“You won’t tell a soul!” she blurts out.
“Not a soul. Now, I’m going to give you a month’s supply of samples. See how you get on. Come back to me if you’ve any problems. All going well, I’ll see you at the end of the month for a review.” Normally, Grace would make an appointment. But she knows what Myra would say to that. “Actually, why don’t you put it in your diary now, for just under four weeks. If we’re happy with how it’s going, you can get your next month’s supply in Skibb or Bantry. But let’s see how you get on, first.”
“Thank you, Doctor. You’re lovely. Despite what anyone says.”
Grace tries not to think what that might actually be. She smiles professionally, gets to her feet and starts to pull around the curtain. “Now why don’t you hop up here on the bench and we’ll do that breast exam.”
Dolores looks appalled. “What? I thought we wouldn’t need to do that now.”
Grace tilts her head. “It’s a good idea to keep an eye on things, Dolores. Generally speaking. And as I have you here….”
Dolores flaps her hand. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. Why don’t we do it at the next visit?”
“Dolores, I’m sorry but I really should do a breast exam before prescribing HRT.”
Her eyes plead to be let off.
“It’ll take five minutes. Won’t hurt at all. And it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. At least I’m a woman, right? You haven’t had that option till now.”
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise, Young Dr. Sullivan.”
“Good. Come on then, let’s do it. You’ll be glad afterwards. I promise.”
With a sigh and a nod, Dolores gives in.
Dolores gets the all-clear. And looks thrilled. She seems to be about to say something, then stops. Grace spots her hesitation. This might be important.
“Is there anything else you want to tell me, Dolores?”
“I love your hair,” Dolores blurts out. “I think it’s gorgeous.”
Automatically, Grace touches it. “Really? Oh, my goodness. That doubles the number of people who do!”
“No, no. That Jane is a pure artist.”
“That’s true.”
“And look at your nails! They’re so daring.”
Grace splays her hands. “They’re a bit mad, aren’t they?”
“They’re only gorgeous.”
“Well, I love your style too, Dolores. The whole shebang. Top to toe.” Pink furry top, today, to match the bag. “You take care, now, and call me if you’re having any problems whatsoever. There’s always a settling in period.”
“I will, Young Dr. Sullivan, thank you so much,” she says as if a huge weight has been lifted.
As Grace walks her to the door it hits her: This is why she chose medicine. This is the difference she wants to make in people’s lives.
32
Fred Cronin’s blood test results are in. And Grace could cry. His iron levels are through the roof. His liver function tests are elevated. She can’t tell how badly damaged his liver is until he has further tests, a biopsy, ultrasound… He needs to see a consultant as a matter of urgency. More than one. A haematologist. And a hepatologist. First, though, Fred needs to see Dr. O’Malley. Grace picks up the phone and tells Myra she needs to speak with her partner urgently. Then she paces the surgery, tapping the chestpiece of her stethoscope into her palm over and over. How can she tell him? How can she look him in the eye and deliver the news that will deem him negligent? He has failed in his duty of care. He should have asked more questions, taken a family history, linked the symptoms, taken bloods (especially after prescribing iron for a man for over a year). He should have started phlebotomy five years ago. But that’s easy for her to say. She hasn’t been under the pressure he has.
The phone rings and she jumps.
“Go on in,” Myra says.
Grace hangs up slowly, then wipes her palms on her trousers. This is her first week and already she’s telling her partner where he went wrong.
She knocks on his door, hyperaware of her reputation as having notions.
Dr. O’Malley turns from the computer and smiles. Even behind his glasses, he looks tired and bleary eyed. “Here she is! The village hero!”
She doesn’t know if he’s genuine or mocking. So, she gets to the point.
“Dr. O’Malley–”
“Tom. Please.”
“Tom.” She takes a deep breath. “The bloods on Fred Cronin are back. His LFTs and ferritin levels are raised. Markedly so. His profile is pointing to haemochromatosis.”
His smile fades. He removes his glasses and looks at Grace for a long time. Then he turns back to the computer, replacing the glasses on his nose. He pulls up Fred’s file and checks the blood results, which Grace has inputted.
“Jesus,” he whispers, interlocking his fingers at the top of his head. “This is a malpractice case waiting to happen.”
“I don’t think that Fred… if you explain…”
“You’re here a blind day,” he snaps, whipping down his hands. “You don’t know how people get when there’s a sniff of compensation.”
She really doesn’t see Fred Cronin in that light. “Regardless, we need to get Fred in. Set up consultants’ appointments. Line up phlebotomy as soon as possible.”
Ignoring her, he picks up the phone. “Myra, get me Des on the line.”
Grace goes cold. Is her father complicit? Did he see Fred, too? They divide their patients. But what if Des saw Fred when Dr. O’Malley – Tom – was away? Grace never thought to check.
“Okay, keep trying him,” he says into the phone and hangs up. He looks back at Grace.
“Right,” he says. “You call Fred in and see him.”
She remembers her promise to Jack. “No. I can’t lie to the man. If he asks me if this could have been prevented, I’ll have to say yes. And that’s no good for you; if this comes from me. It has to come from you. With an apology. Otherwise I wouldn’t blame him for suing you.” Dr. O’Malley’s face flashes red. He looks apoplectic. She’s going to be booted out of the practice. “Look,” she says, as calmly as she can. “Fred’s going to work this out for himself as soon as he learns that he has too much iron in his blood. He knows what he was prescribed. He knows that he came to you with symptoms five years ago. Fred’s a good man. He deserves honesty. And he deserves the very best of treatment now.”
He puts his hands up. “All right, all right.” He sighs deeply and picks up the phone. “Myra ask Fred Cronin to come in for his test results.”
Grace thinks about Wayne Hill. Now is not the time to bring up about his stitches. Or the forgotten tetanus shot. She hopes that these are flukes, one-off mistakes that will never happen again. And that learning about Fred Cronin will make her partner pick up his game.
The first thing Grace does when she gets back to her surgery is scan Fred Cronin’s file to make sure Des hasn’t seen him. She scrolls back through five years of records, conscious of the growing number of patients waiting for her outside.
She has to know.
Finally, she gets to the initial consultation, five years ago. And almost collapses in relief. Thank God her father never saw Fred. Had he, though, he would have picked it up. She’s sure of it. But then he’s human. And so is she. There will be mistakes in the years ahead. By the law of averages. But, hopefully, knowing that will keep Grace alert, keep her always looking for that crucial symptom, that unasked question, and always continuing her medical education. Determined, she gets up and calls in her next patient.
Outside the Coffee Cove, Ginge stops.
“I don’t know about this.”
Jack scoffs. “Are you a man or a mouse?”
“A hundred percent mouse.”
Jack laughs. “It looks like I came to Killrowan just in time.” He opens the door to the coffee shop, then stops and turns around. “Let me do the talking.”
Jack strides up to the counter. Ginge, in his wake, stuffs his hands in his pockets and keeps
his head down.
On seeing Jack, Nicky blushes. “Hey, it’s the Disney police,” she says with her usual sass.
He grins. “So, you’re going to give us a freebie, right, Nick?”
“Nick?” she asks cynically.
“Short for Nicky,” he says as if she’s misunderstood.
She fights a smile.
“So, the freebies?”
She shakes her head. “No way. I could get fired.”
“If they find out.”
“It’s okay, I’ll pay,” Ginge says, looking up at last.
Jack widens his eyes at him.
“It’s alright, Ginge,” Nicky says. Then she widens her eyes at Jack. “This is a once-off, Sullivan.”
He gives her a killer smile. “Thanks, Nick.”
She eyeballs him. “You’re welcome…. Sully.”
Grace is typing up patient notes when there’s a gentle knock on the door. It’s so timid, she calls, “Come in.”
It’s Fred. And he looks crestfallen.
Automatically, she stands. “Oh, Fred. You’ve been in to Dr. O’Malley?”
He nods, his cap twisted in his great big, practical hands.
She goes to him, touching his arm. “Come in. Sit down.”
He nods again and takes a seat.
Grace sits opposite. “Would you like a coffee? I was literally just going to have one.”
He shakes his head. “I just wanted to thank you.”
Grace touches her heart. This man. “I did nothing.” She wishes she were here five years ago.
“No, no. Because of you, I’m on the right path now.”
“You have your consultant appointments?”
“I do. I’m going up to Cork tomorrow to meet the haematologist. The hepatologist is next week. And every second week, I’ll be giving away some of my blood to the Blood Transfusion Service. Other people can benefit from it. Isn’t medicine great in its own way?”
Not for the first time, she wants to hug Fred Cronin.
“Well, I won’t keep you,” he says, putting his hands on his thighs and pushing himself into a stand.
Ever thoughtful. “I’ll walk you out.”
As they pass the reception, Fred pauses. “Thanks, Myra.” He taps the counter with his hand as if he’s going to say something else. Instead he nods to himself and turns to go.
“You know where I am if you need anything, Fred,” she says very quickly, as though she has forced herself to say the words.
Fred turns in surprise. “I might call you sometime just for a chat if that’s alright?”
“I’d like that,” Myra says.
So would Grace. What a rock Myra could be for him. And he for her. Grace crosses her fingers and makes a wish.
At the door of the practice, Grace watches Fred get into his muddy Volkswagen Passat Estate. She raises an arm as he drives off, beyond him sky and sea. Crows and rooks fly up out of the church ruins. And the sun peeks out from behind a great white cloud. While, overhead, the gulls cry, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” What she wouldn’t give for a book of seagull translations. She inhales deeply and goes back inside.
Passing reception, a mad urge grips her and she leans in across the counter to Myra.
“When are you going to make an honest man out of Fred Cronin?” she whispers.
Myra chokes on a sneaky bite of chocolate chip cookie.
“He’s the most gorgeous man in Killrowan,” Grace adds.
Recovering, Myra points out, “You don’t know any of the men in Killrowan.”
Grace raises a finger. “Maybe not but I know a good one when I see one.”
Myra leans forward, her voice and eyes searching. “You don’t think he lacks a bit of… gumption?”
“That man has more gumption than, than… I don’t know. Anyone.”
Frowning, and more searchingly than ever, Myra asks. “Will he be alright, Young Dr. Sullivan?”
Though she knows Myra’s concern is genuine, Grace must respect Fred’s privacy. “He’ll need a few more tests, Myra but the news could have been better,” is as much as she can say.
Myra looks towards the door that Fred has just left through as if she wants to go after him, as if she has more to say.
33
Thursday evening and Grace is so relieved to be home with the family she feels she has barely seen all week. Des, by the fire, is doing the Southern Star crossword, calling out clues that unite everyone in brain struggle. Jack is lying at his feet curled up with the dog like he’s never heard of a thing called television, or heaven forbid, Netflix. Holly and Grace are side by side on the couch, Holly opening her laptop with great enthusiasm.
“So, I’ve put loads of stuff in the baskets of lots of good sites.”
“Really? Aww.”
“So, see what you think of these,” she says, clicking into the Abercrombie and Fitch website.
“Oriental warrior. Five letters,” Des calls out.
The united mental effort is almost tangible. Then:
“Ninja!” Jack and Holly say together.
Des smiles and writes it in. “Maybe we’ll win the twenty-euro voucher yet. We’ll go mad.”
“What do you think?” Holly asks Grace of the items she has selected for her.
The clothes seem a little young to Grace but she nods. “Good, yeah.”
“We can go back to general women’s section if you like.”
“Okay, let’s give it a try.”
Holly starts scrolling down through the jeans.
“Ooh, I like those,” Grace says, pointing to a pair of faded skinny jeans.
Holly immediately clicks the picture.
“Would anyone like a cup of tea?” Des asks, pushing himself up with the arms of the chair.
“I’ll make it,” Jack says, getting up.
“You’re grand. Stay where you are. I need the exercise.”
“I’m actually fine thanks, Dad,” Grace says, peering at black skinny jeans.
“Just me, so,” Des says. “I’ll bring back a few bikkies.”
In the kitchen, Des puts on the kettle. He glances out the window at the dark and silent street. A carbon stick for drawing. Eight letters. So, not pencil. Not crayon. Charcoal? The phone rings. Who, Des wonders, could be calling at ten at night? Taking deliberate strides, he makes his way to the big, black ring-dial telephone that’s so old it’s gone out of fashion and come back in.
He lifts the receiver. “Hello?”
“Des, how are you?” comes the smooth voice of a man he used to trust. A man he used to love really. The son he never had.
Des’s stomach contracts and his body tenses with rage. “Don’t you Des me,” he spits, voice low, glancing at the door to the sitting room. “And don’t ever call here again.” He slams the receiver down, his heart pounding. How dare he bring his brutality here? How dare he intrude on their peace?
Des is two steps from the phone when it rings again. Turning and reaching for it, he stumbles. He grips the table just in time and reminds himself to breathe. Then he lifts the receiver, kills the line and leaves the phone off the hook. Hands flat on the table he takes a deep breath to try and regain control. His blood really does feel like it is boiling. He’ll change his number first thing Monday. In the meantime, the phone will stay off the hook.
“Everything okay in here, Dad?” Grace asks, wandering into the kitchen.
“A carbon stick for drawing. Eight letters,” he says to distract her. “Oh, and will you get the biscuits, love, while I make the tea? Kettle’s just boiled.”
“Sure. Pencil?”
“Eight letters,” he says. “You sure you don’t want a cup?”
“Actually, yeah, go on.”
He smiles.
“So not crayon,” she thinks aloud. “Charcoal?”
“That must be it,” he says, marvelling at how her thought process matched his.
He places two mugs of tea on a tray and Grace adds a plate of chocolate Digestives.
“Here, let me carry them in,” she says.
“Thanks, love.”
After the shock he’s had, Des reaches for his stick before following his daughter back into the sitting room. Seeing his family, gathered together, with their cheeks rosy from the fire, his heart is broken for what was done to them.
Friday morning, as soon as Grace has left for work and the children for school, Des puts on his jacket and reaches for his walking stick. Benji looks up at him expectantly, tail wagging.
“Alright, so. Come on.” He hopes the dog has been trained to heel because he doesn’t have a lead and the paths in Killrowan are as thin as paths get.
He sets the alarm and opens the door.
Benji trots out onto the street with his chin in the air, sniffing all the smells of a new day.
“Heel,” Des says, in what he hopes is a commanding voice.
Benji moves in right by his heel.
“Good boy!” Des says. “Good man!”
Benji looks up to acknowledge the praise.
Down through the village they go. People, seeing man and dog together, smile even wider than usual.
“I heard from Barbara Kelly ye managed to get him away from the graveyard,” says Seamus McCarthy, Killrowan’s token Kerry man, known for saying, after a few drinks, “I’m a fine catch with a boring name.”
“Benji decided himself. Followed my granddaughter home.”
“So I heard. So I heard. That’s great altogether.”
“I better keep going, here, Seamus. Want to give him a decent walk.” Truth is, Des has arranged to meet Paddy O’Neill at half past nine and doesn’t want to keep him waiting.
There are three more obligatory chat stops along the way but Des manages to reach the station on time. As arranged, Paddy is sitting in the squad car outside, where they can talk in private. Des forgot about that plan when he decided to bring the dog.
“Ah, sure let him come in too,” Paddy says, setting his hat on the dashboard. “I’ll pull back the front seat and he can sit by your feet.”
Luckily the seat goes way back. Benji hops in, then looks expectantly from man to man as if to say, “So, what now?”
Season of Second Chances: an uplifting novel of moving away and starting over Page 17
