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

by Aimee Alexander

  But he got them away. Got her mum moving. Gave them a reason to lie in court. If only Holly had made her dad hit her. Her mum would have left then. Before anything happened to Benji. But every time she thought about it, she worried that he’d just get madder with her mum and take it out on her instead of Holly. And she was never brave enough to take that risk.

  They are away, now, though. And that’s so good. But scary too. How will she walk into school on Monday? There are bullies in West Cork, too. She knows she should be more like Jack and just not care. But how do you make yourself not care? She has tried. She still cares. About everything. Everyone. And what they think. She’s still super careful, afraid to do anything that will bring it down on her. Still, she doesn’t want to be a person who is angry at the world, a person who wants a fight, dares the world to bring it on. There has to be an in-between place between herself and her brother. She just wishes she could find it.

  She pulls her turquoise velvet throw up to her face like a comfort blanket. If only she’d brought more stuff from home. She has tried to make the room cosy. And the bed does look better with the throw. If only she’d brought her lamp and the rainbow rug beside her bed. They’d have made all the difference.

  She hopes the woman in the shop was right about the skirt.

  Grace wakes gasping for air. His hands were around her neck. Pressing. Squeezing. Choking. She was slipping into unconsciousness when she jolted awake. She sits up, trying to calm her breathing, her hands holding her neck. It felt so real, as if she were back in time and it was happening all over again. Is it a sign? Is he coming? Is he already here? Rigid with fear, she listens intensely.

  But it’s just the ticking of her clock and the gentle chime of the grandfather clock at the end of the landing. Far from reassured, she goes to the window.

  The street is empty but for a fox padding across it. She watches him in all his grace until he disappears.

  It’s okay. Everything’s okay. It’s just her imagination. He’s not here. He’s not on his way. He’s lying asleep on a silk (wrinkle-preventing) pillow.

  Checking on the children, Grace finds them reassuringly deep in sleep. She steals downstairs.

  In the kitchen, she touches her heart. Not only is the back door locked, her father has jammed a kitchen chair underneath the handle. Her heart swells with love.

  She is home. She is safe. There is a barring order. All is well.

  And yet she still craves codeine.

  She pours herself a large glass of water and gulps it back. She wanders around picking up things, putting them down. She gazes at her graduation photo. Her mother was so proud of her that day. So proud of her always, really. Grace feels like she has let her down. Her mother never said that she didn’t like Simon. There were only ever two questions that might have made Grace wonder, both before she married. The first was asked tongue-in-cheek: “Do you do anything without Simon?” The second should, at least, have made her pause, question, look: “You don’t think he’s a little controlling?” Grace thought her mother was being ridiculous; he was just passionate, intense, in love. She touches her mother’s face in the photograph, so like her own: tiny nose, full mouth, pointed chin and big, round, trusting eyes. If only she’d listened. If only she’d asked herself where those questions were coming from.

  With one of the new tea towels, she brushes dust from the picture then puts it back. She wipes the mantlepiece. This starts a frenzy of cleaning, mopping and scrubbing. She snaps on a pair of rubber gloves and, with a toothbrush and the bleachy concoction she bought in the supermarket, goes upstairs to tackle the grouting in the bathroom.

  Catching her reflection in the mirror, she is reminded of her new silver-haired, pixie self. This is not the kind of woman to clean grouting to silence. She needs Spotify. Sitting on the side of the bath, with two bars of service, she downloads a new playlist, a pre-Simon collection of her favourite tracks from the eighties, Sinead O’Connor and The Cranberries featuring strongly. She puts in her earphones and closes the door.

  As she scrubs in tiny circles and sees the black give in to her vigour, her mood starts to lift. She doesn’t realise she’s singing until she hears herself pelting out the words, “This is the last day of our acquaintance, oh, oh, oh.” She stops, hoping she hasn’t woken anyone. In her head, though, she continues to shout the words to a plastic surgeon with a penchant for silk pillows.

  “The Emperor’s New Clothes” and “Mandinka” take Grace back to sleepovers that involved no sleep, to a snowball fight outside a disco, and the giggly recounting of her first clumsy kiss. She shared everything with her friend, Yvonne. More than a friend, really, a soulmate. They used to finish each other’s sentences, read each other’s minds, plan futures that involved marrying brothers and staying together forever. How did they ever lose touch? It happened slowly. Grace moved to Galway, the only university to offer her a place in medicine. She was studying hard and playing hard as med students do. But she still came home every few weekends. Then Simon, seven years older, swept her off her feet, gobbled up her every free second. Why, he wanted to know, would she want to go home to Cork when she could stay with him? She sees now what she was too in love to see then. To control a person, you isolate them – from family, from friends. You do it slowly, patiently. Ruthlessly. You occupy their every available minute, showering them with a wonderful – fake – version of you, a shiny, glossy, caring you. When he got his consultancy post in Dublin, that was it, they were gone.

  She wonders what Yvonne is doing now. Did she move away from Killrowan? Most young people do. She wonders if she’s on Facebook. But then Grace isn’t and wouldn’t know how to find anyone. The kids could show her. But then, she could just ask her dad.

  For now, she gets lost in a long list of Kate Bush tracks. When she – quietly – sings along to her favourite, a duet with Peter Gabriel called “Don’t Give Up,” she is singing the words to herself.

  Finally, unbelievably, all the black has gone. Her work is done. She sits on the bath, happily exhausted. She’ll sleep now. Without the need for codeine. It’s a small victory. But a victory nonetheless.

  9

  When Grace comes downstairs on Sunday morning, Des is at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of tea. The chair has gone from the back door. She wants to thank him for putting it there but, clearly, isn’t supposed to know. With a smile, she joins him for a cup of tea.

  “You cleaned the grouting,” he says. “I was going to do that.”

  The guilt she feels is automatic. This is a matter of pride to him. Why didn’t she think of that?

  Well, because he has Parkinson’s. He shouldn’t be climbing into baths with toothbrushes.

  Also, she has landed in on him with her kids; she should be pulling her weight.

  She’s about to explain all this when she stops herself. She has spent too many years excusing herself. It’s time to stop.

  “I enjoyed it,” she says cheerfully.

  “Are you mad?”

  “You know I am.”

  They share a smile.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes, pet?”

  “Whatever happened to Yvonne Barry?”

  “Oh, she works below in the library. You should drop in to see her.”

  Her inner child wants to run there now. But it’ll be closed. And what would Yvonne think anyway – that Grace is suiting herself now that she’s back in town? She’ll wait. Maybe they’ll bump into each other in the village. And Grace can apologise for the bad friend she turned out to be.

  “You could catch her at Mass,” Des suggests.

  Grace looks at him for a long time. “Gave up on God, long ago, Dad.”

  He squeezes her hand. Then pushes himself up into a stand. “I’ll probably go myself.”

  So he’s not completely avoiding the village. This is good news. But then Grace imagines him making his way along the narrow path, alone. She’d offer to go with him if he wouldn’t be insulted and she could leave the children alo
ne, which she’s not going to risk.

  “Take an umbrella!” He could use it as a stick.

  “Why would I want an umbrella? Sure, isn’t it a glorious day, out?”

  Grace smiles. “Good point.”

  Outside, Des pauses. He hasn’t been able to face Mass – or the village – since he retired. Today, though, he has the biggest incentive a man could have, the safety of his family. He wants a quiet word with Paddy O’Neill, the local police sergeant, and Mass is where he’ll find him.

  Des could take the car but that would seem mad – and weak – driving a few hundred meters. Anyway, he’d have to turn the car around on the narrow street, the car that he hasn’t moved in two weeks.

  The other option feels like a trek to the Himalayas.

  Fine, if that’s what it takes….

  Out on the path, Des gives his body the usual instructions. He lifts his chin. A deep breath and he’s off. He’s doing the right thing. He and Paddy go back a long time; the family secret will be safe with him. The main thing is, he needs a heads-up in case they need to call on him.

  Des hasn’t gone far when Dolores Tracy, the lollipop woman at the local primary school, arrives alongside him in a furry leopard-print coat, purple boots and red ear muffs. Des wonders if the kids appreciate the colour she brings to their lives – a wild, new rigout every day.

  “Dr. Sullivan!” she gushes. “’Tis great to see you out and about!”

  “Sure, why wouldn’t I be?” he asks, a little too defensively.

  “No reason in the wide world,” she utters, flustered. She looks like she wants to disappear. But they’re both going to the same destination and to disappear would be to rush off on him.

  “I’ll let you go on ahead, Dolores. I’m a little slow,” he says softly, sorry for snapping at her.

  But politeness roots her to the spot.

  “I’m grand, Dolores. Honestly. I like to say a few preparatory prayers on my way,” Des lies.

  “Oh, right so,” she says in relief. “Of course.” She shoots off like she’s been relieved of a load.

  Des watches her go with a benign fondness, then continues on, returning the waves, nods and smiles of other villagers heading to Mass. He pretends that nothing has changed. He’s as fit as a fiddle. Halfway to the church, though, his legs feel so heavy that he has to stop. He peers into the window of Coughlan’s, giving him an official excuse to rest. The fact that it’s largely a hardware shop is never reflected in the window display. There could be sailing gear. Buckets and spades in the summertime. Fishing tackle. Today, amongst the eclectic mix, is the most beautiful blackthorn stick Des has ever clapped eyes on. It’s standing there like it’s calling to him, and only him. The blackthorn is the sturdiest of walking sticks, with a smooth round oak handle and a thick, knotted, black shaft. Des has always fancied one but has never treated himself. Now, he could really do with one. So his pride talks him out of it. Until, it occurs to him that the knots on the shaft would make it a fine weapon. That settles it! First thing tomorrow, he’ll venture out to Coughlan’s and arm himself. For now, he has a church to get to.

  Des makes it to Mass on time and surprises himself with a long list of prayers. For Grace. The children. Fresh starts. Peaceful solutions. For love. And hope. And freedom. He even puts in a request to slow the advance of his Parkinson’s.

  Leaving the church, he feels calmer.

  He still has a mission.

  At the base of the steps, he is keeping an eye out for Paddy when, into his line of vision, comes a round-faced woman in her forties, dressed for the office, with a haircut Des has always considered unfortunate. Choir leader, Barbara Kelly, has a keen nose for gossip, something Des avoids like the plague. But there is no escape now; their eyes have met and Barbara is on her way over.

  “I thought I’d see Young Dr. Sullivan at Mass!” she says. “I was looking out for her.”

  For a good auld gawk, Des thinks. “You did a great job today, Barbara. Great job.”

  “We put in a lot of hard work,” she says proudly. “I think it paid off.”

  Des scans the crowd. He can’t let Paddy get away. “Give my regards to Paudi,” he says to Barbara, hoping she’ll take the hint.

  “I will indeed,” she says and hurries off, already waving to – and making a beeline for – one of her cronies.

  Tom Creedon, the amiable, ruddy-faced butcher, nods as he passes Des, a man of few words. Luckily, he has just two on this occasion: “Dr. Sullivan!”

  “Tom!”

  Des sees Tom’s wife, Jacinta, deep in discussion with a group of women. Tom has clearly given up waiting and is heading home.

  At last, Des sees Paddy. He is not the bear of a man he once was and his thick head of hair is fully grey but he looks a lot younger than Des feels. Sharp as a tack, the sergeant spots him. And comes over.

  “Des, how’re things?” he asks with his usual authenticity and warmth.

  “Will we go for an auld scone in the Coffee Cove?” Des asks.

  “Sure, that’d be grand, altogether. It’s been too long.”

  Des feels he should mark his cards. “There’s something I want to ask you about. In confidence.”

  Paddy frowns and nods. “Of course. Let’s go.”

  Back at the house, Grace was going to make pancakes for the children. But she doesn’t want to remind them of home. So she opts for a fry, something that was never allowed. The smell wafts upstairs like an upbeat alarm clock. She doesn’t have to call them.

  She watches them eat with so much love. And concern.

  “How’re ye doing?” she asks them, softly.

  “Fine,” they say together. It’s their usual answer. They’re always fine. Because she has never been.

  “I’m so proud of you two.”

  Jack tenses as if sensing an agenda.

  Grace wonders if she should leave it. Then reminds herself of the two faces of Jacinta Creedon.

  “How do ye feel about starting school?”

  “Fine,” Jack says in an end-of-discussion tone.

  “Hol?” Grace asks.

  Holly shrugs, glancing at Jack.

  “Well, I’m worried about starting off in the practice if that’s any comfort,” Grace says. “We all get nervous. Don’t we, Jack?”

  “Stop babying her!” he snaps. “She just needs to stand up for herself. To hell with everyone.”

  “Mum’s only trying to help.”

  What Grace is trying to do is avoid them having to face what she already has. So, she persists. “I guess, if you want to blend in, you could tone down the Dublin accents a little.”

  Jack throws down his knife and fork. “I’m not toning anything down for anyone!”

  “That’s fine, Jack,” Grace says calmly, her stomach twisting.

  Holly looks at her mum. “How do I learn the Cork accent?”

  That’s when Grace realises that, in trying to protect them, she’s just making Holly more nervous than ever.

  “You know what? Jack’s right. Don’t worry about your accent. Don’t worry about anything. You’re perfectly fine just as you are. Better than fine. You’re wonderful. They’ll be lucky to have you.”

  Jack leaves the table and thunders upstairs.

  Grace runs her hands through her hair and sighs. Hearing her father’s key in the door, she makes for the kettle.

  Des appears, looking invigorated. “How’s everyone?”

  “Grandad, can I borrow your radio?” Holly asks.

  “You can of course, love.”

  Holly peers over at it on the counter as if it’s from the ark. “Is it on a Cork station?”

  He tips his head down and looks up at her. “You have to ask?”

  She smiles. “How do I turn it on?”

  “’Tis fierce complicated,” he says. He takes it from the counter and places it on the table in front of her, then demonstrates with the flick of a switch.

  “Brilliant, thanks!” She gets up and puts her plate in the d
ishwasher. Then disappears upstairs with the radio.

  “You’ll have a fry,” Grace says to her dad.

  “I don’t suppose it’d kill me,” he says, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

  Jack has spent the day in his room, getting more and more worked up. It’s after ten and he has lost count of the sit-ups as his thoughts continue to race. When is she going to stop trying to protect them? They’re not babies. They’re better – stronger – than she thinks. Suddenly, he needs to hear his father’s voice, the father who always believed in him. He gets up, locks the door and puts his earphones in. Sitting on his bed, he takes a deep breath and inserts his old SIM. His stomach cramps at the stream of missed calls and voice messages that have been coming in, night and day. Way too many to be normal. This was a mistake; he shouldn’t listen.

  But how can he not?

  “What the hell is going on, Jack? First you turn me into, into some kind of monster. Then you block me out.” His father sounds desperate, hurt, lost. And Jack feels sorry for him.

  “I’m your father, Jack. I’ve invested sixteen years of my life in you. You can’t just stop all contact.”

  Jack closes his eyes and reminds himself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

  With each message, his father grows increasingly irate. “She’s making you do this? Isn’t she?”

  “You know what, Jack. I’m not paying maintenance for people who won’t even call me back. And you can tell your mother that.”

  “If you don’t return my calls, so help me, I’ll come down there.”

  Jack flings the phone onto the bed like it’s on fire. He interlinks his hands on the top of his head and presses down. Hard. How could he have forgotten his rage? How could he have forgotten the bullying way he tries to control everything? If Jack calls him, he becomes his tool. If he doesn’t, he’ll show up here in Killrowan. Jack can’t let that happen.