Season of Second Chances: an uplifting novel of moving away and starting over

by Aimee Alexander

“Grandad, I’d like you to come.”

  Grace wants to hug her rage-filled son and magic away the past. She also wants to thank him.

  Des perks up. “Alright so. I’ll come.”

  “And I’ll have a pint with you,” Jack says with a wink.

  Grace’s head turns at superhuman speed. “You will not!”

  “Joking, Mum. Joking.”

  “Ah, sure, the boy will be grand to have a pint at sixteen,” Des teases, grinning at Jack.

  And the most beautiful thing, a smile from Jack.

  “I’ll have to watch out for you two,” Grace says.

  “You will,” grandfather and grandson say together.

  Though the sky is low and grey, and the sea reflects that bleakness, the drive to Drimaleen lifts Grace’s spirits. To be surrounded by nothing but nature makes life seem simple, uncomplicated, hopeful. The yellows, oranges, browns and vivid reds of autumn inject the landscape with warmth. The car in front whips up leaves from the narrow road making them dance. More swirl down from trees like lazy, autumnal confetti. A fir laden with cones seems to wave at the car as they pass by. It’s just the wind at work, but, in her mind, Grace waves back. She feels her shoulders lower, her breathing ease.

  Then everything changes as Simon’s car comes into view. She stops breathing. Her heart pounds in panic. Her hands grip the wheel as her body tenses like a board.

  What can he do? They’re in the car and moving.

  He could follow them! Have a showdown in front of her father, a whole town!

  Maybe he won’t see them.

  On this road? In a Jeep this size?

  Grace pulls right up to the car in front, hoping to hide. It’s almost as big as theirs.

  “Grace, slow down,” her father warns.

  He’s right. This is dangerous. Grace eases on the brake.

  His car is almost on them. What should she do? Keep her eyes dead ahead? Lower her visor? Stare him down like she’s not afraid? Then all her thoughts go out the window. She can’t help herself; she looks into the oncoming car.

  Relief floods through her. It’s not him! It’s not even a man! She feels like laughing. She’s still free. They’re still okay. It might just take her body the rest of the day to recover.

  Getting out of the car in Drimaleen, Des stumbles. His heart jolts but he catches the door to stop a fall. Jack rushes to help but Des holds a hand up and Jack steps back. Des closes the door.

  “Will I come with you, Grandad?”

  “I’m grand. You go get your uniforms. Then, if you like, you can follow me into McCarthy’s and I’ll treat you to a scone.”

  Jack smiles. “Deal.”

  Des starts to make his way up the street. He could do with a stick. But he’s not going to give into this illness. He’s going to take big steps, push back his shoulders, lift his chin and fight the pull it has on his body. He remembers how he used to stride everywhere, always in a hurry, never appreciating the ease at which he moved or the respect in people’s eyes as he passed them on the street. He is mortified by the image he now presents, the shuffling, slow gait, the posture of a man whose body is calling the shots, despite his best efforts. At least, here, no one knows him. Or mostly no one.

  In the coffee shop, Des makes his way to the counter where he selects the biggest scone on display. He picks up a copy of The Southern Star, arguably the best source of local news around.

  Carrying his tray to a table, it occurs to him that he never fully appreciated how his Parkinson’s patients felt; he doesn’t know which is worse, the disability or the shame. When he finally sits, he glances around to see if anyone has been watching his struggle. The only person looking his way is a very thin woman – checking out his scone.

  He opens the paper and goes straight to Rosie Shelley’s health column. His patients were always quoting her. He started to read the column so he’d be ready for their questions. Now, he wouldn’t be without her weekly, alternative take on things. He folds the paper to give him room to go at his scone. The smell is making his mouth water. He cuts it open in anticipation and adds generous dollops of cream and jam. The first bite is heaven. So is every one that follows.

  He glances around. Everyone is busy with their own lives. No one has any interest in him whatsoever. He lets his eyes wander, over the people, the shop, life outside the window. It’s good to be out of the house. He hadn’t realised it but cabin fever had started to set in. One simple change of scene and it’s like his horizons have broadened.

  Holly had a bad feeling the minute they walked into the shop. It’s not a uniform shop like you get in Dublin, where there’s nothing but uniforms. It’s just a shop selling clothes for, like, old people, with a uniform section stuck down the back. Now, they’re telling her they don’t have her size skirt. Well, they have to find one! They just do!

  “I can’t go to school on the first day in half a uniform!”

  “Sweetheart,” her mum says, “I’m sure they’ll understand at school that they just didn’t have your size.”

  “No! No one will understand. I’m already the new kid. D’you want me to look like one too? D’you want me to be bullied? I, need, a, skirt. I don’t care if it’s too small or too big but I’m going in there in full uniform!”

  Her mum starts to rub her nose intensely.

  “What?” Holly asks on full alert.

  “Nothing,” comes too quickly.

  Holly knows her mum. She knows what it means when she rubs her nose like this. “You’re upset.”

  She shakes her head. “Only that you’re upset.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll sort you out,” the motherly shop assistant reassures, as if this is nothing compared to some of the meltdowns she has seen.

  “What other sizes do you have?” Grace asks.

  “We have one size up and one size down,” she says – calmly – the way she says everything.

  “I suppose we should get the bigger one, then. We can always get it taken in.”

  “If you don’t mind a suggestion?”

  Holly looks at the assistant like she’s her only hope.

  “They’re wearing the skirts fierce short altogether these days. You can hardly see the things.”

  “But isn’t it a convent school?”

  Sometimes, Holly wishes her mum would just stay quiet.

  “Oh, I know the school. Sure, my daughter goes there. I’m telling you. The way they wear those skirts would leave little to the imagination.”

  Standing nearby, picking out a school tie, Jack’s head pops up. Holly rolls her eyes.

  The assistant looks at him. “And the boys wear the shirts tight. To show off their guns.”

  Grace laughs.

  “I’ll get an extra-large so,” Jack says defiantly.

  Holly stares at him. “That’s social suicide.”

  “I’m going out to Grandad,” he says, already on his way.

  Holly hears her mother sigh.

  “Don’t worry; we have his measurements,” the assistant reassures.

  “What about a school coat?” Holly asks her like she’s an all-knowing guru.

  Making sure that her superior at the register is occupied, the guru lowers her voice. “Oh, I wouldn’t bother. They all wear whatever coats they want. In fact, from what I’m told, you’d be a right eejit altogether if you wore the school coat. That’s what my one says anyway. As long as they’re non-regulation, anything goes.”

  Jack storms from the shop. He doesn’t want a new uniform. He doesn’t want a new school. He doesn’t want a new life in the middle of nowhere. As for tight shirts, if that’s what the culchies are wearing, the farmers, he’ll go as loose as he can. Why did his father have to ruin it for everyone?

  He finds his grandfather tucked into the corner of the coffee shop, completely absorbed by the sports section. Seeing him, something melts in Jack. He goes over.

  Straight away, Des gets up.

  “Come on up with me. I spotted a great big sugary donut yo
u’d love.”

  Smiling, Jack goes with him.

  The donut will hit the spot alright. A donut and Coke. But his grandad doesn’t stop at that. The man who didn’t want to leave the house helps himself to another scone and cup of tea.

  “Sure, I’m out,” he says.

  Jack smiles, warming to the man he’s only really getting to know now, at the age of sixteen. Why didn’t they visit Killrowan more? But then, he knows why.

  Back at the table, Des tosses the newspaper aside. Grandfather and grandson sit together – eating – in contented silence.

  “It must be very hard for you, coming down here?” Des says at last.

  “It’s fine,” Jack says, reminded that it actually is fine. Because they’ve got away. And that’s the main thing. That’s what he needs to remember – every time he forgets. They’re free. “I’m glad you came with us, Grandad.”

  Des smiles. “Me too.” He dabs his mouth with his napkin. “D’you know what we might do if we have a few minutes?”

  Jack raises his eyebrows.

  “I spotted a nice cravat across in Brady’s. I think I’ll go back and buy it.”

  “Good plan.”

  7

  That evening, leaning over the old, beloved AGA stove, Grace closes her eyes and inhales the smell of simmering chilli con carne, the smell of freedom. She finds it incredible not to have to worry about adding too much or too little (or what Simon considered too much or too little) salt, pepper or whatever ingredient he chose to zone in on, incredible not to have to watch every step, question herself, try to second-guess him. She can just cook. Breathe. Be.

  She opens a bottle of Corona for herself and one for her dad. She could get used to this.

  She calls the kids.

  Jack, never far away when food is being prepared, thunders down the stairs, followed closely by Holly.

  They sit together, this new family, everyone tucking in, worries on hold.

  “It’s so good to be here, Dad,” Grace says, rolling her shoulders, enjoying the sensation of her body loosening up.

  “It’s good to have ye here,” Des smiles, looking from Grace to the kids.

  “We’ll start looking for a place at the end of the month,” Grace says. “Get out from under your feet.”

  Jack darts her a reluctant look.

  Seeing it, Des misinterprets. “Would ye not go back?” he asks his daughter.

  The air changes. Three bodies tense. Jack and Holly look to their mum.

  “No, Dad,” Grace says. “We would not go back.”

  Des puts down his fork. “It’s just such a disruption for ye.” He looks at Jack.

  “We are well able for disruption. Aren’t we, guys?” Grace can hear the switch in her voice, back to South County Dublin.

  Holly nods like crazy.

  “Yup,” Jack says.

  “I know but, whatever he did, I’m sure he’s sorry.”

  Holly stares into her tofu chilli.

  Jack’s jaw shifts.

  Grace tries to keep her voice steady as she says: “Dad, I’ve told you already, this is what we want. You have to trust our decision.”

  “But–”

  Jack drops his fork. “Leave it, Grandad.”

  “Marriage–” Des persists.

  Jack shoots to his feet. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “I was married–”

  “Oh my God! He hit her, okay?” Jack blurts out. “Not once. Not twice. But all the time. He put her down, tried to turn us against her, look down on her.” Grace bows her head. “And we stood by and did nothing. Nothing! It doesn’t matter if he’s sorry or not because sorry doesn’t stop him. Nothing does.”

  Des stares at his grandson, then turns to his daughter. He reaches out, then stops as if he doesn’t know what to do, what to say, how to fix this. “Oh, pet,” is all that comes out. Then, “I’ll kill him.”

  Grace looks up. “No, you won’t,” she says calmly. “Because we’re here now. Away from him. We’ve done it. This is our new life. Our new start. So, if you want to do anything to help, just love us, that’s all we need. A little love.”

  Dazed, Jack sits back down. Hiding behind a curtain of hair, Holly silently cries into her tofu chilli. Des gets up. Forgetting to take big steps, he shuffles to his daughter. He puts his arms around her shoulders and hugs her. He rests his head on hers.

  “How did I not see?”

  The children are in bed, Grace having struggled to reassure each of them that it was not up to them to stop their father. It was up to her. And she did it – finally – with their help. There is nothing, nothing to feel guilty about. Grace knows that they will need to hear this again. She knows, more than most, that guilt doesn’t stop on demand.

  She stares into the fire now, her father by her side. She has tried to answer his questions honestly, admitting to when it started, why she stayed, and why she never told them. When he asked if Simon ever hurt the children, she rushed to reassure. But there are things that Simon did to her that she will never tell him. So, there are lies. Lies to protect her dad.

  “I’m sorry for being so blind.” His eyes beg forgiveness. “I’ve come across this so many times in the practice. I thought I knew the signs.”

  “He hid it well. Especially from you. The golf. The whiskeys by the fire.” On the rare occasions they saw each other, Simon behaved impeccably, affectionately even.

  Des slams his fist down on the arm of the chair.

  Grace jumps.

  The colour drains from his face. “Oh, love. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–”

  “I know. I know you didn’t. It’s okay. It’s over, Dad. I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

  “What if he comes down?” Des asks, glancing around as if his little house is made of straw.

  “There’s a barring order. He could get twelve months in prison if he breaks it.” She’s reassuring herself as much as him, here.

  He frowns. “Do the kids have to see him?”

  Grace shakes her head. “The courts allowed us to relocate without access.”

  “Things must have been bad.” His eyes search hers.

  She looks away. Into the flames she says, “We had a great lawyer.” It’s not a lie. Grace will be forever grateful for the strength of that woman.

  “But it’s unusual for a parent to be denied access,” he insists.

  She can’t let him imagine the worst, stew on it, blame himself for not spotting it. So she turns to him and looks deep into his eyes. “You can never tell anyone this.” She glances at the door, then lowers her voice. “We lied in court,” she admits. “We said he hurt them so they wouldn’t have to see him. Jack and Holly are going to carry that for the rest of their lives.”

  His face is a blank canvas. “Did you ask them to lie?”

  She shakes her head. “It was Jack’s idea. Then neither of them would back down.”

  He reaches out and squeezes her hand. “Well, fair dues to them, that’s what I say. They put a stop to his gallop. They shouldn’t feel one ounce of guilt. They should feel proud. Hats off to the pair of them.”

  The relief is huge. “I wasn’t going to tell you. Didn’t want it hanging over you, too.”

  “No more secrets, Gracie. I’m in your corner, now, okay? You’re not alone anymore.”

  Her throat burns and her eyes smart. She looks back into the fire. More than anything, more even than the fear, she has felt alone. Funny she is only realising this now.

  “You got away from him. That’s the main thing. We’ll make a good home for you here in Killrowan. You mark my words.”

  She looks at him. “I love you, Dad.”

  “I love you too, pet.” His eyes well up. “I just can’t believe–”

  “It’s all right. It really is.”

  But his hands curl into fists and his jaw hardens.

  “Another briquette?” she asks.

  He looks at her and softens. “Ah, sure, go mad. Put on two.�
�

  After years of doing every little thing carefully, Grace tosses the briquettes in like a mini rebellion. Bright orange sparks rise up, reminding her of the phoenix. That’s who she is now.

  “What made you leave in the end?” Des asks like he’s afraid of the answer but is determined to hear it.

  “He killed the dog. He killed Benji. Said it was an accident. Left him in the boot of the car on the only hot day of the year.” Her sigh shudders with oncoming tears and she wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “It could have been an accident. I don’t think he’d have hurt the children like that. Me? Yes. The kids no. But that’s when I decided. No more. No more.” She wipes away tears, knowing what her father is probably thinking: You let him break you but left for a dog? What she doesn’t say is (because she’d choke on the words) Benji was more than a dog. He was family. And her defender. Tiny little ball of fur rushing to the rescue. Or trying. Tiny little ball of fur that brought so much comfort to all three of them, Holly especially. Benji knew when they needed love and he gave it in spades.

  “We’ll get you a dog,” Des says.

  “You’re grand. There’s no room.” Des might trip over one. But the biggest reason he’s “grand” is that no one could replace Benji. That’s when it hits Grace: Benji saved them. Benji made them leave.

  8

  Holly lies awake, listening to the gentle murmur of voices downstairs. It’s a relief that her grandad knows now. Their lives have been one long secret. And this is a new start. The less secrets the better. She turns over and closes her eyes. The radiator gurgles as air runs through the pipes. Above her head, in the attic, she hears the water tank refill. There’s a faint tapping sound too that she can’t figure out. There better not be mice up there.

  She still can’t believe that they are here, that her mother finally did it. Holly had nagged her, googled stuff for her, found out about shelters. She didn’t care where they went as long as they got out. She never thought that Benji would have to die, though. Her throat burns and her eyes smart. She knows that Benji would be happy that they escaped. She wishes he were here beside her, snuffling his little wet nose into her face, letting her know that everything’s going to be okay. This whole thing would be so much easier with him.