Part XX

When I arrived at the hospital with lunch, Ronan was quite a bit more lucid than he had been in the preceding days, and kissed me in return when I bent down to peck his cheek. “You must be feeling better,” I observed, smiling.

“Not noticeably, but I am glad to see you. What have you got there?” he asked, eyeing the bag Michael had given me.

“Lunch. I hope you’re hungry.”

“Starved! All I could eat of my breakfast was a little bit of fruit. The oatmeal they brought me was disgusting.”

“I’m sure it was, compared to what you do with oatmeal when you make it yourself. Anyway, lunch is from Mary’s Place. Give me a minute to get settled, and then I’ll feed you.”

I put the bag down on his table, then took off my jacket and hung it in the closet.

“What did they send me? It smells amazingly good.”

“It’s Michael’s version of Irish Stew, some oatmeal bread, two peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, and a decaf cappuccino.”

“Och, real coffee! May you never have to taste the swill this place sends up with every meal.”

“It’s probably just about as bad as the stuff we brew at work. It doesn’t start out bad, but if you don’t get some before it’s sat around on the burner—”

“’Tis more bitter than a life filled with regrets. Aye.”

I opened the stew container and stirred it well with the plastic spoon Michael had included. Then I lifted a bit to my own lips to test the temperature. Never having fed anyone but myself all these years, nor been fed by anyone else for any reason, dealing with food temperature was something I’d never really thought about. That came to a person naturally. If a spoonful of soup was steaming, you blew on it gently, then tested it cautiously before putting it into your mouth.

Ronan still had a small blister on his bottom lip from the hot broth I’d tried to feed him the first time we ate together. Though he made no comment now, he did look a bit wary as I brought the spoon to his mouth. I let him test it, and only when he gave a nod of approval did I move it all the way in. I kept stirring it, too, as the meal progressed. That helped moderate the temperature quite well, and Ronan lost his wary look as he enjoyed the food.

The stew and the bread disappeared quickly.

“I guess that must’ve hit the spot,” I remarked, placing the empty container in the wastebasket.

“’Twas perfect. Young Michael certainly has a way with food.”

“He does, yes. Sean taught him well.” I opened the coffee cup and stirred the cappuccino, then tested it. “This seems fine. It cooled down a bit during the walk over.”

Ronan leaned forward and sipped. “Och, lovely! Did you say there were cookies, too?”

“Yes.” I picked one up and held it for him while he took a bite. “Good?”

“Fabulous.” He chewed and swallowed, and I gave him more coffee and another bite of the cookie. We continued that way, until both cookies were gone, and all that remained in the bottom of the cup was a bit of milk froth. I ran my finger around inside the cup to gather it, and let Ronan lick it off. Then he surprised me, sucking my finger halfway into his mouth and holding it lightly between his teeth, his eyes twinkling at me. Even though he had said he wasn’t feeling much better, he was certainly acting as if he did.

“Still hungry, are you?” I quipped.

He released my finger with a smile. “No. Just—I don’t know. I guess I just did that because it was there.”

“And yet you said you aren’t feeling much better.”

His smile faded. “I’m not. I’m just trying to put a good face on it.”

"No one expects you to do that, Ronan. You’ve been through a major trauma. I think that entitles you to do a bit of complaining, at least.”

“Aye, but once I get started, I might not stop.” He sighed. “It looks like a nice day out there, and I hate to ask, but could you—”

I went over to the window and closed the curtain. “Do you want the hot pack and the mask, too?”

“Please.”

“O.K. I’ll be right back.”

I left the room and walked down the hall to the nurses’ station with the hot pack in hand. Ronan’s nurse happened to be sitting at one of the computers. “Hi, Karen,” I greeted her. “Could I ask you to pop this in the microwave for me?”

“Sure. Two minutes on high, right?”

“Yes. Thanks.” I waited until she came back, looking around at the various pictures, cards, and kitschy knick-knacks that decorated the area. There were some thank you notes posted, and next to the computer stood a funny little statuette bearing the legend “world’s greatest nurse” on its base. Pinned up on a cork bulletin board was the inevitable “nurses call all the shots” bumper sticker.

Soon Karen returned with the hot pack. “Sarah, just a little heads-up, so you know.”

“What?”

“Liam’s been trying very hard to be cheerful in spite of everything, but you should be aware that he isn’t sleeping well.”

“Is the pain keeping him awake?”

“No. He gets to sleep all right, but then he wakes up screaming, and it usually happens at least two or three times in the course of a night. He says it’s nothing but strange dreams that scare him, though he never can seem to remember what they were or why they scared him. I think that’s probably not true. I think he remembers all too well, and chooses not to say anything. You might try asking a few leading questions. My hunch is, he’s starting to remember the assault—or whatever it was that landed him here. If you could get him to talk about it, maybe the dreams would stop. And dreams or no dreams, he shouldn’t keep it all inside if he really has begun to remember.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for another day. For now, I’ve been trying to figure out a way to tell him that I hired a caretaker. Even though he knows he’ll need one, he isn’t going to be happy when I tell him it’s a fait accompli.”

“A what?”

“Done deal.”

“Oh. Well, maybe he’ll take it better than you think.”

“Maybe. Thanks for heating this thing up for me.”

“Oh, sure. Any time.”

***

I carried the hot pack back to Ronan’s room, shaking it from side to side to make sure the heat was distributed evenly. “Ro, do you want the mask, too?”

“Please.”

I picked it up from the nightstand and placed it, drawing it down snugly over his eyes, then laid the hot pack over his forehead.

“Ah, that’s good. Thank you, a chuisle.”

“You’re welcome.” I sat down on the bed and turned towards him, placing my hand lightly on his chest.

“This must be rather dull for you, just sitting with me day in and day out. Why do you never bring something with you to do?”

“Actually, I do always have a little project tucked away in my bag, just in case. I usually work on it during my coffee breaks, or at lunch, if Em and I don’t go out to a restaurant.”

“Tell me what you’re making. Is it something knitted?”

“Yes, and if you must know, I’m working on a pair of gloves.”

“For yourself?”

“No. For you. I thought that by the time Christmas rolls around, you might like to have a good pair.”

“They’re wool, yes?”

“Merino wool and cashmere.”

“Och, good stuff! Would you let me feel it?”

“Sure, if you really want to.” I got up from the bed and dug my little project bag out of my backpack. I opened it and took out a ball of the yarn and brought it to him.

He touched it lightly, sliding one finger underneath a few strands. “That is nice. Now let me feel some of your work.”

I took the ball of yarn and put it back in my bag, then pulled out a partial glove, bristling with double-point needles, and held it close to his hand, so he could reach it easily.

His fingertips explored it, and he smiled with genuine pleasure. “What tiny stitches! Och, and little cables, too!”

“You can tell all that about the stitches, just by feeling them?”

“You forget. I grew up in knitters’ Mecca, and I knitted a few cable stockings on fine pins in my day. Never had to struggle with gloves, though. If my sister could see this, I do believe she’d be impressed.”

“So, your sister is a knitter, too?”

“Among other things.” He released the glove. “Please, don’t just sit idle whenever you’re here. If you want to knit, then please do. It would comfort me, I think, to see you doing something homely like that.”

“Really?”

“Really. Once my eyes have had a rest, ’twould be a pleasure to watch you.”

“Then I’ll knit.” I got all the things I would need and settled myself beside him, and started to work. “Ro, are you awfully tired just now?”

“Not at all. Why?”

“Tell me about your sister. What’s she like?”

He smiled. “She’s rather difficult to describe.”

“Why not start with what she looks like?”

“Well, she’s small, like me, but more wiry, and the last time I saw her she was still wearing her hair long, though it had gone quite gray.”

“Is she married?”

“Yes. Her husband, Breandan, has always been like a brother to me, and my best friend as well, though there are a number of years between us. He’s a fisherman.”

“That’s such hard work.”

“Aye, especially north of the isles, which is where he and his crew tend to go. The seas can get very rough there.”

“Does your sister work?”

“Aye. She’s a bit of a maverick, in that she has a professional career, and doesn’t simply keep house and knit, like so many of the other women do. Grainne is—a healer.”

“A doctor?”

“No. A practical nurse. She trained in Dublin, then came back to Inis Meáin and took over the dispensary.”

“What’s that?”

“’Tis a little clinic the islanders go to if they’re hurt or sick. The doctor from Inis Mor comes there once a week, but Grainne takes care of the people the rest of the time. There are some on the island who say she’s smarter than the doctor when it comes to diagnosing their ills and prescribing treatment. But really, in such a small community, there’s rarely anything terribly serious to deal with. Once in awhile, someone’s hurt badly enough to be airlifted out, but that mainly tends to happen in the tourist season, when people who don’t know the place as well as the natives do tend to take foolish chances. Grainne has said many a time that it’s a lucky thing these people have their accidents when the weather is fine, and you can pretty well guarantee that the chopper will be able to fly in to carry them to the mainland. In the winter months, the chopper isn’t always able to fly, nor the ferries to sail, so ’tis all luck of the draw. But again, ’tis rare for any of the natives to be hurt or sick enough for that. The worst I ever saw growing up was an occasional broken bone. In fact I do remember, not long before I left the island, Grainne enlisted me to help her set a leg fracture. She needed someone to hold the fella down, and I was the only relatively strong man around at the time. ’Twas a nasty job. I still don’t know how she managed it, listening to a man holler like that, and as for me, I had to hold on to him for dear life. I was just a scrawny seventeen-year-old, and that fella seemed a giant by comparison. He was a lot stronger than me, too, and even under sedation, he damn near threw me across the room when Grainne started to work on him. Luckily, he didn’t manage that, though he did black my eye.”

“Not much to be done for that, I suppose, but put some ice on it.”

“Ice? Good God, no! Leeches.”

“What?”

“Leeches. It sounds disgusting, I know, but it’s very effective. A black eye is a bruise, you see, and a bruise is a pooling of blood just under the skin. Put the leech on and let it do what it does best, and very soon there’s hardly any swelling or discoloration left. ’Tis quite miraculous.”

“If leeches are that miraculous, why haven’t you asked for some to take care of your eye this time?”

“Och, ’tis hardly worth the trouble when the bruise isn’t fresh, and besides, I don’t think people here would understand.”

“Probably not. It really does sound repugnantly medieval.”

“It is, but it works, as do some of Grainne’s other techniques. They’re unorthodox in the larger world, perhaps, but perfectly fine and natural in a place like Inis Meáin.”

“If you say so.” I was quiet for a bit, watching the stitches as they formed on my needles, and enjoying the play of the luxurious yarn through my fingers. “Ro, if you could have had her here to treat you, would you have wanted that?”

“Well, she’s a comforting presence, and that would have been nice, but she wouldn’t have done things any differently than the doctors have done here. And what difference would it have made, really, who did the job, when I was out like a light when my arms were set?”

“Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference then,” I agreed, “but would you like me to see if maybe she could come over for a bit now?”

“Och, no! She doesn’t like to fly, and I don’t want her to see me like this. I’ll tell her about it in my own way, once I’m safely home and well on the mend.”

“You’re sure?”

“Aboslutely.”

“Well, that reminds me—”

“What?”

“We need to talk about how you’re going to manage being at home.”

“Och, not again!”

“Yes, again.”

“Then take my mask off and look me in the eye while you speak your piece.”

I put my knitting down, then rearranged things so Ronan could see me, but still had the hot pack on.

He wrinkled his brow. “Take this thing off, too, please. It’s gone tepid.”

I did as he asked and placed it on the table, then sat down on the bed, facing him, and closed my hand around his. “Ronan, love, there’s no question that you’re going to need help at home.”

He frowned. “I’m well aware of that, but I don’t want to discuss it. Maybe next week I’ll be up to conducting a few interviews, but not now.”

“The wheels have to be set in motion sooner than that, so—”

“What?” he demanded irritably.

“I’ve done it. Her name is Linda, and she’ll be with you Monday through Friday, from eight in the morning to five in the afternoon.”

“Come again?” he asked, frowning.

“I said, her name is Linda, and—”

“You mean, you’ve hired someone already?” he demanded, his voice rising.

“Ronan, I told you, I—”

“Without my knowledge or consent?” he roared, his face reddening.

“Stop yelling at me!”

“I am not yelling!” he retorted, in a tone of voice that spoke for itself.

“Yes, you are,” I said quietly. “I think maybe I’d better go out and take a walk, and let you cool down. We can’t have a reasonable discussion if all you’re going to do is holler at me. So, think about it, cool down, and if you can discuss it rationally, we’ll try it again. And you might ask yourself—if your sister was here, what would she decide?”

“She’d take me home and care for me herself!” he flared.

I crammed my things into my backpack. “If I could do that, I would, but you know I can’t, and you know why. I’ll be back later, when you can keep a civil tongue in your head.”

“Don’t bother!” he snapped.

“Suit yourself,” I replied, and closed his door with a bang.

***

C.P. Warner
© 8 Spetember 2007

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