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

by Aimee Alexander

  But she’s already jumping from the Jeep. “What in God’s name were you thinking?”

  Jack gives her a back-off look and climbs into the Jeep.

  She jumps in beside him, then swings the car out as if she’s starting a high-speed chase. “Why did you punch him?”

  He turns and looks out his window.

  “Jack!”

  “I won’t be bullied.”

  That changes everything. Her heart contracts. “Who was bullying you? Jack, look at me.”

  With a sigh, he turns to face her. “It doesn’t matter. Grandad thinks I just took him up wrong.”

  “And you punched him?”

  “Yeah, I punched him,” he says defensively while still feeling sick about it.

  “Ah, Jack.”

  “I don’t have a Cork dictionary, do I?” he flares.

  Grace hurries into the school. She stops, turns and whispers at Jack who is following at his own slow pace.

  “Hurry up!”

  She takes off again, the sound of her heels echoing through the corridor. How she hates schools. They always make her feel like she’s done something wrong.

  The school secretary looks at Grace’s hair long enough for her to know that she is judging. Then she asks them to take a seat outside the principal’s office.

  They sit side by side looking straight ahead not a word passing between them.

  The principal snaps her door open almost as soon as they’ve sat down. She’s younger than Grace and her hair is purple. Maybe there’s hope, Grace thinks.

  She extends her hand. “Sinead Hannigan.”

  Grace shakes it. “Grace Sullivan. Sorry about this.”

  Jack tenses at the apology.

  “Wish we were meeting under better circumstances. Come in.”

  The principal sits across the desk from mother and son. “Jack, what have you got to say for yourself?”

  “He was bullied. In Dublin,” Grace rushes before Jack can speak.

  The principal turns to her in surprise.

  “It’s made him sensitive,” Grace continues. “He misinterprets….”

  Jack stares at her. “Mum!”

  “I’m just saying that there are extenuating circumstances.”

  “Mum. Stop. Let me speak for myself.”

  The principal’s face softens. “Go ahead, Jack.”

  He visibly swallows, his Adam’s apple rising and falling. “It was a mistake,” he mumbles. “My grandad – Des Sullivan – explained to me that what that boy said was okay. I thought he was slagging me. But he wasn’t. It was just the way people here say things. I lashed out because you can’t let yourself be bullied, especially on your first day.” He bows his head. “But I’m sorry.”

  Grace knows how hard that “sorry” was. And wants to hug her son.

  “I think now would be a good time to bring in Simon and his parents.”

  Grace panics. He didn’t hit the boy because of his name, did he? She stares at Jack. Who glares back at her.

  “Wait! Please,” Jack says to the principal. He lowers his voice. “What my mum said… that’s… private.”

  The principal nods. “I understand. Absolutely. What’s said in this office stays in this office. You can trust me on that. Always.” She gets up and goes to open the door. Looking to her right, where Grace and Jack sat, moments ago, she says, “Come on in. I’m sorry for keeping you.”

  Grace stands up. Reluctantly, Jack does the same.

  The boy appears first. To Grace, there is something familiar about him. His eyebrows in particular remind her of someone. His mother comes into view and everything stops. When Grace had hoped to bump into Yvonne Barry, it wasn’t under circumstances like this. Jack has punched her son. Now Yvonne is staring at her.

  “Grace? Grace Sullivan? Is that you underneath that hair? I heard you were back in town!”

  Despite everything, they laugh.

  Grace checks out Yvonne’s husband who has just appeared. “Pat Harte? Is that you?” Grace looks back at Yvonne. “You married Pat Harte!”

  “She did,” Pat Harte says proudly.

  Yvonne shrugs. “Ah, sure, there was no one else left. They all went hightailing out of here.” She links arms with Pat and tugs him closer as though she wouldn’t have it any other way.

  How much they’ve all changed. And yet, in so many ways, stayed the same. Incredible!

  The boys look at each other, bemused by their parents.

  The principal clears her throat.

  They remember why they are there. Silence falls.

  “Have a seat,” the principal says. Sticking her head through the door, she says, “Irene, another seat. Thanks.”

  Two seconds later it arrives. Everyone sits.

  “So, Simon,” the principal says. “I think Jack has something to say.”

  Jack starts over, explaining the misunderstanding and how his grandfather put him right. This time, though, faced with the boy, he struggles with the apology. It doesn’t materialise.

  Grace wills him to say it.

  But it’s Simon who speaks. “C’mere, boy. We’re cool alright? You’re from Dublin; whatever like.’ He shrugs to show no hard feelings.

  Jack looks at him, at the honesty in his eyes. Then he takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” makes its way out at last.

  Outside the school, Grace and Yvonne quickly exchange numbers, everyone having to return to work.

  “I’ll call you!” they say together. And hug. It’s like the years have fallen away. Suddenly, after a terrible start to the day, Grace is filled with childlike optimism.

  “Mum!” Jack appears out of the school.

  She pulls back and turns in surprise.

  “I’ll go on,” Yvonne says.

  “Great to see you,” they say – in sync. Then, “I’ll call you.” Also, in sync.

  Jack strides up to Grace. “The principal said I could talk to you for a second.” He rubs his arms. “Can we sit in the car for a sec and put on the heat?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she says, wondering what this is about.

  They climb into the Jeep.

  Whatever Jack is about to say, Grace has to tell him, “I’m so proud of you. I know what you think of apologies.”

  But Jack is eyeballing her. “Why did you lie? I wasn’t bullied.”

  She hesitates. “Well, we all were bullied – by your father.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Is it? Because of him, we overinterpret everything, find hidden meanings–”

  “Why do you have to find excuses for everything?” he raises his voice in frustration.

  They both know why.

  “What else was I to say?” she asks, feeling his distress.

  “Nothing! You could have let me handle it. Trusted me to. Instead you turned me into a victim!”

  She tilts her head back. He’s right. In her panic, she completely undermined him. “I’m sorry, Jack.”

  “Stop, saying, sorry! And stop lying to get out of situations! There doesn’t always have to be some sad excuse.”

  She knows he’s right. She knows she’d do anything, say anything to avoid conflict.

  “Why did you have to make a big deal of it? Why?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to get expelled! Where would you have gone? Back up to Dublin, up to your dad? Is that what you wanted?”

  He stares at her like she’s slapped him. “I can’t believe you said that. If you knew how he’s been wrecking my head all day, you wouldn’t ask that!”

  “What do you mean?” Grace asks with a frown.

  “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean, Jack?”

  Jack looks down. His voice quietens. “Nothing. I just think about him. Sometimes. That’s all. I don’t want to go back. I never want to go back.” He jumps from the car and takes off. At least this time it’s in the right direction, back towards the school.

  Grace goes after him. “Jack! Come back! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean
–”

  But he has already disappeared inside.

  She fumbles in her bag for the Nurofen Plus. She takes two, without water, on an empty stomach. Not what she would advise her patients. She leans back against the Jeep. Across the road is the girl’s school, silent and still and austere in the shade of great oak trees. She hopes that Holly is having a better start.

  Des checks his old reliable leather-strapped watch. They’re probably still at the school. He picks up the phone.

  “Myra, how are things?” he asks with genuine affection.

  “Oh, Dr. Sullivan!” she says like her spirits have lifted just hearing his voice. “Sure, ’tis crazy here but I’m grand altogether. How are you?” she asks in a more-importantly tone.

  “Never better. Never better.”

  “Good, good.”

  “Are you looking after her for me, Myra?” Des has seen the welcome stand-in locums get at the practice and can well imagine the first day that Grace must be having. He didn’t warn Grace. He doesn’t want to mother her. If he comes to her rescue, she’ll think he has no faith in her. And he has more faith in her than she has in herself.

  There’s a pause. “You mean Young Dr. Sullivan?” Myra asks.

  “The very person.”

  “Well I… haven’t had a second but I will.”

  “A woman after me own heart, Myra. After me own heart.”

  15

  Grace hurries back into the practice but then slows approaching reception, remembering that no one will be waiting for her. She looks at Myra, hopeful that maybe one patient might be in a hurry. Myra shakes her head with what seems to be genuine regret. Grace produces a smile. Turning, she notices a lime green, notice posted on the glass screen separating Myra from the masses. Having no memory of it, Grace scans the words.

  Young Dr. Sullivan

  Specialising in women’s and children’s health

  Shorter wait time

  Grace turns to Myra in surprise.

  “Thought it was worth a lash,” the receptionist says, taking the pen down from her ear and tapping it against the counter.

  Grace is genuinely touched. “Thank you. And that’s exactly what I do specialise in. How did you know?”

  “Wild guess.” She waves her pen in the direction of the waiting room. “There’s a sales rep in there. Will I send him in to you?”

  Anything’s better than sitting in silence, ruminating on what just happened at the school. “Do so. Though I won’t have much of an effect on his sales.”

  Myra leans towards her conspiratorially. Quietly she says, “Give them time.” Her voice dips to a whisper and Grace has to lean in to hear. “Might be no harm to show your face at Mass.” She raises her eyebrows.

  That’s two voices now. Grace would be a fool to ignore them – despite the fact that she has given up on there being a god of any variety. She nods slowly. “Point taken. Thanks, Myra.”

  Conor Sweeney of Blackcastle Pharmaceuticals is a standard-issue rep, young, handsome, and well turned out. His handshake is firm but not crushing and he waits to be asked to sit.

  “How’s your dad?” he asks.

  “How did you know Dr. Sullivan’s my dad? Were they talking in there?” she asks suspiciously.

  “Actually, your name gave it away, Young Dr. Sullivan.” He smiles.

  “Can’t seem to shake it off. It was decided before I even got here. Dad’s doing well, thanks.” Out of loyalty, she doesn’t bring up the Parkinson’s. Des wouldn’t want her to. Because it doesn’t define him.

  “He was one of my favourite calls.”

  Grace doesn’t doubt it.

  “We used to arm wrestle.”

  She laughs. “You did?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Who won?” She’s still smiling.

  “I’m a medical rep. Who do you think?”

  She laughs again. “I won’t take you on so. There’d be no challenge in it.”

  “True enough.”

  From now on, Grace will have a red-carpet policy for reps.

  He lifts his briefcase up onto his lap and starts to open it.

  Grace braces herself for a detail aid of boring graphs, enough to send an insomniac into a coma. Already, she’s reviewing the red-carpet policy. And yet, she has to keep up to speed with all new medications. So…

  She struggles to focus on graph after startling graph. Then he mentions a new Parkinson’s drug that Blackcastle has just received FDA approval for. Grace wakes right up, lobbing question after question at him.

  He promises to send more data. “Some really encouraging papers.”

  Finally, he starts to pack everything back into his briefcase.

  Suddenly, Grace doesn’t want him to go – and leave her with her worries.

  “So is Blackcastle a good company to work for?”

  He literally ignites. “Amazing.” He explains that they have given him shares in the company. “They’re skyrocketing!”

  Might explain his graph enthusiasm.

  “I wonder why,” she muses aloud. Maybe it’s the Parkinson’s drug. She hopes so.

  “Well, great products.”

  “Obviously.”

  He laughs. “Would you like some product samples?”

  Grace thinks about the visits she’ll have to make to the clinic on Torc island. Three miles off the coast, the island has no pharmacy. Samples, antibiotics especially, would be really welcome. Especially as her first trip is tomorrow.

  “Whatever you have would be great.”

  He unloads his case.

  Grace gets a ton of samples, free pens, Band Aids with cartoon characters and a mug with the name of a drug on it.

  The Band Aids bring her actual joy. “These are fab, thanks.”

  He gets up to go but then looks like he’s having second thoughts and sits down again. “Dr. Sullivan, I hope you don’t think I’m stepping out of line here but I just wanted to say…” He pauses. “This is a tough practice. Stick with it, though. They need someone like you.”

  “You think?” she asks doubtfully.

  His nod is adamant. “I do.”

  She smiles. “Well, you’ve just earned my undying loyalty.”

  He laughs. “Buy the shares, though. Seriously. They’re definitely worth a punt.”

  It’d help if she knew how to buy shares. “I’ll look into it.”

  They shake hands. Who’d have guessed that a medical rep could help her state of mind.

  As soon as he’s gone, though, it’s back to silence. Stillness. Worries. She’ll make a coffee. Then again, does she really want to pass a room full of people who don’t want to see her? She’ll Google that Parkinson’s drug, see if she can find out more. Then, she’ll investigate how to buy shares.

  16

  After a visit to the toilet that could no longer be avoided, Grace has to pass the waiting room. People are standing now, having run out of seats. She thinks of Dr. O’Malley in his surgery and the pressure he must be under trying to get through everyone. She has to do something.

  She goes up to reception.

  “This is ridiculous, Myra. Can you tell Dr. O’Malley that I’m going to write up the repeat prescriptions and text people their blood results?”

  Myra nods, collects the relevant information and hands it to Grace. “I’ll let Dr. O’Malley know.”

  Back in her surgery, Grace moves the mouse to wake up the computer. Before writing the scripts, she needs to check patient files to make sure each prescription is still relevant. It would be mad to prescribe blindly, knowing nothing about their condition.

  She clicks into the first patient’s file, telling herself how good it will be to at least start becoming familiar with the patients in the practice. Seeing other doctors’ work will also help her revise her medical knowledge. This first script is for a teenager requiring Ritalin. After scanning his medical history, she checks to see if his liver function tests are up to date. They are and all is well. She writes the script and puts it
aside.

  Next is HRT for a patient who Grace confirms is doing well with no side effects. She adds another script to the first. Next, she clicks into the file of Fred Cronin, a man in his fifties who requires a variety of meds. She sees that he had an uncomplicated medical history until about five years ago. Since then he has been back to the surgery every few months with a growing list of complaints. Impotence. Joint pains. Fatigue. Dr. O’Malley has prescribed Viagra for the impotence. Nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs for the joint pain. And iron for the tiredness.

  Grace taps her pen against the desk. Dr. O’Malley has been treating all of the symptoms as if they are independent of each other. What if they’re linked? She clicks to check the results of blood tests and is surprised to see that none have been taken. She checks for more symptoms. No more have been recorded. It’s probably fine. Still, something is niggling at the back of her mind, a condition that was covered in great detail during a continuing medical education seminar. She gets up and goes out to Myra.

  “Describe Fred Cronin to me,” she asks quietly.

  “Fred?” Myra asks, surprised, then sees in Grace’s expression that there must be a medical reason for the question. “Fine big man.” She tilts her head. “Though thinner lately it has to be said.”

  Grace mentally adds weight loss to the list of symptoms.

  “Sallow skin,” Myra continues like a thoughtful citizen trying to help a private investigator. “Probably from being out in the fields.”

  “Was he always sallow?”

  Myra frowns. “Now that you mention it, he wasn’t always. No.”

  Grace has a sinking feeling. “I need to talk to Dr. O’Malley.”

  Myra looks concerned. “Is everything okay?”

  “Grand, grand,” she says, reminded how fast news travels in Killrowan. She reassures herself that Myra is not the type to break patient confidentiality. If she was, she wouldn’t have kept her job. “Can I go into him?”

  “There’s someone with him. As soon as she’s out, I’ll buzz you.”

  “Thanks, Myra.”

  Grace paces her surgery, telling herself to calm down. She could be wrong. There’s no blood test. No proof. She’s probably wrong. What if she isn’t, though? What if this man could have been diagnosed five years ago and his condition halted? What if he’s headed for cirrhosis? Liver cancer? Liver failure? What if cirrhosis has already started?