The Incredible Life of Jonathan Doe Read online

  She moved her gaze from the window. “Yes, Dad, some of it is your fault, but not all of it. Things happen that are outside our control, outside your control. You don’t have to feel that you are responsible for everything – for everyone.”

  “I let my mother down,” he said as he began to sob. “I promised her, I begged her to let me take Patricia with me to America. She was only sixteen. She should have been at school but I knew my mother couldn’t control her and that she . . . she didn’t like Patricia much. I thought it was for the best. I took her here and look what happened. She ran wild and I – I was powerless. I tried to stop her, I did! Look how it all ended up!” He sobbed louder now.

  Eileen moved closer to him and put her hands around his face. “I am not Patricia,” she said firmly. “And Patricia had her own reasons for doing what she did. I hope you both sit down and talk about it and then . . . leave it in the past.”

  Frank looked at Eileen and how strong she seemed in that moment, how decisive.

  “Can you forgive me? Can we start over?” he pleaded.

  Eileen stood and moved to the end of the bed. She looked out the window at her silver car parked crookedly in the hospital’s car park.

  She sighed and turned to face him.

  “I’ve been driving my car.”

  Frank’s mouth opened and his eyes opened wide in alarm.

  “What? How?”

  “Brendan’s been teaching me,” she said confidentially as her cousin reddened in the background.

  “Why, youno good scheming little sleeveen! When I get my hands –”

  Eileen raised her hand and he closed his mouth.

  “And I’m going to that party tonight whether you like it or not,” she said. “I am never again going to ask for your permission to go anywhere or do anything ever again. Do you understand that?”

  Frank nodded hesitantly.

  The door opened and Kiera entered the room noisily, followed by Orla. Eileen noticed how bashfully they looked at her as if knowing what they now knew made her a different person. She picked her coat off the bed and moved past them.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dad,” she said as she opened the door.

  He smiled.

  “Eileen!” he called.

  She turned.

  “Have a good time tonight.”

  “I will,” she said.“I really will.”

  Chapter 25

  Alice Turner’s house was a modest duplex in a rundown part of Dover town, where she had lived for over forty years. The three-bedroom house had become too big for her since her son moved to New York over twenty years before but she had so many memories there that she could not face leaving its familiar walls. She and her husband had only lived there together for three years before he went to war but it seemed to her like there was a memory of him in every room of the old-fashioned house. Photos of her husband hung in every corner, snaps of Theo holding their baby son in the garden or in the large living area where they had laughed and talked in the evenings while young Theo slept safely in an upstairs bedroom.

  Alice looked around the open-plan room which was full of her friends and family and smiled at the success she had made of her life. Her son Theo was there with his wife Linda and their three children, Carl who was one year into his law degree, Matthew who would hopefully join him at the same university the following year and ten-year-old Naomi who was the living image of her father.

  Her heart swelled with pride as she looked around the gathering. She had made friends with people from all walks of life: doctors and dustmen, solicitors and streetwalkers, white, black and yellow alike. Not bad, she thought, for a black gal from Georgia who grew up shoeless on a dirt-road farm outside of Augusta.

  She went into the kitchen and took a deep puff of her inhaler, though she knew the time it could help was well past now, and made her way into the group.

  Brendan was sitting on a chair by the fireside with Theo junior who he noticed could not keep his eyes off his mother as she moved confidently around the packed room.

  “She’s seriously ill, isn’t she?” Brendan asked the quiet man who had not spoken to anyone since he’d arrived over an hour ago.

  Theo nodded but did not look at Brendan.

  “Is there anything they can do?”

  Alice’s son shook his head and his chin quivered. Heexhaled and looked into his drink.

  “They say she has months . . . weeks . . . they don’t know for sure . . . but . . . if I know my mom, she’ll hang on until she’s put everything on her list to right.”

  Brendan grinned.“Yes, that’s Alice,” he agreed.

  “Does she know that you know?”

  Brendan shook his head.

  “Then don’t say anything to her,” said Theo. “She doesn’t want anyone feeling sorry for her. She . . .” Theo’s lip trembled and he took a large gulp of his drink. “She feels she’s been blessed and that it is just her time to go.”

  Both men watched Alice greet newcomers to the party, one of whom was Robert Hensen, Brendan’s probation officer. Hensen smiled wryly as Brendan raised his glass of Coke mischievously to him.

  “You’re lucky, Theo. I wish I’d had a mother like Alice.”

  Theo nodded and raised his glass to his mouth, finishing his drink in one large gulp. He stood and made his way to his mother who was waving frantically at him, wanting to proudly show him off to her friends, he supposed.

  Brendan moved to Pilar’s side where she was busy talking to people he didn’t know. He usually hated parties like this where he was expected to move around the room talking to people who might not have anything in common with him, which in this situation was very likely, but he had come because Alice was important to him.

  He looked up just in time to seeEileen and Jonathan sneak out of the main room, her guilty eyes fixed on her escape route. He stood quickly but stopped when Pilar’s arm suddenly gripped his.

  “Let them go,” she said softly.

  He looked at her for a moment but returned his eyes to the door which was now closed, his sister gone from view. His heart pounded as his mind raced between tearing after Eileen and bringing her back to the safety of the party or sitting down and allowing her to enjoy the time she had left with Jonathan Doe. He looked longingly at the bottles of ice-cold beer on the dining table and for the first time in weeks wished he could get drunk and forget everything that had happened to him since he had arrived in Dover. He decided that it was useless trying to enjoythe party. He made his excuses to Alice and Pilar and walked the hour-long journey home.

  When Brendan reached the house his mother was sitting on a bench outside, reading a book under the porch light. He walked up the driveway and sat at the other end of the bench. She glanced up from her book and looked out into the darkness.

  “I forgot how hot it was here in summer,” she said. “I couldn’t sit inside.”

  Brendan nodded but knew that his mother felt uncomfortable in the house since she had disclosed the secret she had promised to keep, and was keeping out of Coleen’s way.

  “The party wasn’t any good?”

  Brendan shook his head.

  “That girl who picked you up – Pilar – is she your girlfriend?”

  Brendan reddened and looked away. “No,” he said abruptly.

  It had taken his ego a while to accept that Pilar Diaz was not interested in him that way – that the wise and well-adjusted woman could see through him and knew that she didn’t need another damaged, needy man in her complicated life.

  “Oh,” she replied and turned her gaze back to her book.

  “I know about my father,” he said.

  Brendan felt his mother stiffen from the other end of the hard wooden bench. She put down her book and stared hard into the darkness.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. He did not look at her but heard her fill her lungs with air.

  “To protect you,” she replied quietly.

  He heard the pain in her voice, the he
artbreak. His mother sounded broken, spent.

  “From what?” he asked.

  “From him. From knowing about him and the sort of man he was.”

  “Don’t you think I had a right to know? Do you think it was right that I found out his name from a stranger in an office?”

  Patricia swallowed. “I understand that you’re angry. Please believe me that I had my reasons.”

  “What were they?”

  She stood and moved forward on the porch, her face shielded by the darkness.

  “I . . . I can’t tell you,” she replied nervously.

  “Can’t? You told Eileen all about her father!” he spat.

  “That is different!” Her voice was louder now, her anger awakened.

  “How? How is it different?”

  “Your father . . . was . . . look . . . please . . . it’s better that you don’t know. Please . . . leave it alone!”

  She rushed past him, opened the screen door and ran inside the house, banging the door behind her. He heard her thumping her way noisily up the stairs and banging her bedroom door.

  He blew out and sat for a moment. He hadn’t thought much about the conversation that he knew would happen sooner or later but he had definitely not planned on it turning out this way.

  He stood wearily and made his way down to his apartment and lay down on his bed. He tried not to think of Eileen and what she was doing with Jonathan Doe and was glad that Frank wasn’t home from the hospital yet. It was bad enough having to deal with his mother’s rage without adding his uncle to his problems.

  An hour later he got up and made his way into the kitchen where Coleen was lying on the sofa watching late-night TV. She sat up and moved the blanket from her legs.

  “Is the party over already? Where’s Eileen?” she asked.

  Brendan sat down beside her.“No, it’s not. I just wasn’t in the humour for it. Eileen’s fine. Pilar will drop her home later.” He hoped that was true.

  “Was that you arguing with your mother?” she asked.

  Brendan sighed. “She won’t tell me about my father.”

  Coleen pondered this for a moment. “Did I ever tell you that my name isn’t Coleen?”

  Brendan grimaced, annoyed by how abruptly she’d changed the subject.

  “My grandfather was Irish and my dad wanted to give us all Irish names,” she went on. “I had three older brothers, all with real Irish names. They’ve all passed now. I was the youngest and there was a long gap before I came along. Well, my mother, she was of German descent and she wanted to call me Ingrid, not only because it was a German name but because she loved the Swedish actress Ingrid Bergman. Dad put his foot down and said he was calling me Coleen. Now, before you tell me, I know that Coleen is not a real name in Ireland and that it means ‘girl’ in Irish but it’s a real popular name here in America and he was adamant. Anyway, when I was two days old and my father was at work, my mother sneaked down to the church and had me christened Ingrid Agnes. Well, my brother told me that Dad was furious and started calling me Coleen anyway. So it stuck. Everybody got used to it. Hey, won’t they get a hell of a shock when they’re burying me?”

  Brendan smiled absent-mindedly. He had not been listening to the story but had been glancing at the TV, watching the credits roll up on – of all things –an episode of The Nelsons of Newsart.

  “You want to know what my point is?” his aunt asked.

  Brendan grinned, embarrassed that she had read his thoughts.

  “It doesn’t matter what your name is or what your background is. You are who you are.”

  Brendan nodded. The problem was that he had no idea who he was.

  Coleen patted the sofa next to her and he obliged by moving a little closer.

  “Oh, I just love this programme!” she saidas Jonathan Wyatt Nelson and his brothers grinned into the camera. “It’s a tape. Orla and Doug got it for me for my birthday one year and I often sit here and watch it when I’m feeling down. Course, Frank hates it. He says it’s sentimental wish-wash, whatever that means.”

  Brendan flinched as the rest of the Nelson family waved cheerfully into the camera.

  “Oh, don’t tell me you don’t like it either!” said Coleen. “It’s my favourite. I watched this as a girl and I still enjoy it. I guess I love the old-timey feel to it, you know, when people were still polite and helpful and kids were raised properly.”

  Brendan nodded and reluctantly looked at the television. He watched as Jonathan and his brothers went swimming after they caught fish. He tensed as the boys jumped in and out of the deep lake. It reminded him of the day Jonathan had almost drowned in the lake in Mountain Park. It suddenly became clear to him what Jonathan meant when he said he saw himself swimming. What he meant was he had seen it on TV and for some reason he thought the actor was him. The episode suddenly stopped. He looked at Coleen who was pressing down hard on the remote.

  “I saw that one a hundred times,” she said.

  She fast forwarded the tape and chose another episode of the same programme.

  “You have them all?” Brendan cried.

  “Sure. Is this bothering you? You want me to turn it off?”

  Brendan shook his head as a teenage Jonathan held up his rifle to a half-starved mountain lion and stood staring at her through his rifle scope. He looked away as a wave of nausea hit him. He had loved that story more than any of the others and it was a stupid soap, a ridiculous tale thought up by writers in a stuffy office in New York or somewhere like it. The credits rolled and Brendan returned his eyes to the television. He watched the golden-haired kids smile and wave into the camera one by one. He realised there was something missing but the programme ended before he could figure it out.

  “Can you fast forward to another one?” he asked.

  “Oh, now you like it?” Coleen laughed as she searched.

  “Stop there!” Brendan shoutedwhen the credits rolled up on yet another episode. He watched again as the children beamed into the cameras.

  “There’s no Cassie!” he said.

  “Who?” Coleen asked.

  “There’s no Cassie. His sister, the one who’s blind, she’s not there!” he said, jumping from his seat and making his way to the front door.

  Coleen sat up straight and stared at the TV screen.

  “What are you talking about? Brendan, where are you going?” she yelled but he was already out the door, slamming it behind him as he headed towards the shelter.

  He had to see Jonathan. He had to tell him that he believed him. He had to tell him that he believed that at least some of his story was real.

  When he arrived at the shelter it was almost midnight and the house was in darkness. He had forgotten that Jonathan had left the party with Eileen and that they were probably in his room together. He looked up at the round window which was cloaked in darkness and was deciding that he’d come back tomorrow when he heard a low moan coming from the bushes.

  “Who’s there?” he called out.

  He moved toward the noise and looked into the dense scrub at the front of the house just below the porch.

  “Jonathan?”

  He moved quickly and helped his friend to sit up. A long narrow gash ran across Jonathan’s eyebrow and blood pumped from both of his nostrils. He seemed disorientated.

  “What happened, Jonathan? Did you fall?”

  Jonathan shook his head and struggled to stand up. Brendan helped him to his feet and supported him until he got his balance.

  “It’s Ei . . . it’s Eileen,” Jonathan said. “I – I came back here with her and we tried to . . . go to my room,” he said as he turned his eyes guiltily away from Brendan. “Kuvic pulled Eileen back down the stairs and she’s in there with him. He’s gone mad. I tried to fight him but he knocked me around some and threw me out.”

  “How long ago? How long has she been in there?”

  “I don’t know . . . I think I blacked out. A couple of minutes maybe.”

  Brendan climbed the step
s and banged loudly on the front door.

  “Kuvic!” he yelled.“Open this door!”

  He ran around the back and pushed heavily on the back door but it was locked. He peered into the back window of the kitchen and could see a faint light coming from Henrietta’s pantry. He could see his sister’s feet poking out of the pantry door but could not see her body.

  “Eileen!” he yelled.

  He began to push heavily on the back door. Jonathan joined him and together they rammed their shoulders against it to no avail. Brendan looked at the shed behind him and beckoned for Jonathan to help him get the ladder. Together they began to slam it into the door until it gave way.

  They ran into the darkened kitchen.

  Brendan felt for the switch and flipped it, showering the large room with bright fluorescent light. Kuvic lay unconscious against the oven. Long scratch-marks lined his cheeks and a large abrasion ran along his forehead. The weapon, a heavy cast-iron pot, lay beside him on the floor. A long thin stream of urine ran from his trouser leg towards the drain in the middle of Henrietta’s kitchen.

  Brendan ran to Eileen who was sitting puffing on the pantry floor, staring at Kuvic, the kitchen phone held loosely in her hand.

  “Are you okay?” Brendan said.

  She nodded. “He didn’t hurt me. He didn’t get a chance. I called an ambulance . . .”

  Brendan looked from his tiny sister to the huge pan and began to laugh. “You lifted that yourself?”

  Eileen laughed too.

  Brendan helped his sister to her feet and handed her over to Jonathan who led her into the sitting room. He moved closer to Kuvic and heaved from the stench of alcohol and urine coming from the man. He checked his pulse and was slightly disappointed to find he was alive and breathing.

  “Lucky bastard,” Brendan said as the ambulance siren screamed into the driveway.

  Shortly after, as Kuvic was being loaded into the ambulance, Jonathan turned to Brendan.

  “But why . . . why did you come here?” he asked.

  “I came to tell you. Cassie. I thinkshe’s real.”