When I get home, the front door is still open. I flip the wall switch and see the floor covered in rainwater. Slamming the door, I go and turn on every light in the living room and kitchen. Snatching towels from the hall closet, I toss them on the floor to soak up the water. The heavy drapes covering the windows remain closed.
My eyes fall on the painting of the Virgin Mary hanging on the wall in the living room. I never noticed how sad her eyes looked holding the baby Jesus. Cold seeps into my body.
I turn up the electric heat, but don’t bother going outside to get more peat turves from the stack in back of the cottage. Instead, I walk around the overstuffed couch and the hand-carved rocker, into the kitchen and around the wood-planked table with the four straight-backed chairs, and back again.
As I walk around the cottage, I glance at the framed pictures on the fireplace mantel, on the end tables, and on the bookshelves on the far wall. They are all of me: an infant in my long christening gown with bright red hair sticking straight up; seven years old in my first communion dress with hair curly from being set in pink foam rollers; twelve years old in the knit jumper outfit Ma made for me with straight hair the color of chestnuts; and many more of me and Fiona, my best friend, as fairies, as princesses, and in our various dresses for the formal school dances. Da and Ma aren’t in the pictures with me. There are no pictures of them together.
I walk the room as through a labyrinth. Everything looks the same, but different.
Something small on the window ledge, above the stainless steel kitchen sink, catches my attention. It’s Ma’s wedding ring: a Claddagh ring, two hands holding a crowned heart.
I slip the ring on my pinkie and stare at it. Ma never took her wedding ring off.
My phone buzzes, cutting the silence.
Fiona texts that she wants to meet up at the pub. I presume she listened to the message that I left her while I was waiting at the hospital, but she doesn’t ask how Ma is or if she should come over. Not tonight, I reply. She texts that everyone is going out and asks me to change my mind. Maybe she didn’t listen and doesn’t know. I don’t have the energy to call her and can’t explain everything in text messages.
I walk down the hall toward the bathroom. Standing in the bathroom doorway, I see the blood streaks in the tub and on the floor where I held Ma. My eyes fall upon a bucket tucked under the pedestal sink. Yellow rubber gloves are folded over the bucket’s lip. A bottle of bleach and an assortment of cloths cut from my old flannel pajamas fill the bucket.
Ma hates messes.
Putting on the gloves, I begin cleaning while tears stream down my face.
Chapter Six
My phone rings, jarring me awake. The sun peeks into my bedroom through the half-closed curtains. I’m on top of my still-made bed, dressed in the clothes I wore yesterday. Reaching for my phone on the nightstand, I answer it in a low, gravelly voice without looking to see who is calling.
“It’s about time you answer your damn phone. I’ve been waiting for those documents,” Granda’s voice booms.
“Sorry.” I sit up and hold my head in my hands. My thick hair falls into my face. It smells dirty.
“Do you think that you can bother yourself enough to do that now or should I have Maeve attend to it?” His tone is sharp.
“No, I’m back now and can do it.”
“Back?”
“Ma.” I fall into the mound of pillows. “She’s in the hospital.”
“What?”
I gulp, my mouth dry. “She tried to kill herself.”
“Good lord.” In a lowered voice, he says, “Is she…”
“Alive.”
“Thank God.”
“They’re transferring her to Dublin. To a psychiatric hospital. They say she needs help so she won’t do this again.”
“Wait until I tell her mother. St. Patrick himself would throw a fit. Are you okay?”
I hug my legs. “Yeah.”
“That’s good.” His voice softens. “I don’t suppose it would help if I came home.” There are clanging and rustling noises in the background, but no voices.
“I dunno.”
“Well, keep me posted.” It sounds like he’s rummaging for something. “Now, when you can, could you please be a love and go to my house and fax those documents to me? Your mother had the keys on a ring. The small one is to the fire safe under the bed.”
Before I can even answer he says, “Oh, and have your father call me. I need to know where we stand in getting the cottages ready for the Americans. I left him several messages.”
“Right.”
“Thanks, love. Ring me later when you know more about your mother.”
I hang up and burrow beneath the down comforter. In the other room I hear the teapot whistling and Da’s heavy boots clomping across the floor. I debate getting up to talk to him but don’t. What is there to say? The front door finally slams shut.
After a few more minutes of lying there, I swing my legs over the bed and look out the window at a cloudless day. The brightness hurts my eyes. I strip off my clothes and slip into running gear neatly stacked on the chair with other freshly laundered clothes. After pulling my hair back into a ponytail and tucking it under a cap, I sneak a look at the mirror. My face looks splotchy and my eyes are slits sandwiched between swollen lids and puffy bags. There is still a bump on my head from when I fainted.
The smell of buttered toast lingers in the kitchen, and a sweet peat fire warms the room. On the kitchen table is a plate with two scones still in the bag from the grocer. Da knows these are my favorites. I walk over and break off pieces of the scone, which melt in my mouth and satisfy my rumbling stomach.
Da’s tackle box—the big one with the stacked containers—is open on the coffee table facing the smoldering fire. A spot on the oversized couch is sunken. There are piles of trout flies sorted according to size.
I walk over and pick one up. As a child, I used to love holding the flies, with their shiny bodies and feathery tails. Da taught me their names. On the table are some of my favorites: twinkle cat’s whisker, orange zonker, wooly bugger, pink tadpole and woven olive damsel. I look out at Clew Bay, resting under a blanket of sun. The seemingly harmless fly that I’m holding by its plume shimmers in the light streaming through the windows.
After finding Granda’s keys on a hook in the kitchen and zipping the small pocket in my jacket to secure them, I leave the cottage. I can see my breath as I begin my run. The ground, heavy with water from weeks of rain, cushions my steps as I run from our cottage down toward Clew Bay. A breeze blows, carrying the sounds of seagulls and waves lapping the rocky shore.
I put in my headphones and crank the music. The rusted bicycle propped against a sign to the beaches marks my turn to the narrow, beaten path that I run every day. It snakes through the rolling hills overlooking Clew Bay and then dips back down toward the Bunowen River. Sheep look over the rock fences and then turn away.
My legs feel tight, and my lungs burn from the cigarettes I bummed the other night from Mikey.
The winding path narrows. I nearly trip over an imbedded rock as I crane my head to see if Da is at his favorite fishing spot on the river. He is. I catch myself and regain my footing. From a distance, with his back to me, I watch the arc of his arm as he casts, dropping the line softly, trying to entice the brown trout. I quicken my pace.
Eventually I settle into a rhythm. My mind clears and I can breathe. I’m free. Except from the questions. Why did Ma try to kill herself when she was young? Why did she choose to do it again on her fortieth birthday? Why didn’t I notice something was wrong with her? She acted the same as any day. What was different? Why would she take off her wedding ring? If she wanted to die, why do it that way? She hates messes. Why would she do this to me? She always said that she lives for me.
I run faster until I can’t breathe.
When I arrive at my grandparents’ house, my legs feel like jelly. Outside Louisburgh, in the new subdivision, their two-story hous
e sits on an isolated cul-de-sac with a meticulously manicured lawn. I punch the code on the front door to get in and flip my shoes off on the rug. My socks slip on the highly-polished wood floor as I walk to the kitchen. I take off my jacket, fling it onto the marble countertop, and fill a glass with water from the dispenser. It cools my parched throat.
I don’t dare sit down on the soft leather couch in my clothes soaked with perspiration.
Digging out the keys, I go to my grandparents’ bedroom. I find the documents easily and slide the fire safe back under their bed, tuck the keys back into my pocket, and go to Granda’s office down the hall.
As I fax the documents, I glance at the plaques on the wall and, on his desk, the framed picture of Granda receiving the County Mayo Good Citizen Award, taken just a few months ago. He stands in his dark suit, with broad shoulders and head held high, towering over the man shaking his hand. Nearly seventy, he looks half his age with his fit build and full head of thick red hair. “Hard work and clean living,” he always told me—usually when I was doing neither.
The fax goes through. Job done. I’m free to leave.
A light mist is falling when I resume my run. When I’m nearly to town and finished with my playlist, I see Willie Walters pedaling his three-wheeled Schwinn down the street toward Sancta Maria College, the secondary school where he has taught music for as long as I can remember. He taught Ma and Da and he taught me. His dog, a stout black and white terrier named Johnny, is perched in the square wire basket behind the padded seat.
Mr. Walters lifts a finger in a wave. I take my headphones out of my ears. He stops. A cigar dangles from his mouth.
“Fine day for a run, Miss Conroy.” Taking off his tweed cap, he runs his thick fingers through his sparse white hair. “Although I didn’t expect to see you out. Not after everything.”
I pet Johnny and avoid Mr. Walters’s pale blue eyes, magnified behind his thick glasses. The dog jumps up on me, and I push him back down. I try to sound perky when I say, “It’s nice to have sun finally.”
Mr. Walters crosses his arms across his protruding belly, removes the cigar and points it at me. “I just heard from Paddy. ’Tis difficult, I’m sure.”
Johnny wags his tail and nudges my hand when I stop petting him. “Everyone’s fine, sir.” I stroke the dog under his ears.
“Are you?” He peers over glasses perched on his bulbous nose.
Shrugging, I zip up my jacket to my chin. “I just don’t know why she did it.”
“We may never know. Even as a schoolgirl, your mother struggled.” He smiles kindly. “You have her eyes you know.”
A loud, rapid honking makes me jump.
Sean Murphy is waving from the driver’s seat of the rickety yellow school bus taking up most of the road. He pulls up and opens the door. “You’re just the person we’re looking for.” He turns back to the riders and bellows, “Meet Eliza Conroy.” A few people wave while most stare ahead, glassy-eyed.
Sean mutters to me, “I got a message that their flight information transmitted wrong and they’d be arriving earlier than we planned. I left a message on your da’s phone. Even tried your home and got no answer. So, here we are.” When he smiles, he reveals his discolored, crooked teeth.
“You go,” Mr. Walters says. “I’ll stop by sometime and see how you are doing.” He puts his cap back on and pedals toward the village square.
Climbing into the bus, I sit behind Sean on the duct-taped seat. Leaning in, I whisper, “Take them around. Do something. Go to Paddy’s and tell him to give them free drinks. I need to make sure things are ready.”
“Can’t. My wee nephew’s having his first communion this weekend, and I have to drive to Cork. My sister’s throwing a bloody fit already that I’m late.”
Sean talks a mile a minute as we bump down the uneven gravel road leading to the cottages. When we arrive at the turn, he cranks the wheel into the circular drive and then slams the brakes. I bump into his seat and hear groans from people in back.
The door to our cottage opens. Da walks out in his waders and fishing jacket. He smiles broadly. Walking to the bus, he says, “A fine welcome to you all.”
The twenty American college students grip their backpacks and climb off the bus. Da winks and gives me the okay sign. He has things ready. I breathe more easily. As Da ushers them away to their new homes, I hear him tell them that he considers them family.
I’m barely inside our cottage long enough to take off my runners when my phone rings. It’s Fiona. Her voice is high-pitched. “You must think I’m such an eejit for not coming. I got wasted last night and just listened to your message. Didn’t even know you left one.”
“You have other things than…”
“You kidding? Paddy just was in the store and told my ma. What can I do?”
“There’s nothing to do.”
I change the subject and tell her that the Americans arrived. She pummels me with questions that I don’t know the answers to. No, I didn’t get a good look at them. No, I don’t know how many guys there are. No, there aren’t more men than women. No, I don’t know if they are going to the pubs tonight.
After much persuasion, Fiona convinces me to meet her at Paddy’s pub later tonight. It is too hard to say no, and I really don’t want to be alone. I need my best friend.
Chapter Seven
It’s nearly ten o’clock when I get to Paddy’s pub to meet up with Fiona. The wind catches the door behind me, slamming it shut. Inside the pub, it’s warm and musty.
I expect to see the same people that I usually see on a Saturday night at Paddy’s. Except, of course, the Americans might come out. Even with jet lag, usually there are a few who can’t wait to experience the pubs and the locals.
Bobby Cunningham, Maeve’s husband, is playing darts in the corner with his mates. He looks up at me when I come in, tilts his head in greeting and then tosses a dart that misses the board. He laughs and slugs his ale.
I look around. No Mikey. At least not yet.
I walk past Mr. Murphy, the chemist, who’s sitting at a table with his wife. He sees me and says, “It was a nice day, hey?” I smile and agree. Mrs. Murphy arches her eyes and looks at me like she wants to say something, but she just looks down at the paper napkin she has folded into a small square. I tell them to enjoy their night out. Mr. Murphy says, “Couldn’t get any better.”
Fiona calls my name and waves from behind the mahogany bar. She’s filling her glass with a shot of Jameson. Paddy, wiping down the glossy finish of the bar, looks up and smiles. Tonight, he’s making sure things look good for the Americans that are expected but not yet seen. Fiona squeezes past him.
“Darling, I’m so sorry about your ma.” She hugs me with one arm, her glass held high in the other, and looks intently at me with her large fawn eyes that are heavily lined. “Let’s sit. I need to know everything.”
Fiona steers me past the old men playing canasta near the cast iron pot-bellied stove to a table near the front window overlooking Bridge Street. She asks in a low voice, “What the hell happened?”
“Just as I said.” I lean back with my hands tucked in my jacket pockets. “There’s nothing else to tell.”
“But why?” Fiona takes a sip. Her lipstick imprints the whiskey glass.
“How would I know?” My tone is sharp. Fiona looks wounded. Softer, I say, “Sorry. There wasn’t a note. Just her wedding ring on the kitchen windowsill. I have no idea what was going on in her head. I just found her. Now, she’s in Dublin at a hospital and won’t even see me.”
“That sucks.” Fiona takes a bigger swallow.
“She called that morning, and I didn’t even answer.” I look down. “I should have. Maybe I could have stopped her.”
Fiona reaches over and touches my hand. “You’re being too hard on yourself.”
“Am I? Helluva daughter if you ask me.” I reach over and take a gulp from her glass, which is nearly empty now. The whiskey warms my throat and soon the pub feels stuffy. I�
��m wearing jeans and a smart blouse that matches the silk scarf Ma gave me last year for my birthday. The scarf, wrapped around my neck, loosens and slips off when I take off my jacket.
“Nice hickeys.” Fiona lets out a smug laugh. “Are you gone in the head? He’s a fine thing, but did you forget why you broke up with him?”
Shaking my head, I rewrap the scarf around my neck. “It was a mistake.”
Fiona, the only one who knew the real reason I broke up with Mikey right after school ended, tilts her head toward the door. She says, “Well, don’t look now. The mistake is here.”
Mikey walks in, still wearing his work boots. He waves to Bobby. I get up and say to Fiona, “I need a jar. I’ll be right back.”
Fiona pushes her glass towards me. “Get me another.” She digs in her bag, pulls out a compact mirror, and reapplies her lipstick. She hollers as I walk away, “Make it a double.”
As I’m walking to the bar, Mikey comes over and puts his arm around my shoulder. His perspiration is mixed with cigarettes and an earthy smell from the potato farm he helps his father tend, receiving no wages. “Buying, love?” On the dole, he always looks to me—and to whomever is sitting on the next stool—for a drink.
I shake off his arm. In a voice that I think only he can hear, I say, “Buy your own. I’m not your ‘love’; and we’re forgetting what happened the other night, okay?”
He shoots me a wounded look. “Aw, but we were good together.” He smiles in a way that long ago used to melt my heart.
In a low voice I say, “No, I was good for you. You weren’t good for me. Didn’t we find that out? Or, have you forgotten about when you weren’t there for me.” My eyes dare him to forget the child we almost had.
“Jaysus, do you got to bring that up all the time. That was ages ago. I would’a married you if I had to.” He brushes my breast. “You have the best diddies.” He laughs and takes a peak to see if his buddies caught it.
Rain and Revelation Page 3
