Do You Want What I Want?

by Denise Deegan

  The way she says ‘that life’, so dismissively, depresses him. Does it mean she will never want it?

  ‘We’ve spoken about this,’ she says. ‘We’ve agreed.’

  They have spoken about it. But not a lot.

  ‘Things have been tricky between us since this started. Let’s just try to forget everything, have a bit of crack, let our hair down.’ She smiles. ‘Fuck each other’s brains out.’ She kisses him full on the mouth. ‘Let’s just be ourselves.’ When her hand snakes under the covers, the easiest thing to do is stop thinking.

  Not long after, Louise leaves for work. And Rory reaches for the remote.

  He leaves it until the last minute to check out. Back at the apartment, he salutes his AIDS medication as he watches it disappear down the toilet. To his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he says, ‘We can rebuild you.’ He throws on his training gear and roots out the iPod he has ignored for four months. From the moment he closes the apartment door, he is running. To push himself, he opts for Monkstown instead of the pier, taking the first hill with determination. Out of breath at the top, he is glad to stop for traffic. Too soon, the road clears and he runs across. He takes the second hill with a little less determination. Halfway up, he stops and doubles over, hands on thighs, stomach contracting with every breath. His mouth is parched. He pulls off his rugby shirt and ties it around his waist. He’ll walk the rest of the hill.

  He looks up at the weak sun of early February and notices that the trees are in bud. A blackbird flies by, twigs in its beak. Has spring been happening without him? Has a whole winter passed without his knowledge? What else has he failed to notice? Well, Louise, obviously. Her accusation caught him off guard. He’d been trying hard to hold it together, keep his worries under wraps, be the same person he always was. Clearly, he fucked up there. He starts to run again, passing a boy and girl in tennis gear, hopping out of a car and racing each other into a local club. Is she right? Is this just a reaction? They’d always wanted the same thing before, an easy, pressure-free life. Maybe if he tries, he can go back to that. A car passes, an SUV, with yummy mummy and young daughter sitting up front, laughing. His eyes follow them as they drive by. He’d like that for Louise. He wouldn’t want her to miss out.

  When she gets home, he has his special chicken dish ready, the table set and his laptop out.

  ‘Something smells nice,’ she says, kicking off her shoes and going to him. She snuggles up beside him on the couch and peers at the computer screen.

  He looks up from an airline website. ‘Let’s go away for a weekend,’ he says. ‘My treat. Lady’s choice.’ He waits, half-expecting her to bring up work.

  Instead, she seems pleased. ‘It’d do us good to get away.’

  He meets her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Lou,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t ignoring you… I was just so worried.’

  ‘I know.’ She kisses him.

  ‘About Orla –’ he starts.

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘It felt good, helping. I needed to be useful.’

  She puts a finger to his mouth. ‘It’s over. Let’s put it behind us.’

  He nods.

  Her eyes return to the website. ‘How about Berlin?’ she says.

  ‘Berlin?’ He was thinking of Rome. Or Paris. Somewhere romantic. ‘Why Berlin?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s supposed to be beautiful. And there’s the history. And the nightlife.’

  He shrugs. ‘OK. Sure. Whatever.’

  ‘Hey, why don’t we go as a group, for the crack? Invite Mark and Lesley, Johnny, maybe a few more. Hang out. Have a laugh.’

  It’s not what he had in mind, but, ‘OK’. He really wants to make it up to her. He kisses her. ‘I love you, you know.’

  She smiles. ‘Love you.’

  He hopes that that isn’t conditional on them both wanting the same things in life.

  12

  Though Saturday mornings have become man-time, this weekend is different. There is an inter-schools rugby friendly on Sunday, to which Rory has promised to take Jason. Given Louise’s comments about Orla, Rory wonders if he should cancel, avoid seeing his sister-in-law altogether. But he has taken on this responsibility and it’s working out better than he had expected. Jason has come on so well. What would Rory have done if Tom had stopped showing up? He’d have blamed himself, somehow worked out that it was his fault. He wasn’t good enough. Didn’t deserve it. Rory says all this to Louise.

  ‘Rory you don’t need to explain. It’s fine. I’d planned to go clothes shopping with Lesley anyway. Get some things for Berlin.’

  ‘So, you don’t mind?’

  ‘Why should I mind?’

  He shrugs, not about to bring up Orla.

  ‘Rory. Do what you like. We’re not joined at the hip.’ She says it lightly.

  But, coming so soon after his marriage proposal, it sounds more like a statement.

  Before collecting Jason, Rory drops in to the hospital to review those of his patients that needed to be seen over the weekend by the medical team on call. There is one patient he avoids, though, because he shares a room with Tadgh O’Driscoll. O’Driscoll is a retired rugby international and TV commentator, a favourite with rugby fans nationwide, Rory included. Rory has, until now, spent more time than necessary in O’Driscoll’s company, dissecting games, making predictions, discussing the competency of various teams and players. Conversation has never been a problem. Now, though, Rory is getting uncomfortably close to making a diagnosis. A diagnosis he doesn’t want to make. He hopes that he is wrong. Knows that he is not. Will run more tests. Tests he doesn’t need to run. And, in the meantime, he will avoid looking O’Driscoll in the eye.

  Rory stands at the sideline with Jason, wondering why, all of a sudden, he can’t stomach breaking bad news. It’s part of his job. He’s never had a problem before. Why now? Mini-rugby players run onto the pitch. Mums and dads fuss over their little heroes. Laces tied? Gum shields secure? Rory looks down at Jason. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. His mother might be out of rehab for a second time, and, by all accounts, doing well, but Jason is still only seeing her twice a week at access visits. How must he feel witnessing all the TLC that is missing from his life?

  ‘Rory Fenton?’

  Rory turns to see one of the coaches on his way over to him. Rory played rugby with Garry Cooke in college.

  After a brief chat, Garry asks, ‘So. Who’ve you got here?’

  Rory puts his hand on Jason’s shoulder. ‘Future international out half. Jason O’Neill.’

  ‘Is that right? Who does he play with?’

  ‘No one yet.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be interested in turning out with us today, would he? We’re down two players. That tummy bug thing that’s doing the rounds.’

  Rory looks at Jason. ‘What do you think? Want to give it a go? You don’t have to.’

  Jason eyes the pitch longingly. ‘I’ve no uniform.’

  Rory appreciates the change in him. There was a time he’d have to be bribed to do anything.

  Garry takes this as a ‘yes’ and goes off to check his car for one.

  ‘I got no boots,’ Jason says to Rory.

  ‘Your runners will do.’

  ‘Gum shield?’

  ‘Ah, you don’t need one. This is a friendly.’

  The whistle blows. And it’s total chaos, boys of various sizes milling around on top of each other. Rory starts laughing, but then sees that he is the only one. Parents are roaring at the boys; one woman, at the referee. Rory has never witnessed such aggression. No one in rugby gives the ref a hard time. He feels like telling that to the woman with the ruddy, hamster-like cheeks who is now shouting, ‘He’s handling it on the ground, ref!’ Rory is so engrossed with this spectator that he almost misses Jason breaking away, taking off with the ball, skinny legs pumping, face determined. Rory starts to shout. ‘Come on, Jason. Go. Go, go, go. Yes!’ Jason crosses the line and dives for the ground, though he has left the field behind, and needn’t be
so dramatic.

  ‘Wahoo!’ Rory shouts. Jason looks for him in the crowd. And grins.

  When the game-over whistle finally blows, Jason runs to Rory.

  ‘Ai carumba,’ Rory says, grabbing him and throwing him up on his shoulders. ‘You certainly ate their shorts.’

  Jason looks thrilled with himself.

  Garry runs over. ‘So when’s he joining?’

  Jason shouts down, ‘Yeah, when?’

  ‘We’ll see.’ He’ll have to check with Orla.

  They arrive back at Orla’s modest but wonderfully located three-bedroomed semi, of which she is the proud sole owner. Purchased less than a month after the family home was sold, she has been living here for almost five weeks. And loves it. A room for everyone. A garden for Lieutenant Dan. And total control.

  After a gulped-down Coke, loud burp and physical reenactment of his try, Jason charges upstairs to change.

  ‘He’s a natural, Orla. Honest to God, you should have seen him.’ Rory’s eyes are still alight.

  Orla smiles, handing him a mug of hot chocolate. ‘This should thaw you out.’

  He reminds himself he’s not staying. ‘They want him to sign up. I think it’d be great for him to have a passion like rugby, great for his confidence.’

  ‘I’d have to check with his mum.’

  Rory didn’t expect this. ‘Surely she wouldn’t have a problem. For God’s sake, she ignores him most of the time.’

  ‘She’s still his mum. She’d have to agree to anything like that.’ Orla hesitates. ‘I’m just wondering, though. The access visits are twice a week now. Won’t be long before Jason’s going home. I can’t see Naomi bringing him to rugby training every week.’

  Maybe Rory could. He doesn’t know, though. Sunday is his only free day with Louise. ‘Maybe if he took it up now and she saw how happy he is out there, how alive, she’d make the commitment?’

  Orla grimaces. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘It’s not going to happen, is it?’

  ‘Doubt it.’

  Rory feels like punching something. He tells himself to relax. He can’t get emotionally involved. Funny that he has to remind himself of this – he thought it’d be a problem for Orla.

  ‘So,’ she says, in a tone that closes off that line of conversation, ‘how does it feel to be a free man?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I still can’t believe it.’

  ‘Louise must be over the moon.’

  A pause. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So, any startling revelations? Have your eyes been opened?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Brushes with death have a habit of changing your life, the way you look at things.’

  This is the kind of conversation he can no longer have with Orla. He looks away. ‘Nah.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ He picks up Jason’s orange coat that has fallen on the floor and puts it on the back of a chair. ‘He’ll be disappointed about the rugby.’

  ‘I’ll talk to her, Rory. I will try.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He pushes his chair back to go.

  ‘Never thought I’d say it, but you’ll make a great dad, some day.’

  He snorts. ‘Not me.’

  ‘Give me one good reason.’

  ‘Too easy a job to mess up.’ This, he decided on the sideline, remembering how his father had never come to see him play, but how Barry’s dad couldn’t keep away, popping up at every game like a grinning jack-in-the-box, embarrassing everyone, especially his son. Still, at least he was interested…

  ‘You won’t be like him,’ Orla says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You won’t be like your father.’

  ‘What are you, some kind of mind reader?’

  ‘I was married to Owen for twenty years, remember? I know the impact he can have.’

  ‘He didn’t have any impact on Owen.’

  She looks doubtful, but lets it go. ‘You mightn’t think you have it in you, Rory, but let me tell you, I’ve learned a lot from watching you with Jason. You’re so relaxed with him, never expecting anything, never crowding him. If only I’d been like that with Jenna. Instead of suffocating her.’

  He is surprised. ‘You didn’t suffocate Jenna.’

  ‘So why did she run off to boarding school?’

  ‘To study?’ he tries.

  ‘To get away from me.’ She smiles at his shocked expression. ‘And I don’t blame her. When Owen left, she was all I had. I didn’t want to lose her. Every time she went out, I’d check she had her phone. I’d expect her back on time, not five minutes late, no minutes late. Three full meals a day, no less. I tried to get her to discuss her feelings about Owen. No wonder she had to get away.’

  Rory scratches his head. He was right, parenting is way too easy to mess up. Still, he’ll miss the little dude.

  At Rounds, next day, Rory finds himself in a bind. Tadgh O’Driscoll’s various test results are there for everyone to see. Rory’s senior house officer, a nurse-turned-doctor, is more on the ball than most. If Rory doesn’t make the diagnosis, she will, or at least she’ll ask so many questions, he’ll be forced to.

  So he calls it. And it’s official. There’s no way out. Tadgh O’Driscoll will have to be told. But what words can you use to tell a person whose muscles have delivered him a glittering career, that they are going to kill him, wasting slowly away, to a point that in no more than five years, he will be dead? How can Rory, who got off with nothing more than a scratch, be the one to tell him that? O’Driscoll has a wife, a family. Why him? Why not someone like Rory, someone whose death would leave no mark? As soon as he tells O’Driscoll, his life will be as good as over. Rory curses the newly appointed consultant neurologist who is off getting close to nature on the Galapagos Islands before assuming his post. He should be doing this.

  After Rounds, Rory finds plenty of jobs to keep him busy. As the day comes to an end, he reluctantly makes his way to the bedside, reminding himself that Tadgh O’Driscoll doesn’t have much time. He needs what he has – to prepare.

  ‘Is it that bad?’ O’Driscoll jokes, when he sees Rory’s face.

  Rory’s mouth opens. And closes again.

  O’Driscoll’s face falls.

  They’re both silent.

  ‘What did you think of the game?’ O’Driscoll asks suddenly, giving them both an out.

  Rory mumbles something vaguely appropriate, wishing that that was all they had to talk about.

  ‘I’m ready,’ O’Driscoll says eventually.

  Motor neurone disease. Three words. One death sentence. Rory does his best to explain, soften the blow. Does his best to be hopeful, where there is no hope. Does his best not to vomit. He escapes at the first opportunity, trying not to think about the future full of possibilities that stretches out ahead of him.

  13

  It’s the end of February and although Berlin is freezing, Mark – self-appointed tour guide – insists that the best way to see the city is by bike. They wrap up in the caps, scarves and gloves they were advised to bring, rent bicycles and take off, Mark leading the way. The pace is slow and easy as they cycle through the Tiergarten, Berlin’s Central Park. Rory and Louise are side by side, chatting together like they used to. It seems easier now that they are away. Rory hangs back a little. Louise slows to keep pace. They laugh at some private joke, handlebars almost touching. No room on this weekend for heavy conversations. This is about giving Louise what she wants: to forget everything, have a bit of crack, let their hair down and fuck each other’s brains out. That’s what she said. And that’s what he plans to deliver.

  Passing a bright yellow flower shop, lit up outside, Rory slows. They should check it out, he says, to see if they could pick up ideas for Louise’s shop. They stop. Their comrades cycle on, unaware they have deserters. Rory smiles as he watches their backs disappear around a corner. In a few minutes, when they are well on their way, he will text Mark and suggest they meet up later.

  Without him, though, they are lost. But hap
py to be. After the flower shop, they cycle directionless, choosing streets only by the way they look. Slowly, the face of the city changes, the apartment blocks becoming less modern, windows smaller, architecture more basic and sombre. They guess that they have crossed over into the East. Cold now, they stop for coffee and to buy a map if they can find one. They lock their bikes together and wander towards a cobble-stoned area with prettier buildings. They rub gloved hands together and blow into them. Louise puts Vaseline on her chapped lips then kisses Rory to share.

  They find both map and coffee shop, pocket one and hurry into the other. It is tiny and narrow, with high, stuccoed ceilings and gilt-covered walls. They order pastries and hot chocolate and wrap chilled fingers around mugs. Berliners come and go – families, lovers, friends – taking it easy on a Saturday afternoon. Hats and scarves are taken off. Glasses fog up. Conversation. Laughter. Not like a city in recession. Maybe that’s what Dublin needs, Rory thinks, a recession to slow people down, remind them to take their time, remember each other.

  Finally, they check their map and discover that they are in Prenzlauer Berg, on the East. They are miles from their hotel, but not bothered about it. Leaving the coffee shop, they decide to stay in this quaint neighbourhood. They wander in and out of tiny art galleries and boutiques. The sun sets early. And, suddenly, they are in a fairy tale place, with soft street lighting, cobblestones and pretty, brightly lit shop windows. The restaurant they stumble upon is authentic Italian – in the middle of Germany. A culture shock. Not for the locals, though. Everyone seems to know each other, staff and customers.

  When Rory takes out his phone to invite the others to join them, Louise stops him.

  ‘Let’s just text. Tell them we’ll see them in the morning.’

  They lock eyes, smile. And the text is sent.

  ‘Some day,’ Louise says over coffee.

  Mellow and happy, Rory smiles in agreement.

  ‘We wouldn’t be able to do this if we had kids,’ she adds, breaking the spell.