‘How’s the property hunt going?’ Rory asks.
‘Disastrous,’ Tony says. ‘We may have to move out of the city.’
‘How far out?’
Siofra sighs. ‘Kildare, Meath, maybe.’
Kildare and Meath might be in what’s optimistically described as the commuter belt, but they are separate counties. Rory thinks how far Siofra would be from their mum and the impact that would have. Siofra is the one person who makes sure June gets out of the house, bringing her shopping, doing girly things with her. ‘Maybe there’s a way round it,’ he suggests.
Tony looks doubtful.
Alex gets aggressive with a remote control red mini, driving it into Louise’s legs. Tony tells him to take it out to the hall, then relates how his son created havoc in church, breaking out of his seat and tearing up the aisle to get his hands on Holy Communion. By the time Tony had managed to pass the baby to Siofra and go after him, Alex was already on his way back down, in tears, shouting, ‘I didn’t get one of those fucking white things.’
Rory laughs. ‘Imagine Dad’s reaction if one of us had done that,’ he says to Siofra. His father would have used the belt – once they’d got home. Their mother might have intervened. But you could never be a hundred per cent sure. His parents were a united front. Still, on a day-to-day basis, his mother was a buffer to his father’s almost Presbyterian sternness. She was Good Cop to his Bad Cop. Rory remembers a game she used to play with him when he was the only one still too young to receive Communion. After Mass, she would buy Silvermints. Later, when they were alone, she would pretend to be a priest, holding out one cool white disc to Rory, and placing it on his tongue, saying, ‘Dominus Vobiscum’, Latin for Body of Christ, which is what was said to her in church when she was young. If his father had stumbled upon them, there would have been trouble. Which, of course, made the game better.
Alex follows his car into the kitchen. Rory winks at him.
‘What would you say to a trip to the shop?’ he asks.
Alex’s eyes light up.
The two men walk to the corner shop. And Rory buys Silvermints for the nephew he is beginning to feel he should know better.
9
Back at work, Rory hears an elderly female patient tell a younger woman (who has just been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis), about miracles. They are possible, she says, and tells her of a church on the quays where every Tuesday a special novena is held. Rory doesn’t know what a novena is. He’s heard of them but they seem to belong to a different world, a world of old people and prayer. He listens. If you attend nine Masses in a row, the woman says, you get your miracle. Rory thinks that if it were that simple, the whole world would be down by the river every Tuesday night. He is about to return the chart he has been reviewing, when the woman mentions St Anthony, the saint behind the miracles. When he was a kid, his mother would have him pray to St Anthony whenever he’d lost something. It had always worked. Always. But that was for losing things. This is different. Though he has lost something – the certainty of his future.
The following night, he finds himself on the quays searching for the church. If he doesn’t find it in the next five minutes, he’s giving up. Up ahead, a steady stream of people is disappearing into a building. Closer inspection reveals a church. He hopes no one recognizes him. But then, who does he know that would turn up somewhere like this?
He sits at the back. And looks around him. He was wrong. It is not just old people. It is all types. Young, old, male, female, well dressed, not so well dressed, Irish, non-nationals. The one thing that unites them is the way they pray – as if they really mean it. Heads bent, eyes closed. There is desperation here. It is a Mass, but different. There is a lot of talk about St Anthony. The priest reads out requests. People needing miracles. A woman whose son has leukaemia. A man who has lost his job. A woman whose daughter is in a difficult marriage. An alcoholic. So many people, so many problems. It is humbling. When the Mass is over and people queue in front of a statue of St Anthony, Rory, not knowing why, joins them. He feels part of something here – humanity, maybe.
When he leaves the church, he decides to do something he has avoided on the basis that it was none of his business.
The headlights of his car fall on Orla’s home. It looks cosy and inviting, curtains open and pools of yellow light around the lamps within. He wonders what type of people will be bidding for it in the morning. That it’s a family home won’t exclude investors. They’re everywhere, bumping up prices, making it harder for everyone else. He hopes it goes to a family, a family that likes it just as it is, with no plans to change or extend it.
Orla is surprised to see him. ‘What’s this, doctor on call?’
‘Just here to wish you luck,’ he lies. There is more to it than that.
They go through to the kitchen, a room that is growing on Rory as a place to hang out.
‘This is your lucky day,’ she says. ‘Tonight, I can offer you some seriously fancy coffee.’ She taps an espresso machine. ‘Went out today and blew a fortune on this thing.’
‘Nerves, eh?’ he says, then instantly regrets the bluntness of his comment. He dives into a monologue about Daisy, Alex, Holy Communion and Silvermints. At some point, he becomes aware of what he is doing and clams up completely.
‘You sure you need caffeine?’
‘Sorry. I’m waffling.’
‘Waffling’s good. I’ve run out of things to distract myself with. Thanks for coming.’
‘No big deal. Louise is at yoga.’ That didn’t sound right. ‘I didn’t mean… How’s Jason?’
Orla smiles. ‘Took ages to fall asleep. Can’t believe he’s finally getting to see his mum.’
This is his cue. ‘Listen. I was thinking.’ A pause. ‘Maybe you could hold the access visit somewhere else.’
She looks surprised. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know – I was just – D’you think it’s safe allowing an addict into your home?’ Over the last few days, in between flashbacks and nightmares, Rory has grown more and more convinced that Orla is making a mistake. ‘I was just thinking, I mean, where does she get the money to support a drug habit?’
‘She’s been in rehab. I’m hoping she doesn’t have a drug habit.’
‘What if she went into rehab just to get her son back?’
Orla seems appalled. ‘It’s not a holiday camp. She’s trying. We should give her a break. I mean addicts are people, people who happen to have an addiction.’
Something flips inside Rory. ‘And that gives them the right to go around breaking the law, hurting other people? Oh, poor them, they’ve a drug habit. To hell with those whose lives they ruin.’ He stops, face flushed.
Orla is staring at him.
‘Sorry,’ he says, standing. ‘This is none of my business. I don’t know why I’m here. I’m going.’
‘Rory, sit down.’
He doesn’t. But neither does he go.
‘What is it?’ she asks, standing herself now, her voice soft, encouraging.
He’d like to tell her… He peers out at his car, parked under a streetlight. ‘Look, I’m just a bit touchy about drug addicts – in case you haven’t noticed.’ His smile is lopsided.
‘No. Never,’ she says in mock surprise.
She sits. And that encourages him to. He looks at her. She is an agony aunt. Everyday, she advises people. And she’s good at it. He listens to her on the radio and her advice always seems spot on to him. He doesn’t buy the newspaper where she has a regular weekly page, but he assumes that the same wisdom is administered there. Of everyone Rory knows, over the years he has probably been most open with Orla, telling her things he’d never have told Owen or whatever woman he happened to be with at the time. Maybe, if he began with the basics, told her just what Louise knows…
Once he starts, though, he finds it hard to stop. It’s such a relief to let it out, free it from inside his head, that he keeps going until he has shared with her things he couldn’t with Louise – h
is fears, his anger at his attacker, but mostly at himself for letting this hijack his life. Orla lets him speak. Doesn’t react, only to nod, or encourage him on. And so, he is able to talk, for the first time, of how disillusioned he feels that he has done nothing significant with his life. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t tell him how wonderful he is being a doctor. And for that he is glad. He went into medicine for the wrong reasons. And he is tired of being canonized for it. He would like to do some good. He would like to make a difference.
From where she is sitting at the computer, Louise is watching him. He has come home a different man, his body lighter, not so weighed down, his smile a genuinely happy one, his kiss no longer needy. He did not make straight for the TV. Did not reach for a drink. Just selected some sounds and picked up Sunday’s newspapers, finally settling down to read them. Louise has been trying for over a week to produce this effect.
She gets up, bringing her mug of green tea with her and sits on the couch beside him, cross-legged. ‘How did it go with Orla?’ she asks.
He puts the paper aside. ‘Good.’
‘What did ye talk about?’ Her voice is casual.
He hesitates. ‘Oh, not much, houses, Jason.’ He feels a bit of a shit, telling her the boy’s story to divert attention from his own, but knows that if he admits how much he told Orla, she will be hurt that he was able to tell his sister-in-law so much.
Louise is engrossed in Jason’s story and genuinely sympathetic, knowing what it’s like to be abandoned by a father and left with a mother who couldn’t cope. Still, ‘Wasn’t all this supposed to be confidential?’
He explains how he came to know.
She seems to relax. Looking down at her green tea, she frowns. ‘I can’t drink any more of this.’
He peers into the mug and wrinkles his nose. ‘I don’t know why you started.’
‘Drinking coffee makes me want to smoke. Thought this might break the cycle. But, you know what, give me cravings any day.’
He laughs.
Later, Rory needs a leak. Louise is in the bath. He wanders in. Candle flames flicker in his wake. An incense stick, its base plunged into a satsuma for balance, wafts a thin line of smoke that reminds Rory of old Westerns and smoke signals. He pisses against the porcelain to reduce the sound, then takes his time washing his hands, not in a hurry to leave the peaceful atmosphere. He lowers the lid on the toilet and sits, watching her.
She is resting against the back of the bath, hair tucked up out of the way, cheeks flushed, body wet. Gorgeous. She picks up a smooth wet bar of white soap, rests it on her chest, then nudges it forward so that it slides down between her breasts. It picks up speed as it skims over her, its final journey over the tiny bump of her almost flat belly. Then she starts over.
He laughs. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Playing.’
As he watches the soap travel again, he imagines the route it would take if Louise were pregnant. Its journey would shorten earlier, the larger her tummy became, eventually coming to a halt just below her breasts – which would be bigger by then. Rory experiences a renegade erection, his first since the attack. His libido is back. Which is both good. And bad.
Two things happen the following day to ensure that Rory isn’t in a talkative mood. One: he receives a courtesy call from the detective in charge of his case, wondering if he has received the test results and admitting that they have no news at their end. Two: Rory goes in front of the interview panel for the post of consultant neurologist. And knows within minutes that the job will not be his. He can’t tell if they’ve found out about the syringe attack or if they’ve simply decided on another candidate, but their questions are short and perfunctory, as if they are going through the motions. Not one of them shows any personal interest in him. The most depressing thing about the interview, though, is that Rory cannot motivate himself to fight for a job he may not be around to perform.
Back at the apartment, he vegetates in front of Malcolm in the Middle. Louise has given up on conversation and is flicking through a flower catalogue when the phone rings. It’s Orla, looking for Rory. To Louise’s amazement, he hops up. She hands him the phone and picks up the catalogue again, but her concentration is on the call.
‘How did it go?’ he asks. There is a long pause, while he listens. It is interspersed with, ‘Really?’, ‘No’, a laugh, and ‘Go away.’ Finally, ‘Fantastic! You’ll easily get a three-bed townhouse in your area with that. I’m delighted.’ He’s quiet for a moment, listening. Then he laughs.
Louise snaps her catalogue closed.
‘How did the meeting with Jason’s mum go?’ He silently nods a few times. ‘And how was Jason?’
Louise thinks he sounds like a man talking to his wife about their child. She gets up, walks to the window, folding her arms. He’s known Orla a lot longer than her. They’ve always got on. Orla is alone now. What if she has begun to see him as someone who can rescue her from all her problems? And what if he likes this role… ?
‘How long did she stay?’ he asks.
Louise stares at him. If he nods his head one more time, she thinks she might have to kill him.
‘How did you get on with her?’ Pause. ‘Yeah, I can imagine. You’re right, plenty of time.’ Silence again. ‘What happens next?’ Another pause. ‘So a great day, all in all. I’m delighted. Really delighted for you.’
You said that already, Louise thinks, and is deciding she can’t take any more, when she hears, ‘Still want a hand finding a new home?’
He hangs up, smiling.
‘You’ve certainly cheered up,’ Louise says, her tone accusatory.
‘Orla and Owen got one point six mill for their house. There was a bidding war. Three people wanted it. A retired businessman who’d just traded down and got millions for his place wanted it for his daughter. Money no object. Orla can easily afford a three bed with half of that.’
‘Yeah, I heard.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
He goes to her. ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just that nothing I do cheers you up, and the minute Orla rings you’re bouncing out of your chair like a bunny at Easter.’
‘I’m happy for her,’ he says, afraid to admit that he’s also glad to have a distraction from his own thoughts, and keen to help.
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because she’s had a tough time and something’s finally worked out for her,’ he says, sounding irritated. ‘God, Louise.’
‘I’m going to bed.’
10
Sunday. Louise is laughing too loudly at something Mark has said. Rory notices how much wine she’s been drinking. They’re finishing lunch at a trendy restaurant in town with their friend and his new girlfriend, Lesley, the latest in a long line of non-national babes. To date, Mark has broadened his geographical horizons by dating women from Germany, Holland, Japan, France, Italy and Wales. Rory imagines a world map with a Mark flag stuck in each of the countries he has conquered. Lesley, his first English girlfriend, seems different. She doesn’t laugh at all his jokes but when she does, it’s loud and hearty. She is a speech therapist who works at the hospital. Rory likes her Birmingham accent.
They split the bill. Pulling his credit card from his wallet, Rory dislodges the prayer to St Anthony they were giving out at the church. He stuffs it back in before anyone can see it. He’s not sure why he can’t get rid of it. He’s not normally superstitious. As they leave the restaurant, Mark wonders aloud how they might get their hands on next-season rugby international tickets.
Outside, they pile into Lesley’s seen-better-days Opel Corsa, Louise joining her, up front. Two separate conversations begin. In the back, Mark picks up a folder that’s lying on the seat. From it, he produces a series of cards featuring simple cartoon-like illustrations and accompanying words. He shows them to Rory.
‘Lesley’s speech therapy cards,’ he explains.
When Rory sees the images, he is reminded of his g
odfather, who used to work as an illustrator and cartoonist before he died. Rory still has all the cartoon characters Tom created for him. And his own weak attempts at copying them.
‘Hey, Louise!’ Mark calls.
Louise turns.
‘OK. Now, I want you to close your eyes. When I ask you to open them, I want you to look at the card I’m holding up, and tell me what you see.’
She raises a dubious eyebrow.
‘Humour me.’
She closes her eyes.
He holds up a card. ‘OK. Tell me. What do you see?’
‘That would be a sheep, Mark.’
‘A what? Could you repeat that word, slowly.’
‘A sheeeeep.’ She looks at Rory, laughing.
He is in a different zone, remembering how Tom used to bring him off on his own (no Owen, no Siofra), to the movies, the pool, the park. He was not like his older brother, Rory’s father. He knew the meaning of fun. Even facing death, he joked. Which made Rory, aged fourteen, want to shout at him, tell him to shut up, there was nothing to laugh about.
Mark is glancing into the car that has pulled up on their right at the traffic lights. A Mercedes. Top of the range. Living room on wheels. In front is a blonde woman, in her fifties, wearing oversized black shades. Mark sits up. ‘Hey, let’s try it out on her.’ He rifles through the cards, then holds up a picture of a cow and shows it around. ‘What d’you think?’
Do You Want What I Want? Page 7
