Less Than Perfect (35 page)

‘Get another job as quickly as possible.'

‘You can afford to take a holiday for a few weeks, though, can't you?'

‘Yes, but I don't want a holiday, I want another job.'

‘The market is tight at the moment – it might be better to wait a few weeks.'

‘I'd go crazy if I was out of work that long.'

We sip our drinks and the atmosphere becomes slightly less strained.

‘It was scary, seeing you black out like that,' she says. ‘I don't think I've ever been so freaked out.'

I smile wryly. ‘Sorry, I didn't mean to give you such a fright.'

‘I thought you were just very drunk – lucky that the paramedic didn't write you off the same way! He made me look in your wallet and that's where we found the card. He said you should've been wearing a bracelet.'

‘Yes, I should have been,' I admit. ‘And I will in future.'

'Nicola's coffee cup is empty. So I ask if she'd like another.

‘No, thanks, I'm right.' She's getting ready to leave. I can sense it.

‘How did the Net Banc training go today?'

‘Sorry?'

' ‘Net Banc. Today was their first day of training, wasn't it?'

‘Yes, yes, it was. It went fine. All A-okay.'

‘And Harry Dixon, was he happy?'

Nicola raises an eyebrow. ‘He's not exactly what I would call the happy type.'

I smile. ‘Did he ask for me?'

‘Yes, he did.'

It's like getting blood from a stone. ‘And?'

‘And I
obviously
had to tell him that you were gone from the company. And he was
obviously
even less happy then.' She picks up her oversized handbag from the floor and sets it on her lap, heralding her imminent departure.

‘Did you use my green and red ball idea to gauge how the trainees felt?'

‘No, no, I didn't.'

At that the awkwardness becomes unbearable.

‘Well, thanks for calling around,' I say, the first to stand.

‘No worries. Sorry again that I didn't get to the hospital to see you.'

As we walk towards the door, it occurs to me that she hasn't once referred to Matthew. Considering that she spoke to him when he called my mobile that night, I expected our conversation today to include more than a few very curious questions about him and how long he has been in my life.

At the door she gives me another clumsy kiss on the cheek. ‘See you soon, okay?'

I nod. ‘Okay. Bye, Nicola. Say hello to everyone at the office for me.'

I close the door, feeling strangely certain that I will see Nicola once or twice again, but that will be all. My mother would describe Nic as a friend for a season. Now that we no longer work together, the season seems to be over.

*

Dear Mandy,

I know this letter is out of the blue and many years too late. All I can say is that it's taken me this long to properly come to terms with what happened. Losing Liam and Josh like that, one moment seeing them side by side and then the next knowing they had become part of the black cloud of smoke, was something I thought I'd never get over. When I got on that flight to Heathrow and then to Sydney, I never wanted to set foot on Irish soil again. I didn't just cut off the country, I cut off my family and friends too, everyone but my mother. To be brutally honest, if Mum had been strong enough, I would have cut her off as well. I was desperate to get away, crazy with grief.

Life is good here. I have nice friends and I've done well in my career. I've played hard and worked hard and done my best to distract myself. Now I can see that if I'd stayed at home I wouldn't have had so many distractions to hide behind, and perhaps I would have done a lot better at working through my grief. I would have come home hundreds more times to a house that was missing Liam and I expect that over time I would have learned to live with that loss without my heart freefalling every single time. I would have provided comfort to my mother and Maeve, and would be on speaking terms with my father – at least, I'd like to think so.

I'm sorry that I cut you off, Mandy. That I wasn't there when you needed someone to talk to, to console you through your own loss, and to give you the courtesy of consoling me through mine. I'm sorry that I didn't answer the letters you sent when I first came here.

If it means anything, I think of you often. Mum tells me that you have two kids, boys. Have they got freckles and heads of wild
curls? I see you as being a great mother, no nonsense but lots of fun. I don't know what your husband looks like and that feels weird.

I'm going to send this letter via my mother in the hope that she'll bump into you again soon. I know you gave her new contact details the last time you met but I put them aside and now I can't find them. It feels quite old-fashioned, writing a letter. These days everyone writes emails or texts or communicates through Face-book. Writing a letter is kind of like going back in time and, given the circumstances, it feels right.

I hope that I will hear from you and that you'll send me some photos of your life now. I can see myself going home for a visit sometime next year and I'd dearly like to make contact and amends before then.

Lots of love always,

Your friend,

Caitlin

There are, in fact,
two
days that will be forever etched in my mind: the day I met Josh McKinstry, which I have already told you about, and the day I found out that my own body was less than perfect, incapable of performing one of its most fundamental functions, producing its own insulin. I was twelve years old and for months before my diagnosis I had been steadily losing weight even though I was always hungry and thirsty and was eating and drinking more than ever before. I was moody, lethargic and not very nice to live with. Mum and Dad initially put my symptoms down to pre-teen hormones, and it was only when I started to get recurring infections that they took me to the doctor. The GP ran some tests and when he got the results he immediately referred me to a specialist.

Dr Flynn, a gentle grandfatherly man, took one look at my skinny, wasted body and told me we were lucky to catch the
diabetes when we did. ‘Many of my patients end up with ketoacidosis before they're diagnosed.'

‘What's that?' I asked.

‘Nausea, vomiting, extreme thirst and, in severe cases, loss of consciousness. It's a life-threatening condition and sometimes the first symptom of previously undiagnosed diabetes – so count yourself lucky, young lady,' he added with a smile.

I followed the doctor's gaze as he turned to my parents, and it was only then I saw just how shocked they were. Mum looked as though she was trying not to cry, and Dad looked sad and vulnerable and not at all like his usual upstanding self.

‘I can see that you're both finding this hard to take in,' Dr Flynn said kindly. ‘Sometimes this disease is as hard on the parents as it is on the children. Shock is a normal first reaction, as is fear and resentment, and even grief. You all have a relatively short timeframe to learn complex new information and to make considerable lifestyle changes. You will initially fear and resent those changes, and you will feel sad that your lives have been altered forever. It's rather overwhelming for children and parents alike.'

That night I couldn't sleep. I lay listening to Maeve's gentle snoring, the whistle of the wind outside and the murmur of my parents' voices downstairs. I knew that they were talking about me. I strained to hear what they were saying, the rise and fall of their voices, the words they chose as they discussed my imperfections. Finally I got out of bed and stealthily opened the door of the bedroom. The carpet on the landing felt plush under my feet. I carefully stepped over the creaky top step and sat halfway down the stairs, shielded by the banister and the shadows. My mother was crying in the kitchen.

‘How did we not know, Jonathan? I feel so guilty that I waited this long to take her to a doctor. I should have known it wasn't normal to be that skinny.'

‘I know. When I think about what could have happened …'

Feeling ill at ease, I tucked my nightdress around my legs. I knew that I would be in big trouble if they caught me eavesdropping like this, but I wanted to know what they thought, what they
really
thought and felt, what was behind the brave face they'd both donned since leaving the doctor's.

‘I feel like I've failed in my role as her parent. My job was to make her feel safe and secure as her life unfolded. Now she will have this burden, this fear, every day of her life.'

‘I know, Paula, I know. It's so hard to accept that it's there for the long haul, that there's no way to correct it, to cure it. But at least now we know what's
wrong
with her.'

His choice of phrase struck a chord. So there
was
something wrong with me.

‘I guess we'll all have to learn to live with it.' Mum's sobs intensified.

I heard the rustle of Dad's clothes as he moved closer to comfort her. ‘Yes, we'll have to get used to it, make the adjustments that need to be made. She won't ever have perfect health. It's disappointing, devastating, for her and for us …'

To my ears, they both sounded a long, long way from ‘living with it'. I got up and tiptoed back to my room.

In my bed, I was just as alert as before. ‘You're a freak, Caitlin O'Reilly,' I whispered into the dark. ‘Your body can't even do one of the most basic things it's meant to do. Freak! Freak! Freak!'

Meeting Josh when I was eighteen defused much of the bad feeling, the self-loathing that still lingered from finding out that I was different to everyone else. Josh was different too; his body didn't work as it should either. But he had so many other things going for him that his deafness, his imperfection, ceased to matter. Josh helped me put the diabetes into perspective and to understand that it was only a part of me, not everything.

Those two days, when I met Josh and when I found out I was a Type 1 diabetic, were turning points. My life was taken over, commandeered in a new direction, and the repercussions have cascaded down through every day since. Now, the day I lost my job, fought with my mother, my friend and my boyfriend, and ended up in hospital, looks like it will be another one of those turning points. It's left me fragile and wary of my body and what could happen if I don't take proper care of it. It's made me realise how much I love my family, my friends and Matthew. I have been granted perspective, again. My childhood was not unhappy, I was loved and valued by my parents. My father is a perfectionist, but so am I, and the truth is that the current rift in our family is more because of me than him.

I'm half-awake when the doorbell rings. Matthew's arm is slung around my waist and I'm sure that I have a smile on my face. It's early Saturday, the street outside is peaceful, no bustle, no cars, no weekday madness. Even the birds are unusually quiet. I open one eye and check the clock: 7.15 am.

Late yesterday I got a call from Harry Dixon asking me to come and see him next week. As soon as I recognised his voice, I
wondered what he wanted, why he was calling me. I didn't have to wait long to find out: niceties are not part of Harry's repertoire, and he was as cranky and abrupt as ever. He said he had a ‘proposition' for me. Harry's not the type to waste his time or mine and I suspect his ‘proposition' is in fact a job offer. Net Banc is an excellent company, rated highly by analysts and employees alike, and Harry, beneath all the fire and brimstone, would be a loyal and decent boss. I won't find out until next week but having this meeting on the horizon already makes me feel much more secure about my employment status.

The doorbell rings again.

Matthew's arm moves against me, his fingers splaying on the curve of my hip. ‘Is that coming from your door?' he asks without opening his eyes.

‘I was pretending it wasn't,' I reply and reluctantly roll away from the promise of those fingers.

I throw on some clothes, wondering who could be at the door. Jeanie is away again, her travel budget reinstated. Nicola is not a morning person – unless she's decided to pop in on her way home from an all-night party – and anyway, she hasn't been in contact since we spoke last week. More likely, though, it's a neighbour, locked out of their apartment or in the throes of some other domestic emergency. On tiptoe, I peer through the peephole. The man standing on the other side is familiar to me, but he's older and not as upright as he used to be. It's been ten years and three months since I last saw him. I lower my heels. My chest feels tight and I can literally feel the blood draining from my face.

I'm aware that I have a choice, that I don't
need
to open the door, yet I do so with surprising ease.

‘You wouldn't come home, so I came here,' my father says in greeting.

I open the door wide enough to let him in. His eyes sweep across my apartment, gauging in an instant how I live. Then he turns and looks me in the eye.

‘I was a hypocrite. You were right in that regard, and it's been a harsh realisation for me.' His accent is so strong and pure that I feel like I've come home. ‘I should never have put anyone or anything before my family. I never will again.'

I nod. I know that he's here with Mum's blessing, that they've conferred as parents and friends, and decided he should come here to see that I'm all right. The knowledge that this conversation has happened between my parents makes me realise that my family is not as fragmented as I had feared.

Matthew comes to stand in the bedroom doorway. He's directly behind my father and bears witness to what is said next.

‘I'm sorry, Caitlin.'

Funny how those two words can melt away years and distance, how they can right any wrong.