Page 97

DEAD GIRLFRIENDS AND SILENT SISTERS

Hugh

APRIL 27, 2000

O N THE NIGHT OF A PRIL 24, 2000 , C AOIMHE Y OUNG LEFT HER FAMILY HOME IN THE middle of the night, drove to the Ballylaggin footbridge, and took her own life.

None of it made sense.

Why Caoimhe threw herself into that river.

Why she was in Ballylaggin in the first place and not in Texas like she was supposed to be.

Why she left her sister alone at the house that night.

Why her boyfriend, who was sleeping over that night, didn’t stop her.

Why the letter she left for Catherine didn’t sound like her.

Why Liz hadn’t reached out to me once in those three weeks.

Why all my text messages had gone unanswered.

I had a whole heap of questions that I feared would remain unanswered forever because all Caoimhe had left behind was a broken trail of puzzle pieces that led to nowhere.

Because of this, the Gardaí and her family could only rely on what her boyfriend told them.

According to Mark, Caoimhe’s mood had plummeted over the previous three weeks because she couldn’t visit her parents as planned. Mark told the Gards that Lizzie was diagnosed bipolar and suffered a psychotic break on the morning they were due to fly out.

Caoimhe then called her parents to tell them about her sister’s state of mind, which was when her father told her they were to stay home and not travel. He said that he had noticed over the past several months that Caoimhe had been abusing her sister’s prescription medication.

When Catherine and Mike flew home two days later, they verified to the detective on the case that their daughter had indeed called them that morning, relaying the same information to them. They also confirmed that they had spoken to their eldest daughter in the three weeks that followed and noted a dip in mood, as well as being aware of her consuming illicit substances since failing her leaving cert last year.

The night she died, Mark told the detectives that when he woke up and found her gone, he had a bad feeling. That’s when he woke up Liz, who, at their father’s request, Caoimhe had been keeping heavily sedated, and loaded her into his car, before heading out to search for his girlfriend.

When he was questioned as to why a doctor or a family friend hadn’t been called for Lizzie at any time during those three weeks, Mark told the detective that Caoimhe was ashamed of her sister’s disorder, that Liz was prone to frequent, violent outbursts and had learned from her parents how to handle it in private.

Mark told the detectives that it was while he was driving around town searching for Caoimhe that he first noticed the sirens and flashing lights coming from the river. He said he felt instantly panicked and went straight to the bridge, thinking it might have something to do with Caoimhe, which was when he saw members of the Gardaí and fire brigade pulling his girlfriend from the river.

After that, Mark shut down, saying that was all he could remember about the night and had become unwilling to speak about it since.

There were so many unanswered questions, and Mark’s version of events was all anyone had to go on because his girlfriend was dead and my girlfriend wasn’t talking.

Lizzie hadn’t spoken since the night Caoimhe died.

Not when the Gardaí asked for her statement.

Not when I arrived at the house.

Not when the doctors were called.

Not when her parents flew in from the States.

Not a single word had passed her lips since the night the Gardaí dredged her sister’s lifeless body from the river.

Depositing a slice of pizza onto a paper plate, I weaved through the throngs of sympathizers in my girlfriend’s kitchen and made my way upstairs to her bedroom.

She was exactly where I’d left her.

Buried beneath her duvet.

“Come on, Liz, I have food.”

Nothing.

Not so much as a twitch.

“I know you can hear me.” Setting my plate down on my makeshift mattress, the one I had slept on every night since her sister died, I climbed over a mountain of blankets and sat on the edge of her bed, plate in hand.

“So here are your two choices,” I stated calmly, breaking off a piece. “You can sit up and eat this yourself, or I’ll feed it to you. The method is optional. The eating is not.”

I didn’t want to come off like an insensitive asshole, but Liz couldn’t survive without food, and her parents were too consumed in grief to take the reins.

Enter Hugh .

“Helicopter dinner it is.” Moving the plate to her nightstand, I tore off a tiny piece of pizza and brought it to her mouth. “Come on, Liz.” Stroking her cheek with my free hand, I tried to coax her back to life. “One bite for me?”

A noticeable shudder rolled through her body, and she opened her mouth.

Thank God .

“That’s it,” I praised when she accepted the tiny morsel of food. “Now, I need you to chew, Liz.” I stroked her cheek again, wiping the fresh stream of tears trickling from her bloodshot eyes. “Can you do that for me?”

Obliging without protest, she chewed the piece of food and then seemed to wait for my next instruction.

“You can swallow it, Liz,” I said, feeling my heart break for the millionth time since this nightmare began. When she did just that, I tore off another piece and repeated the ritual until I had managed to hand-feed her the entire slice, minus the crust because she was lying down and I didn’t want her to choke.

When she had eaten enough to sustain her for another day, I cleaned her face before settling down on her bed, facing her.

Her pale blue eyes stared right back at me, swollen and bloodshot.

“I love you,” I whispered, resting my hand on her cheek. “I’m always going to be here for you.”

Liz didn’t respond with words, but when she placed her trembling hand on my cheek, I knew she was listening.

She could hear me.

She was still in there.