My Life in Shambles: A Novel

by Halle, Karina

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks after a moment, her eyes glued to the road.

  “About what?”

  “Whatever has you driving like a maniac?”

  “Sorry.” I take my foot off the pedal even more. “There was bad news.”

  She pales. “Oh no. About your father?”

  I nod, rubbing my lips together into a thin line. “He has six weeks at most.”

  She gasps softly and reaches across the seat, putting her hand on my arm. “I am so, so sorry, Padraig.”

  “Me too,” I tell her. “I thought I had more time. How do I repair what I had with him when we don’t have any time?”

  She clamps her mouth shut and huffs. “Honestly,” she says after a beat, “and don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think you should be focused on what you need to repair. I think you need to focus on making him as comfortable as possible.”

  She’s right. I’m being selfish. I know that. But it still hurts. It hurts knowing that this is what it’s coming down to now. About making him more comfortable before he dies.

  He’s going to die in that cottage and he’s going to die the way that Gail said he would, deeply unhappy. Because I can’t reach him. I can’t fix him.

  I can’t even fix myself.

  I…

  Suddenly the car starts going faster and I’m hit with a wave of fatigue like no other.

  Oh shite.

  Oh no.

  Not now.

  I grip the wheel tight and look down at my feet because I can’t feel them at all, I can’t move them at all, they’re dead weight on the accelerator.

  “What’s going on? Slow down!” Valerie yells as I keep the car in a straight line down this country road but even then I’m starting to lose strength in my arms, the strength to grip the wheel, and we’re speeding faster and faster, the green fields flying past us.

  What do I do? What do I do?

  God, please, what do I do?

  “Padraig!” Valerie says, panicking as the car starts to swerve. “What’s happening?”

  “Take the wheel,” I manage to say.

  “What?!”

  “Please,” I say, my hands dropping into my lap. She quickly leans over to grab the steering wheel, trying to keep it straight.

  With what little strength I have, I grab my leg at the knee and I move it off the accelerator. It’s like moving a log.

  The car starts to slow, wavering across the road as Val tries to control the wheel where she is, just as a car approaches, coming fast in the opposite direction.

  “Shit!” Valerie screams, yanking the wheel hard away from the dividing line. The car spins on the icy road a few times and I don’t know where we’re going to end up until it heads into a low ditch. She screams again and the front of the car plows into the grass with a thunk, coming to a sudden stop, sticking in at an angle.

  “Oh my god,” she says, waving her hands in the air. “Oh my god. I can’t believe that. We almost died. And that fucker didn’t even stop to check on us!”

  She looks at me, her hands at my face. “Are you okay? What happened? You lost control of your legs? What happened?”

  I stare at her, my thoughts slow and heavy and laden with guilt.

  I could have killed us both.

  I shouldn’t be driving at all.

  I’ve been in denial long enough.

  “Padraig,” she says, pressing her fingers firmly into my cheek, forcing me to meet her determined eyes. “Tell me what the hell is going on with you. Tell me or I’m telling everyone what just happened and what’s been happening. I have a feeling you don’t want anyone to know.”

  I try and swallow. “I know. I owe it to ye.”

  She exhales and takes my hands into her hands, staring at me with pleading eyes. “Okay then. Please, let me in.”

  “Maybe we should push the car out of the ditch first.”

  She shakes her head. “No way. You tell me now. I’ll get the car out of the ditch after.”

  Fuck it all. Here it goes.

  I take in a shaking breath, adrenaline still running through me.

  “Before the accident, I wasn’t feeling all that well,” I tell her, my words coming out slow. “I had pain behind my eyes and I was getting dizzy. Sometimes my hands and feet would tingle. I figured I was drinking too much and had a bad cold. Seemed trivial. Then, the accident happened. I had the ball, I was running down the pitch. I knew someone was coming for me and I was prepared to side step. I’m quick on my feet, that’s my game, and I have eyes in the back of my head. Except my eyes decided to stop working and so did my balance. It happened so fast. I was tackled on the side and I hit the ground hard. Don’t remember much after that except being in the locker room and the doctors telling me I had a concussion from the fall.”

  That part of the story I had told so many times. The next part is different. “I was healing for weeks, right? I still got dizzy sometimes and there was a weird buzzing down my spine, but my head just took a hit so that’s normal. I assumed that I’d go back to the game soon. On New Year’s Eve, before I met you at the pub, I had an appointment with my neurologist. I’d just gotten the bad news from my nan, so more bad news was the last thing I expected. But he told me that they noticed some things on the MRI scans and they aligned with my symptoms, especially the more we talked.”

  I pause. “Do ye know what the myelin is? It’s a fatty tissue that covers your nerves, sort of like how an electrical wire is covered. Well … I had lesions that appear as scars on my myelin, in places where it was lost. Scarring in my brain and my spinal cord. The scars disrupt the impulses of the nerves. Those are the symptoms of MS. That’s what the doctor thinks I have.”

  And there it is.

  The truth.

  The words I have been avoiding ever since Dr. Byrne told me, the words that ripped the world as I knew it apart.

  I expect to hear her gasp in shock, but Valerie just nods, frowning. “Many scars,” she says softly.

  “What?”

  “That’s what multiple sclerosis means. Many scars. Kind of like me.”

  “Yeah. In a way, like you. Except you’ve been getting better ever since your accident. And me? I’m only going to get worse.”

  “You can’t think like that.”

  “How can I not? You’ve been with me in this short amount of time and it’s getting worse as the days go on.” I’m having a hard time trying to hide the fear in my voice.

  “There are treatments.”

  “How do ye know? Are you an expert?”

  She tilts her head sympathetically. “No, but I know people with MS. My aunt has it. She’s improved it with her diet.”

  “Improved it but not cured it.”

  “You know there is no cure. You just have to learn to live with it and manage it.”

  “I don’t want to learn to live with it!” I yell, the words roaring out of me and taking both of us by surprise. I try and breathe and calm down but it’s too much, all of this fucking shite. “I don’t want it at all. I want my life back. I want to go back to the game and go back to being normal, go back to worrying about nothing. I don’t want to lose my dad. I don’t want to lose myself.”

  It’s fucking breaking me.

  I close my eyes and try to breathe, the frustration and anger and sorrow billowing up inside my chest like thick smoke, suffocating me.

  “You won’t lose yourself, I promise,” Valerie says, climbing on top of the center console to put her arms around me, burying her head in my neck. “I won’t let you.”

  Instinctively, I hold her, as tight as my body will allow, breathing in her smell, feeling the comfort of her heart and the hope in her promise.

  I hold her.

  And hold her.

  And hold her.

  15

  Valerie

  “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” Padraig asks for the millionth time.

  “Get. In,” I say sternly, pointing at the passenger seat b
eside me.

  He takes another look at the B&B, as if he’s never going to see it again, and reluctantly gets in. “Jesus, your legs are short,” he says, adjusting the seat.

  “No they aren’t. Your legs are long,” I tell him. “Now buckle up.”

  “Oh, you can bet I’ll buckle up. I should have brought a helmet.”

  “Hey, you were the one who crashed this car. You don’t get to be snarky.”

  “But it’s fun,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.

  It’s been a week since Padraig lost control of the Cayenne and went into the ditch. The SUV itself didn’t suffer any damage other than a minor dent, but Padraig hasn’t been so lucky.

  He’s been doing better since then, in terms of his MS. But mentally, I think he’s really taken a beating. He’s done nothing but apologize profusely for the accident, drowning in the guilt and shame of it all.

  Honestly, I’m just so glad that he finally opened up to me.

  I’ve been doing nothing but reading up on it and learning the best that I can. But still, the fact that it has been getting worse meant that he had to make another doctor’s appointment, and that’s where we’re heading today, back to Dublin for a night.

  Of course, I don’t think he should drive anymore, not until we see the doctor, and he also doesn’t want to tell anyone in his family what’s going on, so getting a ride there was out of the question. It was either he drives or I do.

  I adjust the rearview mirror and see Agnes standing in the doorway to the house, waving goodbye. They’d wondered why I was driving so I had to tell them I was a pro at this point and drove his car all the time.

  Luckily this thing isn’t standard because then we’d be stalling before we even get going.

  I start the car, roll down the window, and wave goodbye, and then we’re off and I’m taking this car down the driveway at roughly one mile an hour.

  Padraig stares at me for a moment. “You know the car can go faster, yeah? It’s a Porsche.”

  “I think it’s been going fast enough lately, thank you,” I tell him, slowing at the main road. I look left, I look right, and then look left and right again as I keep forgetting what side of the road is what.

  Holding my breath, I turn onto the road and Padraig goes, “Wrong side, wrong side,” and I quickly veer into the other lane. Thank god there are no cars around.

  “This is going to be a long drive,” he remarks with a sigh.

  “Hey, I can drive around Manhattan, okay? This is a piece of cake. As long as there are no roundabouts.”

  Fifty million roundabouts and several close calls later, we arrive in Dublin. I park us at the hotel’s valet, way fancier than the one that my sisters and I stayed at, and check into the room.

  It’s gorgeous and sprawling, with a view of the park across the street. I feel like I’ve been swept away into the Victorian era. I told Padraig that I would have loved to stay at his house in the city, but he was insistent that we treat this like a mini vacation and booked the hotel instead.

  The bed is king-size and extra inviting at the moment. Even though I’m tired from the drive, the fact is, Padraig and I haven’t really been alone together since the night at Alistair’s pub. He snuck into my room one night and went down on me, which I am totally not complaining about, but that’s been about it, and the thing with Padraig is, once you get some, you want more.

  A lot more.

  Now that he’s standing in the room and eyeing the bed too, looking as devilishly sexy as always, I’m having a hard time keeping my clothes on.

  “When is the appointment?” I ask, starting to unbutton my coat.

  “In fifteen minutes.”

  Ah shit. I guess that’s what I get for driving so damn slow. Luckily we’re taking a taxi because I’d take forever to get there.

  The sex will have to wait.

  I button my coat back up.

  “I love seeing ye so angry and horny,” he says to me as I head to the door. “Best combination, methinks.”

  I give him a cheeky smile, and he pats me on the ass as we head out into the hall. We hold hands without thought of it until the moment we step outside of the hotel and BLAM.

  I’m blinded.

  Flashbulbs are going off in our faces and I’m blinking, trying to see past them.

  I don’t know how it’s possible but there are at least five photographers on the steps of the hotel, taking photos of us.

  “Padraig!” one of the photographers yells. “Who is she?”

  “Padraig! Over here. Give us a smile. Tell us your name, girl.”

  I open my mouth to say something but Padraig leans in and whispers harshly, “Don’t say anything.”

  So I just smile as he leads me down the steps to the waiting car, and even though I should be super annoyed at these pictures and invasiveness, a tiny thrill runs through my head:

  Maybe my mom will see this and be proud of me.

  How stupid is that?

  Even so, I smile at the cameras and suck in my stomach, ever so grateful that I’m wearing a coat, and stick out my chin so I don’t look like I have five of them. I even do a little “royal wave” as I get in the back seat of the car, the hotel staff holding the door open for me.

  This must be how Sandra feels.

  I can see how she thrives on it.

  “Wow,” I say to Padraig after the driver confirms the hospital address with him. “That was crazy! That doesn’t always happen, does it?” I think back to New Years when I didn’t see a single paparazzi around us.

  “No, it doesn’t,” he says. “Unless I’m with a lady.”

  My stomach burns at the thought of the other ladies, though I know in my heart they were never a serious thing.

  “How did they know?”

  “Oh, I’m sure someone at the hotel tipped them off. Said I’ve been spotted with a woman. Then they swarm over like locusts.”

  “Do you get them at your house?” I ask.

  “I did the day after the injury. They practically camped outside wanting to get a soundbite. It’s one reason why I wanted to stay in the hotel. I hate having them close to my house, to my private life, and the like.”

  I pause. “You didn’t want me to speak to them.”

  “I don’t want them to know your name,” he says, and he gives my hand a squeeze. “Not because I’m ashamed of ye, but…” He trails off and eyes the driver, who is obviously listening.

  And I know what he’s saying. If they found out I was Valerie Stephens and did a quick search, well that makes this whole fake engagement a lot more complicated. It’s hard enough keeping it straight when we’re with his family, but if the whole world (or at least Ireland) is watching?

  We get to the hospital in record time, even though the taxi driver seemed to want to keep us forever, and again I’m reminded that Padraig’s life outside Shambles is completely different. Here, in Dublin, I really feel his star power, I see the way people look at him. Not the way they look at family or a neighbor, but with lust.

  Even as we are escorted into the doctor’s office by the receptionist, she’s looking me over. I know that the last thing Padraig wants is news to come out of his diagnosis since that will end his career before he can wrap up the odds and ends, and I know that the staff here wouldn’t rat on a patient. But she definitely is surprised to see me with him, like we don’t belong together.

  It’s just because of his reputation, I remind myself. It’s nothing to do with you. Stop thinking like your mother.

  Padraig, meanwhile, is nervous. He’s tapping his fingers against his knee, fidgeting in his seat as we wait. I hold on to his hand, just to let him know he’s not alone in this and that I’m right here beside him, and he squeezes it like a lifeline.

  The doctor steps in before I lose all circulation in my fingers.

  “Hello, Padraig,” he says, and then looks at me in surprise as he closes the door behind him. “And hello to you, miss.”

  Padraig clears his throat. “I
hope you don’t mind, but this is my fiancé, Valerie.”

  “Fiancé?” he says, brows raised. “I’m sorry, I had no idea you were engaged.” He sits down at his desk and looks at my hand that’s still ringless. The truth is, his father hasn’t actually given him the ring yet. His grandmother wants it to be done ceremoniously and in front of the family, so she’s holding an engagement party for us at the end of the week. I’m really not sure how I feel about all of this, but that’s what’s happening.

  “She’s getting my mother’s ring,” Padraig explains to him. “Keep it in the family.”

  “Ah, that’s very lovely,” the doctor says. He picks up his file and puts on his down-to-business face. “So, do you want to start by telling me how it’s been going for you? Since you called in, I’m going to assume symptoms have been increasing.”

  Padraig goes over everything since the last time he saw him, including a lot of things I don’t know about, like pain in his legs at night for which he takes his father’s painkillers for, and occasional blurry vision.

  “These are all very common symptoms,” the doctor says after he’s done. “Optic neuritis is the inflammation of the optic nerve. It may get worse as time goes on or better but since it can temporarily blind you or cause your vision to get fuzzy, it’s one of the main reasons why we’re going to have to take your driver’s license away.”

  Padraig seizes up like he’s just been shocked. “Are ye serious?”

  The doctor peers at him. “Don’t tell me you drove here.”

  “I did,” I inform him. “He hasn’t driven since that last episode.”

  “Well, sorry Padraig, but that’s the way it’s going to have to be. One of the hardest things for many patients is to learn how to rely on other people. You’re lucky you have a good support system.”

  “But if I can’t drive…” he says, utterly fixated on it. I guess I can’t blame him. “That means everything. That takes away my freedom.”

  The doctor gives him a placating smile. “It’s going to be a whole new world for you. It’s going to be hard. And, it’s possible that this is going to get worse.”

  “So...” Padraig says, swallowing thickly. “Then if I can’t drive, then the game…”