“That’s it,” Grace says, whipping off the gloves.
“Seriously? They’re out?”
“You’re a free man.”
“Excellent.” He replaces the blanket.
“I’ll let you get dressed.”
Grace clears away the dressing and gloves, wipes down the trolley and washes her hands.
From behind the curtain, he says, “I think I deserve some sort of honorary nurse’s badge or something.”
“I’ll write out a certificate.”
His laughter sounds like colour. Then the curtain is being whisked back. “I’ll take my Band-Aids now.”
She squints at him. “I’m considering giving you an extra one. For good behaviour.”
“Can I pick the characters?”
She laughs. “You can pick the characters.”
“You better have Bambi.”
Until now, she thought he was joking. “I have no idea who’s in there. Have a look.” She gestures to the packet on her desk.
He goes straight for it. He empties the packet, roots through the Band-Aids, frowning in concentration. Finally, with a triumphant look, he holds up three. They are different images of Dory from Finding Nemo. “The inventor of ‘Keep on swimming.’”
That’s her motto. Her credo. “Dory is my hero!”
“Me too!”
“Those words have got me through the darkest times,” she thinks aloud, her mood darkening as she remembers.
His eyes search hers as if he’d like to hear about those times.
“You never invited me to your book launch!”
He looks thrown. Which was the plan. But now he probably thinks she likes him or something. Why did she open her big mouth?
“Have you ever been to a book launch?” he asks.
“No. But I was just joking.”
“Okay, good. Because watching paint dry would be more entertaining.”
Still. Doesn’t he want her to go?
“It’ll just be people – mostly me – talking about the book. I’ll probably have to read from it,” he says like he’d rather have a lobotomy.
“Then why do it?”
“The bookshop owner, Jenny Mallin, is keen to sell a few books. Things get quiet for her in wintertime. This will get people back into the shop. Let me give you a copy of the book. Save you the pain.”
He sounds genuine. “No, no. I’ll buy the book.” Feels only right after getting three from the library.
“I’d like to gift you one. For saving my life.”
She smiles. “Hardly your life.”
“My crown jewels are my life.”
Grace bursts out laughing. “Crown jewels? What age are you?”
“Eighteen. Inside.” He looks at the door. “Okay, I better get out of your hair.”
“Are there many waiting?” she asks, though she could just check the list.
“Full house. And all saying good things about Young Dr. Sullivan – in case you care.”
“Don’t tell me that. I’ll just feel pressure.”
He lifts the strap of his satchel over his head. “So, this is it, Doc. Our relationship is officially over.”
“As long as you stay healthy.”
He grins. “I’ll have to get sick so.”
If Wayne Hill was anyone else this might feel like flirting. Grace knows from the book that, just like her, the last thing he wants is another relationship. Like her, all he wants is peace.
“As your doctor, I can’t condone that,” she says.
He grimaces. “Are you telling me I’ll have to invite you to a boring book launch, then?”
“No, no. Don’t invite me. Let me gatecrash it. We need some excitement in Killrowan.”
He smiles. “Deal. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
43
Grace has no problem persuading Alan to take a lunchbreak. They leave a sheet of paper on the counter with a short note asking patients to sign themselves in. Then they wander down to the Coffee Cove, Grace inhaling the briny air deep into her lungs like an elixir. She circles her shoulders and gazes at the sea until it disappears behind the village.
The staff in the Coffee Cove always look a little scared to see Grace. She feels the same, as if at any minute someone’s going to choke, just for her.
She knows it’s not healthy to order coffee and a chocolate chip cookie for lunch and that it’s not exactly the example she should be setting. She’s feeling increasingly rebellious with every day she is away from Dublin.
They’ve just sat down when Alan bringing his huge bap up to his mouth mutters under his breath. “Brace yourself. Here comes Seamus McCarthy.”
“Who?” Grace whispers, eyeing a tall, lanky man with a face like a horse, coming their way.
“Hot Kerry man with a boring name. His description. Not mine.”
The hot Kerry man arrives at the table. “Alan Wolfe!” he exclaims. “Great to see you out with a woman.”
Grace prickles.
But Alan’s unruffled. “Wait, what’s a woman again?” He scratches his hair for effect.
Seamus chuckles. “’Tis quicker you’re getting, Wolfy. So, do I get an intro?” he says, looking at Grace.
“Seamus McCarthy, Young Dr. Sullivan, my boss. Young Dr. Sullivan, Seamus McCarthy.”
Grace gives the hot Kerry man an icy nod.
“Ah, I can see ye’re busy,” Seamus says and slopes away, all six foot four of him.
“You put the run on him,” Alan exclaims.
“He’s unbelievable,” Grace whispers crossly.
“Ah, ’tis just a little bit of harmless slagging. We’re always at it, the two of us.”
“You’re very forgiving.”
“I give as good as I get. Want to know my name for him?”
Grace nods.
“Fifty Shades of Seamus!”
She laughs out loud. “So, he’s a player?”
“He likes people to think he is. But actually, he’s harmless. He has a lovely daughter who keeps him on the straight and narrow. So!” Alan says, rubbing his hands together. “I’ve thought of a present I could give everyone that won’t cost me a penny.”
Grace can’t help but smile. He looks like an enthusiastic puppy.
“Pebbles from the beach!” he says in a ta-da tone.
That’s it? “Couldn’t people just get them themselves if they wanted to?”
“They wouldn’t think of it. That’s the brilliance of the idea.”
Grace thinks of him down on the beaches everyday gathering pebbles. “Better watch out for the environmentalists. That’s all I can say.” She shrugs.
Alan holds his chin and looks up, as if for a solution. “I’ll just find them on the road, then,” he says, simply.
“Road stones? There’d be a big run on them alright, I’d say,” she says as if it’s the worst idea she’s ever heard. It’s definitely up there.
He scratches an eyebrow. Then his face brightens again. “I’ll paint them!”
She smiles in disbelief. “You’re actually serious about this?”
“I am, yeah.” He bites his lip. “What’ll I paint on them?”
“Rainbows. Stars. Flowers. Little whirlwinds…” Grace starts to get into it.
“Can’t be going for the rainbows.”
“Oh. Right. I hadn’t thought of that.” She finishes her coffee and dusts crumbs from the corner of her mouth. “So, what are you up to for the weekend?”
“I’ve a date with a house.”
“Meaning?”
“Big D.I.Y. job. Should be good.” Alan has a glint in his eye. He has always loved his interiors.
“You’ll have to let me know how it goes,” she says with genuine interest.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be the first to know.”
Returning to the surgery, Grace and Alan find that the system has worked seamlessly. While Alan inputs the names into the computer, Grace goes to call her first patient. She is sorry to see that Dolores Tracy
is back already. She was hoping that the HRT would be a success. But then, Dolores has a medical card and won’t have to pay. Maybe she’s just coming for reassurance.
Crossing to the waiting room, the first thing Grace notices is a surprising lack of flamboyance. Dolores is wearing navy. No bright colours whatsoever. And nothing fluffy or feathered.
“Everything okay, Dolores?” she asks sympathetically as soon as the lollipop woman has seated in the surgery.
She shakes her head wildly. “’Tis worse off I am. I’m bloating something fierce. My tummy, even my… you know…” She gestures to her breasts, which do, indeed, look bloated. “They’re… tender… as well. In all honesty, they feel like they’re going to explode.”
“We can’t have that.”
“And look at the state of my ankles. The courage it took to even get here.”
Grace nods sympathetically. “Anything else?”
“I feel sick in my tummy.” She rests a hand on it. And burps.
“It’s definitely not agreeing with you.”
“You can say that again. And all the hopes I had for it.” She shakes her head tragically.
Grace stands up. “Right. Let’s take off the patch.”
Dolores looks at her. “Which one?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there must be at least ten of them on there, by now. That’s the other thing,” she says irritably. “I’m going to run out of space.”
Grace wants to hug Dolores. “I think we may have found the problem. Let’s have a look at the patches.”
Poor Dolores’s rear end reminds Grace of the patchwork quilts her mother used to sew.
“I’m just going to take these off.”
“’Tis a pity,” Dolores says sadly on an outward breath.
Grace removes patch after patch. “That’s it!” she says as the last one comes off. Grace bins the patches and washes her hands. “That should solve the problem, Dolores.”
“What should?”
“Removing the patches. You’re only meant to wear one at a time. You were getting too many hormones. When you’re applying a new patch, Dolores, you have to remove the one that was there.”
“Ooooooh. I seeee. Oooooh. Grand, so.” She gives Grace a confused look. “You should have told me that, Young Dr. Sullivan.”
Grace thought she had. But then she remembers all the trouble her own mother took explaining to her about getting her period. Grace wondered what all the fuss was; she could cope with a period. Later, to her horror, she discovered that, actually, your period was a regular visitor.
“So, just to be clear. When you’re applying a new patch, you take off the one you’ve on. And place the new one in a different spot.”
“Maybe that’s what confused me. The different spot.”
“Maybe.”
“So, I can keep going on the patches so?” she asks hopefully.
“I think it’s worth sticking with them and seeing how you get on. But let’s give you a week without patches to allow your levels to return to normal. Then, start again. So, mark your calendar for next Friday. And pop on the first patch. Come back to me if you have any problems whatsoever.”
“I’m so glad now I came, Young Dr. Sullivan. I was just going to put up with it.”
“Never put up with anything.” Grace words hang on the air. If only she’d taken her own advice, years ago.
Dolores’s smile is like the sun coming out. “You’re right.”
Grace understands now what Alan was saying about presents for the patients. She’d like to give Dolores something. Not a stone, though. Painted or otherwise. She needs to give this some thought. Maybe on the drive up to Dublin….
Grace looks at the list. The patients are slowing to a trickle. Her day is nearly over. She goes out to call in the next patient. Seeing Alan’s smiling face, she stops at reception.
“You know, Al, I’m beginning to come around to your idea.”
“What idea?” he asks, vacantly.
“The gift idea.”
“The gift idea?”
“Yeah. The gift idea.” What’s wrong with him?
“Dr. Sullivan,” he teases. “Do you actually think I’m a bit simple?”
“What?”
He dips his head so his eyes are looking up at her. “You really think I was going to go around giving everyone presents?”
“I’ll kill you!”
He laughs.
She reaches in through the cubby hole to strangle him.
He shoots his swivel chair back, hysterical now, holding his belly and bending over.
A throat clears behind Grace.
She turns.
It’s the woman that Jacinta Creedon was gossiping with in the supermarket, pinched face, tight mouth and judgemental eyes all present and correct.
Grace gives her a cold look, turns back and points at Alan. “Behave yourself, Wolfe. Your position is very wobbly as it is.”
He’s still laughing.
Grace locks the door to her surgery, hating the thought of the drive to Dublin. She goes over to Alan and leans on the counter.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Am I mad, going back up?” she asks, reminding herself that he doesn’t know.
“Come in here to me.”
She opens the door and goes into the little reception office, wishing for a moment that Alan was a permanent fixture. She hooches herself up on the counter, legs dangling, feeling at home in his presence like she always does. She wishes she could shrink him and carry him around in her pocket.
“So, what are you up to this evening?”
“Heavy date.”
“Wow! I’m almost jealous,” she says, looking at the indent left in her finger by her wedding ring. She wonders how long it will take to return to normal.
“You better get going,” he says, starting to tidy up.
She looks at him. “Trying to get rid of me?”
“Long journey,” he adds.
She sighs. “You’re right. I better get going.
“Not without a hug, though.”
She jumps down. Then clings to him like a life-sized teddy bear. She knows that once she hits the road, she’ll be okay.
“Not at work, folks. Not at work.”
They turn to see a visibly unimpressed Dr. O’Malley looking in at them. Alan drops his arms. Grace knows it’s for her sake. She doesn’t try to explain. Couldn’t anyway. Not without hurting Alan. A friendly hug is a friendly hug. If her partner wants to read more into it that’s his own creative mind.
44
In a large room with a bank of mirrors covering one wall and a floor of soft spongy material that’s clearly designed for impact, Grace and the children wait for the course to start. About fifteen others have gathered, over half of them men. Jack looks relieved about that. Seeing people of colour reminds Grace how cosmopolitan Dublin is compared to Killrowan. She misses that. She also misses the energy of the city, the buzz tangible from the moment they arrived last night.
Standing with his back to the mirrored wall, the trainer introduces himself as Patrick Cumiskey and asks everyone to form a circle. A short, cuddly man with mischievous eyes, he takes them through his training as both a psychotherapist and Krav Maga instructor. Though her stomach is knotted with nerves, something about him reassures Grace that they are in good hands.
He starts the instruction by describing the psychology of attackers, zoning in on how they pick their prey, always going for the easiest targets, those who will give them least trouble. What, Grace wonders, earmarked her as an easy victim? Her size? The fact that she was so easy going, always fitting in with what he wanted? He did love her once, though. She really does believe that. It wasn’t all about finding someone to control. Was it? She reminds herself that, Patrick Cumiskey is talking about a different kind of attacker. The opportunistic stranger.
“They prey on kindness. Many ask for help with something – like directions – to lure you into a vu
lnerable position and get close. If someone invades your body space be ready.”
Getting close, invading body space, is a language Grace understands. She feels her body tense as every word brings Simon more and more into the room. She glances around her. Everyone’s listening intently as if this is all very interesting but all very distant to them. Except for Holly and Jack. Who are watching her intently as if checking that she’s okay. She smiles encouragingly, wanting to put her arms around them and hold them close. She feels her throat burn at the thought of all that they have witnessed. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe this is the last thing they needed to hear.
Jack slips from his position in the circle and walks on the outside of it until he gets to her.
“We’re doing the right thing,” he whispers, putting an arm around her.
Her heart swells.
From across the circle, Holly offers a brave smile, her eyes welling.
Meanwhile, Patrick is explaining that Krav Maga is not self-defence; it’s counter-assault. “Self-defence implies that you’re a victim. With Krav Maga, you are a counter-attacker. Big difference.”
Jack gives her a supportive squeeze. It hits her then that the three of them are together now. A unit. As long as she stayed stuck, they were apart because she spent all her time trying to hide it from them. Now they have a shared truth. A shared bond. A shared goal. Survival. Life.
She raises her chin. That is a goal worth fighting for.
She zones in on Patrick who is demonstrating how to take up a defensive position for counter-attack. His hands are up in front of his chest, elbows bent, knees also slightly bent with one leg in front of the other. He moves from here – so easily – into a block position, then a strike to an (imaginary) face. Then strike after strike after strike as if he is in his element. He stops and looks slowly around the circle, person to person. “Sometimes, you have to strike first,” he says, with barely contained glee.
This is an entirely new and wholly uncomfortable prospect for Grace but she can’t dwell; they have to adopt the position. Lining up, facing the mirror, they also have to mimic his facial expression – one of outrage, fury, and a desire to fight. Bring, it, on.
Season of Second Chances: an uplifting novel of moving away and starting over Page 22
