Falling in Love in New York (6 page)

The following Sunday afternoon, Finn opened his front door to find Pat Maguire standing on his doorstep.

“Hey Dad, how’s things?” he said, stepping back and beckoning him inside. As he did so, Lucy–who adored Pat–bounded down the hallway to greet him, her tail wagging furiously. 

The feeling was mutual.

“Ah there you are, my darlin’” Pat bent down and ruffled Lucy behind the ears. “How was she the other day?” he asked, referring to the ceremony. Pat, like Finn, knew how lonely Lucy got when her pups went out into the big bad world.

Finn shrugged. “Not too bad. A bit moody earlier in the morning, but much better when it was all over.”

“Isn’t it gas the way they know what’s happening all the same?” Pat said, shaking his head. “Imagine pining over her young ones like that. Aren’t they nearly human sometimes?”

“Better than some humans in that way.” Finn’s expression tightened and he moved to the sink. “At least she actually gives some thought to her offspring. Cup of tea, Dad?”

“That would be grand, thanks.” Pat took a seat at the kitchen table and looked at his son. “Lookit, there’s no need for that kind of smart talk, is there?”

Immediately Finn felt guilty. There
was
no need, and it wasn’t fair to his father– especially after all this time. But sometimes, he just couldn’t help but revert to behaving like some sulky teenager instead of the grown man of thirty-five he was.

“Sorry, it’s been a busy week and I’m a bit stressed out.” Finn stood by the counter as he waited for the kettle to boil.

“Stress, stress, stress–everyone in this country is stressed these days. Whatever happened to just taking things easy?”

Finn smiled. “The one who’s talking! When’s the last time
you
took things easy, Dad? Sixty-eight years of age and you’re
still
going up and down ladders like a madman.”

Pat was a cabinet-maker by trade, but for as long as Finn could remember he’d been working as a painter/decorator and odd-job man in the Balbriggan area. His father could turn his hand to anything; plumbing, carpentry, electrics, a feat that thanks to him, Finn could also lay claim to, and which had served him well in rejuvenating this house. After a stint of travelling and working abroad–mostly in the US–a few years back he’d decided to come home to Dublin and settle down, at least, that had been the plan. He’d bought this place shortly after taking up work in the training centre, deciding that a run-down, crumbling old farmhouse in the rural and more peaceful North County Dublin would suit him a lot better than the hustle and bustle of the city centre.

“Well, I might have to give up those ladders for a while soon,” Pat said, and hearing a slight catch in his voice, Finn looked up. Suddenly realising that this was no casual visit, he stared at his father. “What does that mean?”

When Pat didn’t answer immediately, he frowned. “Dad, what’s going on?”

“Finish making that pot of tea and I’ll tell you,” his father replied, leaving Finn wondering what on earth was coming.

He soon found out.

“My health’s not the best at the moment, son,” Pat announced, having left Finn wait anxiously while he poured the sugar and milk.

Finn said nothing; he simply waited for him to elaborate.

“I’ve been a bit weak in myself these last few months, which isn’t like me.”

No it’s certainly not, Finn thought. His father was one of the fittest, most active people he knew. Up at dawn every day without fail, Pat would go for a good long walk in the morning before putting in a solid day’s work, and then coming home to tend to the household. He’d always been scrupulous about looking after himself, and because of this tended to be fitter than even his thirty-five year old son. At least, that was what Finn had always believed.

“So I called down to Doctor Murphy who said that I was probably just low on iron and put me on some tablets. But nothing changed.”

“Well I can’t see why he thought that,” Finn muttered. “You’re a demon for red meat –he should know that.”

“That’s what I thought, but sure you know yourself what they can be like sometimes.”

I sure do, Finn thought irately. Don’t bother checking anything out in detail or asking any questions, just think of the first reasonable explanation, and then stick the hand out for your fifty quid, thanks very much.

“Anyway, they did a few blood tests since, and to cut a long story short, it seems they have to keep on eye on me from now on, just in case.”

“In case of what?” Finn demanded while trying his best to keep his thoughts in check.

Pat looked almost embarrassed. “Prostrate trouble – the numbers are high apparently. Lookit, don’t you be worrying about me now,” he said, sitting forward in his chair. “That’s not why I’m telling you. The last thing you need is to be worrying about me.”

“How could I
not
worry about you, you’re my father for Christ’s sake!”

Not to mention the only family I have he added silently, his thoughts frantic. The doctors must have made some kind of mistake or something. But for his dad’s sake, Finn knew he couldn’t panic, he had to get a hold of himself. 

“The only reason I’m telling you now is that I have to go for some more tests soon– next month in Vincent’s.”

“Next month …”

“Yes. So I might need you to give me a lift in there now and again if you don’t mind.”

“Well, of course I don’t mind.” Finn would do anything for his father, in the same way that Pat had done everything for him all throughout his life. He felt stunned … numb at the thought that this was happening now, that some form of illness had raised its ugly head. “So these tests … what’ll they achieve?”

“God only knows, but Finn these things happen to men my age,” Pat was being remarkably practical about the entire situation, in much the same way as he’d been about every difficult situation he’d faced in his life. “Who knows how it’ll go? What will be will be.”

Not for the first time, Finn wished he’d inherited some of his father’s strength of character, his extraordinary ability to face head-on any challenges life threw his way. Whereas in the face of challenges such as this one, Finn couldn’t summon his father’s strength; instead he simply felt weak, spineless and afraid–pointless traits he knew he’d inherited from his mother.

He’d been seven years old when she left. He couldn’t remember much before that day, couldn’t really remember all that much about
her
, or what is was like having her in his life.

Perhaps the memories just weren’t all that strong; or perhaps he’d blocked them out intentionally, Finn couldn’t be sure. All he remembered was arriving home from school one day to find his father sitting at the big oak kitchen table, his head in his immense, callused workman’s hands. Finn had never before (or since) seen his father cry.

It was very strange.

The family dog, Rex, who upon Finn’s arrival had been lying at Pat’s feet, jumped up to greet him.

“What’s wrong?” Finn asked, setting his school bag down on the floor in order to pet the sheepdog behind the ears. “Dad, are you OK?”

Seemingly caught unawares, his father looked at the boy as if he’d never seen him before; as Finn recalled, he seemed to stare right through him.

“Dad?” he repeated, continuing to run his fingers through Rex’s silky coat. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

“Me – crying? Would you get away out of that!” his father said, attempting a half-hearted laugh. “Haven’t I gone and got something in my eye–a chip of wood, I think.” Pat made a great show of rubbing one eye as if trying to dislodge something from it. “I was doing a bit of sawing in the workshop, so I had to come inside and splash some water on it.”

“Oh.” With some relief, Finn let go of Rex and returned the smile, although in retrospect he was convinced that he should have known there and then that something wasn’t right. But he was seven years old, and didn’t yet know how to read–or react to–deception.

He picked his schoolbag off the floor and hung it on the back of one of the chairs. “So when’s dinner? And where’s Mam?”

Pat stood up from the table and walked to the window above the sink, turning his back to his son. “She had to go away for a while.”

“Where did she go to?”

His father was silent for a long moment, and his shoulders heaved a little before he spoke again. “Just away.”

Finn frowned. This was odd. His mother was always here when he came home from school …OK, so maybe not always, but
nearly
always. Where could she have gone to? Why would she leave without saying goodbye to him? And who would make his dinner?

Once more uneasy, Finn called Rex over, and again began softly caressing the dog’s head. “But where did she go? And when will she be home?”

“Soon,” Pat replied flatly, but Finn realised that throughout the entire exchange his father never once turned to look at him. “She’ll be home very soon.”

But of course, his mother never did come home, and to this day Finn could still recall the sound of his father crying softly to himself at night, when he thought seven-year-old Finn was asleep and wouldn’t hear. He remembered lying wide awake, Rex sprawled at the bottom of his bed and keeping him warm, listening to the muffled sobs coming from his parent’s room. And despite his nightly tears, Pat behaved for all the world as though there was nothing unusual in Imelda, his wife of nine years, taking off and leaving him and their young son to fend for themselves. In hindsight, Finn understood that this was simply his father’s way of trying to make things easier for him, that by carrying on as normal maybe Finn wouldn’t notice his mother’s absence.

And for a time, it worked. In the years following her departure, he and his father did have a relatively happy and carefree life. Pat was always around when Finn came home from school, he regularly helped him with his homework and cooked him meals, and at weekends, the two of them spent long hours making things in the workshop, or took Rex out for lengthy walks in the fields surrounding their house.

For the next few years of his life, Pat did such a good job of raising him that Finn had almost forgotten his mother ever existed, but then when he reached puberty for some reason everything changed. Suddenly, Finn wanted to know more about his mother, and why the woman had just upped and abandoned them.

“It’s complicated–I’ve told you that,” Pat insisted, after Finn’s repeated attempts to delve into the matter in more detail.

“What could be complicated about it? The selfish cow just took off and left us to our own devices!”

“Don’t use that kind of language around me–and don’t you
dare
use it when talking about your mother,” Pat warned, and not for the first time, Finn felt unbelievably frustrated by his father’s apparent lack of anger where Imelda’s actions were concerned.

“How can you defend her like that after what she’s done?” he’d exclaimed, while all the time his father sat on the sofa, quietly stoic in the face of his son’s anger.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It seems pretty damn simple to me! I come home one day from school to find that my own mother has just upped and left me–no goodbye, no explanation, nothing.”

“Finn that was eight years ago! Why is it such a big problem now? We’ve had a nice life up till now, haven’t we? You’ve wanted for nothing in all that time, so why get all het up about these things now?”

“Because I want to know why she left!” Finn shot back. “I want to know why she thinks she had the right to abandon me like … like a piece of dirt. And,” he added ominously, “when I find her, I’m going to ask her exactly that.”

“Find her?” Pat stared at him, and a shadow of anxiety quickly crossed his face–or was it fear? Fifteen-year-old Finn wasn’t at all sure, because the look was gone almost quickly as it appeared. “Well good luck to you then,” his father said finally, in a relaxed-sounding tone that unnerved Finn. Pat turned back to the newspaper he’d been reading. “Let me know how you get on.”

Of course, back then, Finn never
did
try to find out where his mother was, and in truth his periodic rants about her disappearance were more bravado (coupled with a hefty dose of teenage angst) than anything else.

But there was no denying that, despite his father’s best efforts at giving him a relatively, normal, happy upbringing, his mother’s departure, along with what could only be described as her rejection of him, had certainly left a mark.

Now almost twenty years later, he’d mostly got over the urge to find Imelda and bring her back, or indeed find out her reasons for leaving him and Pat in the first place. His mother had disappeared from his life a very long time ago, and as far as Finn was concerned, she could stay away for good.

Abby arrived at Hannah O’Neill’s office in Leeson Street for her first appointment.

It was three days since she’d been discharged from the hospital, and despite her reluctance to share her feelings about the prognosis with someone who was by all accounts a stranger, her thoughts were so all over the place that in truth she now welcomed the opportunity.

Hopefully the neuropsychologist would be able to shed some more light on her condition and tell her more about what to expect.

She still hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary and as far as she was concerned her memory was in perfect working order. Unfortunately the same thing couldn’t be said for her state of mind.

“Hello there–good to see you again,” Hannah got up from her desk to shake Abby’s hand when she entered the office.

“It’s nice to see you too,” she replied. Despite her reluctance, Hannah had made a good impression on her back at the hospital, simply because she was the only one there who had been willing to give her a straight answer. The nurses and Doctor Moroney tended to just hide behind platitudes and a ‘try not to worry’ approach, whereas Hannah had been direct and approachable.

But oddly, when Abby walked in the room just now and shook Hannah’s hand, she felt a really odd sense of … almost déjà vu.

Unwilling to give in to this feeling or admit that it might have anything to do with her injury, she quickly vanquished the thought from her mind.

The other woman smiled. “So, I suppose we might as well get started then. Have a seat–anywhere you like,” she added, when Abby looked unsure which to choose from –the two purple velvet armchairs in the centre of the room, or the scarlet chaise longue by the wall. This place was nothing like she’d expected from a psychologist’s office and instead of being clinical and austere, the room was warm and cosy, with its vibrant-coloured, comfortable furniture and fluffy cushions. On the wall were funky shelves containing all sort of hardback and paperback books (including a selection of Abby’s own favourite authors) as well as various pretty knick-knacks that looked to be travel souvenirs. There were also some quirky soft furnishings, like the cerise pink ostrich feather lampshade on the desk, the large wooden Balinese-style wall-hanging, and large Oriental rug on the floor.

“I know,” the psychologist said, reading Abby’s reaction. “Some of my other patients have compared this place to their teenage daughter’s bedrooms! But I love lots of colour and warmth at home, so why should my workplace look like its been dropped in a tin of mushroom soup?”

Abby sat down on one of the velvet armchairs and O’Neill took the one directly opposite her. 

“It’s great,” she said, warming to this more and more as time went by. If Hannah O’Neill was anything like her office, then these visits might not be so difficult after all.

The psychologist echoed her thoughts. “I’m glad you think so, because we’ll be spending quite a bit of time together here over the next while–at least I hope we will,” she added eyeing her new patient speculatively. “Would you like a glass of water or maybe a coffee?”

“No thanks,” Abby shook her head. “Look, to be honest, I’m not entirely sure why I’m here,” she told the other woman in a small voice, deciding it was better to be frank from the outset. “I mean, I know its because I have this injury,” she said with a tight smile, “but as far as I’m concerned there’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Well that’s good to know, and let’s hope that’s the way things will stay,” O’Neill replied, her tone bright. “But–and I’m sorry there has to be a
but,” she added with a smile which Abby returned weakly, “as we explained to you at the hospital, the damage sustained to that particular part of your brain will almost certainly impact on your memory function. You got one hell of a whack on the head, Abby. Because of this, it’s important we keep a close eye on you to see how things will go. By the way, please call me Hannah,” she added affably, before kicking off her shoes and to Abby’s surprise, tucking her long legs beneath her. “I take it Doctor Moroney outlined in detail how the damage to your hippocampus will have an effect on how your memory works?”

Abby shrugged. “He tried, but to be honest, at the time it all sounded so technical that I couldn’t really follow.” At the time, she’d been so terrified at the mention of Alzheimers that she couldn’t concentrate on anything else.

“OK, well, let me try and explain again as best I can. Let’s start with memory– normal, undamaged memory,” the psychologist said, speaking softly. “There are three main stages in the formation and retrieval of memory. The first is encoding–by which I mean processing of initial memory–then storage, whereby our brains create a permanent record of the information, and finally retrieval, which, I suppose, is self-explanatory.”

Abby nodded studiously.

“Now, there are, within this process–as I’m sure you know–two distinct types of memory, short-term and long-term. For example, if I show you a random seven-digit number, you might remember it for only a few seconds and then forget it altogether, which means it was only stored in your short-term memory. On the other hand, people remember telephone numbers for years through repetition, and these, long-lasting pieces of information are said to be stored in our long term memory. Are you with me so far?”

Abby nodded once more, determined to understand. “Yes.”

“Now let’s break this down a little further again. Long-term memory can be further sub-divided into two more categories, semantic memory and episodic memory.”  Seeing Abby’s dubious expression, the neuropsychologist paused. “OK, I can see I’m in danger of losing you now, but it’s the only way I can try and explain how entire the process works or at least, as much as we know about how it works.”

“OK, so semantic and episodic memory,” Abby repeated, trying her best to keep up, although all this technical stuff was
already
frying her brain!

“Well, semantic memory is concerned with the retrieval of abstract knowledge about the world, things like, say ‘Dublin is the capital of Ireland’. Episodic memory, on the other hand is used for more personal memories, such as the personal experiences and emotions associated with a particular time or place, OK?”

“OK.”

“Now, the hippocampus–the part of your brain that’s damaged–is essential for the consolidation of information from short-term to long-term memory, although it does not actually store information itself. To use a common neurologist’s analogy, the hippocampus is the bridge between your short-term and long term memory. Short term memories, after the initial learning travel across this bridge to the long-term ‘department’ shall we say,” she said smiling. “From here, they can be usually be recalled whenever required. Does that make sense to you?”

“I think so,” Abby said. “The doctor said that in my case, that bridge may have a crack in it and that some memories may fall through.”

“Well, yes he’s right in some respects but unfortunately, it’s also a lot more complex,” she said, with an apologetic smile. “The hippocampus makes up part of the limbic system, the part of your brain responsible for emotion and motivation.
Now, as I’m sure you know, emotion and memory are very closely related.”

You’re telling me
, Abby thought wryly, instantly thinking of Kieran.

Hannah continued. “For example, say you go to a party and meet lots of different people–some nice, some not so nice, others that don’t make much of an impact either way. Now, when you think back on that party, who are you going to remember, the man who made you laugh and made you feel most welcome, the woman who looked you up and down and then barely gave you the time of day, or the countless others who barely made an impression?”

Abby thought about it. “Knowing me it would probably be the woman who barely gave me the time of day.”

“And why is that?”

“Well, by looking me up and down and then ignoring me she would have made me feel bad about myself.”

“So you’re saying this would have provoked some emotional reaction in you?”

“Well yes, wouldn’t it be the same for most people – or most women at least,” she added wryly.

“Absolutely,” Hannah agreed, her tone vehement. “Nobody likes being made to feel bad. But what about the man who made you laugh?”

“Depends on what he looked like, I suppose,” she said shrugging.

The psychologist smiled. “Well, in all likelihood, you’ll clearly remember both the man
and
the woman–as each provoked some form of emotional response in you. In making you laugh, the man made you feel emotionally at ease and in making you feel insecure the woman provoked unease or embarrassment. Either way, you’re going to recall both of these people next time you see them, aren’t you? As for the others, the ones who
didn’t
put in or out with you, you may remember them or you may not– chances are not.”

Abby nodded vigorously, this scenario very much striking a chord. “I’m really bad at names actually,” she told her. “Remembering them, I mean.”

“I see,” Hannah said. “In what way?”

“Well, in the way that you said. If I’m introduced to a group of people together the next time I see them, I’ll probably only remember the names of the ones I get to talk to or have a laugh with.”

“The ones who engage you in some way.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s a perfect example of what I’m trying to explain. Emotion and memory are very closely connected.”

“I understand.” It was all starting to make much more sense to Abby now.

“But following on from this, as we discussed before, the two types of memory–long-term and short-term also come into play here. And the hippocampus is that all-important part of the brain responsible for transferring emotional memories like the ones at the party–which are eventually stored in the temporal lobe–it is in effect, responsible for making these new memories.”

“So what you’re saying is that because of the damage, I might not be able to make new memories?”

“No, the concern is that you may not able to
recall
these new memories. Your short-term memory will continue to act as normal, in that it’ll file away day-to-day events and depending on your reaction to them, will send them accordingly to your long term memory. But depending on the strength of these reactions–and most importantly whether or not they are semantic or episodic–some of these memories may fade or become lost along the way.”

“Semantic and episodic …” Abby repeated, her mind whirling. “I still don’t understand.”

Hannah sat forward again. “OK, let me try and make this simpler,” she said, pausing briefly before speaking again. “Tell me what you remember about 9/11.”

Abby frowned, confused. “You mean
the
9/11, the New York terrorist attacks?”

“Yes.”

“Well … what do you want me to tell you?”

The psychologist relaxed back into her chair again. “What you remember about it.”

Abby breathed out deeply. “Well, I remember that the first plane struck the North Tower at around 2.45pm our time. At first, they thought it was an out-of-control plane, but then they found out the plane had been hijacked, so by the time the second one struck they knew it was a terrorist attack. Then some time later, the first tower collapsed, and shortly after that the other one did. In the meantime, another hijacked plane crash-landed in Maryland and another one hit the Pentagon and …what?” she broke off self-consciously. Hannah was shaking her head.

“I didn’t ask you what you knew about it Abby, I asked what you
remembered
about it. For example, where were you?”

“When it happened?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’d popped home for lunch that day for some reason, I can’t remember now that I think of it–normally I eat at my desk. Anyway,
SKY News
was on in the background with the sound turned down–again for some reason I can’t explain now. I do remember being in the middle of making a sandwich – ”

“What kind of sandwich?”

“What?”

“You said you were making a sandwich. What kind was it–salad, ham …”

“Um, tuna possibly. Again, I can’t fully remember.

“OK. Go on.”

“But what I
do
remember is looking up at the screen and seeing the smoke come out of one of the buildings. My first thought was wow–Claire used to actually work
in
one of those buildings. My sister lives in New York,” she explained, “and when she moved there first, she worked for a company in Tower One.”

Hannah considered this. “So your first reaction was related to some previous personal association with the tower, rather than what was happening at the time?”

“I know–awful, isn’t it?” Abby said, feeling guilty. “So I turned up the sound on the TV, and then just a few minutes later the second plane flew in and I watched it hit the other tower.” She shook her head. “I was horrified because then I knew that something was really wrong and something big was happening … the news reporters were going crazy, it all seemed a bit surreal …and even though I knew that neither Claire or Zach worked in the financial district, I started to feel uneasy.”