‘Easy,’ she says, perking up. ‘I’ve checked it all out. You just provide me with a,’ she pauses, ‘donation. And off I go.’
‘To a clinic?’
She waves away that concept with her hand. ‘Home insemination kit.’
He tries not to imagine what that looks like or where she got it, if she already has. ‘Wouldn’t a clinic be better?’
‘Maybe, but in this wonderful country of ours, the only option for artificial insemination is using a sperm bank. No facility if you know the donor. Medical Council guidelines or some shit.’
The words ‘Medical Council guidelines’ ring alarm bells. As a doctor, he can’t go against them. Then again, he wouldn’t be carrying out the procedure. Not that he’s doing this. But the questions are piling up. ‘How many donations would it take, hypothetically?’
‘Up to eight – one a month, until we hit the jackpot.’
Sounds like Las Vegas.
When he has finally exhausted every question, he says, ‘Liz, I don’t see myself going for this…’
‘I’m not asking you to make a decision now. Just think about it. Please, Rory, give it some thought. That’s all I ask. Think about what you’d do if time was running out and you knew you might never have a child.’
He doesn’t have to think.
When he picks up Jason, straight after, he barely hears a word Orla says to him and now, in the car, on the way to the barber, Jason has to repeat his question three times before Rory manages to concentrate long enough to digest it. Has he ever done the splits?
No. No, he hasn’t.
‘I done the splits once and nearly broke me crown jewels,’ Jason volunteers.
‘Crown jewels?’
‘Willy.’
Rory laughs. They walk into the barbers, a no-frills place where Rory has witnessed the slow, imperceptible to others, retreat of his hairline, something that worried him once. It is a short wait before being asked to take their seats, side by side, in front of the mirrors and have their hair sprayed wet. Rory looks at Jason through the mirror. The boy is sitting upright, a black cape wrapped around his neck, admiring himself. Rory looks back at his own reflection. Father material?
He’d like to think so. He should tell Louise. But he knows what her reaction would be. Theoretically, though, this is the perfect solution to his problem. He could stay with the woman he loves and become a father. Well, not perfect, but a lot closer than what’s available to him at the moment. The barber says something. He has no idea what but nods anyway. What if he told Louise and she agreed that he should go ahead? Would she mean it? Or would she change her mind, too late? Rory tries to think ahead. What if he and Louise stayed together and never had children, but he had one with Liz – he’d be a parent and Louise would have missed out. Or what if they had a family together – there would always be That Other Child.
Jason is saying something.
Rory turns to him. ‘Holy shit,’ he says. ‘Where’s his hair?’
The barber, who looks more like a retired boxer, is unruffled. ‘You asked for a zero blade.’
‘I did not.’
‘OK. He asked. I checked with you. You said go ahead.’
‘I did not.’
‘OK, then, you nodded.’
‘Cool, isn’t it?’ Jason is turning his practically bald head from side to side.
‘Jesus. What’ll I tell his foster mother?’
The barber thinks for a moment, then smiles, ‘Lice?’
‘I haven’t got lice,’ says Jason indignantly.
‘Not any more you don’t.’
Rory gets out of his chair feeling weary. He pulls up the hood on Jason’s favourite grey top, telling him it’s cold outside. Jason puts his hands in his pockets, head down and slopes out as though trying to recreate a look he has seen somewhere before. And suddenly, Rory flashes back. To the attack. Then forward to the future. Jason’s future. All addicts start off as innocent kids.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he says to the boy. ‘It’s not that cold. You can take the hood down.’
‘Weirdo,’ Jason says.
How can he let him go back to that? And in just one day.
15
Rory and Louise are driving to Orla’s for Jason’s mini send-off party.
‘I can’t believe how quickly the time has passed,’ Louise says. ‘I can’t believe he’s going back already.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ll miss our Saturday lunches with him.’
Rory looks at her, surprised.
‘He reminds me of myself, when I was a kid,’ she explains.
‘How?’
‘Oh, the tough act.’ He imagines her as a spunky kid that he instantly likes. ‘His adult take on the world. The motherly concern he shows for the one person who should be mothering him.’
Rory puts a hand on her thigh. She never talks about her childhood. But suddenly he understands how tough it must have been.
‘The way he has blossomed when shown genuine affection. You should be proud of what you’ve done for him, Rory.’
He is proud, though he’d never admit it. ‘I’ve only done what Tom did for me.’ All those years ago.
The introductions are short. The only people at the party outside of themselves and Jason, are Orla, Jenna, Orla’s friend, Sal, and Naomi. After months of imagining Jason’s mother, he is surprised by the reality. How young she looks. Not much more than a child herself. A faded child with haunted eyes, tired, bleached out hair and bad teeth. She looks uncomfortable, out of place, as though this is something she has to get through, before she can take her son home. Rory has to remind himself that this is the person who put her son in danger in countless ways yet refuses to allow him to play rugby on the basis that it is dangerous. What, she’s had a sudden rush of conscience now that she’s clean and is overcompensating on caution? More a case of not wanting to put herself out, Rory guesses. Either way, he is amazed at how Jason accepted her ruling without question, as if afraid to upset the unsteady equilibrium that has begun to settle on their lives.
‘I’m just going to talk to Naomi,’ Louise says.
Before Rory can ask, ‘Why in the world would you do that?’ she is gone.
He sees Naomi step back when Louise approaches, but whatever Louise says seems to set her at ease.
He turns. Looks around. Jenna is talking to Sal. Jason is busy giving Lieutenant Dan more doggie treats than is generally allowed. A smell of baking comes from the kitchen. This is where Rory finds Orla taking cocktail sausages from the oven.
‘How can you do this?’ he asks.
‘What?’
‘Celebrate.’
‘He’s going home. It’s supposed to be a victory.’
Rory considers the high-risk environment he’s returning to. ‘Some victory.’
‘OK, then. It’s called putting on a brave face.’
Rory starts lancing the sausages with the cocktail sticks she has handed him. ‘What are you going to do now?’
‘Miss him. Try not to. I’ve a course coming up. Introduction to psychology, a one-week residential course in Cambridge.’
‘Cambridge?’ What Rory wouldn’t give to escape for a week – from the deep disappointment he feels that Louise doesn’t want a family with him, from Liz’s proposition that has been haunting him all week, and from the terminal diagnoses he once made without blinking but can no longer face since delivering Tadgh O’Driscoll’s death sentence. ‘It’d be good to get away.’
‘Yeah, and it’s a great course. Really good guy running it. James Bingley. You must have heard of him.’ Rory hasn’t. He’s not into psychology. ‘I’ve read all his books. Didn’t think I’d make the course, but with Jenna at boarding school and staying with her father at the weekend, and Jason back with Naomi, I can do it. Must be fate.’ Rory doesn’t believe in fate. ‘He does a whole module on taking control of your life. Something I could do with right now.’
Something Rory could do with too. But
he’s dubious. ‘Do you really think a one week course could achieve that?’
‘People swear by him. I’ve a programme here somewhere,’ she says, opening a drawer. She hands it to him. ‘Been reading nothing else for the past week.’
He skims it, semi-interested – until he sees that there is a module called ‘getting beyond fear’. He thinks of his fear of breaking bad news, of making the wrong decision with Liz, of losing Louise if he pushes too hard for a family. ‘And this guy has all the answers?’ He is cynical.
‘No. But he gives you the skills to help you find them for yourself. Or so they say.’
‘It’s probably full at this stage,’ he says, talking himself out of it.
‘The course?’ She sounds surprised. ‘I don’t know. I could check. D’you want to go?’
‘I don’t know. Probably not.’ People sitting around contemplating their navels.
‘Let me check.’
‘Nah. Forget it. It’s probably full.’
‘I’ll check.’
Rory takes the plate of sausages out to the sitting room and places them on the coffee table. He sits for a moment, glancing over at Naomi. She looks so frail. How will she do it – give her child everything he needs, stay off drugs, protect him from that life? Love him? Rory’s eyes follow Jason, who is heading for the kitchen. If she loved him, truly loved him, she’d understand how much he wants, needs, to play rugby. Too dangerous! Doesn’t she think that overdosing in front of him is too dangerous, or shooting up, or leaving contaminated needles lying around? And what is Louise talking to her about anyway?
He gets up suddenly and goes after Jason, finding him at the kitchen table building up a store of crisps and asking Orla if he can take them with him. For a moment, it looks to Rory as if her heart is going to break, but she forces a smile and tells him she’ll pack a bag of goodies. Rory knows it’s going to be a big one.
‘Hey, buddy,’ he says to the boy. ‘I got you…’ (he can’t seem to say ‘a going away present’) ‘… something small.’ He picks up a large box covered in bright red wrapping paper that he has hidden in the kitchen. Inside is the only present he truly longed for as a child, a proper train set. Though his was a middle-class family, very little was spent on birthdays – on principle – his father’s principle of children not turning out ‘soft’, and learning that they have to work in life for what they want. Rory had got used to it and learned to accept that that’s just the way it was. But Christmas was different. Someone else was in charge of presents. A jolly man with a white beard. Christmas was when Rory allowed himself hope. Every year he had asked in vain for a train set. When finally, ‘Happy Hobo’, arrived, he stopped believing. This was no train set. This was something altogether different, a standalone engine, no controls, no carriages. You pushed down on the chimney to make it go. Now, in front of him, he watches Jason’s face light up as he sees, emerging from the wrapping, an electric, redengined, six-carriage train set. Tracks. Bridges. Controls. Jason is speechless – for a change. He jumps up and hugs Rory.
‘Hey, look,’ Rory says, to distract himself from the emotion he feels. ‘A Simpson’s cake.’
Orla has just removed it from the fridge and is decorating it with candles.
‘Wow,’ says Jason. ‘And it’s not even my birthday.’
‘Want to help me light them?’ Orla asks.
‘How come there’s nine?’
‘One for every month you were here.’ Her voice breaks and she turns away.
‘Hey,’ Rory says to Jason, ‘let’s stick this one on Homer’s ass.’
The boy laughs. ‘Sicko.’
They carry the cake inside. Everyone gathers. But the gesture falls flat. There are no songs for goodbye. So Jason blows out the candles in silence. Everyone cheers. Rory watches as the boy’s eyes find his mother as if to say, ‘Did you see that? I got them all in one go.’ Rory watches her reaction. When she smiles, he feels relief. Maybe she does love him. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe she’ll stay off. He hopes for this, yet all he sees before him is a nervous young woman surrounded by strangers, just wanting to get home with her son to the life she knows. He almost feels sorry for her. With his slice of cake, he sits beside Jenna on the couch.
‘Hey,’ he says.
She is looking at Jason. ‘Who’s he going to play chess with now?’ she asks.
‘You taught him? I never knew.’
‘He’s a real smart kid.’ She pauses. ‘I thought he was a pain in the ass in the beginning. Always hogging the telly.’ She smiles. ‘But if I’d a kid brother, I’d want one just like him. He’s a tough little softie.’
Tough little softie. Rory looks at her and sees that Jason is not alone in that. He puts an arm around her shoulders and gives her a little squeeze.
When it’s time for Jason to go, most of the ‘party’ leaves with him, Orla and Jenna driving him and his mother home, the boot full. Rory and Louise stand at their car, waving goodbye.
Driving back, Louise asks Rory if he’ll keep in touch.
‘I’d like to. I’ve said I would. But what if he gets back to his old life and just wants to get on with it? I don’t want to be sticking my nose in where it’s not wanted.’
She is quiet for a moment, thinking it through. ‘I’d be very surprised if that happened. You mean a lot to him. If you disappeared off the scene now, he’d think you’d stopped caring what happens to him.’
‘I’m not going to disappear. But I don’t want to interfere. Once a week is a lot. Maybe I should cut back to once a fortnight or once a month.’
‘Play it by ear. See how it goes.’
‘Yeah.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘If it does peter out, eventually, I’d like to think I’ve passed something on to him – a love of movies, rugby – something.’
‘I imagine you already have.’
His frustration erupts. ‘What good will it do if she never brings him anywhere?’
‘She is going to try, Rory.’
‘And you believe that?’
‘Yes. I do.’
‘Why were you even talking to her?’
‘Because I know how tough it is for her. And I wanted to help.’
He snorts.
‘I know her life, Rory. It was my mother’s.’
‘Your mother wasn’t a junkie.’ There is disgust in his voice.
And now anger in hers. ‘I’m sorry, but which do you think is worse, an addiction to drugs or alcohol, because from where I’m sitting, I don’t see that there’s a hell of a difference. Not for the kid.’
He says nothing, appreciating how hard it was for Louise, but thinking that alcoholics don’t expose their kids to AIDS and hepatitis.
‘She’s not the enemy, Rory. Helping her is helping Jason. I was trying to encourage her, make sure she’s accessing all the support that’s available to her. Believe it or not, I was trying to help Jason.’
‘I was thinking of going on a psychology course,’ he says to Louise, in bed, a few evenings later. There has been a cancellation. And that has decided him to go. ‘It’s in Cambridge.’
‘You, psychology?’
‘Yeah, why not?’
‘I didn’t think you were into that kind of thing.’
‘I’m not. Usually. I just thought it might help at work.’ He’s told her of the problems he’s been having breaking bad news. And she seemed to appreciate that he was being more open with her.
‘It’s still worrying you, isn’t it?’ she says.
‘A bit.’
‘And you think this course might help?’
He tells her what Orla said about Bingley.
‘Hang on. You’re going with Orla?’
‘Is that OK?’
She just looks at him.
‘I don’t have to go if you don’t want me to.’
She pinches her lower lip between her thumb and index finger. It is a moment before she lets it go. ‘If you want to go, you should go.’
‘Maybe I should leave it.’
>
She is quiet.
‘I’ll leave it,’ he says again.
She runs a hand through her hair. ‘Look, Rory. Do you genuinely think this course could sort the problem out?’
‘I don’t know, but I’d like to give it a try.’
‘Then go. Sort it out.’
‘You could come,’ he says, enthusiastically, the idea suddenly occurring to him. ‘Take a week off. Stay with me at the hotel. The course is only nine to five. You could see Cambridge. And we could hang out as soon as I’m finished. I could even skive off a bit. It’d do you good to get a break.’ Then again, how is he going to make all these decisions if she’s there with him?
She seems to be considering it. Then says, ‘Nah, you go ahead. I can’t leave the shop that long. Not yet. No, you go.’
‘You sure?’
She nods. Then a thought occurs to her. ‘Will you be able to get time off?’
‘I’m due quite a bit, though I mightn’t even have to use it up. This is all about patient communication. And there’s a big PR push on in the hospital at the moment, thanks to some really bad press on the Joe Duffy show. They’re big into courses like this.’
The hotel in Cambridge where the course is being held turns out to be a basic three-star overlooking the Cam, which looks more like a canal than a river. The lobby is busy with people checking in. Orla and Rory join the queue. In front of them is a woman of about fifty, with tangerine hair, tight-fitting clothes in various shades of purple and an enormous black shoulder bag covered with silver studs. When she gets to the desk and the receptionist hands her the keys of a ‘double room’, she insists that she had booked a suite. Her accent is American but diluted. Rory wonders if she will be on the course. He also wonders if he has made a mistake. Does he really want to be trapped with a group of strangers in a faded hotel for an entire week? What kind of people go on psychology courses anyway?
Finally, check-in. There doesn’t seem to be anybody to help with luggage. Normally, Rory would be pleased. Problem is, the lift is out of order. And Rory’s groin is killing him, thanks to an injury sustained on the pitch one evening after a phone call from Liz checking to see if he’d made a decision. He clenches his teeth as he carries both his and Orla’s luggage up the timber stairs. Lights click on by sensor as they make their way up. By the time he gets to the second floor, he feels he has given himself a hernia. At least they are on the same corridor. Four doors apart.
Do You Want What I Want? Page 11
