‘You see. You want me to have a baby. You are putting pressure on me.’ She reaches for the pack of nicotine gum that is on the bedside locker, can’t seem to get the wrapper off fast enough.
‘What’s so wrong with a baby?’ he asks.
‘We’ve been through this.’ Then under her breath, ‘A million times.’
‘I know and you’ve given me reasons, but not the real one.’ He softens his voice when he asks, ‘What are you afraid of, Lou?’
She kneels up suddenly. ‘I’m not afraid of anything. Jesus Christ. You come back from some psychology course and put me under a microscope.’
‘I’m just trying to understand you.’
‘Am I that bloody complex?’
‘Everyone’s complex.’
She throws her hands up. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’
She gets up and leaves the room. He is about to follow her when she returns looking as if there is something important she has to add. ‘I’m not abnormal just because I don’t want a baby.’
‘I’m not saying that.’
‘What then?’
He goes to her, takes one of her hands and brings her back to the bed, where they sit down again. ‘We’re together four years, Lou. We love each other. Why haven’t we made any sort of commitment to each other? Why aren’t we prepared to risk anything to strengthen our relationship? What’s stopping us?’
‘You get a needle-stick injury and suddenly you want a family. What about me?’
‘I want this for us.’
‘Even though I don’t?’
‘I’m never going to walk out, Louise. If we have a kid, I’m going to stay.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m not like your father…’
‘I don’t want to hear this, OK? I don’t want to hear it.’ She stands abruptly, flinging off her robe. She hurries into yesterday’s clothes. ‘I’m going out,’ she says, before he’s figured out what to say. She grabs her keys and is gone.
He stands alone in the bedroom, admonishing himself. Didn’t he learn anything on that course? He has really messed up this time. Edgy and unsure what to do with himself, he starts to clear up. He fills the dishwasher tray and slams it in. Plates roll out of their positions with a clatter.
‘Pissy, shitty machine,’ he says to it. And kicks it shut.
Wanting to keep busy, he decides to unpack.
He opens the case. There, on top of his clothes, are the presents he got Louise. He picks up the soap and smells it. Sighs. Hopes she’s OK. She wasn’t well and he had to go and upset her. What kind of fool is he? He wonders where she has gone. Hopes she’s not driving fast, which tends to happen when she’s angry. He puts the gifts under her pillow for when she gets back. He hopes it’s soon.
He tries her phone. But she has left without it.
He tries the shop, but she hasn’t come in.
Hours pass and his anxiety grows.
It’s evening when he finally hears her key in the door. He goes straight to her. She looks wretched.
‘I’m sorry, Lou. I am really sorry. I thought I understood. I tried to ring –’
‘I can’t do this,’ she says. ‘I can’t do this any more.’
His stomach lurches.
‘I love you, but I can’t be with you any more.’ Her tears come quickly and he knows they’re not the first she has shed today.
He starts to panic. He didn’t do this. He didn’t make it so difficult that she’d leave. She can’t leave.
‘We both want different things,’ she says, as though it’s part of a pre-prepared speech she is determined to get through. But her tears give him hope.
He puts his arms around her. ‘Shh,’ he says.
She pulls away. ‘Let me do this.’
‘I pushed you too far, I know, I’m sorry, I won’t –’
‘I’m moving out. I don’t need this pressure. I can’t handle it.’
‘Louise, please. I’m sorry. Forget what I said. I won’t bring it up again.’
‘You will.’ Her voice is suddenly calm. ‘And you should. It’s what you want. And you should have it. But it’s not what I want. We have to draw the line here.’
‘No.’
‘It’s over, Rory. If we don’t end this now, you’ll only end up resenting me, hating me. It’s better this way.’
‘You’re tired, not feeling well. Sleep on it, Lou. Stay tonight and we’ll talk in the morning.’ He’ll convince her.
‘Nothing will have changed.’
She walks to the bedroom. From the high shelf on the wardrobe, she pulls down her case.
‘Let’s talk about this.’
She starts to throw clothes in. Flinging, not folding. She won’t look at him.
‘Where will you go?’
Without meeting his eyes, she says, ‘Lesley and Mark’s – until I find a place of my own.’
His friend is supporting the break-up of his relationship? Rory can’t keep still. As she packs, he paces. When did they become Lesley and Mark? They’ve always been Mark and Lesley. Why the reversal? Has her relationship with Lesley overtaken his with Mark? Maybe Mark doesn’t know about this. No, Lesley wouldn’t invite Louise to move in without checking. So, Louise must have gone straight to them. He thinks of Mark in comforting mode. And wants to kill him.
19
He helps her with her case. Going down in the lift, he asks himself what he’s doing – he doesn’t want her to go, but he’s helping her leave. She’s unwell and he loves her – how can he let her carry the case?
Louise is crying when she tells him she’ll be back for the rest of her things. Her body is shaking when she hugs him goodbye. But she is first to let go. And she doesn’t look back. Not once.
He can’t believe it. It couldn’t be over. Just like that. Finished.
As her car moves away, it makes a loud grating noise as she fails to go into gear properly. He sees her tuck her hair behind her ear as she always does when stressed.
What kind of fool is he? He loves her and he’s letting her go.
Her car disappears from view.
He stands looking after it. Only when a neighbour asks him if he’s OK, does he move. Head down, he walks back inside. But he can’t stay in the apartment. Doesn’t want to think. He needs distraction. And work is better than most. Officially, he’s still on a week’s leave, but he’s going in. He dresses, his movements determined. His thoughts turn to Louise. He imagines her unpacking at Mark and Lesley’s. He yanks his belt a notch tighter. How much time did she spend with them when he was away? Was she complaining about the pressure he was putting her under? He flicks the fat part of his tie over the thin and knots it right up to his neck. Reaching under the bed for his shoes, he pulls out one of hers – high-heeled, maroon – for special occasions. He runs a finger along it. He should stay home in case she comes back, try to talk her round. Could he though? Nothing has changed. As she said, they both want different things. And no matter how hard he tries to convince her that having a family doesn’t matter to him, he knows she won’t believe him. And maybe she’s right, maybe he can’t suppress for ever something he so passionately wants without ending up resenting her.
Her sunglasses are on the dashboard of his car. He puts them in the glove compartment. He turns the engine and her Coldplay CD comes on. He deposits it with the sunglasses. He drives on autopilot, failing to notice the rain or the woman at a bus stop he soaks with a puddle.
Walking up the corridor he sees Sinead, the casualty registrar, coming towards him.
‘I was just talking to Debbie,’ she says. ‘The camera crew is on your ward.’
‘Bugger,’ he says. A reality TV crew is filming the working lives of four interns. Most other staff spend their time avoiding them. This involves tipping each other off.
‘Want to get lunch?’ she asks.
He wasn’t aware of the time. He should eat, he supposes.
They sit opposite each other. She smiles at him, but i
t doesn’t register.
‘You don’t look like a man who just got the all clear,’ she says.
He shakes his head to bring himself back to the present. ‘Sorry. Miles away.’
‘Wish I was,’ she says. ‘New Zealand would be nice.’
He raises his chin to acknowledge that.
‘You know, after what you’ve been through, you and Louise should take a holiday.’
His throat tightens. ‘Yeah.’
She covers her salad in mayonnaise, then looks up suddenly. ‘Hey, did you hear about that bus driver?’
‘Bus driver?’
‘You haven’t heard?’ she sounds astonished. ‘Drove his bus into a crowd and killed two people.’
‘Really? Where? When?’
‘O’Connell St. Last night.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘No. I’m amazed you haven’t heard. It’s been on the news everywhere. Everyone’s talking about it.’ She starts to recount the story.
Rory is all ears, until he catches sight of Lesley coming into the canteen, when he lets go of his cup. Tea spills down his shirt, scalding him.
‘Jesus!’ Holding it out from his chest, he hurries from the canteen making for the locker room. By the time he’s reached his locker, his shirt is off. He throws his white coat on the door and flings the shirt in an angry ball to the bottom of the locker. He goes straight to the shower and blasts on cold. He points the nozzle at his chest, just above the burn. Ten minutes, he tells himself, freezing to death. But in a way, it is a relief to feel something other than the shock of Louise leaving. He wants to blame her for this. But can’t. He tries to imagine life without her. And can’t.
Back at his locker, he fishes his phone out of the pocket of his white coat, knowing at last what he has to say to her. It’s simple. He loves her; they’ll work something out. That’s all. He has the phone in his hand. She is his first quick dial number. He sees her face and remembers. He was pressurizing her. If he rings, he will be doing it again. And that will always be the case, as long as the thing he longs for is the very thing she is running from. The phone follows the crumpled shirt. Leaning against the locker, he does something he hasn’t done in years. He cries.
‘How exactly do you close your head?’ the patient he is examining asks.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You just asked me to put my eyes back and close my head.’
‘I did?’
The patient, a young man with unexplained neurological symptoms, says, ‘You did.’
‘Oh, right. Sorry. Other way around.’
The man smirks. ‘Thought so.’
Smart-ass.
For the rest of the morning, Rory watches what he says. In conversation, though, his mind wanders and he misses large swatches of information, which might be fine, if it wasn’t about diagnoses, treatments and consultations. On his way to the coffee shop, he sends a lost visitor in the wrong direction. And doesn’t notice when she passes him again going the opposite way, and glares at him. He buys apple juice though he has never liked it. A nurse he knows for years as Sarah, he mistakenly calls Louise. Finally, he gives in. He should be home in case she calls. He should at least try. He rushes back to the apartment, but is too late. She has been and gone, her side of the wardrobe empty bar clothes hangers, which clang together when he accidentally knocks against them, the bathroom cabinet bare apart from his toothbrush, shaving foam and razor, the razor he once worried might have put her at risk. She has left the toothpaste. None of the other rooms look changed. And it occurs to Rory how little personal impact either of them has made on what has been their home for three years. He tells himself it’s because the apartment came fully furnished. But he knows it has more to do with commitment. Or lack of it.
He picks up a cushion and flings it across the room. Why did he have to push it? Why did she have to close her mind to the possibility of what could have been? How could Mark betray him? He can’t stay in. Doesn’t want to go out. Can’t meet Mark. She could have thought of that. Barry and his happy family would be too much. He has other mates. But, Christ Almighty, he doesn’t want to talk to them. He could ring Orla. She’d be back from the course. And all optimistic and in lust. No, thank you.
Louise still has a key. Could call any time.
What if she doesn’t? Will he never see her again?
The possibility of that stuns him.
In casualty, after the attack, he put her down as his next-of-kin.
20
Motor neurone disease is not common, and yet Rory has just diagnosed another case. He’s discussing it with the man who got the job he coveted, Dr Graham Traynor, newly appointed consultant neurologist at St Paul’s. Traynor is a balding but handsome forty something, who had been practising in Canada and Boston before returning to Dublin with his family to take up this post. Rory doesn’t have the energy to envy him.
‘Do you want me to tell him?’ Rory volunteers.
‘Would you?’ Traynor looks relieved. ‘Dashing to the airport. Conference in Basle.’
‘Sure.’
Rory makes his way to the patient’s room, going over Samantha’s advice in his head. There is no nervousness now, just determination to do the best he can. When he gets to the room, he’s glad to find the patient alone. That he is reading a motoring magazine saddens Rory. It will no longer be of relevance to the handsome young man in his thirties once he hears the diagnosis. Rory closes the door, pulls up a chair. He doesn’t allow his eyes to slip from the patient’s. He speaks slowly, clearly. Repeats whatever he has to, answers questions, some more than once. Most importantly, he stays until he senses that the stunned young man finally wants to be alone. He closes the door behind him, knowing that the next time he passes him on the corridor he will not look away. He will stop. Ask how he is. Listen. He will be there.
That he has managed to do this is such a relief to Rory that he wants to share the news with Louise. But it has been a week now. No messages. No texts. Long enough to know that there won’t be any. Every day Rory notices little things missing from the apartment that he failed to spot that first day, not just physical things, like lilies too open to sell, but intangible things. Sounds – high-heels clicking on the wooden floor, tuneless singing from the bathroom, a lipstick being pulled from its container with a gentle pop. Fragrances – incense, flowers, her moisture cream last thing at night. Colour, too – the bright pink yoga mat he used to have to step around. Everything is blander, especially his life. The bed seems enormous. And cold. It’s harder to fall asleep. He has not told anyone. Orla rang to talk about the course (and no doubt Paul Morel), but Rory rustled up some excuse not to have to meet her.
Louise is gone. But she is everywhere. A jacket draped over a chair in a coffee shop, the way a stranger’s hair bounces from behind, a laugh that is almost hers. Simple things bringing with them such an overwhelming stab of loss that Rory is in no doubt that he loves her. Why didn’t he bother to remember the name of her favourite flower? Had he assumed she would always be there to remind him?
He needs to toughen up. What did they share apart from a mutual fear of commitment? If they fell apart so easily at the first hurdle, they’d never have survived marriage. It’s for the best. He wants to leave something behind, however egotistical that may be. He has been wasting time. Better this way. Start from scratch with a woman who wants what he does. Problem is, can he ever find someone he loves as much as Louise?
In between missing Louise, Rory has thought a lot about his father and the possibility that occurred to him on the course. If it’s true that there’s a reason for the way he is, then perhaps it’s up to Rory to give him a chance. Maybe the way forward is to try to get him to view Rory as more of an equal, rather than a son. If they could just take the father-son thing out of the equation, maybe things could work out…
After five stalled attempts over two days, he allows his parents’ phone to ring until it is answered.
‘Hello?’ His father’s on
e barked word translates as six – ‘Whoever you are, you’re disturbing me.’
Rory tenses. ‘It’s Rory.’
‘Yeah?’ As in: what d’you want?
It would be so easy to just hang up. ‘I was thinking of calling over.’
‘Why?’
Oh, fuck off, Rory thinks. I’m your son. I’m supposed to call over. But he stops. Maybe that’s the problem. Rory never does call. Why now? his father is probably wondering. Well, honesty would be a mistake. An olive branch would be dismissed. ‘Why not?’ is the best alternative he can muster.
‘I’m going to Mass. I’ll get your mother.’
It’s as if Rory has nothing to do with him at all, the way it’s always been. As usual, he’s left feeling flattened.
‘Rory?’ His mother’s one word is entirely different – warm, optimistic, loving.
He relaxes again. ‘I was thinking of calling over.’
‘Tonight?’ Translated as: is the house clean, are there any biscuits?
‘Or we could go out?’ he suggests, suddenly wanting to be anywhere other than the house he grew up in. ‘Town’s still open.’ But then he starts to worry about her stamina. ‘We could go to the Merrion Hotel for coffee.’
‘Your father…’
‘Has Mass. I know. Come on. The world’s our oyster.’
He can’t remember when they last went anywhere together, just the two of them. Probably when he was a kid, and she was the one organizing the trip. He feels guilty for not putting in an effort before now. Unable to drive, June has had to rely on a husband whose idea of an outing is a visit to the supermarket, the church or a funeral. Rory knows that she accepts this life without regret. Still, why has his father, largely absent in favour of his busy medical practice, never encouraged her independence? Why has he never taught her to drive? He publicly criticizes Rory for not handling his responsibilities. Doesn’t he feel any towards his wife? Rory knows that neither is he blame-free. He could have lent a hand. But then, he has always left things like that to Siofra – who is better at them.
Do You Want What I Want? Page 15