September was a strange month. I felt like I used to as a schoolgirl when the holidays were over. No matter how good or bad the summer had been, something in the air announced that it was time to go back to school and, actually, it was a relief. Now, having been at a loose end for so long, I needed something to occupy me but my Human Resources course didn't begin until the middle of the month. It was time to stop daydreaming and find a job. It was surprisingly easy to present myself at cafes and supermarkets along with the teenagers and the non-nationals and persuade them that, yes, I'd probably be able to work the till even though I had no experience. I got a job at the cafe bar where I'd met Jean that day. The money was awful but the hours were flexible and the work was easy.

I knew there was no way I could pay my mortgage on part-time wages so I advertised for a flatmate. I'd lived with Jean so I could probably put up with anyone. There was quite a bit of interest, but in the end I chose a shy girl who had moved in from Newcastlewest. She gave me the impression that she wanted to be left alone, which suited me fine. I didn't have the energy to make a new friend. Apart from an occasional encounter in the kitchen, I hardly saw her. She spent a lot of time in her room and I spent a lot of time out of the house.

I was throwing myself into as many different things as possible. When college opened I intended to join as many societies as there were nights in the week. I would debate, I would act, I would watch foreign films, I would learn to play the guitar, I would embark on Dungeons and Dragons; the only society I wouldn't join was the Law Society. When I was an undergrad I had spent far too much time in the pub or crashing on other people's floors. This time I would give myself a truly liberal education.

In the meantime, though, I was scouring the post-grad noticeboards for anything that would fill my evenings when I couldn't stand the cafe bar any longer. I was delighted to find an array of cultural activities on offer.

One of the first things I went to was a play written by a student and performed by a mixture of other students and professional actors struggling to get a break. The theatre was a converted bas.e.m.e.nt on The Crescent. I hadn't known it was there though I must have pa.s.sed it hundreds of times. It was a glorious feeling to sit on my own in the dark while the seats around me filled with the kind of people I hadn't seen in Limerick since my early forays to the Belltable as a teenager: people who liked to see something new and experimental. They might enjoy it, but there was always a chance it would change their lives.

The play was called The Enigma The Enigma, a well-chosen t.i.tle. It was all voices speaking out of the dark with occasional bursts of dance or gymnastics. The actors looked like they should have been getting up for school in the morning but their commitment and enthusiasm were plain to see. After an hour I had no idea what the play had been about; the only thing I could say for sure was that I'd enjoyed being baffled. It was years since I had been to any play, not to mind one that was weird and low-budget and attended by people who clearly understood all the things that I didn't.

It was the opening night and the playwright's debut so there was a reception afterwards. I hung around because I hoped I might get into conversation with a few of the interesting people there. The men wore loose shirts and had inventive facial hair while the women had on big jewellery and very little makeup. Soon someone observed to me that the writing had been mature and daring. I wanted to ask him what the play had been about but he had dissolved back into the crowd before I could open my mouth. Then a boy told me that a gang was going round the corner for a pint. I thought, What the h.e.l.l? and followed him.

As soon as I was out in the air, the only place I wanted to be was home. I didn't have the energy to talk to people I didn't know about a play I hadn't understood, especially as those people were ten years younger than I was. Perhaps they weren't as interesting as I'd thought they might be.

Mike would have put it all in context. He would have known whether or not the play was about anything. He would have made me laugh and feel good about the experience. He would have made everything clear.

Another night I went to a gig in the Green Room. The band was called The Fewer, The Better, a group of hot young musicians from Limerick. I had forgotten how easy it is to be at a gig alone: the music's too loud for talk, and if the band's good enough, all anybody wants to do is listen and watch, or maybe dance. Even I knew that this band was good but it was charming to watch so many young men make their way to the front to just stand with their arms folded and stare at what the lead guitarist was doing. You could see the awe and admiration in their faces. Afterwards I bought two CDs; one I listened to over and over until I could nearly make out all the words and could say definitively that tracks two, seven and ten were my favourites. The other I would give to Mike... if I ever saw him again.

Other nights I went for walks along the city streets. I have always felt empowered by the sight of wide pavements stretching ahead of me, slightly distorted in the amber glow of sodium lamps. The city feels safe in all its Georgian concreteness; only good and exciting things could happen here. And here I felt most at ease in my limbo world a world that contained a man who loved me but would not have me. At times it was enough to know that he loved me had loved me for years and at others it was the greatest injustice in the universe that we could not be together. I replayed every moment of that afternoon: his unease, his discomfort, his admission, his rejection. I immersed myself again and again in his kiss. I walked everywhere, sometimes even far enough up O'Connell Avenue to pa.s.s the turn to his house. I dreaded meeting him, yet longed to. I had so much to say to him, yet it amounted to nothing.

Then, Marion called early one morning. Dad had been taken into hospital. He had woken up in the middle of the night with pains across his chest and Mum had rung for an ambulance.

By the time I got there Dad was in his room, pale and small in his carefully ironed pyjamas; his hair, normally so tidy, was ruffled and seemed greyer than usual. Mum looked little better. She had evidently rushed out of the house without following her usual grooming routine and the clothes she was wearing were clearly yesterday's. All of a sudden my parents were frail tragic, even.

Marion was trying to find a doctor who would tell her something about Dad's condition. All she had been told so far was that he had had some tests and it would be a while before the results were known.

'I don't think it could have been a heart-attack,' she said, 'or they wouldn't be so calm and Dad wouldn't look so well.'

'I don't think he looks well,' I said.

'Believe me,' she said, 'if he'd had a heart-attack he'd look a lot worse. He looks bad to you because you've never seen him without a shave and a collar.'

'Mum looks exhausted.'

'She needs sleep. If I could talk to a doctor I'd persuade her to go home.'

'Marion, is he going to be OK?' I couldn't conceive of anything happening to either of my parents, especially not Dad.

'I'm not an expert, but I don't think it's too bad. He's as strong as an ox.' She went out again to try to nab a doctor and I sat down beside Mum. They had given Dad something to make him sleep and he'd gone off. I didn't know what else to do so I took Mum's hand and kissed it.

'You're a good girl,' she said.

I wanted to contradict her but now wasn't the time. 'He'll be fine, Mum,' I said.

'Oh, I hope so. I'd be lost without your father.'

I could feel tears welling, so I got up to open a window. The air was cool and clear. 'Have you a comb in your bag, Mum? I'll do your hair.' It was best to stick to the things I'm good at.

'I think so, dear. I might have a lipstick too. I didn't even brush my teeth before I came out.'

'Come here. I'll do you up and then we might go home. Dad's going to sleep for a while, so you might as well get some rest.'

'I wouldn't want him to wake up to strangers.'

I could see her point, so I combed her hair and went out to find a travel toothbrush.

I've never had much to do with hospitals. Apart from the odd visit to Casualty in the small hours of the morning, I've never been 'in hospital'. The only visiting we've ever done has been for new babies and the odd minor procedure, like tonsils. Of course, Ruth was never out of hospital when she was a child, but that was years ago. I've never entertained the idea that either Mum or Dad might end up in one. They always seemed so strong.

For the rest of that first day nothing happened. Dad slept for ages and when he woke up Mum told him that everything would be fine. A doctor eventually confirmed that he hadn't had a heart-attack but they wouldn't rule out the possibility that he might have one. They weren't sure what had caused the chest pains and wouldn't speculate.

As the day went on, the rest of the family drifted in; Ruth was so fraught she had to be taken aside by a nurse and given a cup of sweet tea. Lucy and Jean arrived together, calm but insistent that Mum should go home. She only agreed when I a.s.sured her that I would stay in the house with her. So Ruth dropped us back and after I'd seen Mum to bed I found myself in my old room. I seemed destined not to progress very far.

Before I could get too maudlin, Jean and Lucy called on their way home. I hadn't spoken to Jean since that day, just texted her to say that nothing more was going to happen between Mike and me. I hadn't consciously kept it from Lucy, I just hadn't seen her, but as soon as she was standing in front of me I wished she knew: she soon detected an atmosphere between Jean and me.

When I explained, she was incredulous. 'I cannot believe it,' she said. 'How many men are there in the world and you have to go after your brother-in-law? Mike!'

I was a little hurt by her reaction. I'd been much more understanding when she'd announced that her love life wasn't exactly textbook. I felt she should understand that you couldn't choose who you fell in love with.

'Poor Jean,' she said then. 'How could you do it to her?'

'It's OK,' said Jean. 'Kate and I talked. I've come to terms with the idea.'

'There's nothing to come to terms with,' I told her. 'Mike doesn't want anything to do with me.'

'What happened?' she asked.

'Oh, he said it had been a mistake. He was drunk and a bit lonely. I happened to be there. He apologized. He's been a bit of an idiot and I've been a bit of an idiot. It's all over now.' I wasn't up to telling her that her husband had been in love with me for years but that he still cared about her enough not to let anything happen between us.

'Sorry,' she said.

'It's OK. Time to move on. I'll bag me a student before the month is out.'

She smiled wryly.

Lucy was still standing in the middle of the room with her hands resting on her spreading hips. 'I'd never have thought it of Mike.'

'Lucy, it's over. Whatever madness it was, it's over.'

'And what about Keith?'

'That's over too. And don't go pretending that Keith was the man for me because you always thought it was a bad idea.'

'I'm not. I'm just sorry things haven't worked out for you.' There was an unmistakable note of tenderness in her voice.

'Look, lads,' I said, 'I'm exhausted. I'll talk to you tomorrow.'

We kissed each other and they left.

I wanted to go to bed and sleep but I was beyond tired: I could lie on my old bed all I liked but there was little chance that I would even close my eyes. I curled up on the couch in the living room and turned on the TV.

Everything I did reminded me of Mike. There had been nights during the Christmas holidays when all of the family had gone to bed and I'd creep downstairs for a gla.s.s of water to find Mike on the floor in front of the television, his head propped against the end of the couch, watching an old western or a dodgy 1970s thriller. I'd join him on the floor, pulling a rug across the two of us and we would talk about the movie, and go to bed only when the channel closed down.

The truth was that everything had changed since Mike told me he loved me. It was as if every moment I had spent in his company had been rewritten in a different dialect. When he had kissed me on the night of the party he had meant it. When he had sat in my living room sipping wine and I had fantasized that he belonged to me, perhaps he had fantasized the same thing. And why now, when he was free to love me, did he refuse to?

Not long into my cruise of the television channels I became aware of Mum shuffling about in the kitchen. She was making hot milk and toast. Suddenly I was hungry. 'Can I get in on that, Mum?'

'Certainly, dear. You never eat enough.'

'I eat plenty, Mom, I haven't fallen away yet.'

She took the b.u.t.ter out of the fridge and spread it thickly across the toast. I'd forgotten the taste of real b.u.t.ter.

'Keith will be missing you,' she said, after a couple of bites.

I couldn't tell her more lies. Besides, it would probably bother her less now that she had other things to think about. 'Keith and I broke up.'

'No!'

'Yeah. A while ago. But it's OK. It's for the best.'

'That's an awful shame. I was very fond of him.'

'I was too. But I wasn't in love with him, not like it should be.'

'I don't know what it is with your generation. You all think it has to be like the films. You just get on with it, dear. And Keith is one of the good ones.' She sighed as she sipped her milk.

'I'm sorry, Mum.'

'Oh, don't be. You'll always do what you want. And just when I thought I'd the lot of you off my hands.'

'Yeah,' I agreed, but then I remembered Lucy. 'Lucy isn't married yet,' I added jokingly. 'I'm not the only one who '

'Oh, I know perfectly well that that Iris girl is her... partner, or whatever you call it. I'm not a total fool. She's as good as married.'

I was astounded. 'Mum?'

'Yes?'

'You don't mind?'

'Why would I? I've never seen her happier.'

I couldn't believe it. 'But what about your sisters? Won't they be shocked?'

'Let them.'

'Wow, Mum, I'm so impressed.'

'Wait till you have children of your own.'

For the first time in my life I wondered if that would ever happen. And, for the first time, it bothered me.

'It's a pity about Keith. Sure you might get back with him yet.'

'Sure I might.' It seemed the kindest thing to say.

The next couple of days at the hospital were much the same. Dad seemed to be in good form, but weak. The doctors were still vague and noncommittal; the nurses were cheerful and positive. Mum had settled into a groove of getting up early in the morning to do a little housework (with her jobs done she was free for the rest of the day), then going into the hospital after lunch, usually with either Ruth or me. She would spend the afternoon tidying Dad's locker, giving him a proper shave or reading interesting bits out of the newspaper to him. Then she would have dinner with one of us, and Jean or Marion or whoever hadn't been around in the afternoon would be with Dad for the evening. It was an odd time: Dad wasn't in any danger so it felt as if we were rehearsing for something that might happen in the future. And we were all doing marvellously. I think it was that, rather than Dad being in hospital, that made me so uncomfortable.

On the third day I visited Dad in the morning. It was to be my first day at college, involving registration, orientation and an informal get-together in the evening, so I knew I wouldn't be able to see him later. There was no need to visit, but I wanted to, and I think he liked seeing me. The staff don't like you interrupting their routines in the morning but they'll allow you in if you're quick. So I was surprised to find that I wasn't the only one visiting Dad at that hour. When I arrived Mike was there.

I saw him through the gla.s.s in the door before I opened it. He was sitting on the bed and Dad was looking more animated than I'd seen him in ages. He seemed to be describing something in great detail and Mike was listening intently, his arms folded across his chest. He was wearing a jacket: he must be seeing clients later. My heart skipped a beat.

Just then a nurse jostled me as she went into the room and before I knew it I had tumbled through the door. He turned and saw me. I could swear that his first instinct, before his brain had time to take over, was to smile. He was pleased to see me. But he checked himself and the nearly-smile turned into a hesitant greeting that quickly became a farewell.

'There's no need to go,' I said. 'I'm on my way to the shop. I'm going to get Dad his paper.'

'No, no,' he said. 'I have to get back.'

Then the nurse spoke, pushing past me: 'I'm sorry now, but both of you will have to leave. Mr Delahunty and I have a little bit of business, isn't that right?' she said, smiling at Dad. She held the door and waited for us to leave.

Outside in the corridor we were unsure what to say, what to do with our hands, where to look. I wanted him so badly.

'I didn't think anybody would be here,' he said.

'Usually there wouldn't.'

'He's looking well.'

'Yeah. It wasn't a heart-attack or anything. He should be going home in a few days.'

'You must be starting college soon?' As he spoke a slight tremor was evident in his clean-shaven jaw.

'Today.'

'Oh! Good luck.'

'Thanks.'

There was nothing more to say. I let my head droop and felt sadness ooze out of every pore.

'Kate...'

'Yes?'

'Kate... I...'

Just then the nurse barged out of Dad's room and announced that we could go back in. Mike said no more. I watched him walk down the hallway, swerving to avoid an old man with a walking frame. I went back to Dad and burst into tears.