Wishful Thinking (a journey that will change lives forever) (40 page)

Dara stood at the doorway and looked around the silent apartment – the place where she and Mark had spent many happy hours, many happy days.  No, she thought, shaking her head sadly, they had been happy here full stop – but she’d been too much of an idiot to realise it.  She’d been too blinded by her own immature ideas about love and happiness and the ‘perfect man’, that she couldn’t see she’d had exactly that all along.   

She glanced wistfully towards the couch, remembering how Mark used to massage her aching feet after a hard day’s work, remembering all those lazy Sunday afternoons they’d sat there together leafing through the Sunday papers – Mark engrossed in the football, Dara doing her best not to let him know she was enjoying the game too. 

And of course, there were those times they ended up making love on that very couch – some times playful and fun, other times slow and tender but, she remembered fondly, always wonderful. 

Then there was the time she’d been struck down with a bad bout of chickenpox and had been driven out of her mind with boredom lying in bed with nothing to do.  Mark had gone into the bedroom, wrapped her up in a duvet and set her on down on the couch in front of the television, apparently unconcerned about catching the dreaded thing, or about having to witness Dara’s incessant scratching.  Had she even appreciated that at the time?  Or appreciated all the things Mark did on a regular basis to make her happy, all the silly little things he did to show his love for her?

No, she thought now, she hadn’t appreciated any of it.  She hadn’t appreciated that love – real love – wasn’t about excitement and all-consuming passion. It wasn’t ‘seeing stars’ or ‘going weak at the knees’ – all the stupid things she’d always believed. 

Real love was about the little things, the silly, seemingly inconsequential things – all the things that Mark had done so well.  Things like making Dara laugh when she was stressed, massaging her feet after a hard day’s work, cheering her up with a glass of wine or masses of chocolate when she was down in the dumps, cooking her favourite meal for no particular reason other than he enjoyed doing it for her.  Things like being a good sport about being dragged around museums (even though he hated every minute of it), putting up with her boring solicitor colleagues at the Christmas party, making sure her father looked after his health.  Real love was about being together, witnessing the minutiae of one another’s day to day lives, forging silly little memories like these.

Dara gulped.  Mark had done all of those things for her without question, never seeking anything from her in return, but she had never fully appreciated it.  And he should have got something in return.  He should have been appreciated.  But Dara had been a blind fool – an idiot.  All she had done was compare him to what had been her own pathetic, shallow ideal of what constituted true love.  All she’d done, even on their wedding day, was concentrate on the things she thought her marriage was lacking, the things she thought Noah Morgan could give her. 

Her heart ached as she thought about it now. What could Noah have given her – really?  Could he have lived up to her impossible ideal, the romantic ideal she’d clung to for all those years?  Probably not.  Noah was simply a part of her past, a past that had long since dissipated, but something that up until a few weeks ago, she’d been unable to let go.  

A lump came to her throat as she thought about Mark in the hospital, how frail and weak he’d been before it was finally all over. They’d understood at the time that he was close to death of course, the doctors had explained that but – she thought, stomach twisting – in the end none of them had any idea just how close. 

“It’s time to go, love.” Eddie Campbell touched her softly on the shoulder.  “The truck is all packed up and ready to go.”

Dara smiled at her father.  “Thanks, Dad, I’m just … you know… saying goodbye.”

Eddie studied her. “I know it’s not easy,” he said quietly, “and I know how much you loved this place.  Sure, weren’t you always on at your mother about how well you were doing, with your own house and your great job, when she used to get onto you about finding a husband?”

“Well, don’t tell Mam, but maybe she had a point after all,” Dara said with a hint of a smile. 

Eddie winked. “Doesn’t she always? But the new place is even better, and you’ll have many a happy memory there too.”

“I hope so.” The new house was lovely, and Dara was really looking forward to moving in, moving on with her life and starting afresh somewhere new. Still she couldn’t help feeling melancholy now.  But that was only natural, wasn’t it?”

“Anyway, let me know whenever you’re ready. The removal guys are anxious to get moving, if you’ll pardon the pun,” he added with another wink.

“I’m on my way.” 

Eddie headed back downstairs, and although she knew he understood, Dara still felt a bit silly about getting so emotional over bricks and mortar.  But he was right.  Buying this place all by herself had been one of the proudest moments of her life, and it was difficult to let that go.

Still, wasn’t life all about moving on and letting go? Mark had put his finger on it that time on their honeymoon in Rome when he’d commented, “What’s in the past, is in the past. You can learn from it, but you shouldn’t let it dictate the future.”

He’d said that quite innocently while referring to her own love of history, but still his words had been strangely prescient when it came to Dara’s actions after that.  She smiled. Yes, she would certainly learn from the past, had already learned from it, and while she wouldn’t exactly let it
dictate
her future, there was no harm in reminding herself from time to time how stupid she’d been these last few months.

Dara took one last look around the empty apartment, trying to commit it to memory.  Then, with a slight flourish, she finally closed the door on her past and went downstairs and out front towards her future.

As she passed, Eddie, sitting in the passenger seat of the removal truck, gave her the thumbs up.  Dara smiled and waved at her father before heading to the car parked behind.  Then, taking one last look at the outside of the building, she breathed deeply and sat into the car.

“Ready?” Mark asked her from the passenger seat. 

It had driven him mad not being able to help with the lifting and carrying, but six weeks on, and despite his mounting recovery, he was still under strict doctors orders not to exert himself in any way.  Dara wasn’t about to let him lift a finger; it was still hard to believe that he was there at all!  After ten very long days in intensive care, he’d eventually got over the worst, and was now well and truly on the mend.  But at one stage, before it was all over and Mark finally regained consciousness, it had been very much touch and go.  He was ‘extremely lucky’, the doctors had said. “He’s not the only one,” his wife had told them, relieved.  

Now, Dara looked at Mark and smiled happily. “I’m ready,” she replied, before leaning over and kissing her still-very-sore, still-very-bandaged, but utterly perfect man on the lips.  

“As Oprah would say ‘You go, girl!’” Sheila had laughed happily the other day when Rosie outlined her plans.  Sheila was laughing a lot these days.  Mercifully, Mark and his wife had made a full recovery after the train crash, and the two of them were in the process of moving to a new house. Gillian still didn’t approve of the wife, mind, but Mark’s brush with death had given them all a shock and brought them closer together.

Rosie was moving too. She was selling up the family house in Wicklow, and moving back to dear old County Clare in the New Year.  Stephen’s own plans to retire to Tralee had really set her thinking, and after the shock and utter surrealism of ‘escaping’ that same crash, Rosie decided to take her future into her hands.  For once, instead of worrying about what everyone else might think, she was going to grab life by the scruff of the neck and do exactly as she pleased. 

She’d thought very hard about it all – particularly about living so far away from her precious granddaughter, but of course she’d come and visit Claudia as often as she could.  As it was, she didn’t see the little girl as often as she’d like, so being in Wicklow or being in Clare wouldn’t make much of a difference in that regard!  She’d miss Sheila too of course, miss her desperately, but without Martin, there was very little in Wicklow for her anymore, and she longed for the peace and quiet of home.

Although, she’d have no shortage of friends down in Clare either it seemed.  In the last few weeks, while searching for a suitable house at home, Rosie had run across lots of people she’d lost contact with and they all seemed pleased at the idea that she was returning to live there again. And then, there was always Stephen only a short train journey away down in Kerry.  He’d made her promise to visit and join him with his painting as often as she could.  Rosie couldn’t wait. 

Sophie was not a happy girl, and was still pouting over the fact that Rosie had removed her mortgage guarantee, but what could she do?  All it meant was that Sophie and Robert had to curtail their extravagant lifestyle somewhat, which was no bad thing – the removal of the guarantee lessening their credit rating a little, but not affecting the status of their mortgage. 

Anyway, Rosie thought sighing, with the ample proceeds from the sale of the family home, she’d have more than enough left over to give her errant daughter a lump sum.  At least, that should keep her happy.  And speaking of ‘happy’ …

Shortly after the train accident and the associated family upheaval, Rosie had arrived home from the shops one day to find David sitting in the kitchen, a strange dog cowering at his feet.

“I know it’s not Twix, but it could do with a good home,” he’d said quietly.

Rosie looked at the dog.  It was a young male, some class of a Jack Russell, black with white paws – a wretched-looking scrap of thing.  But judging by the dog’s nervous expression and doleful eyes as it regarded Rosie fearfully, it may very well have been mistreated. 

David confirmed her suspicions. “He was found tied up in a refuse bag on the side of the road,” he said.

Almost instantly Rosie’s heart melted and her heart went out to the poor little fellow.  Now, he wouldn’t replace Twix, nothing would replace Twix, but if the dog didn’t mind being uprooted, it might be nice to have a bit of company starting out down in Clare all the same. And there was plenty of room out the back of the little cottage for a few more animals, if she were so inclined. 

“So what’ll we call you, then?” Rosie asked, dipping her hand into her shopping bag and taking out the first item she laid her hands on, remembering how Twix had ended up with her name.  It was a pound of butter. “Kerrygold?” she wondered out loud.  “Mmm, maybe not.” 

“The dog pound called him Happy,” David explained. “Don’t ask,” he added, rolling his eyes. “I think they were being ironic.”

“Happy it is then,” Rosie bent down and patted the terrified dog on the head, lovingly remembering the last time she had done the same for poor old Twix. 

A few days after the train crash, she and David had sat down and had a proper heart to heart.  She’d explained how isolated and hurt he’d made her feel since moving back home, and he finally explained his reasons for doing so, as well as the cause of his anger and frustration.

“Kelly and I were trying for a baby, but it didn’t work out,” he admitted shamefully, his cheeks full of colour as Rosie sat there trying not to betray her surprise. “I felt so emasculated, Mum – all our friends were popping them out left right and centre, and I couldn’t do anything.  We had the tests, and Kelly was fine, so we knew it was me.”

He went on to explain that he’d read every book he could on the subject, and had decided to change his lifestyle to try and improve his health, which was the reason he gave up eating meat (and Rosie thought privately, explained his over-the-top obsession with germs). 

“It was making me miserable, Mum – you know how much I love my meat.  But I think it also might have led to my lacking in something else too – some kind of mineral or vitamin or something, which probably made me so edgy and impatient.”

He had pushed Kelly away in the process, his intensity and obsession with overcoming the problem overwhelming both of them. 

“But that was probably all part of it,” Rosie advised kindly, privately relieved that his recent behaviour had actually originated in something. It had killed her to think that his selfish attitude could have been ‘normal’ . “I’d bet if you went back to your usual eating habits, back to your usual self and tried to be a bit nonchalant about the whole thing for a while – instead of all the stressing you’ve been doing – that everything would work out.  Kelly loves you. She’s miserable without you.”

Following a phone call from her husband telling her that Rosie had been in a train crash, Kelly had taken the next plane over, and was over the moon when Rosie’s apparent demise had turned out to be a false alarm. 

At the same time, she and David had then taken their first tentative steps towards reconciliation and now Rosie knew they would be fine. He was planning to move back to Liverpool when the house was sold, and Rosie was safely ensconced in her new cottage and new life back home in Clare.

“And if it doesn’t happen, what of it?” she said to David, referring to his circumstances. “You and Kelly have one another, isn’t that all that matters?  I’d give anything to have your father back, so don’t waste what precious time you have together on wishful thinking – wishing for something that might happen, but just as easily might not.”

David looked at her. “You’re right, Mum. I was so caught up in what I couldn’t do for Kelly that I couldn’t see beyond it, I couldn’t see beyond my own failure and my own misery.  I was so angry and bitter that I never really gave myself a chance to think too much about it, but I suppose I was miserable without her too.”  Then he hung his head. “I realise now I must have been a nightmare to put up with these last few months.  All I can say now is that I’m sorry, and if I hurt or upset you, I didn’t mean to.  I just couldn’t see beyond what was happening in my own life, didn’t stop to think that I might be upsetting you.”

“Well, now that I know what’s bothering you, I don’t mind at all,” Rosie said softly. “I don’t mind admitting that it was very hard for me to understand why you’d changed, I kept thinking it was something I’d said or done.”

“Mum, you’ve done nothing but be good to me – too good in fact,” David interjected. “And I’m so sorry for what I’ve put you through.”

Then, mother and son smiled at one another, their long overdue discussion causing a new understanding between them.  The sight of her beloved child’s smile – a proper, genuine smile – had the effect of instantly reducing Rosie’s recent unhappy time with him to a distant memory.  Wherever he’d been these last few months, however much he’d been through, David –
her
David – was on the way back.

And wishful thinking? Rosie had been guilty of that herself.  Since Martin’s death, she’d existed in some kind of a void, no longer sure as to what her role in life actually was, no longer sure what she really wanted.  And she’d done little else but hope that it would get better – that things would change or that
people
would change just because she wanted them to.

But Rosie understood now that wishes didn’t just grant themselves. You had to take your wish, and make it happen all by yourself.  Rosie smiled at the idea of her new life back home in Clare – a life of relaxation, good friends and hopefully, lots of painting by the sea.  She was taking her wish and making it happen.

And she knew Martin would be helping her all the way.

THE END

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Note from the author
: Thank you so much for reading this book.  If you enjoyed the story and you can spare the time, I would be very grateful for a brief review on
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Melissa Hill

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