“Is it worry that you’re at risk in the sort of way Christian was? I mean to say, that his suicide was a shock, of course, and most people must have thought he had his depression under control. But then it … wasn’t. Does that make you worry about your sobriety being at the same sort of sudden and unforeseen risk?”
This strikes right at the heart of what I had been feeling, though I hadn’t been able to identify it. I hunch over and pet Roscoe, needing the soothing and repetitive action to offset the impact of what she’s said.
“Did you realize,” she continues, “you’ve been sober for a year? Your anniversary was yesterday.”
Tears spring to my eyes and I can do nothing to blink them away. I had no conscious realization of the date, but now that she says it, I know it to be true. This is the longest I’ve gone without heroin since I started at age eighteen. I swipe at the tears that won’t abate.
“It’s okay, Daniel,” she says soothingly.
“I didn’t realize,” I say and get too choked up to continue. My heart is thumping in my chest and I suddenly feel hot.
Standing, I pull my leather jacket off and toss it on the chair behind me.
“It’s a remarkable achievement,” she tells me.
Though I nod dumbly, I can’t absorb this. Everything comes rushing at me at once—the past year in which I toured with my brother and made my own real money for the first time in my life; finding Roscoe and being able to rely on him as both a pal and something to motivate me to stay clean; meeting Jules and learning what a taste of loving and being loved is, even if it didn’t ultimately work out that way; realizing that I have unofficially become a part of a band of brothers with being able to count Gavin, Conor, and Martin as my friends, and mostly this journey I’ve taken with Ms. Patterson where she has not just corrected the course of my life and decision-making, but showed me that I have the actual power to do that. And all of that was without heroin.
The distance I’ve come overwhelms me to the point where I fall to my knees and truly let the tears flow, crying silently at first, and then completely uncontrollably.
I’m a mess, but I have no will to stop it. I need to let it out, both as a release and as a sort of victory cry.
Roscoe nudges at me with his cold nose, concerned. With my eyes tightly shut, I drop my hand to his head and try to reassure him.
But still, the release is so cathartic that I can’t stop.
Then I feel something else touch me. I open my eyes halfway and see Ms. Patterson is standing before me. She’s touching my hair in the gentlest manner.
I don’t think. I just act. Wrapping my arms around her waist, I hold her to me and press my face to her belly.
When she doesn’t pull away or say a word, but rather simply keeps stroking my hair, I hold her even tighter. She’s patient, as she always has been where I’m concerned, and lets me pull myself together in my own time.
47
“Shall we wrap up our session with a refreshing walk around the block?” Ms. Patterson asks.
We’ve pulled apart and I’ve mopped myself up with tissues. The idea of getting out of the office is exactly what I need to push past my intensely emotional outburst.
“Absolutely,” I tell her. “Anything to escape these horrible green walls.”
She laughs, and her smile is gorgeous.
The three of us step out onto the street and find patches of blue sky among the clouds. The October air is crisp, and a breeze makes Ms. Patterson hug her arms to her chest. I take her arm and wrap it through mine, so we suddenly look the part of a couple taking a pleasant stroll.
“Oh, Daniel,” she protests mildly but doesn’t pull away.
“Think of this kindness as my anniversary gift.”
“The milestone is important,” she says. “But it doesn’t guarantee anything. You need to stay vigilant. Keep recognizing your impulses. Don’t brush aside those voices telling you to give in to your old coping mechanisms.”
“Well, we’ll just continue doing what we’ve been doing with our sessions, yeah?”
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk about when you came in today, before you told me about Christian and we got into yesterday being your anniversary.”
A sinking feeling overcomes me.
“I have the impression you’re about to say goodbye,” I say with a nervous laugh.
She stops walking and I do too, facing her with a wince in anticipation of what she might say.
“Daniel, you and I both know I’ve lost my objectivity. I can’t properly treat you because I’m too invested in you on a personal level.”
Though I instinctively know what she’s saying is true, I panic at the thought of breaking off our relationship. “No, don’t you see—that’s what’s made us the perfect match! I would never have been able to make this kind of progress with anyone else.”
“I have no doubt you’ll find another therapist to work with.”
I look up and down the street, feeling helpless and strikingly lonely. Then I hit on an idea that could make this turn of events all worthwhile. “Then, this frees us to be friends, right?”
She shakes her head and the gesture breaks my heart.
Just as quickly, I realize her refusing to have any kind of relationship must mean all the times I thought we connected beyond the professional level was all in my head.
“So, you’re saying I’m still fucking seeing things to suit myself? That you were always only interested in me as a client, as some fucked up sap you needed to manage?”
I smack the side of my head with my open palm in frustration.
As she had done before, she takes my hand and gently lowers it.
“Go back to what I said a moment ago, Daniel,” she says calmly. “I told you I was too personally invested in you. I admitted to having crossed professional boundaries. That was real.”
“So why can’t—”
“Because this is my career and I need to right the course I’ve strayed from. I need the time to examine how I let this happen, so that I can make sure it never does again. That includes not furthering our relationship.”
“Is there any chance—down the line—that we could—”
“I can’t promise that.”
“But, but … you’re not saying absolutely not?”
She hesitates and finally gives me a noncommittal shrug.
“I’ll take it,” I say quickly. “I’ll take the possibility that I’ll see you again, my dear Ms. Patterson.”
She smiles and then laughs. And then she takes my arm the same way I had her do earlier, but this time she holds me with her other hand as well.
We walk on.
48
The next few weeks see me falling back into my loner routine. Gavin and the lads traveled to Australia for Christian’s funeral. After that, they lost all momentum for returning to the studio.
Roscoe and I do our walks, our bit of watching Fair City, and otherwise wasting the days away. I don’t see Ms. Patterson and I don’t seek out anyone to fill her place. How can anyone do such a thing, anyway? Of course, I think of her all the time. It becomes a daily ritual, imagining what it would be like to have her as part of my life. Not that that gets me anywhere, but it’s better than accepting it will never happen.
And then something odd happens.
I get a call from Martin, asking me to come over. When I hesitate to accept the invitation–-he’s never reached out like this, after all–-he adds that I should bring Roscoe, too. Seems he’s thinking of getting his boys a dog and wants to do a bit of a trial run with my Roscoe.
When we get to his house, it’s nice to see he’s done some decorating to make it more of a home. He’s now got two sofas facing each other with a coffee table set on top of a rug between them. When I glance over to the kitchen, I see signs of life, including a filled fruit bowl on the countertop and drawings by his boys hanging on the refrigerator.
The lads aren’t over yet, so it’s just Marty and me for a
time. Celia’s due to drop them by soon, then we’ll all go for a walk to let the boys take turns minding Roscoe. The poor fella will have to endure a leash, but it’s for a good cause.
Martin greets Roscoe familiarly. They got on well when we were on tour, so I’m inclined to think him getting a pup would be good not just for the boys but for him. Especially after his latest tabloid scandal. He and his American actress friend found themselves the center of attention once more—this time focusing on a trip they took to Prague.
“How’s things?” I ask as we settle onto opposite sofas in the living room.
Martin shrugs but says, “Can’t complain.”
“Of course, you can,” I tell him.
He laughs. “Well, it’s that I shouldn’t complain.”
“Trouble with your girl?”
“Ah, she never was mine. I only ever had her for brief, wonderful, moments.”
“I should introduce you to a barman I know.”
Martin looks perplexed. “Who’s that?”
“He’s got that same sort of love-sick thing you have.”
Shaking his head, he goes on the defensive. “What about you? What’s going on with Julia?”
My brief sense of superiority in defining his emotions has deserted me with this question. “Em, well, nothing. Honestly, I’ve got nothing with her.”
“And what did you have?”
I hesitate but there’s no use. I’m not someone who holds back, no matter how much I’ve improved myself, thanks to Ms. Patterson’s efforts.
“For a brief, crazy, moment, we were intense together, and for a second I thought it was going to be something, but turned out she was just a mind-fuck.,” I say.
“And it’s all over?”
“Yeah, it’s all over.”
“Back to it being you and Roscoe.”
I could take offense to this, if I were to think he was trying to look down on me, at how little I have in my life, but I don’t think that’s his intention. He’s a good guy and not one to make digs like that.
Reaching down, I pat Roscoe and he gazes at me with those soulful eyes. “Yeah, me and my boy are doing all right.”
“That’s good to hear. I know it stresses Shay that he’s not close by. But you seem to be holding it together.”
The sentiment is a nice one, but the way he eyes how my leg bounces relentlessly and how I pick at my cuticles shows he’s still got some doubt. I’ve come to accept that even the people I know well will always wonder if I’m about to slip into my old ways. It’s a reflection neither on me nor on them. It’s just the way it is.
“I’m doing my best, Marty. That’s all I can say.”
“That’s what we’re all after, aren’t we? Just getting by and trying to be happy.”
“About that. Last time I saw you here at your place, I came away thinking that’s what you were—happy. Is that still the case? Even with your girl not giving you what you want?”
“You mean, do I have any regrets about leaving Celia?”
“Yeah, I suppose that’s the question.”
He looks away from me and after a moment I see what he does. Through the sheer curtains of the front room windows, his three boys are marching down the sidewalk, Celia following them.
“I don’t, no,” he says, still distracted. A smile turns the corners of his mouth up. “This is how it’s supposed to be: us being parents but not together. This is what we needed. What I needed.”
I nod. Within a few minutes, he’s demonstrating this by greeting Celia warmly and making plans for them all to go ice skating. I know Martin’s intentions because of what he just told me, but the way Celia’s eyes light up reveals she’s not yet on the same page. This contradiction in their perception of things will just have to play out, I realize, deciding not to intrude on things just for a reaction, like I might have done in the past.
49
The other odd thing to happen is Conor ringing me to see if I’m still into the idea of getting a motorbike. He knows someone looking to get rid of theirs cheap. I jump at the offer, and we meet up several times at the Sandyford Industrial Estate so I can get comfortable on the thing—and for Mr. Perfect to give me his tips, but I’m okay with that. The guy knows what he’s doing.
After one of these sessions, I suggest we go for a real ride.
“Where about?” Conor asks, eyeing the skies.
It’s a cold November day, but the skies are clear for the time being. Even if it rains, we’re good. Per Conor’s recommendation, I got the same rain gear he has.
“It’s not all that far. Follow my lead—for once,” I say with a laugh.
Conor shakes his head and rolls his eyes, but he puts on his helmet and gets ready to go.
I take the same route I had the day after Jules showed up to argue we should be together because we were both fucked-up. It’s a pleasure to ride side-by-side along N81 when we can, and for me to take the lead other times. The bike feels good, like a natural fit. I’m content to just enjoy the ride as we pass into Blessington and begin our tour around The Lake. About halfway around, I gesture to Conor that we should make a stop at one of the inlets.
“This is fantastic,” Conor says, eyeing the pebble beach and the fellas fishing down the way.
“Stumbled upon it a while back,” I tell him.
Conor pulls off his backpack and stretches. I squat and try to skip a rock across the water but don’t get more than the first plop right in. Glancing back to see if Conor saw my pathetic effort, I find him retrieving a rag from his bag. He crouches down and starts wiping down his bike and I start laughing.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” I say.
He looks up at me. “What?”
“We’re not even done with this ride, you know? Why on earth would you be cleaning your bike now?”
“You do things your way, and I’ll do things my way,” he says dismissively.
Standing, I go to him and watch a minute as he brings the shine of the chrome muffler back from under a layer of water spots and dust. This is his control freak tendencies on clear display and what has always irritated me about him. I’m about to scoff and walk off, but then something dawns on me.
“I used to be like you,” I say.
Conor gives me a doubtful glance.
“Really. When I was a kid, though. All I wanted was control and to know what was coming next. Because our loser parents couldn’t manage to provide anything for us. So, I had to be the one to figure it out. And the more things I could sort out meant the more control I could have and the better I felt because of it.”
Now Conor stands and eyes me.
I laugh. “I know, hard to picture, right? Me? Danny fucking Boy, the one with control? Well, I had no fucking choice in the matter. I had to be the one to handle things. I was the only one capable of that.”
“You took care of Shay,” he says simply.
“I did what I could—”
“You took care of Shay. And thank God you did.”
I’m speechless at that. Not only do I not deserve thanks for taking care of my brother, but I never would have thought Conor would be the one to say anything of the kind.
“Your brother,” he continues, “is a good man. All of us would do anything for him. And you did everything you could, too.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I took off as soon as I could. I started to hate the ways I had to control things. It flipped somewhere along the way so that I connected control with that unbearable pressure I was under. I wanted to be rid of it. To get, not just freedom from the kind of control I felt tied to, but to have the exact opposite of control. I wanted complete fucking chaos.”
“And a fine job you did of that,” he says with a cocksure grin.
I want to smack the smile off his face. Everything is always so effortless for him. He’s never had to struggle a day in his life. Instead of hitting him, though, I say, “Fuck off.”
He’s not at all ruffled by that.
“I�
��m just saying, you go all out with things” he tells me. “It’s either you being the one responsible enough to raise your brother when you were just a kid yourself, or it’s you completely getting lost in drugs.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble and turn away.
“At least that’s how it was. I don’t know that I’d bet on this, but it does look like you’ve found some kind of balance lately. More than I’ve ever seen, that’s for sure.”
That stops me. I hate the way his approval makes me feel. Why should I care what he thinks?
He starts toward me, then pauses to clap me on the shoulder, giving me a squeeze for good measure. “Keep it up.” Continuing on, he retrieves a pebble and throws it into the lake. It skips four times.
And then I realize why I care what he thinks. Because he’s Mr. Fucking Perfect. And if someone who has everything so well sorted and knows how to navigate life the way he does, has some confidence in me, then I should take it. But, for as long as I can remember, taking any kind of pat on the back or acknowledgement has been a hard thing to do. I always treat it with suspicion. Ms. Patterson says that’s because I had no support from my parents from the very start, that I don’t trust good things, even ones as small as compliments, because they’re foreign to me. But she also always told me I need to accept the good people are willing to give, so I try.
“Em,” I say, “thanks for that. And, em, I’m sorry for taking your guitar that time, you know?” I wince, feeling awkward with this whole thing.
Conor seems to read me because he looks back at me and simply nods. “How about a beer before we head home?”
I smile. “I know just the place.” Thinking of the look on the barman’s face at Murphy’s Pub when I bring him Conor Quinn, guitarist for Rogue, turns the smile into a laugh. That’ll give him something to sing about.
50
The final piece to this new puzzle of odd happenings in my life is Sophie inviting me over for supper on a Sunday night. I assumed I’d be just one of many, but turned out I was the only guest to dine with the McManus family.
Daisy greets me like we’re old pals, which is nice. I spend some time with her on the floor in the living room, letting her get to know Roscoe. Luckily, the old boy is tolerant of her pulling on his ears. Any kind of attention, even that with the tinge of abuse, is welcome to him. I know the feeling.
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