Keeping 13: Boys of Tommen #2

No rugby for at least six weeks.

Father.

Bed rest for seven to ten days.

Father.

Your feet won’t be touching grass until May.

Father.

Torn adductor, adhesions, and Athletic Pubalgia.

Father.

Rehabilitation.

‘Fuck!’ Fisting the blankets around my body, I threw my head back and stifled a roar, knowing that if I had another outburst, I was going to get bleeding sedated again. I was on thin ice with the nurses stationed down the corridor from my room. Getting out of bed to take a piss and collapsing on the floor beside my bed had rendered me blacklisted. I’d been given a huge bollocking for not asking for help, reminded I had a catheter in place, and then given another shot of whatever the hell it was they kept flushing into my IV. They told me it was for pain, but I was suspicious. I was high as a kite. Nobody needed that volume of drugs in their system. Not even me, the eejit with the self-proclaimed broken dick. ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’

Blinking away the blurriness, I tried to focus on the wall opposite my bed with the television mounted to it, and Pat Kenny hosting The Late Late Show, but it was no use. I kept zoning out, my thoughts leading me back to that one word that had been haunting me, playing around in my brain like a broken record.

Father.

Father.

Father.

‘Stop!’ I growled angrily, even though I was alone in the room. ‘Just fucking stop talking.’

My mind was playing tricks on me, making me feel anxious and on edge, and I had the worst feeling in the pit of my stomach.

My anxiety was so strong I could taste it.

Painkillers, my ass.

This was something that fucked with my head.

Nobody was listening to me.

I kept telling everyone that something wasn’t right and they responded by telling me that everything was fine and then dosing me up with more of whatever the hell was currently flushing through my veins.

I knew they were wrong, but I couldn’t see straight, never mind make sense of my worry.

The more they didn’t take me seriously, the more anxious I grew until I was drowning in concern over something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

It was a horrendous fucking feeling.

My mind was reeling; only one word playing inside my head like a broken record.

Father.

And only one voice repeating that same word over and over again.

Shannon.

I had no idea why I was reacting the way I was, but my heart was going ninety. I knew this because every time I thought about her, the machine I was hooked up to started beeping and flashing.

I didn’t cope well with anxiety. It just wasn’t in me. Adrenalin, absolutely, but fear? No, I didn’t fucking do well with fear. Especially when the fear in my heart was for another person.

When I did manage to train my eyes on the television, I kept thinking ‘what the fuck is Pat doing on the telly? The Late Late Show was a Friday night program, but hey – what the hell did I know? Not a lot apparently since I couldn’t distinguish between what night of the week it was.

Sagging back on the mattress, I blinked away the drowsiness and tried to think clearly.

Furious, I twisted my head from side to side, seeking more.

Something wasn’t right.

In my head.

In my body.

I felt like I was trapped, a prisoner of this bleeding bed, and it sucked balls.

Furious with the world and everyone in it, I tapped my fingers against the mattress and did a recount of the ceiling tiles.

One hundred and thirty-nine.

Christ, I needed out of this room.

I wanted to go home.

To Cork.

Yeah, I was that fucking desperate that I didn’t want to be in Dublin anymore. I was having a come to Jesus moment and wanted nothing more than to be back home in Ballylaggin, surrounded by all that was familiar to me.

To be back home with Shannon.

Jesus, I messed up real bad with her.

I reacted horribly.

I was an eejit.

Anger swelled up inside of me again, joined by the depression and devastation that followed every time I thought about what my future held – which was every minute of the day.

Pain? I was in a hell of a lot of pain, but my body was the least of my worries right now. Because I had lost hold of my bleeding senses. My head was gone, lost, back in Cork with a fucking girl.

Bored and restless, I glanced out the hospital window at the darkened sky and then back to the television screen.

Fuck this.

Reaching for my phone, I shakily scrolled through my contacts, struggling to make out the names through the haze, until I found the number I had dialed at least twelve times in the past god knows how many hours or days, and pressed call.

With a great deal of effort, I managed to hold the phone to my ear and waited, with bated breath, listening to the obnoxious ring ring sound, until I was greeted by his monotone voicemail.

‘Joey.’ Sitting forward, I tried to shift my body into an upright position, only to end pulling on some wires attached to my body that had no business being there. ‘Call me back.’ Exhaling a pained grunt when I felt a stinging sensation shoot up my legs, I focused on getting the next sentence out without slurring. ‘I need to talk to her.’ I was fairly sure I slurred my words anyway considering my voice sounded foreign to me. ‘I don’t know what’s happening, Joey. Maybe I’m fucked in the head, I’m high as balls, but I’m worried. I’ve got this bad fucking feeling –’

Beep.

‘Well, shite.’ Feeling thoroughly defeated, I ended the call and dropped my phone down beside me before slumping back on the pillows.

Was I hallucinating this whole thing?

No, I knew I was in the hospital.

I knew she had been here to see me.

But maybe I was concentrating on the word father because I had been so surprised to see my own father here when I opened my eyes.

Mashing my lips together, I ignored the tingling, numbing sensation and tried to think clearly.

I was missing something.

When it came to Shannon Lynch, I felt like I was always three steps behind.

Drowsy, I tried to keep my head clear, but it was impossible with the warm, tingling feeling inside of me demanding I close my eyes and absorb the feeling of nothing.

‘…If you want to know what goes on inside that head of hers, then be worth it…’

‘Fuck you, Joey the hurler,’ I slurred, throwing the covers off my body. ‘I am worth it.’ Dropping my feet to the floor, I caught ahold of the IV pole and pulled myself into a standing position. Every muscle in my body painfully protested the movement, but I forced it down and staggered towards the door.

‘Johnny!’ Mam exclaimed when she found me in the hallway a few minutes later. She was holding two plastic cups in her hands and staring at me with a horrified look on her face. ‘What are you doing out of bed, love?’

‘I need to go home,’ I grunted, dragging my IV along with me, as I bared my ass to the world in the cloth hospital gown held up only by my broad shoulders. ‘Right now, Ma,’ I added, as I pushed off the wall I had been temporarily resting against, ignored the searing pain coursing through my body, and stumbled clumsily down the corridor. ‘I need to go.’

‘Go?’ Mam balked at me. ‘You’ve just had surgery.’ Rushing to intercept me, Mam placed her hands on my chest and glared up at me. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

‘I am.’ I shook my head and tried to step around her. ‘I’m going back to Cork.’

‘Why?’ Mam demanded, as she once again intercepted my move and blocked my path. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Something’s wrong,’ I bit out, feeling woozy and lightheaded. ‘Shannon.’

‘What?’ Concern flashed in Mam’s eyes. ‘What’s wrong with Shannon?’

‘I don’t know,’ I snapped, feeling agitated and helpless. ‘But I know something’s wrong.’ Frowning, I tried to chase my thoughts, to make sense of what I was feeling, but only managed to come up with, ‘I have to help her.’

‘Baby, it’s the meds,’ she replied, looking at me with this fucked up sympathetic gaze. ‘You’re not feeling yourself.’

I shook my head, at a complete loss. ‘Ma,’ I croaked out hoarsely, ‘I’m telling you, there’s something wrong.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘Because –’ Exhaling heavily, I sagged against the wall and shrugged helplessly. ‘I can feel it.’

‘Johnny, love, you need to lie down and rest.’

‘You’re not listening to me,’ I growled. ‘I know, Ma. I fucking know, okay?’

‘What do you know?’

I sagged in defeat. ‘I don’t know what I know, but I know I should know!’ Frustrated and confused, I blurted, ‘But she knows, and I know, and she won’t tell me, but I swear they all fucking know, Ma!’

‘Okay, love,’ Mam coaxed, wrapping her arm around me. ‘I believe you.’

‘You do?’ I croaked out, feeling drowsy but slightly sated. ‘Thank Jesus, ’cause nobody’s listening to me around here.’

‘Of course I believe you,’ she replied, patting my chest as she led me back to my room. ‘And I’m always listening to you, pet.’

‘You are?’

‘Mmm-hmm.’

‘I hate being lied to, Ma,’ I added, resting far too much of my weight on her slim body. ‘And she’s always lying to me.’ My nose twitched and I mashed my lips together, trying to fight off the numbness in my face as a familiar scent wafted up my nostrils. ‘I like the smell coming off you, Ma.’ I sniffed again, inhaling the scent. ‘Smells like home.’

‘Jean Paul Gautier,’ Mam replied, pushing the door of my room inwards. ‘Same as I always wear.’

‘It’s a good smell,’ I agreed, nodding to myself, as Mam dragged me back into my room.

‘I’m glad you approve,’ Mam chuckled.

‘What am I supposed to do now?’ I frowned at my bed, watching through a blurred haze as my mother pulled back the sheets and patted the mattress. ‘Sleep?’

‘Yes, you’re supposed to go to sleep, love,’ Mam encouraged, tone coaxing. ‘Everything will be a lot clearer in the morning.’

I scrunched my nose up. ‘I’m hungry.’

‘Go to sleep, Jonathon.’

‘I don’t like Dublin anymore,’ I grumbled, flopping back onto my bed. ‘They’re starving me to death in this place.’ I closed my eyes, body sinking deep into the mattress. ‘And all the bleeding drugs.’

I felt the covers being draped over my body once more and then a soft kiss on my forehead. ‘Go to sleep, love.’

‘Father,’ I mumbled, drifting off. ‘I hate that word.’