He goes back over everything Simon said. From the beginning. Then writes down a list of questions for Theresa, covering every eventuality.
Then he pauses. He can’t call on behalf of his daughter, not when this is about perjury. He’ll say he’s calling about a patient who came to him suffering from stress. He hopes that news of his retirement has stayed local.
It’s quarter past midnight and Des is dozing off when the call finally comes from Alan.
“Well, we did all we could,” he says in a disappointed tone.
“I’m on my way,” Des says, anxious to leave. His small bag has been packed for hours, out in the car with the wrapped-up paintings. “Let’s go, Benji.”
He quietly lets himself out.
Des is speechless. Alan was right about everything. The place looks bigger, brighter, cleaner, more modern. The kitchen cupboards look like something out of a catalogue. It’s as if Des has walked into an entirely different house.
“I can’t get over the place,” he says to a beaming Alan.
“It’s great, isn’t it?”
Des frowns. “I thought you said you’d done all you could?”
Alan grins. “Which was everything. My favourite is the bathroom. Fit for a king, it is. Come on and I’ll show you.”
The thought of climbing the stairs is daunting but Alan looks like an excited puppy and Des can’t let him down. He’s dying to see the bathroom anyway. Smiling back at Alan, he drags himself up by the bannister.
It was worth the effort. A gleaming white bathroom with all the mod cons stands proudly waiting for inspection.
Des pats Alan on the back. “You’ve surpassed yourself, Alan. You really have.”
“I’m delighted with it,” Alan says, as if he has transformed his own home.
“There’ll be a bonus in it for you and the lads.”
“Ah, they’ll be delighted. I just sent them home. They were shagged altogether.”
Back downstairs, Des glances at the couch, which looks grim and saggy against all the newness. “It’s too late to do anything with the couch, I suppose?”
Alan smiles. “’Tis a little. But we can get to that tomorrow, if you like.”
“Lovely.”
Des has to sit down. Normally in bed by now, his Parkinson’s medication has worn off and he feels like he’s run out of batteries. He takes an extra Sinemet, washing it down with a glass of water. He should really go to bed but can’t miss the surprise.
“This calls for a beer,” he says, getting up and going to the fridge.
Alan rubs his hands together. “It does, yeah.”
Des loves that there is no false modesty here. There’s no place for it.
They clink bottles.
“Cheers!”
They sit in amiable silence, Alan holding his neck every so often and tilting back his head.
“You must be shattered,” Des says.
“Ah, I’ll sleep in, tomorrow. Nothing like a job well done to give a man a lift.”
Des’s eyes fall on the empty walls. He remembers the paintings. But his limbs are just too heavy to lift. “Alan, would you do me one last favour? Would you hang a few paintings for me?”
“’Course I would. Where are they?”
Alan carries in and unwraps the art. One by one, he stands the paintings against the wall, appraising them.
“These are gorgeous, Des.”
Des thinks of MaryAnn and her free spirit. He wonders if they’re home yet, herself and Romeo. Then puts them from his mind. “Hang them wherever you think is best, Alan. I haven’t a clue.”
“Sure, we’ll do it together.”
They try out various places for each painting, then decide. Alan gets his hammer.
Des thinks of Una and Pat next door and hopes their hearing aids are turned off. He’ll get them some wine tomorrow.
Finally, Alan stops hammering and they deem themselves happy with the result.
Des can’t believe the place. He’d never in a million years have done this for himself.
The kids are asleep when Grace pulls up outside the house, close to sleep herself. Any longer and she’d have had to stop. It’s almost one in the morning and all the lights in the house are on. Her automatic reaction is to panic. Is her dad okay? Did something happen? Maybe he just waited up. But why all the lights?
“Guys, we’re here,” she says and hurries from the car.
She lets herself in.
Two men are having a beer in a house she doesn’t recognise.
Taking it all in, her hand goes to her mouth.
A grinning Alan catches it on camera.
The children, appearing through the door, lose their grogginess.
“Wow,” Jack says, doing a full three-sixty.
Grace is going from painting to painting. “These are gorgeous.” She looks at Des, entirely stunned.
“Nothing like you had in Dublin but it’s a start, nonetheless.”
She looks at him. “Dad, Simon chose the art. I never liked it.” In fact, she hated it. Her understatement is for the children. Simon’s taste was stark, modern, vulgar. Nothing had any warmth. He bought whatever was on-trend and expensive. “These are really, really, lovely, Dad. These are home.”
“We’re not moving now,” Jack says, looking at her.
Everyone does. All hopefully.
“Guys, there are three of us – and a dog.”
Holly, Jack and Benji all looks at Des.
“Sure, I love having ye here. But only if ye want to. Ye might want yer own space. And, sure look, I’m delighted with the makeover even just for myself. I love the place now. Why don’t ye have a chat amongst yerselves, tomorrow. There’s no rush.”
“Ye haven’t seen the bathroom,” Alan bursts like he can’t help himself.
The kids thunder upstairs, Benji in hot – and barking – pursuit.
Grace turns to Des. “Dad, seriously, please tell me if it’d be too much. Teenage energy–”
“There nothing I love more than teenage energy.” He looks wistful. “Gracie, when ye came, it was just me and the fire. I wasn’t even warming the place up.” He glances around. “Look at me now. I would really, really, hand-on-heart, love ye to stay. But only if you think it’s the right thing for you and the kids.”
Grace hugs him and gets a little teary. If she hadn’t left Simon, they’d never be having this moment – or so many moments. If she had carried on, continued to suck it up, she’d have missed this closeness to her dad – and the children’s closeness to him. Imagine if he had died without…. With a shudder, she kills the thought and pulls back. Only then does she notice that Alan, Holly, Jack and Benji are all standing looking at her, awaiting her decision.
She smiles then glances from one to the other. “I think we all want the same thing.” Jack and Holly run to her and create a whole new family hug.
“This would have been perfect for ‘Room to Improve,’” Alan says, taking another photo.
49
Reaching up for the Cornflakes is a challenge for Grace. The muscles in her arms are so sore that she can barely lift them. Her pecs are even worse. All that pounding into protective pads has taken its toll.
“Are your muscles killing you?” she asks Holly and Jack. “I literally can’t lift my arms.” She realises that she’s also hoarse from all the shouting.
Jack glances at his mum’s skinny arms. “You need to work on your upper body strength, Mum. Seeing as you have none.”
“I’m kinda sore,” Holly says in sympathy.
Grace winks at her. Then looks at Jack. “How would a person work on their upper body strength?” Not that she’s committing to anything.
“Do weights. Find a gym.”
Grace bites her lip. She still hasn’t organised one for Jack. “There must be one around here somewhere. We need one for you, anyway.”
“Yeah, I’m losing all my bulk.”
Holly rolls her eyes.
But Grace knows how importa
nt the gym is to Jack, how it – and sport – have always been his escape. “Why don’t you ask the guys at school where they go?”
A look of sudden horror crosses his face. “Wait! If I go to a gym you can’t go there!”
Grace smiles. “Let’s just sort a gym out for you. And I can build my…” She puts her fingers in quote marks “…upper-body strength, at home.”
“I’ll show you some moves. Press ups. Sit ups. Plank.”
“Can’t wait,” she says with irony. But she knows she needs to do it, just as she needs to build her fitness. How is she meant to strike and run when she can’t actually run?
“Hol, do you think I could borrow a pair of leggings? I might go for a run at lunchtime.”
They look at her like she’s told them she’s a secret spy.
“Sure,” Holly says. “Do you want runners?”
“Nah, I think the ones I have will do, thanks.”
Des said little over breakfast, his mind focused on the conversation he’s about to have with Theresa Dempsey. As soon as Grace and the children have left, he takes out her number and his list of questions. He gets as far as a secretary who explains that Theresa is in court. A good time to call back would be after four. Des can’t call when the kids will be home.
“Does she ever take calls at lunchtime?” he asks hopefully.
The secretary sounds doubtful when she says, “You might be lucky.”
Des never relies on luck. “It’s her old GP, Des Sullivan, calling on behalf of a patient. It’s a bit urgent, to be honest.”
“Let me give you her mobile.”
“Ah, that’s great, thanks a million.”
“Not at all. It’s nice to come across a GP that cares so much about his patients.”
Des feels bad, then reminds himself he would have done this for a patient. He’s done lots of things like this for his patients. And a very big part of him misses not being able to, anymore.
Myra is humming. And she looks different.
“Myra, you look amazing,” Grace says, staring at her, trying to figure out what’s changed.
“Do I?” she asks, touching her hair, self-consciously. It’s been cut short and turned a lovely shade of plum. “I’m not sure about the colour. Is it too much?”
“No! It’s stunning. You look… Dutch or something.”
Myra laughs.
But it’s more than the hair. “Your eyebrows!”
“Are they terrible? I got the shock of my life when I saw them first. They looked like two slugs but I’ve gotten used to them by now. Do they stand out a mile? They’re permanent, you know,” she says, touching them, worriedly.
“So, you’ll be permanently gorgeous. They’re really, really lovely. They frame your face. Together with the hair, you look ten years younger. At least!”
“Ah, go on outta that.” But she’s grinning.
“Did Jane do all this?” Grace waves her hand around Myra’s general aura.
Myra shakes her head, then leans towards Grace conspiratorially, lowering her voice and glancing around to make sure they’re alone. “Actually, we went a bit mad when we got up to Cork. Stayed over and everything,” she says like she has to tell someone.
“Oh, did ye now?” Grace raises her eyebrows teasingly. “Shameless, absolutely shameless.” But joking aside, “I’m delighted for you, Myra. You know what I think of Fred.”
“Who said it was Fred?”
Grace laughs out loud. “Hidden depths, Myra. Hidden depths.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” she jokes. Then she grows serious. “D’you think if I popped out for lunch Dr. O’Malley would think I’d lost the run of myself?”
Grace feels like high-fiving her. “Myra, you know the answer to that.”
“What about Dr. O’Malley, though?”
“I’ll tell Dr. O’Malley. Not that I need to. Alan did it last Friday and ’twas fine. People just signed in themselves.”
Myra looks relieved. “That’s great altogether.”
“Hot date?” Grace teases.
“Ah, just Fred.”
“Don’t you ‘just Fred’ me. Most gorgeous man in Killrowan. I’m so happy for you, Myra.”
“Yera, stop. ’Tis only early days.”
“Hey, the early days are the best.” Grace is living proof. Though Fred is no Simon.
Grace calls her first patient since she got back from Dublin, a Brigid McCarthy. A girl of about fifteen stands up. Automatically, Grace wonders if she’s in Holly’s class. Beside her, Alan’s friend, Seamus sends Grace a worried-parent look but he doesn’t stand up. His eyes seem to say, “Look after her, won’t you?”
Grace smiles reassurance, then turns to Brigid. Like Seamus, she’s incredibly tall, incredibly lean with a long thin face and bright blue eyes. Unlike Seamus, she’s not a smiler.
“This way,” Graces says, unable to stop smiling, herself, for Myra and Fred.
“I know.”
Right, Grace thinks.
In the surgery, she offers the teenager a seat.
She sits on the edge with her schoolbag on her lap, as if she’s not planning to stay.
“So, Brigid, how can I help?”
“It’s Bridge. And you can’t. My dad thinks this is a medical condition. And it’s just not.”
Grace nods like she understands but has no idea what “Bridge” is talking about. “What is a medical condition?”
“My period.”
“Ah.” Phenomenal relief. For one crazy, terrified second Grace worried that she might be dealing with a teen pregnancy.
“We don’t actually have to talk about it,” Bridge says. “I’m a big reader. I get it, like. Even if I wasn’t a reader, he got me a DVD – which was terrible.”
Grace smiles.
“He’s just, like, terrified so I said I’d come. So, he can relax, like.”
“I see.” Glancing at Bridge’s file, Grace sees that she’s only fourteen and that Seamus is a single parent. This has to be challenging for them both.
“Do you have any questions at all, Bridge? Just to get some value out of the consultation.”
“Nope.”
“Right. Let me think of some that might crop up.”
Bridge starts to drum her fingers on her schoolbag.
“If you feel moody coming up to your period, that’s perfectly normal.”
“I’m moody pretty much most of the time anyway.”
Grace smiles. “Aren’t we all? If you get cramps, also normal. Some people get them more than others. Some escape with no pain whatsoever. If cramps are bothering you, just take Panadol or Nurofen and follow the instructions on the pack. Never take more than they say in any twenty-four-hour period. And never go for Nurofen Plus or Solpadeine. They have codeine in them. And that’s not good.” Grace hasn’t had a Nurofen Plus in almost two weeks. It’s amazing how that makes her feel. She wonders how Wayne Hill is doing, then flicks her mind back to Bridge, who has actually started to nod.
“For some, periods are irregular and that’s perfectly fine.” Grace tries to remember the kinds of questions she had way back then. “And you know there’s more than one, right?”
“One what?”
“Period.”
Bridge stares her. “Yeah, like. Of course.”
“It’s just that some people….” She points a thumb at herself. “Thought that there was going to be just the one.”
Bridge bursts out laughing. “That’s hilarious.”
“It wasn’t at the time.”
They both laugh now.
Grace’s awe of the body comes into play. “And you know why we get periods, right? Physiologically? It’s just the womb getting ready for pregnancy and then discarding all that preparation when we don’t actually get pregnant.”
“I still can’t believe you thought there was just one.”
Grace grins and shrugs. “There’s a fool born every day.” Speaking of birth, she has to ask. “And you know all about the birds
and the bees, right?”
“Ooooh yeah.”
Grace smiles. “Okay. What else can I say? It’s a good idea to keep a few pads in your bag. Just in case. And you know you don’t have to stop anything you normally do. You can use tampons, if you want to go swimming and whatever.”
“Yup.”
“Okay, well, I think you are going to take this in your stride, Bridge.”
“Sure hope so.” She raises her eyebrows. “Because there is more than one!”
Grace laughs. “You’re not going to let me forget this, are you?”
“Nope.”
Grace thinks of her heading towards womanhood without a mum. “Okay, listen. I’m going to give you my number just in case anything crops up. Give me a call anytime. If I’m with a patient, I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Okay?”
Bridge’s eyebrows knot together. “You do this for all your patients?”
“Just the cheeky ones.”
It turns out Bridge is a smiler after all.
They walk out of the surgery together.
At the door to the waiting room, Bridge eyes her dad. He gets to his feet immediately.
“Can I have the car keys?” she asks.
He hands them over, looking at her questioningly.
“It was fine,” she says impatiently.
“Good, good. I’ll just pay so.”
Grace feels a sudden rush of fondness for the man she had dismissed as obnoxious. Here he is doing an amazing job at trying to be mum and dad for his little girl. His concern touches her and she lingers, in case he wants to talk.
He turns to her, his eyes filled with worry. “Is she alright?” he whispers.
“You’ve done a great job, Seamus. Bridge’s a super kid.”
He looks so suddenly hopeful. “I just wanted her to chat to a woman. Just to make sure I’ve covered all the bases.”
“She could give a lecture on periods.”
He blushes at the word.
“I’ve given her my number in case anything crops up.”
“You’re a saint.” His “Thank you,” is laced with relief.
“My pleasure.”
He goes up to Myra to pay. “Janey Mack, Myra, you’re getting fierce glam altogether.”
Season of Second Chances: an uplifting novel of moving away and starting over Page 25
