Best to be straight. ‘Dad’s had a stroke.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘He’s in A&E.’
‘Where? Paul’s?’ It’s his parents’ local hospital.
‘Yeah, Mum’s with him. I’m just here now.’
‘Is it bad?’
‘I don’t know. But I think you’d better come.’
‘Oh, God, Rory.’
He thinks about her speeding up from Kildare. ‘Take your time, OK?’
‘Is Owen there?’
‘No. Can’t track him down.’
‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’
Rory’s mother is sitting alone on a hard plastic chair. She looks small and frail. When she sees Rory her eyes become hopeful, as if he’ll have a solution. He crouches down, takes her hands in his and before he can stop himself tells her it will be OK. Because he wants it to be – for her. She has lived most of her life with her husband, depended on him, and loved him. Rory wants to talk to the doctors, but they’re working on his father, so he sits with his mum and wonders if he might have prevented this. If only he’d screened him… but then his father, a doctor himself, would have been indignant at the suggestion.
Restless, he goes outside to call Owen again.
This time, he gets through.
‘Is he OK?’ Owen asks, as if he wants to be told, ‘Yes, he’s fine, this isn’t another life crisis you have to deal with.’
Rory has to disappoint. ‘I don’t know. It’s not good.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know? You’re at the hospital, aren’t you?’
‘I haven’t spoken to anyone yet.’
‘Haven’t you seen him? You’re the neurologist, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Just get here, OK?’ Rory says and kills the line.
He is sitting edgily beside his mother when Siofra arrives, rushing in, looking around for them. Rory’s first thought: she lives in Kildare, and she’s still here before Owen. But he’s glad that she’s first. He stands and she spots him. Her eyes move automatically to their mum and she hurries over and puts her arms around her. She asks all the right questions, questions that never occurred to Rory, including the offer of a cup of tea.
She’s better at this, he thinks.
Rory has seen hundreds of stroke victims, but he is still unprepared for the sight that greets him behind the curtain. His eyes smart and he has to swallow. The man who dominated his life for so long is lying on his side, breathing deeply, his flaccid cheek moving in and out with every breath, his skin drained of colour, his eyes closed. It is too hard to witness. And Rory can’t stay. On the other side of the curtain, he sees that Owen has arrived and is talking to Sinead, the casualty registrar, his face serious, back straight, arms folded. He looks like a man taking charge. Rory has an instant urge to floor him. Owen sees him and nods curtly. Sinead excuses herself. Owen approaches his brother and starts to relate what he has just learnt. It’s as though he has made the diagnosis himself.
‘It’s all right,’ Rory says. ‘I know.’
Owen keeps talking.
‘You better go in to him,’ Rory interrupts rather than punch him, then walks away, leaving Owen with no choice but to go to his father.
Their father is finally admitted to Rory’s ward. He rallies. Weakens. Rallies again. Hope, no hope, hope, confusion. This cycle lasts for days and Rory’s exhausted family look to him for answers. Less than six per cent of his father’s brain is functioning. There is no hope. If Rory doesn’t let them know, they’ll have to hear it from a stranger. Telling his mother is the hardest thing he has ever had to do. For days, he stays with her at the family home, driving her to and from the hospital, making sure she eats, sleeps, takes the tranquillizers prescribed for her, ensuring that she is not alone. Siofra asked her to stay with them, but it is too far from the hospital. In any case, Rory’s mother wants to be at home.
She has just gone to lie down, when Rory gets a call from an upbeat Sergeant O’Neill. ‘Thought you’d want to know. Your assailant has pleaded guilty to both crimes.’
‘Oh.’ Rory closes his eyes in an attempt to concentrate. ‘Good,’ he says, not really knowing the implication of this, and finding it hard to generate the enthusiasm to care.
‘He’s been jailed for a year.’
‘Oh. Right. Good.’
There is a silence on the line. Rory senses that something else needs to be said. Finally, it comes to him. ‘And thank you so much for your efforts.’
‘Just doing our job,’ O’Neill says, but there is pride in his voice.
One afternoon, a fog blows in from the sea. It rolls in fast, like billowing smoke carried on the wind, enveloping the stony façade of the hospital and dropping the temperature instantly. Entering with his mother, Rory feels its chill with a shiver and knows instinctively that his father is dead. His mother looks up at him, fear in her eyes and he puts an arm around her to let her know that he’s here for her.
There will be no best man’s speech. Not from Rory, at least. The funeral falls on the day of Mark and Lesley’s wedding. That morning, Rory, Siofra and Owen gather at the family home. Owen plays the role of chief organizer, but it is Siofra who gets their mother ready for church. In the bathroom, Rory, supposedly washing his hands, is gazing into the turquoise sink that has been here all his life. Here he washed away the results of his first meagre shave and earth from numerous rugby pitches. The taps stand to attention, like soldiers on opposite sides, tiny blue and red caps identifying their allegiances. He stares into the water, clouded now by soap, trying to remember moments of closeness with his father. Owen calls his name. They’re ready to go. It brings him back to when he was a kid, delaying until the last minute to leave for church. It could be his father calling him. He could be alive. They could start over. And get it right.
There is no black limousine. His old man would have hated that. Instead, Owen drives in his car, reversing out onto a road that Rory is more familiar with than any other, the road he grew up on. He glances at his mother, sitting up front. She looks straight ahead, unmoving.
Nobody talks. There is nothing to say.
Arriving deliberately early, Rory is disappointed to see that people have already gathered. Faces he doesn’t know and faces he recognizes from various stages of his life, relatives he hasn’t seen in years, neighbours, everyone older, some by decades. He looks for faces that mean something to him and is relieved to find Orla’s. Jenna’s too. When was that kid last happy? No sign of Tony or the children. Rory imagines them still on the road. No sign of Louise. Not that he had expected her to turn up.
He catches sight of Mark and Lesley walking through the church gates. That they should be here on the morning of their wedding touches him. He tells his family he will be back in a moment and makes his way over to them.
‘Thanks so much for coming,’ he says, holding out his hand to Mark.
Mark uses it to pull Rory into a hug. He bangs him on the back. ‘I’m sorry, man.’
‘Yeah,’ Rory says, not sure how else to answer. He pulls back. ‘Look, I know it’s your big day so don’t feel you have to go to the graveyard or anything. You must’ve a load to do. I’ll see you when you get back from the honeymoon, OK?’
Mark looks at Lesley, then back at Rory. ‘We’re only going to have a few days, Roars. A job’s come through in Birmingham. We’ve only just heard.’
‘That quick? Wow.’ He is taken aback. ‘Congratulations.’ He smiles. ‘It’s all happening for you.’ He glances behind him. Siofra, linking her mother’s arm, is starting to guide her into the church. ‘Listen, I gotta go. Good luck today. And, you know, for ever, I guess.’
‘I’ll give you a call when we’re back,’ Mark says.
Rory nods, then runs to catch up with his family.
Going inside is like entering a time warp. This is the church of his childhood. Over there, the confessional box where he made his First Confession. And there, where the first girl he ever fancied used to sit wit
h her family. Never once, in all his time in this church, did Rory imagine a day he would return to bury his father.
They file into the front pew, Siofra on one side of his mother, Owen on the other, leaving Rory closest to the coffin, the last place he wants to be. He’s relieved when Alex comes running up to sit with ‘Nana’. She seems to wake from her daze, smiling at her grandson and sitting him up on her lap. She plants a kiss on the top of his head and holds him close.
In front of Rory, the cloth on the altar proclaims Alleluia. Is that appropriate, he wonders. Is this a celebration? Perhaps so. His father prayed enough to go straight up – if that’s what actually happens. There’s a book open on the altar. The bible, Rory supposes. There’s a chalice. One, two, three, four, five, six gold candlesticks. Six lit candles. A golden cupboard the name of which escapes Rory. All these things remind Rory of his father. Whose first love had been the church. Rory wonders why he hadn’t become a priest. A priest openly declares his love of God. But he doesn’t have to declare love to anyone else. Did his father ever tell his mother he loved her? He certainly never made any such declarations to Rory. And now he is gone. Is it easier, Rory wonders, to lose a parent you were close to? At least you’d have something to cling to, memories of good times you had together. Less regrets.
It is a straightforward, simple Mass, uncomplicated by tributes of any kind – the way his old man would have wanted it. There’s singing. Some prayers in Irish. And out of the blue, a memory comes to Rory: he is small – six, maybe seven – and in the bath. He is putting his head back so the shampoo doesn’t run into his eyes. His father, rinsing his hair, says ‘good boy’. Rory is thrilled at that. He’s done something good and his father has noticed. The memory warms him. If only he could think of more. Build a mental scrapbook of them. Rewrite his past. Pretend.
Outside, wellwishers separate Rory from the rest of his family, some shaking his hand, some hugging him, all talking of his father in saintly tones. One man holds Rory’s elbow while he shakes his hand, another bangs his shoulder.
‘He was a good man,’ says a woman he’s never met before, who is wearing soft, yellow and white shoes that look comfortable and silly.
‘A good doctor,’ proclaims a man with a trouser leg tucked into his sock.
‘I’m sorry, Rory,’ says another stranger. He wonders how she knows his name. When she walks away, he notices that the stitching at the back of her jacket is undone and the lining is gaping.
Then through the crowd, Louise is there, coming to him, holding his eyes with hers. Everything around him quietens. He wonders if it’s really happening, afraid to move in case it’s an illusion.
When she reaches him she just smiles, eyes sad. She has been crying. Which confuses him. She didn’t really know his father – Rory had made sure of that. Her face is so sweet to him, so familiar, and yet, there is something different about it too. Something softer, gentler. He continues to doubt the reality of what he is seeing. Until she speaks.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’
She smiles again and for a moment they’re quiet. Just looking at each other.
Her voice is hoarse when she finally speaks. ‘I just want you to know that I’m here for you, Rory. If you need me.’
She is so close he could reach out and touch her. He knows that all he has to do is say – I need you – and she’ll be back in his life, in some context at least. He opens his mouth to speak, but remembers how she didn’t need him and pride hardens his heart.
‘Why would I need you?’ he asks, looking at her as if she is the woman in yellow shoes, as if he doesn’t know her.
She holds her ground, doesn’t falter. ‘Because,’ she says, chin high, ‘I know what it’s like to lose a parent who was impossible to love. I know what it’s like when they’ve gone and you know you’ll never get a chance to make it right between you. I know what that’s like, Rory. That’s why.’ She smiles, her eyes filling. Then she turns. And before he can stop her, she is walking quickly away. He wants to go after her, tell her that of course he needs her. More than that. He loves her. But he doesn’t move, immobilized by wounded pride.
There is food for the people who have travelled and anyone who wants to come back to the house. Siofra has organized caterers. It is the biggest gathering his parents have ever had. His father is probably glad he’s not there. His house is full. Rory stands at the kitchen sink, his back to the crowd, staring out the window. Grass is growing over the slabs that were once a path. The box hedges they used to jump over as kids, pretending to be horses, need to be cut back. A green chaffinch alights on one of the leylandii the new neighbours have planted, blocking his parents’ light. Another memory surfaces, this time of birdwatching. His father had taken him. Just him. He had seemed happy then, his dad, not saying much, just telling Rory which birds were which and how to identify them by their markings, flight and calls. Rory was in heaven. Until he had dropped the binoculars on his bare foot and broken a toe, putting an end to birdwatching for ever. As soon as the toe healed, Rory had asked to go again, but his father said he was too busy. So Rory did it alone. Whenever he was out and saw a new bird, he’d check the book when he got home. He knew them all. Tried to tell his father about them. But it didn’t make a difference. He never took Rory birdwatching again. Rory never knew why.
Rory drifts into the sitting room. It’s crowded and noisy and people want to talk about his father. They are not his memories. He wanders out to the front room, which hasn’t been opened to people. He takes off his jacket, tie. Sits in his father’s chair, back to the door, looking at framed photos from his childhood. There aren’t many. He remembers trips to the beach in the Ford Cortina, he, Owen and Siofra standing up in the back when his father was about to go over a bump, everyone in good form, so long as no one did anything to upset the boss. And sometimes Rory did – to break the tension, get it over with.
Rory looks at the photos. Parents. Children. He still feels like a child when in the company of a parent. And, he guesses, that’s a reality. As long as your parents are alive, you’re still their child. Then they’re gone. And there’s no one above you. No safety net. You have to grow up, have a family of your own, keep the cycle going. He hears the door open at the other side of the room. He knows that he is hidden from view. If he keeps still maybe whoever it is will go away. The door closes.
‘How dare you?’ whispers a voice.
Silence.
‘This is your grandfather’s funeral and you use it to get your hands on alcohol? I don’t believe you, Jenna. How many have you had?’
‘None. You took care of that.’
‘This is half gone.’
‘Well, a half then. Obviously.’
Should Rory clear his throat, let them know he’s here?
‘You’re grounded,’ Orla says.
‘God, Mum, where’s your imagination?’ Jenna sounds simultaneously bored and condescending. ‘Couldn’t you’ve come up with something more creative? A public flogging maybe?’
He’s definitely not budging now.
‘I’ve had enough, Jenna.’
‘So have I. Enough of you treating me like a baby. I’m sixteen years old.’
‘Too young to be drinking.’
‘Too old to be told what to do by her mummy.’
‘Enough. I want you to stay here and think about what you’ve done…’
‘What’s this, Time Out?’
‘Call it what you like. If you want me to stop treating you like a child, stop acting like one.’
Rory hears the door close, then one word muttered in anger – ‘bitch’. Nothing for a second, then he hears her coming further into the room. He panics. What will he do? He can’t let her know he heard all that. He closes his eyes, tilts his head to one side and breathes slowly and deeply. He hears her sit in one of the chairs opposite and for a moment, nothing else. Then her sassy voice. ‘I know you’re awake.’
He doesn’t budge.
‘You heard
all that, didn’t you?’
He opens one eye, then another, pulls a face. ‘I’d my ears blocked.’
‘Sure.’ But she smiles.
He makes to get up. ‘Want me to leave you in peace?’
‘God, no. Someone should keep an eye on me – I’ve had a lot of alcohol.’
He laughs.
‘Were your parents like that?’ she asks.
He puts his hands up. ‘Look. I don’t want to get involved.’
‘You drank, though, didn’t you, when you were a teenager? I bet you did.’
‘We all make mistakes.’
‘I knew it. I knew you did.’
The last thing he wants to do is glorify it. ‘It’s not something I’m proud of, Jenna. If it wasn’t for rugby it might have got out of control.’
‘What are you talking about? Rugby heads are real drinkers.’
‘Some are. But I took the game seriously, the training, the whole lot. I wanted to play for Ireland.’ He laughs, realizing how ridiculous that sounds now. He didn’t have the talent. His drive to make his father notice him only took him so far.
‘When you did drink, what were your parents like?’
‘They didn’t know.’
‘You were lucky,’ she says.
He’s tempted to stand up for Orla, but knows that if he does he’ll lose any influence he might have on his niece. ‘My luck was finding rugby.’
Jenna looks towards the door. ‘It was just a drink. She needn’t have lost it. My grandfather’s dead. My father’s girlfriend turns up looking like she’s got twins in there. Jesus. You can see why I needed a drink.’
As a doctor, he doesn’t like the sound of a sixteen-year-old needing a drink. He says nothing.
‘She can’t see anything. I don’t think she was ever young.’
Any response would be in defence of Orla. So he gives none.
‘She’s an agony aunt, but she knows nothing about agony.’
He wants to say that she’s had her fair share. But he also wants to say something that has occurred to him too late. ‘Parents die, Jenna, all of a sudden they die. And they’re gone. And it’s too late to make things right.’
Do You Want What I Want? Page 22
