by Amy Harmon
I felt the memory rise, thick and hot, like the smoke that had filled my lungs as I’d gone to Moore Street that long-ago Saturday, looking for my friends; 29 April 1916 was the worst day of my life. Before today. Today was worse.
“Connolly told me to make sure everyone was out of the GPO before I evacuated,” Liam continued, the morphine slowing his cadence. “That was my job. I had to watch as men ran for their lives, one after another, dodging bullets and tripping over bodies. That’s when I heard her. She was suddenly there, in the GPO, walking through the smoke. She scared me, Thomas. I was half blind and so tired, I would have shot my own mother had she come up behind me.”
I waited for him to say her name yet recoiled when he did.
“It was Annie. I don’t know how she got back inside the post office. The place was an inferno.”
“What did you do?” The words were a rasp in my throat.
“I shot her. I didn’t mean to. I just reacted. I shot her several times. I knelt beside her, and her eyes were open. She was staring at me, and I said her name. But she was dead. Then I shot her again, Thomas. Just to make sure she was real.”
I couldn’t look at him. I was afraid I would do to him what he’d done to Declan’s Anne. To Eoin’s mother. To my friend. I remembered the madness of that night. The exhaustion. The strain. And I understood how it had happened. I would have understood then. I would have forgiven him then. But he’d lied to me for six years, and he’d tried to cover his sins by killing again.
“I took her shawl—she’d been holding it—it was too hot in the GPO to wear it. It didn’t have a single drop of blood on it.” He was obviously still awed by the fact. I grimaced, imagining the blood that must have pooled beneath her bullet-ridden body.
“And her ring?” It was all so clear to me now.
“I took it off her finger. I didn’t want anyone to know it was her. I knew if I left her in the GPO, her body would burn, and no one would ever have to know what I’d done.”
“Except for you. You knew.”
Liam nodded, but his face was blank, as though he’d suffered so long with the sharp edge of guilt it had carved him into an empty shell.
“Then I walked out. I walked to Henry Place, Anne’s shawl in my hands, her ring in my pocket. I felt the bullets whizzing past me. I wanted to die. But I didn’t. Kavanagh pulled me into a tenement on Moore Street, and I spent the rest of the night burrowing through the walls, from one tenement to the next, working my way towards Sackville Lane with some of the others. I left the shawl in a pile of rubble, and I kept the ring. I’ve carried it in my pocket ever since. I don’t know why.”
“Ever since?” I asked, disbelieving. How was that possible? Anne had been wearing the ring when I’d seen her last. My Anne. My Anne. My legs buckled, and for a moment I thought I would fall.
“Surely you noticed that Anne was wearing the same ring,” I moaned, covering my face with my hands.
“Those English bastards thought of everything, didn’t they? Feckin’ spies. But they didn’t count on me. I knew it wasn’t her all along. I told you, Doc. But you wouldn’t listen, remember?”
I stood abruptly, knocking over my stool in my haste and moving away from him so I wouldn’t strangle the righteous indignation from his face.
Anne told me her grandfather—Eoin—gave her the ring along with my diary and several pictures. They were the pieces of the life he had wanted her to reclaim. Oh, Eoin, my precious boy, my poor little boy. He would have to wait so long to see her again.
“Where’s her ring now?” I asked, overcome.
Liam pulled it from his pocket and held it towards me, seemingly relieved to be rid of it. I took it from him, reeling with the knowledge that someday I would give it to Eoin. Eoin would eventually give it to Anne, his granddaughter, and she would wear it back to Ireland.
But that chapter had already been read, and my part in the rippled progression of future and past had already been played. My Anne had crossed the lough and gone home again.
“Last July, when you were moving guns on the lough, why did you shoot Anne when you saw her? I don’t understand,” I asked, seeking the final piece of the puzzle.
“I didn’t think she was real,” Liam murmured. “I see her everywhere I go. I keep killing her, and she keeps coming back.”
Oh God. If only she would come back. If only she would.
The next morning, I told Liam to go. To never come back. I promised him if he did, I would kill him myself. I gave Brigid the choice to go with him. She stayed behind, but she and I both know I wish she was gone. I can’t bring myself to forgive her. Not yet.
I don’t know how I will go on. Breathing hurts. Speaking hurts. Waking is agony. I cannot comfort myself. I cannot comfort Eoin, who does not understand any of this. He keeps asking me where his mother is, and I have no idea what to tell him. The O’Tooles are insisting we have a service for her, even without a body. Father Darby said it would help us move on. But I will never move on.
T. S.
24
WHAT WAS LOST
I sing what was lost and dread what was won,
I walk in a battle fought over again,
My king a lost king, and lost soldiers my men;
Feet to the Rising and Setting may run,
They always beat on the same small stone.
—W. B. Yeats
Jim Donnelly was Eamon Donnelly’s grandson, and he was kind. He brought me a blanket and some wool socks and threw my wet dress in his dryer. Then he called the police—the Gardai—and waited with me, making me drink a glass of water while he patted my back and guarded the door. He thought I was going to run. And I would have.
I couldn’t hold on to a thought, couldn’t stop shuddering, and when he asked me questions, I could only shake my head. He began talking to me instead, keeping his voice low as he checked his watch every few minutes.
“You called me Eamon. That was my grandfather’s name,” he said, trying to distract me. “He lived here on the lough too. We Donnellys have lived here for generations.”
I tried to sip my water, and it slipped from my hand and crashed to the floor. He jumped to his feet and brought me a towel.
“Can I bring you some coffee?” he asked as I took the towel from his hand.
My stomach roiled at the mere mention of coffee, and I shook my head and tried to whisper my thanks. I sounded like a shuddering snake.
He cleared his throat and tried again, his voice conversational. “There was a woman who drowned in that lough a long time ago. A woman named Anne Gallagher. My grandfather knew her, and he told me the story when I was a boy. It’s a small place, and she was a bit of a mystery. Over the years, the story’s taken on a life of its own. The police thought I was pulling a wee joke when I called them and told them your name. It took me a while to convince them that I wasn’t kidding.” He grimaced and fell silent.
“They never knew what happened to her?” I asked, the tears streaming down my face.
“No . . . not really. They never found her body, which was where the mystery started. She lived at Garvagh Glebe—the manor there, behind the trees,” he said, his face reflecting my distress. He rose and came back with a box of tissues.
“And her family?” I whispered. “What happened to them?”
“I don’t know, miss. It was a long time ago. It’s just an old story. Probably half true. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
When the police arrived, Jim Donnelly leapt from his chair in relief, ushering them in, and the questions began again. I was taken to a hospital and admitted for observation. My pregnancy was confirmed, my mental health questioned, and numerous calls were made to ascertain whether I was a threat to myself or others. I grasped very quickly that my freedom and independence relied on my ability to reassure everyone I was all right. I wasn’t. I was destroyed. Devastated. Reeling. But I wasn’t deranged or dangerous. Deny, deflect, refute, Michael Collins had said, and that’s what I did. In the end, I was rele
ased.
It hadn’t taken the police long to ascertain where I was staying and collect my suitcases from the Great Southern Hotel in Sligo. They had jimmied the locked door on my rental car and found my purse beneath the seats. My possessions had been combed through but were readily handed over when the investigation was closed. I paid my hospital bill, made a donation to the county search-and-rescue services, and quietly checked back in to the hotel. The desk clerk didn’t flinch when she saw my name; the police had been discreet. I had my purse, my passport, and my clothing, but I needed to rent another car. I bought one instead. I had no intention of leaving Ireland.
I’d left Manhattan one week after Eoin died. I left his clothes in his drawers, his coffee cup in the sink, and his toothbrush in the bathroom. I locked his brownstone in Brooklyn, put off the calls from his lawyer about his estate, and told my assistant and my agent to tell everyone I would deal with what was left of Eoin’s life and mine when I returned from Ireland.
His death had sent me running away. His request to have his ashes brought back to his birthplace had been a blessing. It had given me something to focus on besides the fact that he was gone. And I wasn’t in any state to go back and deal with it now.
The police had discovered a business card inside my purse with my agent’s name, Barbara Cohen, printed directly below my own. They contacted her, the only person on earth who might know where I was or where I’d gone, and they’d been in constant touch throughout the investigation. When I called her the day after being released from the hospital, she cried across the miles, yelling and blowing her nose and telling me to come home immediately.
“I’m going to stay here, Barbara,” I said softly. Speaking was painful. It jarred my bruised spirit.
“What?” she gasped in the middle of her rant. “Why?”
“Ireland feels like home.”
“It does? But . . . you’re an American citizen. You can’t just live there. And what about your career?”
“I can write from anywhere,” I answered, and I winced. I’d said the same thing to Thomas. “I’ll apply for dual citizenship. My grandfather was born here. My mother was born here too. Citizenship shouldn’t be especially difficult to acquire.” I said the words as if I meant them, but everything felt difficult. Blinking was difficult. Speaking. Staying upright.
“But . . . what about your apartment here? Your things? Your grandfather’s home?”
“The best thing about money, Barbara, is that it makes so many things easier. I can hire someone to handle all of that for me,” I soothed, already desperate to get off the phone.
“Well . . . at least you have property there. Is it livable? Maybe you won’t need to buy a home.”
“What property?” I said wearily. I loved Barbara, but I was so tired. So very tired.
“Harvey mentioned your grandfather owned property there. I just assumed you knew. Haven’t you talked to Harvey?” Harvey Cohen was married to Barbara, and he just so happened to be Eoin’s estate lawyer. It was all a little incestuous, but it was also convenient and streamlined, and Harvey and Barbara were the best at what they did. It made sense to keep it all in-house.
“You know I haven’t talked to him, Barbara.” I hadn’t talked to anyone before I left. I’d shoved everything away, sending emails and leaving messages and avoiding everyone and everything. My heart picked up its pace, thundering clumsily, angry that I was making it move when it was so sore. “Is Harvey there now? If there’s a house, I want to know about it.”
“I’ll get him,” she said. She was quiet for a moment, and I could tell she was moving through her home. When she spoke again, her voice was gentle. “What happened to you, kiddo? Where have you been?”
“I guess I got lost in Ireland,” I murmured.
“Well,” she harrumphed. “Next time you decide to get lost, give the Cohens a heads-up, will you please?” She was back to her salty self when she handed Harvey the phone.
Harvey and Barbara flew to Ireland two days later. Harvey brought all Eoin’s personal papers, our family records, and documents—birth certificates, naturalization and medical records, deeds, wills, and financial statements. He even brought the box of unaddressed letters from Eoin’s desk drawer, stating that Eoin had been adamant that I have them. Eoin had named me executor of the Smith-Gallagher family trust—a trust I knew nothing about—of which I am the sole beneficiary. Garvagh Glebe and her surrounding properties were included in the trust. Thomas was a very wealthy man, he left Eoin a very wealthy man, and Eoin gave it all to me. I would give it all away to have one more day with either of them.
Garvagh Glebe belonged to me now, and I was desperate to return to her, even as I shuddered at the thought of living there alone.
“I’ve made all the calls,” Harvey said, checking his watch and eyeing the list in front of him. “We have a meeting at noon with the caretaker. You can walk through the property. It’s huge, Anne. I never understood Eoin’s attachment to it. It’s not a moneymaker, and he never visited. In fact, he didn’t want to talk about it at all. Ever. But he wouldn’t sell. However . . . he made no stipulation on your selling. I have an appraiser and a realtor scheduled to meet us there, just so you have an idea of what it’s worth. It will give you more options.”
“I need to go by myself,” I whispered. I didn’t bother to tell him I wouldn’t be selling the house under any circumstances.
“Why?” he gasped.
“Because.”
Harvey sighed, and Barbara bit her lip. They were worried about me. But there was no way I could walk through Garvagh Glebe, listening for Eoin, looking for Thomas, and seeing only the years that stretched between us. I couldn’t return to Garvagh Glebe with an audience. If Barbara and Harvey were worried about me now, it would be a hundred times worse when they saw me weeping as I haunted the halls of my home.
“You go ahead. Meet with the realtor and the appraiser. When you are finished, I will look through the house. By myself,” I suggested.
“What is it with this house?” Harvey groaned. “Eoin acted exactly the same way.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. And Harvey sighed and ran his hands through his white mane and looked around the sparsely populated dining room at the Great Southern Hotel.
“I feel like I’m on the bloody Titanic,” he grumbled.
I smiled wanly, surprising myself and them.
“You and Eoin had an incredible bond,” Harvey murmured. “He loved you so much. He was so proud of you. When he told me about his cancer, I knew you would be devastated. But you are scaring me, Anne. You aren’t just devastated. You’re . . . you’re . . .” He searched for the right word.
“You’re lost,” Barbara supplied.
“No, not lost,” Harvey argued. “You’re missing.”
Our eyes met, and he reached for my hand.
“Where are you, Anne?” he pressed. “Your spirit is gone. You seem so empty.”
I wasn’t just grieving for my grandfather. I was grieving for the little boy he’d been. For the mother I’d been to him. For my husband. For my life. I wasn’t empty, I was drowning. I was still in the lough.
“She just needs time, Harvey. Give her time,” Barbara protested.
“Yes,” I agreed, nodding. “I just need time.” I needed time to take me back, to whisk me away. Time was the one thing I wanted and the one thing no one could give me.
“Are you related to the O’Tooles, by any chance?” I asked the young caretaker when Harvey and his entourage drove away. The caretaker couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, and there was something in the tilt of his head and the set of his shoulders that made me think he belonged in the family tree. He’d introduced himself as Kevin Sheridan, but the name didn’t fit him.
“Yes, ma’am. My great-grandfather was Robert O’Toole. He was the caretaker here for years. My mother—his granddaughter—and my father took care of the place when he died. Now it’s my turn . . . for as long as you need me, that is.” A cloud p
assed over his features, and I knew the sudden interest in the property was concerning to him.
“Robbie?” I asked.
“Yes. Everyone called him Robbie. My mother says I look like him. I’m not sure that’s a compliment. He wasn’t much to look at—only had one eye—but his family loved him.” He was trying to be self-deprecating, to make me laugh at his unimpressive lineage, but I could only gape at him, stricken. He did look like Robbie. But Robbie was gone now. They all were.
Kevin must have seen how close I was to crumbling, and he left me alone to wander around, promising he would be on the grounds if I needed him and mentioning in a cheerful, tour-guide tone that Michael Collins himself had stayed at Garvagh Glebe many times.
I wandered for close to an hour, moving silently through the rooms, looking for my family, for my life, and finding only pieces and parts, whispers and wisps of a time that existed only in my memory. Each room had an emptiness and an expectancy that pulled at me. New king-sized beds heaped with pillows and comforters that coordinated with the updated window coverings were the centerpiece in every room. One or two pieces of the original furniture remained to give each chamber a touch of nostalgia—Thomas’s writing table and his chest of drawers, Eoin’s rocking horse and a high shelf of his “antique” toys, and Brigid’s vanity and her Victorian chair, which was reupholstered in a similar floral fabric. My gramophone and the huge wardrobe still stood in my old room. I opened the doors and stared at the empty interior, remembering the day Thomas had come home from Lyons with all the things he thought I needed. That was the night I knew I was in trouble, in danger of losing my heart.
The oak floors and cabinets in the kitchen were the same but had been resurfaced and were gleaming. The stately staircase and the oak balustrade remained, warm and reliable with years and use. The baseboards and the moldings had all been maintained, the walls painted, and the countertops and appliances upgraded to reflect the times. It smelled like lemons and furniture polish. I breathed deeply, trying to find Thomas, to coax him from the walls and the wood, but I couldn’t smell him. Couldn’t feel him. I moved on trembling legs toward his library, to the shelves filled with books that he wouldn’t read anymore, and halted at the door. A painting, framed in an ornate oval, hung on the wall where a pendulum clock used to toll away the hours.
