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

by Aimee Alexander

  The man who dressed her hated denim.

  She opens the bathroom door and steam wafts out.

  “Holly?” she calls.

  Holly sticks her head out from her bedroom.

  “Do you think any of your jeans would fit me?”

  “I bet they would. You’re tiny. Will I bring you a pair?”

  “Why not?” Grace says like she’s throwing caution to the wind. “Just not ripped ones.”

  “Okay!”

  In the bathroom, Grace squeezes into a black pair of skinny jeans. And feels rebellious. She pops her head out again.

  “Hol?”

  A smiling Holly appears.

  “How about a top?”

  Holly laughs. “Sure.” She disappears. Seconds later, she re-emerges holding up two options.

  “I love you,” Grace says, picking a black one. With sparkles. Then it hits her: how horrified she would have been as a teenager if her mother had started to borrow her clothes. “I’ll buy my own stuff tomorrow, I promise…. Just tell me what websites.”

  “We could do it together! It’d be fun!”

  “Oh wait, we can’t tomorrow. I’ll be on the island.”

  “How late do you get back?”

  “About seven I’d say.”

  “We’ll do it then!”

  How did she get a daughter like this? Grace was nowhere as accommodating as a teenager. “It’s a date!” she says, marvelling at this new life springing up organically, taking on a momentum of its own. She grimaces, knowing she’s pushing it, now. “Could I try your makeup? Just for a change?”

  “’Course.”

  “And some of that hair gel you use?” Holly is bound to kill her now.

  But her daughter just laughs like she’s delighted to see this new light-hearted side to her mum. “You’re going crazy!”

  “I am!” No one to stop her now.

  Grace sets an armful of makeup into the bathroom sink. Clearing condensation from the mirror, she faces a pixie. And panics. It’s not happening too fast, is it, all this change? Everything’s not going to come crashing down, is it? Maybe she should stay in. Take things slower. Safer. But then, slow and safe kept her trapped for sixteen years.

  19

  Ahern’s hasn’t changed since the day Grace left Killrowan. It’s so old-world it’s come back into fashion. The heavy, wooden bar stools could tell a few tales. The small, round tables dotted around don’t demand much of people. “Come as you are,” they seem to say. The fire is blazing and, no doubt, there’ll be traditional music sessions on Saturday night. There is comfort in this familiarity, and for once, Grace feels at home with the locals, well, the local sitting opposite her, at least. She can’t stop smiling.

  “So, Pat Harte? Who’d have guessed?”

  “It’s always the quiet ones.” Yvonne grins. She looks as beautiful as ever to Grace. Yes; everything has faded. Her hair is a gentler shade of red. Her cheeks have lost a little of their glow. She has laughter lines around her eyes. And she’s a little heavier. But she’s as sultry as ever, her thick and fabulous hair in a 1950’s style. Her black fitted polo neck and skinny jeans hug her curves proudly. And, of course, that deep voice hasn’t changed. Yvonne has always sounded – and looked like – a jazz singer. Grace thinks that she is lost in Killrowan. But then rethinks. She is the opposite of lost in Killrowan. She is like a beacon of glamour. “Ah, I can’t complain,” she says in husky Cork. “He gets better with age.”

  Grace wonders what it must be like for a relationship to stay good, maybe even get better, for your husband to keep loving you, respecting you, going to the school with you when there’s an “incident.”

  “What about you?” Yvonne asks.

  She shakes her head. “Didn’t work out.” She takes a sip of her beer. Beer, Simon, beer. She mentally flips him off.

  “He was a consultant or something, I heard?”

  She rubs condensations from her glass, then looks up. “Why didn’t we keep in touch, Vonnie?”

  Yvonne waves away the question. “Ah, sure. We were young.”

  “But best friends.”

  “Inseparable,” they say together wistfully. It’s what people used to say about them. All the time.

  “’Twas my fault,” Grace says. “I’m the one who left. I should have kept in touch, come home more often.” Simon did soak up all her free time; he did isolate her but she had a say. And she chose him.

  “Ah, sure look it.”

  If they’d had a traditional wedding, she would have invited all her old friends; they’d have got back in touch. But he had wanted to elope, selling her on how romantic it would be. She went along with it, like she went along with everything. Could she have been any more blind, any more naïve?

  “Doesn’t everyone go off and not look back? That’s just the way of it. Our kids’ll be the same.”

  Grace remembers the incident at the school. She’s about to apologise for Jack when she stops herself. She won’t do that to him. Ever again. “How’s Simon?” she asks instead, wishing he was called something else. Anything else.

  “He’s grand out. Thinks Jack is the bee’s knees.”

  “Really?” Grace is so relieved.

  “Imagine if they became friends – our kids, friends!”

  “That’d be so weird,” Grace says sounding eighteen again.

  “Great, though.”

  “Great but weird.”

  “Great weird.”

  They laugh.

  Yvonne touches her arm. “It’s great to have you back.”

  “It’s great to be back.” Even after the day she’s had, it feels a hundred percent true. The power of friendship, she thinks.

  “Have you bumped into Alan yet?” Yvonne asks.

  Grace’s face lights up. “Alan? No! Is he still here in Killrowan?”

  “He is, though I don’t see a lot of him. Life’s busy.”

  Grace recalls his adorable, loveable face, his big blue, trusting, optimistic eyes. “We should ring him, tell him to come down!”

  Yvonne checks her watch. “It’s eleven.”

  “What? Already? So much for one drink!”

  “It’s the company.”

  Grace smiles. “So. What’s he up to?”

  “Odd jobs, really. He can turn his hand to anything.”

  “Is he with anyone?”

  “Nope. Still single.”

  “We should arrange a night out, the three of us.”

  Yvonne smiles. “Let’s do that.”

  They glance at the clock over the bar. But neither makes a move to leave. There are just too many unanswered – unasked – questions.

  As the fire begins to dull and the bar begins to empty, Grace and Yvonne discover that they have girls the same age, not only that, but Holly and Molly share a birthday.

  “We went into labour on the same day!”

  “How weird is that?” they say together, and laugh.

  “What about Holly and Molly? Like one letter different!” Yvonne says.

  Grace bites her lip. “Your son has the same name as my… ex. But I won’t hold that against him!” she jokes. Half jokes.

  Yvonne wrinkles her face. “You must hate the name.”

  Grace matches her expression. “Not my favourite, to be honest.”

  “We all call him Ginge anyway.”

  “Ginge? He doesn’t mind?”

  “Wears it like a badge of honour. Loves his hair that boy. Vain like his mam.”

  Grace laughs. “You were never vain.”

  Last orders are called and they remember their responsibilities. Outside Ahern’s, they hug like they’re still eighteen and their futures will be different now. And, as they reluctantly go their separate ways, it hits Grace just how lonely she has been. For years and years and years. How did she survive?

  20

  Grace can’t remember when she last had a hangover. Probably because she can’t remember when she last had a drink. Simon frowned on alcohol – and
on her if she drank it. Now, her body doesn’t know what’s hit it. The slightest movement and it feels like her brain is expanding in waves. Her tongue could be a carpet, thick and furry. And she has a thirst on her like a camel – assuming camel’s get thirsty.

  Doctor’s bag in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, Grace approaches the pier with dread. How will she make it across to the island without throwing up? Sinking – slowly – into a squat, keeping her head very still, she sets her doctor’s bag on the ground. And roots through it for an antiemetic, a challenge given the number of samples she has packed.

  Samples out on the dusty ground, Grace is continuing to root, when a pair of male legs stops beside her.

  “Young Dr. Sullivan! Is everything alright? Do you need a hand?”

  “No, no, I’m grand thanks,” she says, without daring to glance up. How unprofessional this must look, she thinks. Then reminds herself that throwing up on the boat would look more so.

  “I’ll leave you to it so.”

  “Thank you!” she says in relief.

  Finding the Motilium – at last – at the bottom of the bag, she clicks one out of the blister pack and downs it with the bottled water. She tosses the samples back in the bag before anyone else comes along, then stands slowly, feeling like her head is going to explode. She squints in the light of a sun that seems way too strong for October. She should have brought her shades.

  She makes her way to the spot where the ferry comes in. She is first, it seems. Wait. What about the owner of the legs? Where did he go? Did she imagine them? And why is there no one else here? Has she got the time wrong? She hasn’t missed the ferry, has she? She checks her watch. No. There’s still ten minutes. She closes her eyes, inhales the briny air and tells herself to stop panicking. She could do with sitting down.

  Other passengers start to arrive in dribs and drabs, dropped off by a variety of cars. One tractor. Everyone is carrying something. A man in his fifties in dark overalls has an oily piece of machinery. A younger man with bad acne has a box containing a (live) chicken. An attractive, overdressed woman carries a gift-wrapped parcel. Island life, Grace thinks.

  “Young Dr. Sullivan,” says the man with the chicken – putting it down and his hand out. “Ted O’Driscoll.”

  They know her on the island too? “How are you, Ted?”

  “Grand altogether. Aren’t you the brave woman all the same?”

  “I am?”

  “Travelling out to the island with a storm forecast,” he says looking towards the horizon like a Shakespearian soothsayer.

  “There’s a storm coming?”

  “Eddie they’re calling it. There’s a yellow warning. Didn’t you check the forecast before coming to the island?”

  The answer is very clearly no. She was too busy catching up with Yvonne in the pub. “But you’re going out to the island,” she says, hopefully.

  “Oh, I am yeah but I’m staying put when I get there. You were probably planning on going home after the clinic, though, were you?” He scratches his face like that might be a problem.

  “You think I won’t get back?” She has to – to the children, to her dad, and to the practice first thing tomorrow. But most worryingly – what if Simon comes down and she’s not there! She scans the faces of the others waiting to board, all of them eagerly following the conversation. “What about you? Someone must be coming back.”

  “I am,” says the man with the machine. “I’m dropping this out to my brother and hopping straight back on the ferry.”

  Everyone else nods in confirmation.

  Grace looks out at the flat calm sea, then back at them. It suddenly occurs to her…. “You’re pulling my leg!”

  They look at her blankly.

  “New doctor’s first day on the island!”

  “We wouldn’t do that to you,” Ted says.

  All hope melts away. “When is it blowing in?”

  “Afternoon, they say.” Ted glances at her doctor’s bag. “But, sure, when are they ever right?”

  Should she cancel the clinic, ask Ted to pass the word? What if people need to see her urgently? It’s two weeks since a doctor last visited. Maybe Ted’s right. Maybe the storm won’t hit till later. Forecasts are often wrong. Especially about storms. Grace has often found that they don’t hit till hours after the warning began. They probably err on the side of caution. She takes a deep breath to calm herself – and the nausea. She’ll talk to the boatman.

  The ferry arrives with the rumble of an engine and a plume of oily smoke on the air. No one is in a rush. Except Grace. She hurries onboard and goes straight to the boatman, a ruddy, weather-beaten man in his sixties.

  “Young Dr. Sullivan!” he says before she can introduce herself. He holds out a hand. “Ger Daly.”

  “Ger. Hi. I’m just wondering when you’ll expect that last boat to leave the island,” she rushes. “I need to get home to my family. I didn’t know about the storm and don’t want to let the islanders down.”

  “Don’t you worry. We’ll keep going till the wind blows up and the sea gets choppy. I’ll be keeping a good eye out. I can have someone run up to the clinic and let you know when the last ferry will be leaving the island.”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful, thank you so much.”

  Grace takes a seat and a few more deep breaths. She opens her bag and starts to dust off samples with a tissue.

  Despite all the vacant seats on the boat, someone sits beside her. Grace glances up. It’s a tiny, elderly woman, wrapped up in an oversized coat, scarf and woollen hat. There will be conversation.

  “Young Dr. Sullivan. Don’t be worrying. Sure, you can stay over in Cooke’s if all comes to all.”

  All can’t come to all. “Is the clinic usually busy?” Maybe she can take a half day.

  “Oh yeah, ’tis always mobbed. I’d say you’ll be there till five or six anyway.”

  “I may have to leave early if the storm blows up.”

  The woman looks doubtful. “Well, you might be lucky and have a quiet day. God’s good.”

  Grace turns around. Already, Killrowan is disappearing into the distance. From now on, she will take a keen interest in the weather.

  21

  Grace climbs the steep slope up from the tiny harbour, wishing she hadn’t packed so much into her bag. Glancing up, she sees that there is already a line of patients outside the surgery. She tries to be positive. At least people want to see her here. She picks up her pace and feels for the key in her coat pocket.

  She reaches the clinic, out of breath. “Sorry for keeping you,” she rushes, inserting the key. “I won’t be a moment.”

  Hurrying inside, Grace is greeted by a blast of cold air. She flicks on the light in the dimly-lit corridor and reaches for the radiator. She can’t believe it’s not on a timer.

  “Come on in,” she calls as she goes in search of controls.

  There are just two rooms, one facing the other on opposite sides of the narrow corridor. The door to one is open and people start to file in. Waiting room, she deducts, then scans it, unsuccessfully for a control box.

  An elderly man limps by. He could do with a warmer coat.

  “I’m sorry about the cold,” she says, rubbing her hands together.

  “Oh, ’tis always like this,” he replies cheerfully. “We’re hardy, here on the island. Like mountain goats.”

  “Right.” She’s no mountain goat, though. “So, there’s no way of turning on the heat?”

  “I don’t know if it’s ever worked to be honest with you.”

  “There are radiators, though. There must be a way.”

  She turns the knob on the radiator in the hall clockwise, which she knows is wrong.

  “You’re wasting your time, Doctor,” another arriving patient says.

  He’s probably right. The waiting room is filling up. She has to get started – if she wants to get off the island before the storm. She cups her hands in front of her mouth and blows into them. Could she wear
her coat while seeing patients?

  She knows the answer to that.

  She opens the door to the surgery. And is relieved to discover how well-equipped it is. Even the computer seems modern enough. What Grace is most delighted to see, though, is a plug-in heater. With a, “Thank you, God,” the atheist lunges for it and turns it on.

  The computer gives her further reason to rejoice, linked as it is to the practice on the mainland. She can keep track of patients who go between the surgeries.

  Checking her watch, she allows herself two minutes to investigate a box on the wall, which could be controls for the heating. She fiddles with the buttons. But nothing happens. No sounds of a generator kicking on. Nothing.

  She needs to get started. She takes off her coat and jogs on the spot – fast. She rubs her hands up and down her arms. Then she takes a deep breath and opens the door.

  No receptionist here. No waiting list. No idea who’s first.

  What would the most confident man she knows do?

  She strides to the door of the waiting room and claps her hands. “Right! Who’s first?”

  “That would be me.”

  The American accent surprises her. All the tourists have usually gone by now. Thinking of the Oscar Wilde story about the swallow who stayed behind in winter and… died, she turns to the voice. This man couldn’t look more out of place. At least twenty years younger than the average islander, he is expensively decked out in high-end outdoors gear, giving him the look of a hiker who washed up on the island. But then a battered leather satchel worn across his body confuses the image. Grimacing as he gets to his feet, he avoids rising to his full height so as not to hit his head against the ceiling of the cottage.

  In the hall, Grace introduces herself. “Grace Sullivan.”