A hand grabbed her arm, pulling her backward. “Lena!” It was Shane.
An electric shock ran from her brother’s hand to her heart and jumped it back to life. She shook her shoulders to free herself from her brother and took long, purposeful steps toward Walter until she stood in front of him.
“Hello, Walter.” She would be the strong one. She would not show weakness. She would hold her head high. He would never, ever know how much he’d hurt her. And even more, he would regret his rejection of her.
“Hi, Lena. Lordy, you look exactly the same. You’re so beautiful.” He smiled, so charming.
“You’re despicable,” she said, low and quiet, her hands stiff at her sides.
For all the practiced speeches, for all the times she’d imagined this moment, for all the eloquent words she’d manufactured in her journal and in her mind, those were the two words that fell from her mouth.
Walter burst into laughter and spread his arms wide. “There’s my girl.”
“Your girl?” Colleen’s voice shook.
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t think I do.”
“I mean you haven’t changed. Full of fire and spit.” He reached forward for a hug.
Colleen, so stunned she couldn’t react, allowed him to put his arms around her. He squeezed tightly and she froze until he released her and stepped back. “I’m hoping we can all be a family now, Lena. I hate that it’s your dad’s illness that brought you back, but let’s all try.”
“Try to be a family?” She repeated his words as though he’d been speaking in another language, and she was translating.
“Well, we are, aren’t we?” He winked at her.
He winked!
Nausea rose so quickly that her body finally took action and she ran for the back room, through the swinging doors and out to the alleyway.
In the pub parking lot, taking gulps of fresh air, Colleen’s body-memory flew back in time. She sensed Walter’s mouth on her, his words and his promises as fresh as though he were saying them now. She bent over and placed her hands on her knees, drew in a deep breath.
She and Walter in bed together, a rumpled white comforter tangled between them. Sunrise filtered through Walter’s bedroom window, which faced east toward the river that, in turn, flowed right past her own house. She reclined sideways, her elbow bent with her head propped in her palm. Walter trailed his fingers along her neck and then down her body, his lips following. “You’re my family now,” he said.
“We’re a package deal,” she told him, the desire rising again. She folded her leg over his to pull him closer and closer still. “Do you realize that if we floated along the river from here, we’d end up right at my family’s dock? We’re tied together by water.”
“Meant to be,” he said.
She felt him hard against her thigh and again they made love with the fervor of those who believe they will never get enough of each other. Their bodies were the same as the river outside, drawing them together with every tide.
A bang of the back pub door and Colleen shook herself from the vivid remembrance. She hated him. She wanted him. She loved him. No, she didn’t. She hated him.
“Are you okay?” The voice startled Colleen and she stood quickly, becoming off balance and falling back to catch herself on Beckett’s arm. “What?”
“I saw you run out, and I thought . . .”
“You thought what?”
“That you didn’t look well.”
Colleen tried to smile. “Just needed to catch my breath.”
“Are you sick? Can I get you some water or something . . .” He reached for her hand and took it, lifted it to his lips to kiss her palm. So gentle; so sweet.
“It’s not the kind of sickness that can be helped with water.” She squeezed his hand.
“What is it then?”
“Memories,” she said. “A sickening memory that came alive and then walked through the door; one I’ve tried to forget.”
“Trying to forget never works.” He smiled at her as if they were in on a secret together.
“Well, isn’t that the hell of it all? My dad wants to remember and he can’t. I want to forget and I can’t.”
“I’m sorry. Whatever it is, I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” Colleen shook her head and let go of his hand. “So very sorry.”
“I know a great place to forget for a while, a place where we can see the stars. They give me perspective. Come with me?”
“If it means I don’t have to head back inside, then I’m good to go.”
The back pub door swung open again, spilling a funnel of light onto the gravel driveway as Walter and Hallie stepped onto the threshold. Hallie crossed her arms over her chest; he gesticulated wildly. What world had Colleen fallen into that she had to watch this now? She pressed herself against the dumpster and pulled Beckett toward her. “Shh . . .”
“I saw you, Walter.” Hallie’s voice held back tears; Colleen knew the sound well.
“Saw me?” Walter’s smooth voice, so seductive and calm, so caring and sweet.
“Hug my sister. I saw you. Did you kiss her, too?”
A great rip of laughter burst from Colleen. She slammed her hand over her mouth, but it was too late. Walter and Hallie turned toward her, moving out of the light to see Beckett and Colleen. “I’m sorry,” Colleen said. “It’s not funny, is it?”
“Not funny at all.” Hallie stepped toward her sister.
“But it is,” Colleen said. “Can’t you see that? Nothing happened and look at how you feel. Feel how you feel.” Colleen felt the veracity moving in waves, and she came closer to Hallie in the darkness. “Imagine you’re in a wedding dress. Imagine you have no idea. Imagine . . .”
Hallie made a soft noise in the back of her throat. “We have children . . . we have a family.”
“I was your family!” Colleen spread her hands wide. “We were your family. But you chose him.” The grief rose and Colleen turned to Beckett for help.
Beckett held out his hand and Colleen took it. “Come with me,” he said.
Hallie stepped back to stand next to her husband. Colleen kept her eyes on Beckett. She allowed herself to be guided by his hand and the faint glow of the pub light. “Where are we headed?”
“Do you have to know everything?” he asked.
“Yes, I believe I do.”
Chapter Seventeen
Memory . . . is the diary that we all carry about with us.
Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest
NINE DAYS UNTIL THE PARTY . . .
In the wee morning hours before her dad awoke, Colleen sat cross-legged on her single bed. Hallie’s bed across the room was empty and well made, the blue and white throw pillows neatly stacked. Colleen set her laptop on the pillows and began to search for a list of alternative Alzheimer’s treatments. Brain games. Chanting. Vitamins. Vegan diet. CBD oil. Fish oil. Ginkgo. Vitamin D. The list was overwhelming and yet Colleen wanted to do something, to show up at the social worker’s meeting with more than financial and insurance information. She wanted to have a list in hand—what now? she would ask. What now? Help us.
The morning sounds of her childhood home waking had not altered during all the intervening years, a series of creaks and groans as familiar as her favorite song. Colleen had once imagined that the house was a living being, that secrets were hiding in the basement and that the heart of it was cached in a corner she hadn’t yet found. Although even then she’d known and explored every inch of the house, still she’d believed in this fantasy. Dad had ingrained in Colleen the belief that in the Celtic world all things were alive. All had a soul. All had a purpose.
Settling back against the pink fabric headboard, she scrolled through e-mail, her eyes finding another e-mail to discuss the possibility of a travel memoir. Outside, t
he birds were waking with their choral crescendos and Colleen wondered—where would such a memoir begin? Where would it end? And under those questions was a bigger one, about how one could reach tip number ten about “going home” when one didn’t know where home was. She couldn’t say yes to this assignment until she knew what it meant for her, what the memoir would really be about.
Someone in the kitchen banged a pot and soft music, too soft to identify, came to her ears. Dad was obviously awake and starting breakfast. The aroma of bacon filtered into the room. Habits died hard. No matter how many times they’d lectured him on the evils of bacon, he arose each morning and put exactly two strips in the frying pan, just as his wife had once done for him.
Colleen didn’t yet rise. She wanted to savor the memory of the night before when Beckett had taken her to gaze at the stars from a cove at the river. They’d lain back in a canoe without seats, an empty shell he’d left on dry land in anticipation of refurbishing it. He’d named the constellations as she tried to make out the shapes he saw: the Seven Sisters; the throne of Cassiopeia; the flying horse of Pegasus. They hadn’t talked about much else and he hadn’t asked why she’d been upset behind the pub or about the harsh words with her sister.
An hour into their quiet talk, she realized that if he did ask, she would tell him. But he was kind enough to let it be. Instead, she told him all about their dad, his mind being covered in plaque and tangles, his personality changing, the party and the memory book. After listening with quiet understanding, and sympathy, he took her home and left her with one soft kiss; he never asked for or expected more. Unaccustomed to such reticence, Colleen almost asked him why he didn’t like her, but she could see from the smile on his face and the gentleness in his kiss that he did.
This morning, he was taking her to the local historical society.
“Lena!” her dad called from the hallway.
“Coming,” she called out.
She opened her bedroom closet and stared at the dresses and shirts, the pants slung over hangers and the sweaters folded on the back shelf, neatly and by color. Her mother had done this—organized Colleen’s closet after she’d left—and it looked as though it had been waiting for her all these years.
The old sundresses looked inviting and simple. She ran her fingers over the various fabrics until she paused on a blue-and-white-striped dress, even now in style, and slipped it off the hanger and over her body. Yes, it still fit.
With a quick glance in the mirror and a brush of her humidity-curled hair, which she pulled back into a knot, she entered the kitchen to find Shane and Dad laughing at something on Shane’s phone.
“You know I hate missing out.” Colleen poked at her brother and peeked over his shoulder at a photo of a dog riding a bike. “Not that funny.”
“Yes, it is,” Dad said. “You gotta enjoy the little things, Lena.”
“You look nice today, sis.”
“Well, thank you.”
Dad spooned a poached egg onto a plate and handed it to Colleen. “Special plans?”
She nodded. “Beckett is taking me to the historical society so I can see some old records about the pub.”
“Old records?” Gavin held a spoon in the air and a large blob of egg fell to the hardwood floor.
Colleen jumped back to avoid getting eggs on her sandals and tried to ignore the fumble, one she might make herself. “Yes, you know—when it was built, who used to own it and things like that. He’s gathering all the records that will support his proposal that it become a historic landmark. He said there are old pictures and I thought it would be interesting.”
“Interesting.” Gavin repeated her last word and stared off as if someone was standing behind her.
“Dad . . .” Shane’s voice was soft and firm. “Remember? We’re trying to get historic landmark status for a tax break. That nice young man you met . . .”
Gavin nodded. “Yes. But is it necessary? Why can’t we leave it all the way it is?”
“Everything helps, Dad. And we won’t be changing anything at all.”
Gavin’s face shut off, closed to his son and daughter. He set the plastic spatula on the burning eye of the stove’s electric coil and walked away.
“Dad!” Shane grabbed the plastic utensil, now melting with long strings of black plastic stretching from pan to utensil, and waved it in the air. Colleen ran to the sink and turned on the water so Shane could hold it under the stream. A soft hiss was followed by the bitter stench of burned plastic.
“This can’t go on.” Shane’s voice cracked as Gavin headed outside.
“I see that.” Colleen’s fingers tingled. “The social worker is coming to meet us day after tomorrow at your apartment. We’ll make plans, and not just a scrapbook of memories.”
“But still the memory book.” His voice shook. “Still that.”
“Yes.” Colleen placed a hand on her brother’s arm.
* * *
• • •
It was a color photo, faded by time as though it had been washed in the rain or by tears. The pub in the picture was a white thatch-roof building, squat and square, set against a landscape that must have been emerald in its time but was now like a weak green tea. The name of the pub was written on a circular sign over the doorway: O’Shea’s. Was it the name of the owner, or maybe the owner before? Who knew? The doorway was painted dark green, the window sashes also. Two sets of rectangular windows were set on either side of the doorway, red awnings protecting them with swollen eyelids. In small, tight script words on the photo stated: 1980 County Clare, Ireland.
Beckett had fished the photo from a manila envelope with a pile of others, which they’d also placed on the pine table at the historical society. He stood next to Colleen and his hands sifted through them. Martin Burris, the long-term volunteer and history buff, a man whose bushy beard seemed to compensate for his bald head, stood back with his hands in his front jeans pockets.
“That photo you got there.” Martin took a step closer to Colleen and tapped its center, almost knocking it from her hands. “Your dear dad brought that to the contractor to show him how he wanted the pub to look like in the redesign. He didn’t go tearing out the brick and mortar, but he damn sure wanted to change its appearance. He would have added a thatch roof if they’d let him.” Martin’s accent, so deeply southern it sounded like a parody, made Colleen smile.
“Why this pub in Ireland?”
“I have no idea.” Martin scratched his beard.
“What do you think?” Colleen asked Beckett.
He held another photo with a smile. “Think about what?”
Colleen held out the photo. “Why did he choose this pub to use as a model for the Lark?”
“Because it’s good-looking? I can’t guess about something a man did all those years ago.”
“It’s so interesting.” Colleen sat in a chair, sifting through other images of the Lark during different stages of its life. “Why do we think to ask the most important questions when it might be too late for those questions?” She looked at Beckett. “Why don’t we ask when it doesn’t matter so desperately?”
“I don’t know.” He sat next to her and took her hand. “I just don’t damned well know, but maybe you should try now—maybe it’s not too late.”
And in that instant, the one person, the only person Colleen wanted to turn toward was Hallie. This need, this primal and old desire, carried the pain of loss and the slightest whisper of existing love, appearing quietly and shyly from the past.
Yes, they would find a way to ask their dad—together, she and her sister would find a way.
Chapter Eighteen
Time is an optical illusion—never quite as solid or strong as we think it is.
Jodi Picoult, My Sister’s Keeper
“I’ve never thought much about why it looks the way it does.” Colleen stood in front of the Lark
in the late evening. Above, an egret swooped toward her and Beckett, and then eased. When it landed lightly on the magnolia tree a few yards away, Colleen touched the edge of Beckett’s shoulder and pointed to the pub to redirect his attention. “For me, it just always looked like this.”
Beckett held copies of two photos—one of O’Shea’s pub in Ireland and one of the Lark when it had been called McNally’s. Colleen shaded her eyes and stared at the building. Dad didn’t do anything accidentally. If he chose a pub from Ireland to replicate in South Carolina, he chose it for a reason.
“He never talked about it?” Beckett asked.
“I’m trying to remember. I don’t know much about his life before I was born. Why don’t I?” She shrugged and paused, tasting the unknowing with its hints of something larger. “He never went back to Ireland; he never took Mother there. He never visited again, so it couldn’t have been all that important to him. I’ve never given his time there much thought. As little kids we think our parents’ lives started when we came along. What I do know only has to do with how that journey to Ireland influenced us—you know, his funny sayings or once in a while a phrase or two about how it all felt there, how one day he wanted to take me.”
“Not the family?”
“Huh?” Colleen shifted her feet, feeling the ground was moving with each new piece of information, each question. Shouldn’t things be left well enough alone? Digging into the past never did much good; she sure as hell knew that. It only led to pain that had not faded, but lay in wait like one of those ridiculous fairy-tale dragons that slept until you roused it.
“Didn’t he want to take the whole family, or was it just you?”
Colleen pulled at the strings of memory, yanked at the threads of the promise of an Ireland trip. Was it once or twice that he’d promised? Maybe more? But one time—yes, when she and Dad had been alone in the pub washing glasses. She’d been twelve or maybe thirteen years old. They’d been singing together, but even the song had disappeared from her memory bank. What was it?
The Favorite Daughter Page 16
