The Hospice Rules
The hospice was on the Barna road in a new building that looked like a primary school from the outside, a low broad thing of pale brick with a pitched roof and a small car park and a bed of heather at the entrance that had been planted by a committee. There was a sign in Irish and in English and a bell at the door. My mother rang the bell even though the door was open. It was the kind of thing you did.
A woman in a navy fleece came out of a glass booth and said, "Nuala. You're early."
"I am. This is my daughter. She came over yesterday."
"Ah, you're Maeve. I'm Mairead. You're welcome."
Mairead was the Corofin woman my mother had mentioned. She had a face that had been looking after people for so long that it had arranged itself into a permanent small readiness, the readiness of a woman who has been about to help someone for thirty years. She shook my hand. Her hand was warm and dry and it did not linger.
"He's had a poor night," she said. "He was agitated about half four. We settled him. He's asleep now but he'll come up in the next hour."
"Will he know me," I said, before my mother could.
Mairead looked at me with a kind professional directness. "He might and he might not. If he doesn't at first, give him a minute. Don't be correcting him. The thing with your father is — " she glanced at my mother, and my mother nodded once — "the thing is, he gets there eventually, but