevailed and thought often of the time to come, when I would be alive and he would be dead.
It didn't seem too much to ask, to be given some years after he was gone. I had thought it would be enough. That it would be over then, that I should have peace at last.
Wrong, Mercy. Wrong, yet again.
MERCY. CHRISTMAS EVE 1989.
Early on Christmas Eve morning, hours before Zach left or Star arrived, my father asked me to kill him.
I'd spent some of that night in a chair at the end of his bed. At one point, he woke and started to panic, then remembering, reached up to push the button that released liquid morphine into his veins. Through half-closed lashes, I saw him lie back, and his breathing was hoarse and loud, a sound like the sea pressing through a blow-hole.
"Better," he said, as the pain relief kicked in. "That's better."
His hand went up to press the machine again, but I knew nothing would issue from it again so soon. Maybe he believed it had, because he dropped off immediately into a more settled sleep and didn't wake again until breakfast time, when I brought him the bowl of mashed banana and yogurt that was all he could manage first thing. His eyes clicked open and he said, in a clear voice, "I need a pill."
"What about the pump?"
"No, a pill."
I took the container, a new one, nearly full, from its place on the window, shook one pill into his hand. He took the glass of water and gulped to swallow, his whole throat working over it. He coughed, then drank again.
"I need more."
Thinking he meant water, I reached for the jug.
"More pills, I mean."
I looked at the phial in my hand. "You can't, you know that."
He turned his eyes on me. "I've had enough now of living like this." His eyes held onto mine, as only ever once before.
"Please."
I shook my head, just as I had back then. "Let the one you've just had take effect," I said. "You'll feel better then."
"There's no better for me." He put his fingers on my wrist, his grip surprisingly tight. "Please. Have mercy."
But the pill was already beginning its work, or maybe it was the effort of making the request, of taking my arm, of saying such words. His eyelids began to droop.
"You're a clever girl, always were," he whispered. "You know what to do."
His eyes closed on the first compliment
The strong arms that used to reach so readily for the strap: gone. The sour smell of his sickroom breath: gone. The size fourteen feet that had to have shoes and boots specially made: gone. The shriveled genitals and wispy, grey fuzz that surrounded them: gone.
All gone, gone, gone. I knew it but something about it was unknowable.
So when the Inspector told me he was arresting me, a part of me was unable to take it seriously.
What I said, according to The Wicklow Gazette , which took a personal interest in my arrest and subsequent trial, was: "You must be joking." But, already, another, deeper part of me was whispering something I didn't understand, something that didn't really want to be heard.
Establishing values other than, better than, my father's; pulling together the pieces he'd ripped apart, making myself whole again: these were the aims that had guided my life since I ran away from Doolough. I had traveled far in my effort to escape him -- more than 6,000 miles -- but, even at that distance, he held me. My body might be in Santa Paola, California, but my thoughts stayed in Doolough, County Wicklow; regurgitating what had been, what should have been, what might have been.
Each I-wish twist and if-only turn of my mind only tightened the tie I longed to loose.
Then, when his health failed and I was needed, I came back to Doolough to tend him. To try to find the closure my Californian friends recommended. He was no easy patient, but I prevailed and thought often of the time to come, when I would be alive and he would be dead.
It didn't seem too much to ask, to be given some years after he was gone. I had thought it would be enough. That it would be over then, that I should have peace at last.
Wrong, Mercy. Wrong, yet again.
MERCY. CHRISTMAS EVE 1989.
Early on Christmas Eve morning, hours before Zach left or Star arrived, my father asked me to kill him.
I'd spent some of that night in a chair at the end of his bed. At one point, he woke and started to panic, then remembering, reached up to push the button that released liquid morphine into his veins. Through half-closed lashes, I saw him lie back, and his breathing was hoarse and loud, a sound like the sea pressing through a blow-hole.
"Better," he said, as the pain relief kicked in. "That's better."
His hand went up to press the machine again, but I knew nothing would issue from it again so soon. Maybe he believed it had, because he dropped off immediately into a more settled sleep and didn't wake again until breakfast time, when I brought him the bowl of mashed banana and yogurt that was all he could manage first thing. His eyes clicked open and he said, in a clear voice, "I need a pill."
"What about the pump?"
"No, a pill."
I took the container, a new one, nearly full, from its place on the window, shook one pill into his hand. He took the glass of water and gulped to swallow, his whole throat working over it. He coughed, then drank again.
"I need more."
Thinking he meant water, I reached for the jug.
"More pills, I mean."
I looked at the phial in my hand. "You can't, you know that."
He turned his eyes on me. "I've had enough now of living like this." His eyes held onto mine, as only ever once before.
"Please."
I shook my head, just as I had back then. "Let the one you've just had take effect," I said. "You'll feel better then."
"There's no better for me." He put his fingers on my wrist, his grip surprisingly tight. "Please. Have mercy."
But the pill was already beginning its work, or maybe it was the effort of making the request, of taking my arm, of saying such words. His eyelids began to droop.
"You're a clever girl, always were," he whispered. "You know what to do."
His eyes closed on the first compliment
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