Season of Second Chances: an uplifting novel of moving away and starting over Read online

  If he comes, he’ll choose a weekend. That’s when she must be at her most alert. No. She must be alert around the clock. He knows where they are. The law demanded that. He could come at any time. He could be on his way now. She sits up. She should install an alarm. But how would she explain that to her father, in this sleepy village?

  She gets up, steals to the window and peers out. The street is deserted as rain pelts down outside. She watches it as though hypnotised. She used to love the sound, tucked up safely in her little bed. How innocent she was then. Before she learned that bad things happen.

  Where is he? What is he up to? The silence is terrifying. If only she’d kept her old SIM Card, she’d at least be able to check her messages, see what he’s thinking, planning. With him, you have to be so smart. Ten steps ahead. Think like he does. Cut him off at the pass. But no. He’d just wreck her mind. Push her buttons as only he can. She could end up giving in, lose control again. No. She did the right thing. She just has to stop thinking about it, about him. Move forward. Sink her roots into this rural land, make it her home again, her children’s home. Find the person she once was, the person who’d be able to stand up to him – knowing him for what he is. Anyway, she had to get rid of the SIM. Otherwise, he’d have continued to track her every move as he had always done. She wishes she’d thought to insert some kind of tracking device on his phone.

  Will the dread ever go away? Will this ever be really over?

  She leaves the window and goes to check on the kids.

  Holly is deeply asleep, lips swollen and parted, cheeks flushed. Grace brushes her hair back from her forehead, stoops down and gently kisses her forehead. Holly didn’t share her new number with anyone. She had no one to share it with. Grace prays that life will be better for her here, that she will find friends, happiness, peace. Is that too much to ask for her baby?

  Jack is frowning in his sleep. Grace worries about the toll that all this is having on him. What is his view of girls? Yes, he’s incredibly popular with them. But is he good to them? Does he respect them? Or does he hold them in the same contempt that his father held her in? She should have got out sooner. She should have got out the very first time he hit her. But then she wouldn’t have had Holly.

  “Back off!” Jack calls out in his sleep, his voice a mix of both fear and aggression.

  She wants to tell him it’s okay. But if he woke to find her gazing down at him, he’d probably freak. So Grace does as instructed and backs off.

  She sneaks downstairs to check the locks.

  All is quiet, the kitchen softly illuminated by a street lamp outside. Her eyes dart from corner to corner, finding them reassuringly empty of him. She strides to the back door. Her heart jolts to find it unlocked. Imagining a hand reaching for it on the other side, she rams it shut and slams the bolt across. She hurries to the front door and puts the latch on it. Then snaps every curtain shut, upsetting years of dust.

  Only now does she turn on the light. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, she wraps her arms around herself. She will have to talk to Des about security – without alerting him to the reason for it. Her head is pounding. She finds her bag and roots in it for her pack of Nurofen Plus. She should have thought to stock up before she left Dublin. Pharmacists are so careful about codeine now. In Dublin, she had hundreds of pharmacies to choose from. Here, there is one. As a family doctor, she can’t develop a reputation as an addict of any kind. Not that she is an addict. She has just come to rely on them a little. She started taking them for the endless headaches but continued for that extra little something they gave her. She puts the blister card back in the box. She’s away from him now. She doesn’t need a psychological crutch anymore. She can stop. Anytime. It’s mind over matter.

  The first-aid box is in its usual home, in the cupboard by the oven. Grace takes two paracetamol and downs them in relief. Spotting her father’s Parkinson’s meds, laid out in a weekly pill organiser, she goes through them. No surprises. Exactly what she’d prescribe. Still, she goes upstairs in search of mobile phone service.

  In bed, she googles Parkinson’s disease. The latest treatments. Alternative treatments. Not just physio. They say that dancing is good. And cycling. The video evidence is extraordinary. Grace looks up from her phone filled with possibility. But how can she tell Dr. Des Sullivan how to manage his own health? Especially as he has just retired. She knows how useless a doctor feels when they can no longer practise. It was Simon’s idea for her to stay at home when Jack was born. If she’d known then that this was his first big step in controlling her, she would have kept her job. If she’d known then what was to come, she’d have got the hell out. It sneaked up on her. He did. Worked on her mind first – when she became pregnant. Broke her confidence. Then, when Jack was born, he moved onto her spirit. Her body. Her soul. He took the holistic approach. He swallowed her whole.

  As soon as the children started school, though, she quietly rebelled, landing a part-time position two mornings a week at a practice far enough from home that she wouldn’t bump into patients. She would have loved more hours but couldn’t risk being found out. This was enough to keep on the Medical Council register, to keep up to speed, and to hold onto her sanity. She used her income to pay for continuing medical education, then saved what she could in a secret bank account, the details of which she hid at the surgery. She never really believed she would get beyond quiet rebellion.

  Well, now she has. The phoenix is out from the ashes and rising.

  3

  Des shuts off his alarm before it wakes Grace or the children. He’s not going to become a man who sleeps in on retirement. He’s not going to let himself go. He dresses in a flannel shirt, beige chords, a navy pullover and cashmere socks. On a whim, he adds a cravat.

  Gripping the bannister, he goes downstairs, avoiding the steps that creak.

  In the kitchen, he turns on the heat for them and a light for himself. He opens the curtains though it’s still dark outside. He likes the company of the streetlights. He stands looking out at the stillness of the world.

  Putting on the kettle, his eyes fall on a small, navy, velvet box. With a sigh, he picks it up and opens it. He stares at the shiny gold watch inside. What fool started the tradition of watches as retirement presents? Any thinking person would know that the last thing a man would want is to count all the time he now has on his hands. He shakes his head and tucks it away into a cupboard so he doesn’t have to face it again.

  He hears the flap on the front door and the post fall. He waits for Tim, the postman, to appear at the window on his way past. They raise their hands in greeting. This is their routine now. And there’s comfort in it.

  Heading for the front door, Des reminds himself to take big steps as he does every time he walks. His body needs the nudge.

  At the kitchen table, he flicks through the four envelopes – three bills and a bank statement. He turns one over. On the back, he starts a D.I.Y. list; all the jobs that have been piling up over the years, waiting till he’s not too busy or tired. Now that he has company, he has an incentive.

  Clean out shed.

  Sand and repaint facia boards.

  Fix windows.

  Clean grouting.

  Clear out gutters.

  Climbing a ladder is as exciting as things have become around here.

  Des turns back to the window and stares out. He wishes something were urgent. He remembers the kettle and gets up again. Another trick to break the silence. Miriam has been dead for five years but the loss has never hit harder than this week. While he had work, his mind was occupied, home late every evening, a quiet whiskey, then bed. Up early and straight out to the surgery next day. People needed him. And he needed that need. Who’d have known that the stillness of a house could drive a man around the bend? Two days into retirement, he remembered the radio. Keeping it on in the background has saved his sanity.

  Oh, but it was good to see them arrive last night. Not the sadness they carried with them like a low
wail on the air. But just to have them here with him, his flesh and blood, his family. Precious beyond belief. He couldn’t let them know how glad he is to have them here. Because home is where they’ll be happiest. They need to return. And, so, the gruffness.

  He looks down at his shaking hand. And instantly picks up the kettle. The tremor is only present at rest. It was a patient, sitting across from him, who first noticed it. Curious as to why she was staring at his hand, he glanced down. Immediately, he froze. Could it be? Could it really be? He moved the hand, picking up his pen and twirling it between his thumb and finger. He was fine. Too much caffeine.

  Over the next few months, as his symptoms increased, so did his mortification. It was as if he had failed as a doctor, unable to stop disease in his own body.

  The symptoms seem so much worse this week. But that’s just because he has had time to notice. Maybe not, though. Maybe they are worse.

  He hears the floorboards creak upstairs, the lovely reassuring sound of company. But he has to think of them, not himself. He has to send them home.

  Des has just seated himself back at the table when he hears gentle footfall on the stairs. Glancing up, he’s struck by the contrast between the daughter who appears now and the girl who used to thunder down those stairs with so much energy. How carefully she holds herself. How neat she looks, how conservative. She could – easily – be a different person.

  Her smile holds the same affection though. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Hi, love. How did you sleep?”

  “Great.”

  Everything is always “great” with Grace even when it’s very clearly not.

  “You look tired,” he says.

  Another smile. “Tea?”

  “I’m grand, love, thanks.” He holds up his mug.

  Des waits for her to sit down, wondering how best to approach it. Whatever he says, she’ll argue that she’s due to start in the practice on Monday. Well, he’ll just tell her that they can get someone else; it’s not the end of the world. A broken marriage however….

  Grace joins him at the table and puts a mat under her mug, though there’s no need. The fading pine is already stained and ancient.

  “Dad, you left the back door unlocked last night.”

  This throws Des. But just for a second. “Yera, I always do.”

  “You can’t!”

  His daughter has been in Dublin too long. Des takes a sip of tea, a hint for her to do the same, to just sit back and relax. Life is easier here. She just needs to remember that.

  But her eyes grow more panicked. “You’re a doctor! What if junkies come looking for drugs?”

  Des gives her a look. “We’re in Killrowan, Gracie.”

  “There are drugs everywhere! And… there are children in the house now!” She looks up at the ceiling as if she can see them through it.

  “Grace, love, you were eighteen years growing up with the back door always open. Killrowan hasn’t changed.”

  “But the world has!”

  Des, sensing real distress, is instantly sorry. “Of course. You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll lock it.”

  Relief floods her face.

  Then he understands. “You were broken into, in Dublin, weren’t you?”

  “No! We were not broken into! I just want the door kept locked.”

  “Alright, love. Locked it is.” He can’t believe how stressed she has become. You can’t even break a traffic light in Killrowan; there are none. One thing’s clear: being here does not seem to be helping her stress levels. He takes a deep breath and puts down his mug. “Is this madness, love, this bolt from home?”

  Her body tenses, shoulders rising. “No, it’s not mad! It’s the opposite of mad!”

  “I know you’re upset but what could be so bad for you to walk out on… how many… years of marriage?”

  Grace’s hands wrap around her mug and she stares into her tea. “Eighteen,” is a whisper.

  “He’s just such a smashing fellow, Gracie. And a great dad. Have ye tried counselling, at all?”

  Her eyes stay glued to the tea but her fingers whiten as they tighten their grasp on the mug. “Just trust my decision, Dad,” she says through gritted teeth.

  “It’s just that people give up too easily, nowadays.”

  She looks up, eyes filled with rage, jaw jutting forward. A flash of teenage Grace. But, unlike teenage Grace, she keeps her words in.

  “Some of us don’t get a second chance.” That’s his main point, really. “Some of us have our loved ones snatched from us, overnight,” he adds with an ache in his heart.

  Grace’s face softens. “You and Mam were so happy together. And I know the pain you feel. I miss her too. So much. But I’ve tried with Simon. I’ve given him so many chances. Too many chances. I’ve been a fool. I have to do this, Dad. For myself. But mostly for the kids.”

  “Did he have an affair? Is that it? Because lots of marriages survive–”

  She shoots to her feet. “Right. I’m going to the shop. Need anything?”

  He sighs. Then he checks the beloved leather watch on his wrist with its almost human face. “I don’t think it’ll be open, love.”

  “Fine. I’ll go for a walk first. What do you need?”

  “I’m grand, Gracie. Thanks.”

  She flings open the fridge, snaps open cupboards and when she finds nothing but milk, butter, ham and bread, she gives him a look that says: “You’re anything but grand.”

  4

  Grace marches down the narrow footpath, oblivious to village life starting up around her, lights clicking on, doors opening, deliveries arriving. Smashing fellow! Smashing in more ways than one! He has everyone fooled. His patients think he’s God. His pro bono work (representing international, humanitarian cases of badly burned and scarred victims) sets him aside as a pillar of the medical community. He is Mr. Charming. Mr. Handsome. Mr. Fake. Even his appearance is fake. Letting his hair grey naturally has people assume that he is embracing the ageing process. Meanwhile, he injects his face with a perfectly balanced mix of Botox, fillers and collagen. Fake, fake, fake, fake, fake, fake, fake. Grace storms past the supermarket, failing to notice that it’s about to open.

  Startlingly quickly she finds herself at the edge of the village where the path falls away. Up a slope to the left is the surgery and its carpark. Across the road, the police station. Beyond them are fields and the old church ruins. To the right is the sea.

  Muttering to herself, she turns around. But she’s not ready to face a whole village with the polite face she shows to the world. She’s not ready for anything except a long loud scream somewhere private. She needs to lose this rage. She needs the sea.

  She strides across the road, cuts through the car park and playground, then comes face to face with a natural beauty that stops her. It is blues and greens where sky meets sea, and everything bathed in morning sunlight. Down at the pier, a small, red fishing boat heads out for the day, a flock of optimistic gulls flying behind. The water carries the sound of their racket, the “Ow, ow, ow,” that always reminds Grace of home.

  Everything slows, her heartbeat, her breath and, when she resumes walking, her pace. Down to the pier she strolls, breathing slowly and deeply like she’s starting a meditation. Maybe she is.

  At the pier, people are boarding the ferry to the island, everyone armed with provisions. Every two weeks, Grace will have to make the trip, out to the clinic there. She feels her body tense at the thought of her first visit, which is only days away. Is she really ready to return to full-time practice?

  She turns from the pier, taking a narrow path that leads through fields bordering the inlet. She fills her lungs with briny air that smells faintly of cow dung. Cattle graze in the fields but Grace isn’t concerned. She knows as well as any local that they’re used to strollers passing through and never pay them any attention.

  She gazes down at the tiny, pebble beaches where she used to skim stones as a child. What a joyful little person she was with her budd
ies, her dreams and her absolute belief that the world was a good and happy place. There was nothing she couldn’t do, no dream she couldn’t achieve. She’d be a doctor like her dad. No problemo. She’s still the same person inside. He hasn’t killed every spark. He couldn’t have. As if to prove it, she trots down the next set of steps. One by one, she gathers flat, round stones. She squats down and flicks them out to sea, then laughs at her dismal performance. She needs practice. But that’s fine. She can practice. She’s in the right place. And there’s no one to tell her what she can or can’t do.

  Grace scrambles up one of the rocky outcrops like the kid she used to be and perches on a lichen covered, pockmarked prominence, watching the gentle ebb and flow of the waves, down below. The sun rises higher and the sea takes on the turquoise hues of the Caribbean. Grace understands how ancient peoples worshipped this ball of light. It is magnificent. She turns her face to it and closes her eyes. It’s October and it’s Ireland but the sun is shining. Like a sign. Everything will be okay. It has to be.

  Her pace is slower on the way back. Reaching the village, she catches her reflection in a shop window and comes to a halt. This is not the person who skimmed stones on the beach moments ago. This is a person whose whole look has been designed by someone else. Bobbed, brown hair – ordered by Simon. Conservative designer clothes – ordered by Simon. French manicure – ordered by Simon. Grace takes a deep breath. She looks beyond her reflection. A hairdresser is standing in front of a mirror, blow-drying her hair in an otherwise empty shop. Grace admires her confidence, her sparkly black top, her leather trousers. Grace is a fan of sparkles. Not that you’d know it.

  She pushes the door in.

  A bell pings but the hairdresser doesn’t hear over the noise of the dryer. Grace takes a seat in a waiting area. She loves the way this pretty young woman tackles her hair, like she’s in charge and she expects no argument. Grace needs to be more like her.