“Ah, that’s great, MaryAnn, thank you.” When she’d mentioned the stamp collectors, Des had wondered where else would take a dog. “You’re a star.”
“I’m glad you haven’t forgotten,” she jokes.
Being here with her, he realises that there’s a lot he hasn’t forgotten.
40
On Monday morning, Myra looks different. There’s a colour in her cheeks that Grace is heartened to see.
“Young Dr. Sullivan–”
“Myra,” Grace interrupts. “When are you going to start calling me Grace?”
The receptionist looks like she’s developed a sudden toothache. “I’m just a bit set in my ways, Young Dr. Sullivan. I wouldn’t be comfortable.”
“How about leaving it at Dr. Sullivan then? Do we really need the ‘Young’?”
“Well to distinguish…”
Grace gives up. “Sorry, did you want to ask me something, Myra?”
“Young Dr. Sullivan,” she says like she’s starting into a prepared speech. “Do you think I might have every second Friday off, only I have to go up to Cork for… something.”
Grace wants to hug her. She’s going up with Fred for his treatments.
“I haven’t been taking holidays, you see,” Myra continues, wrapping her pearl necklace around her finger.
“Myra, you’re entitled to holidays.”
“I know but Dr. O’Malley is used to me being around. He relies on me, like. So do the patients.”
“Every second Friday is no problem whatsoever,” Grace says. She has no idea who she’ll get to fill in but there must be someone looking for work in rural Ireland.
“And you’ll tell Dr. O’Malley?” Myra confirms, glancing at his door, as though she hates to disappoint him.
“I will, of course. I’m sure he won’t have any problem with it.”
“But he might.”
“Then I’ll just remind him of all the backpay you must be due for not taking holidays,” she says simply.
Myra leans back, releasing her grip on the pearls. “I used to think you were a pussycat, Young Dr. Sullivan. But you’re no pussycat.”
“You’re right. I’m a tiger!” Grace growls and scratches the air with imaginary claws.
After a disconcerted pause, Myra breaks into laughter. “I got you all wrong, Young Dr. Sullivan.”
The thing is, Grace is a pussycat or at least she knows a man who thinks she is. Well, that man is gone. She can go tiger – sometimes.
“So, would you like this Friday off, Myra?”
“I would, please, if that’s alright.”
“Of course.” Who’ll Grace find by Friday though? She doesn’t know anyone in the village. Except Yvonne who has a job. And Alan…. Hmm. Would her old pal do her a favour until she finds someone more permanent?
As soon as she gets to her desk, Grace calls Alan.
“Hello, cupcake!” he says.
“Hello, lambchops.”
“Lambchops? Is that actually a compliment?”
Grace laughs. “It is if you like lamb.” Then her smile fades. She twirls the wire on the phone. “So. How busy are you these days?”
“Why?”
So Cork – answering a question with a question. “I might have a tiny job for you if you’re up for it.”
“Shoot.”
She shoots, fully expecting him to say no. “It’d be just every second Friday.”
There’s a pause. She shouldn’t have asked. He’s insulted.
“I’d love that. Welcoming everyone in, putting their minds at ease.”
There’s a lot more to it than that. Grace should warn him. “It’s busy enough.”
“Busy is good. Things have been quiet.” There’s a pause. “But then, something always comes along when I’m on the verge of starvation,” he says cheerfully.
She’s still cautious for him. “Would you like to chat to Myra, see what’s involved, then decide?”
“Okay but I can’t see myself changing my mind.”
“Great! I’ll put you through to her now. Call me back and let me know.”
“Will do. Thanks, sweet pea.”
“Don’t mention it, sugar puff.”
Smiling, Grace puts him through.
While Myra and Alan talk, Grace figures out how to break the news to Dr. O’Malley. Tom.
Minutes later, she’s knocking on his door.
“Enter!” he calls.
Grace assumes he’s joking. And “enters.”
“Ah, Grace,” he says peering at her over his glasses.
“Tom. Myra’s going to be taking every second Friday off until her holidays are used up. Alan Wolfe will stand in for her.” Best, she felt, to deliver the news as a fait accompli. “Myra has a huge backlog of holidays due.”
“Right so,” he says simply. “She’d better show him the ropes.”
“That’s all arranged.”
He looks thoughtful. “It’ll be nice to have a man around the place.”
Clearly Grace won’t be passing that comment along to Myra.
41
When Grace gets to the surgery on Friday morning, Alan is already installed. Dressed in a crisp, blue shirt, open at the neck, he looks like a newsreader. She imagines him in boxer shorts from the waist down.
“Dr. Sullivan!” he greets her cheerfully.
“If you’re going to go all formal on me you better make it Young Dr. Sullivan.”
An eyebrow lifts. “I’m not calling someone older than me by three months young.”
“I can tell you’re going to be trouble, Wolfe. Thank God for that.” It’s so lovely to have him here, Grace thinks, handing him his chocolate chip cookie.
“What’s this?” he asks excitedly.
“A surprise. Are there many inside?”
“A good few,” he says clicking into business mode and sliding the list through the cubby hole. “I’ve put Dr. S. beside the ones for you. I know it’s all up on the computer but Myra said you like a physical list when you get in.” He sneaks a look into the brown paper bag and touches his heart. “Awww.”
Grace looks up from all the Dr. S’s. “I’d have preferred silver stars.”
“Don’t tempt me. You know the special affection I have for stars.”
“How could I forget?” Grace feels like he has always been there.
“Actually, I was thinking,” he says, seriously now. “I’d love to give everyone a little present, you know, something small, to cheer them up because they’re not well.”
She eyes him incredulously.
He puts his hands up. “Out of my own money.”
“Are you mad? Have you seen how many people we get a day? You’d be broke.”
He looks confident. “I’ll think of something.”
“How about air?”
He smiles.
She points the rolled-up list at him. “You’re too nice, Wolfe. That’s your problem.”
“The world needs nice.”
That she will not argue with. She winks at him, “See ya later, alligator.”
She can’t think of a better stand-in for Myra.
The first patient on the list is Mia O’Driscoll, the bank manager’s wife. When Grace calls her, the delicate-looking young woman lowers her eyes as she stands, then moves like she’s afraid of disturbing the air. Grace notices that she’s wearing a polo neck, covered by a scarf. A knot starts in her stomach. She tells herself that people are allowed to wear polo necks without it meaning anything.
In the surgery, Mia waits to be asked to sit. When she does, it’s almost apologetic. She removes her coat but not the scarf.
Grace smiles encouragingly. “How can I help, Mia?”
“I’ve done something to my ear,” she says, looking into her lap.
Grace remembers all the times she sat in her GP’s surgery, blaming herself for something her husband did using those exact words: “I’ve done something to…” Fill in the blank as required. These words should be sent to
every doctor in the country with a red flag warning.
“My right ear,” Mia clarifies, this time meeting Grace’s gaze.
“So, when you say you’ve ‘done something’….?” Grace’s voice rises in a question.
Her eyes lower immediately. “Oh. I tripped and fell against the corner of the table.”
An excuse Grace herself has used. “You’ll need to take off the scarf, Mia.”
Slowly, carefully, as though every little movement hurts, Mia unwinds it.
Grace tries to stay impassive in the face of too many pieces fitting together. “When did this happen?”
“Last night.”
That would be right. Kids in bed. No one around to disturb him. The knot in Grace’s stomach tightens. “What are your symptoms, Mia?” she asks lightly.
Mia makes eye contact. “Pain. There was watery fluid on my pillow this morning with tiny bits of blood. And when I blow my nose, it’s as if air is coming out my ear.”
Grace nods. She takes her otoscope from its unit on the wall and applies a fresh cover.
“I’ll just have a little look,” she says, though she knows what this is.
Lifting Mia’s hair, she pauses at the sight of a large black bruise behind her ear. Grace’s heart breaks for this sweet and timid woman. She wants to take a picture, record the evidence but that would just send Mia running for the hills. She has to tread carefully.
She rests her hand gently on Mia’s shoulder as she inserts the otoscope. Mia immediately flinches. Grace lifts her hand like the shoulder is on fire – which it probably is.
“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“No, no! It’s okay!” Her whole body is rigid.
Rage rushes through Grace, rage at a man with a potato head. She tries to control her shaking hands. And focus on how she can help. She asks herself what her own doctor might have done differently all those times she visited. What could he have done that might have encouraged her to speak up? Grace would have needed two things: an absolute reassurance of confidentiality and a guarantee that nothing would happen without her say so.
“Did you hurt your shoulder too?” she asks.
“I must have,” Mia mumbles. “But I’m not worried about that. Just the ear.”
Grace nods, somehow managing to keep in all that she wants to say. She inserts the otoscope.
No surprises. That respectable pillar of society (she can think of other names) has punctured his wife’s eardrum.
“Let’s check that shoulder.”
“It’s fine! Honestly!” Mia recoils, eyes wide, like a startled animal.
Grace immediately backs down, returning the control to Mia.
Returning to her seat, Grace faces her patient. “So. You have a perforated eardrum,” she says rather than: “You have perforated your eardrum.” Because she’s not going along with the lie.
Mia looks alarmed.
“It sounds worse than it is,” Grace says gently. “The eardrum usually heals itself, though it can take up to three months. I’m going to prescribe antibiotics to prevent infection entering the middle ear. You’ll need to avoid further trauma.” Grace pauses, looking right into Mia’s eyes willing her to speak up, end this.
Once again, Mia drops her gaze.
So, Grace continues. “You’ll have to keep the ear dry. No swimming. A fully waterproof shower cap in the shower. Don’t put anything into your ear whatsoever. You can take Panadol or Nurofen for the pain. Stay away from Nurofen Plus. It has codeine.” It occurs to Grace that she hasn’t needed to buy another pack since giving her last one to Wayne Hill. One small victory. Which won’t help Mia.
“So, I’ll be okay?” she asks now breaking Grace’s heart.
“Your ear should heal up fine. But if you have any problems do come back to me.”
“Thanks, Doctor,” she says, putting the strap of her handbag over her left shoulder.
“Mia?”
“Yes?” she looks at Grace for an unguarded second.
“I just want to reassure you that this is a safe space. Anything discussed here is completely confidential.”
The same look of alarm flashes across Mia’s face.
“Is everything okay at home?”
“I don’t know what you mean!” She shoots to her feet.
Grace stays seated.
Mia is too polite to leave.
“Sit for a moment,” Grace says kindly.
Mia sits at the edge of the chair, like she’s about to bolt.
“How is your little girl?” Grace asks with meaning.
Mia looks at her for the longest time, her face so sad, so guilty. She seems to be faltering.
For your little girl, for your little girl, Grace wills her.
But then Mia’s eyes lower and Grace knows she’s lost her.
“She’s fine,” Mia mumbles.
“Mia look at me,” Grace says gently.
Slowly, she raises pleading eyes. Grace can’t tell if they’re pleading her to back off or push harder to get her to speak up.
Grace leans in. “I want you to know that I’m here for you. You mightn’t want to talk now. And I understand that. Trust me. I do. But you can call me at any time. Anytime.” She hesitates before picking up a pen and writing down her mobile number on a post-it pad. “This is my private number.” She tears off the sheet and hands it to Mia. “Please don’t share it. I don’t normally give it out.”
Mia nods. Holding the note in two trembling hands, she looks at the number, then up at Grace again as if she still might do it, detonate that grenade in her life. Then she shakes her head as if to herself, snaps her bag open and shoves the little yellow square of paper inside. And the moment is gone. With a “Thanks, Doctor,” she shoots from the room with her head down.
Grace can’t sit still. She paces the surgery, gripping her head. She has failed Mia. That thug will carry on hurting her, controlling her, weakening her, punishing her, ruling her… owning her. What if he goes too far? Grace inhales deeply, then exhales slowly, reminding herself that no one would have made her leave, either. The decision – a huge one – had to come from her. It will be the same for Mia. Grace has told her where to come. At least, in her mind, there is a starting place, a refuge – if she chooses it. Now, Grace must do all she can to get ready for a day she hopes will come, the day Mia O’Driscoll decides, “Enough!”
Grace’s medical records were crucial in fighting her case. In fact, they could have been so much more helpful. The most valuable thing Grace can do for Mia is document this consultation meticulously.
At her desk, Grace records the time of the appointment and the time of the injury. She documents not just the diagnosis, but the bruising behind Mia’s ear and the tenderness of her shoulder. She wishes she had been able to take a photograph. But she had weighted up the risk and made a choice. She doesn’t regret it.
She notes the demeanour of the patient – fearful, protective, defensive. Then she scans Mia’s file for other signs of domestic violence. And finds them. More so-called falls. Persistent headaches. A broken wrist. She has no doubt that she will be recording further injuries if Mia doesn’t do something to stop this.
Afraid of what she’ll find, Grace goes through Mia’s daughter’s file, a six-year-old girl called Faith. With each consultation, she grows a little more hopeful. Until she finally collapses back in her chair in relief. There is no evidence of anything other than normal childhood ailments.
Grace runs her hands up and down her face. Should she have a word with Paddy O’Neill? Not without breaking Mia’s confidence. And what could he do anyway as long as Mia denies it – just put her in more danger? Maybe Grace should talk to her father. Mia was his patient. Did he suspect anything? Do anything? But then what could he do? And what can Grace do beyond what she has already done? How can she save someone who doesn’t want to be saved? And what right does she have to interfere?
42
Feeling shaken and too close to her past, Grace has only one opti
on, to keep going, keep her mind on work. She hopes that the next patient has something simple. A sore throat. Skin condition. Pregnancy. She checks the list and closes her eyes in relief. Wayne Hill. Removal of sutures.
When she calls him in, his smile is wide. No grimace, now, when he stands.
“How are you?” Grace asks as she leads him across the hall.
“Cautiously optimistic.”
She smiles.
Entering the surgery, Wayne Hill glances at the bench like he’s facing his nemesis.
“Think of the Band-Aids,” she says and starts to pull the curtain across.
“You should have been a motivational speaker.” He ducks behind the curtain.
Grace sets up a dressing tray and sterile gloves.
The sound of rustling stops. “Ready!” he calls.
“Gosh. You’re very chipper.” Chipper is just what Grace needs. She pushes the trolley through the gap in the curtain.
“It’s the Band-Aids – plural – in case you forget.”
She tries not to smile. “You do know that those Band-Aids are conditional on good behaviour.”
“Oh, they’ll be mine.”
“Folding back the blanket will help your case,” she says, gloved hands in the air.
He does as asked. And, despite the jocular mood, looks just as mortified as the first time.
“I have to ask you to open your legs.”
“Of course. Sorry.”
“Great, thanks,” she says in her professional doctor voice, equally mortified – and mortified that she’s mortified – so more mortified. Luckily, he’s now looking up at the ceiling.
She removes the dressing, noticing that his fists are clenched.
“Oh. That’s healing up very nicely. Good job, Nurse Hill.”
He looks at her and smiles. “All in a day’s work.”
“Right, I’m going in. As they say.”
“Who? The CIA? A SWAT team?” he jokes but braces himself, his hands gripping the edges of the bench.
But the hydrogen peroxide has done a great job of cleaning up the wound and sloughing away any debris that might have made suture removal tricky. The stitches slide out easily.
Season of Second Chances: an uplifting novel of moving away and starting over Page 21