My Life in Shambles(78)

“Of course that’s not what I want.” She should know that by now.

She takes a step over to me and grabs my free hand. “Then when I ask how long I should stay, tell me how long you want me to.”

“Like I said, whatever ye want.”

She rips her hand out of mine. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” I can scarcely believe my ears. “You don’t know what my problem is? I have many problems, darlin’, which one do I start with?”

“With me, Padraig,” she says patiently. “What’s your problem with me? You’ve been snapping at me lately. I’m on your side, remember?”

I exhale loudly, closing my eyes and throwing my head back to the sky. She’s right. I have been. I’ve had nest of wasps in my heart lately and it can’t all be blamed on what happened last night, though that certainly doused that nest with gasoline and set it all on fire.

“I’m sorry,” I say, looking at her. “I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the medication.”

Too bad there’s no medicine for fear.

“It could also be your brain,” she says. “MS can alter your moods and the way you think.”

I raise my brow. Sometimes I hate how much knowledge she has about my disease.

It’s like dating my doctor.

That thought throws me off. I really need to work on bettering my mood for the sake of our relationship. I’m turning into a real wanker.

“You know what else alters your mood?” I say to her, but I add a smile. “Being diagnosed with fucking MS.”

“Well, hopefully those anti-depressants kick in soon,” she says.

“Wouldn’t that be nice.”

We lapse into silence and walk as far as a big red barn with a collapsed roof. She always likes to take out her phone and take pictures of it but right now we just turn around and head back down the road toward the B&B.

“I guess I should seriously start looking into freelancing,” she says. “I mean, I’ve had a month and I have barely written anything, just a few paragraphs on falconry.”

“You’ve had your hands full,” I tell her. “Taking care of me, that’s not easy. And to think, it’s only going to get worse for ye.”

Her gaze sharpens. “I can handle it.”

She says that now …

“We’ll see,” I say. “But don’t think that ye have to write.”

“I want to.”

“I know, I’m just saying. If you’re taking care of me that way, I might as well take care of you financially. I’ve been trying to do that all along.”

“Yeah but …” From the way she sets her mouth, I can tell she’s about to tell me something that might make me defensive.

“Yeah but what?”

“You’re not going to be able to play rugby anymore. What will you do for work?”

My chest feels tight at that, even though it’s a reasonable question. The truth is, my rugby contract pays about seventy-thousand Euros a year, which is a nice amount of money but that’s not the bulk of my money. Most of my big money comes from endorsements and contracts. That rugby calendar was one of them, hawking a certain watch is another, I even have a lucrative deal for Porsche here in Ireland (hence the SUV). Even when I’m no longer on the team, it’s fairly reasonable to think I’ll still have my endorsements.

And even if they don’t want a spokesperson with MS, well I’m lucky I made a lot of investments when I was younger.

In the end, I will be fine, financially.

But the idea—no, the fact—of never playing for Leinster again is what kills me. Never running out onto the field, hearing my name and the cheers rally around me like a symphony. I will never have that again.

“It’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it,” Valerie says, putting her hand on my arm. “I—”

She’s cut off by the high-pitched squeal of an ambulance in the distance, getting closer and closer. Far down the road, near the B&B, flashing lights disappear behind a hedge.

Oh God, no.

We glance at each and both take off running down the road, throwing our mugs to the side.

Valerie can’t run very fast but it’s always been one of my greatest skills and at this moment, I am flawless. I have no disease, no ailment, no pain. I am propelled forward by the muscles in my legs that haven’t forgotten how to work and the adrenaline that’s coursing through my veins. I run faster than I ever have down any pitch.

I am back at the B&B in minutes, my lungs tested but holding out, my body shaking.

But it’s from the fear.

The fear of what’s happening.

The horror of what I do see.

An ambulance parked in front of the house, with Major, my nan and the nurse beside it, looking fraught. The medics are pushing a stretcher with my father on it into the back of the vehicle.

“What happened!?” I cry out, gasping for breath and wild-eyed. My heart is in my throat and I don’t think it’s ever coming down.

“He collapsed,” Margaret the nurse says to me, “just as I was about to take him for a stroll, he fell out of the wheelchair. His heart rate was too low.”

I look at my nan and she has a hand over her mouth, tears in her eyes, watching the ambulance doors close.