‘Deal, Miss.’
But I didn’t want anything to change and I was sure the first thing they’d ‘re-jiggle’ would be my Buddy Time with Ronan. So no matter what, I needed to keep doubt from everyone’s minds. One yawn, one nodding head, any sign of weakness would jeopardise things.
‘So, just see how it all goes these first few weeks and we’ll take it from there,’ she said. ‘OK?’
‘OK,’ I said.
When I stepped out of Mrs O’Neill’s room the sun was blaring bright on a cold and frosty morning; my favourite kind of day.
24
A colour-coded schedule was pinned on a board in the McCoys’ kitchen. It mapped out every activity and appointment Ronan had throughout the week. The green squares that represented 7 p.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays read ‘Buddy Time’.
‘As you can see it’s a bit of a system,’ said Mrs McCoy as we stood looking at it.
Each square had its own colour: yellow for home schooling on Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings; blue for physio appointments on Tuesday and Thursday mornings; plus various other colours for hospital and medical things and much more.
‘It’s helpful for Ronan to see it all like this. There’s one in his room, too, just so he can have the shape of the day in his head,’ explained Mrs McCoy.
‘I made a bit of a weekly schedule for myself too, actually,’ I said.
‘Well, word of advice, try to schedule in something for yourself at least once a week. Something social,’ said Mrs McCoy. ‘Not that we were all that social anyway but I go toyoga on a Sunday morning and he goes to the driving range on Saturday afternoons.’
‘Priorities change, though,’ said Mr McCoy. ‘Anyway, enough of us. The first home schooling session went well yesterday.’
‘The tutor’s lovely,’ said Mrs McCoy, ‘said Ronan doesn’t miss a beat.’
‘Yeah, I noticed that,’ I said, ‘when we were reading the book I got him on New Year’s it was almost like his brain was firing on full cylinders like he really wanted to say something – but it’s the rerouting of his brain pathways, isn’t it?’
‘Someone’s been reading up!’ said Mrs McCoy.
‘Yeah, I’ve read loads, but there seems to be so much to do with Ronan that isn’t explained very well,’ I said.
‘What you have to remember, Brendan, is that every brain injury is completely different from the next. There is no one-size-fits-all,’ said Mrs McCoy.
‘It’s a day-to-day learning thing, Brendan,’ said Mr McCoy. ‘You can’t predict a thing. Take today; this morning he was fine with the physio, then he ate OK at lunchtime, but then he got agitated all afternoon and didn’t eat a thing at dinner and we’ve no idea why.’
‘So heads-up, Brendan,’ said Mrs McCoy, ‘after the stress of dinner we had to let him sleep.’
‘So we’re hoping your first Buddy Time doesn’t just become nap time,’ laughed Mr McCoy. ‘Anyway, maybe you’ll have more luck than us – if he’s awake, that is.’
‘Well, the tutor said he may respond differently depending on who he’s interacting with,’ said Mrs McCoy, ‘and if it’s not working then we’ll do something different. It’s the unpredictability of it all, Brendan, but I’m sure you understand.’
‘No, I absolutely do,’ I said, suddenly feeling nervous.
‘You’re some lad,’ said Mr McCoy. ‘Right, let’s head on down here and see if Sleeping Beauty’s awake.’
Mr McCoy led me down the hallway, past all those photos of Ronan on the walls. He paused outside Ronan’s bedroom door with the Liverpool poster on it and Ronan’s name on the placard.
‘His bedroom’s too small for his new equipment,’ Mr McCoy said, ‘which is a blessing in a way because it was going to be a big clear-out job and, well, didn’t feel right clearing out all Ronan’s stuff anyway.’
‘No,’ said Mrs McCoy, ‘and anyway, it’d be too overstimulating for him in there, Brendan; it’s like a Liverpool shrine and he has all these planes and spaceships hanging from the ceiling and stuff everywhere basically. I mean, nothing’s been touched in there since. I haven’t actually been in since … well, maybe we’ll have to sort it out at some point.’
‘Right,’ said Mr McCoy as he led on down the hallway. I turned away from Ronan’s old bedroom door.
I stood behind Mr McCoy as he gently opened the next door along. The walls inside were a plain cream colour, one wall had the same schedule from the kitchen stuck on it. There was a high wooden desk with books neatly stacked on top, a stationery pot with marker pens in it and a large blue folder. The rest of the room was sparse; a built-in wardrobe to the left and a freestanding mirror in the corner. To the right there was a bed that looked like something from a hospital with a winch beside it that I supposed was for lifting Ronan in and out. And to the left of the bed, beside a small window, was Ronan in his wheelchair fast asleep.
‘Still out for the count,’ said Mr McCoy.
