Lucy in the Sky

workshop in Sydney.
    One of the envelopes is thicker, firmer, so I start with that. In there is a letter and a photograph of a little girl, standing on a balcony of an apartment block, grinning up at the camera, brown hair cut in a childish bob.
    Lucy, age 5 , my mum has written on the back. Bracing myself, I open the letter and start to read…
    Joe,
    This is your daughter. I thought you’d like to see what she looks like because you’re not going to see her in person anytime soon.
    I’m not coming back, so don’t try to contact me. After what you’ve done, I never want to see you again. You’re pathetic. Evil. You don’t deserve this picture of Lucy but I’m rising above that. One day, if you ever manage to sort your fucking life out, I might let you see her. But until then …
    Diane
    It doesn’t sound like Mum. She never sounds like that. I don’t understand. I pass the letter to Nathan and reach for the next envelope. The water from my wet hair is trickling down my neck but I barely notice.
    Joe,
    Tell your mother to stop writing to me. The new tenants are sick of forwarding her letters.
    Diane
    I’m bewildered. I don’t get any of this. The rest of the envelopes contain letters to my father from my grandmother. There doesn’t seem to be anything significant in them, just what she’s been doing in the garden and news about the neighbours, that sort of thing. After a while I give up reading them.
    Why was he in Manchester? Why would he have left his home in Dublin? I don’t know. And now I’ll never know.
    It occurs to me that I’m the only blood relative of Joe McCarthy left in the world. The sole tie I have with my so-called father is his surname.
    ‘You okay?’ Nathan asks me, pushing my wet fringe off my forehead, like he did that time on the beach in Manly. My heart flips just looking at him. I reach out and put my hand on his face. His stubble is softer than I would have thought and it surprises me. Then he kisses my wrist and I’m leaning towards him, loving him, wanting him. He catches my eye and holds it. He must know how I feel. He must. He takes my hand from his face and gently puts it down.
    ‘I’m sorry…’ he says. ‘I’m sorry.’
    And the moment is broken. I sit back in my seat. It’s as if he’s slapped me. He reaches across to touch my cheek and I flinch away. I can’t look at him, but I can feel his stare. I can sense his hurt.
    ‘Please,’ I say. ‘Take me home.’
     
    I feel empty, flat. I can’t look at James when I get back that evening, telling him I just want to watch the telly and not talk about any of it. I leave the box with my dad’s things by the sofa, and James eyes it warily, but I ignore him. I can’t take in anything on the television screen in front of me. I feel like everything is happening in slow motion.
    The home phone and my mobile have been ringing, but I refuse to answer either. When James keeps trying to, I warn him to leave them. I don’t want to speak to anyone. My life is a mess. I’m in love with James. I’m in love with Nathan. Nathan is leaving. My dad is dead.
    Eventually James’s phone rings and he flips it open, leaving me in the living room and going through to the bedroom. He comes back a few minutes later.
    ‘That was your mum. She’s worried about you.’
    I don’t answer.
    I don’t go to work the next day, even though we’re busy; I still can’t face anyone. I lie on the sofa, ignoring the phone. The sound of the shrill ringing is strangely therapeutic, but in the evening, when James comes home, he snaps at me. I let him take the phone off the hook and the ringing stops.
    I wonder if Nathan has been trying to reach me.
    By Thursday morning I’ve made a decision to go to Somerset for the weekend. I need to see my mum. I book myself a train ticket and then ring her to let her know my intentions. I leave a note for James, telling him I’ve gone home. He’s never seen me like this and he doesn’t know how to deal with me.
    Mum comes alone to the station to collect me. She hugs me tightly but I don’t return her embrace.
    ‘Lucy, darling…’
    We drive home in silence.
    With Tom at work in London now, and Nick at university, it’ll just be mum, Terry and me this weekend. Terry smiles at me sympathetically when I arrive and tells me he’s sorry about my dad.
    ‘You’ll be okay, kiddo,’ he says, giving me a comforting hug.
    This must be difficult for him too. He’s sensitive enough to know this weekend is