Rain and Revelation

by Therese Pautz

When I tell him that I have started, he pounds me with questions about my program. How many miles do I run each day? What strength training program am I following? What cross training regime has worked best?

  I tell him that I run, but haven’t given much mind to the other things. Not yet.

  He says matter-of-factly, “I hope you won’t take this wrong, but what you put into your body is as important as the miles you log. You probably should watch the drink.” He reaches for his tea that he set down when we started talking about training. He adds, “If you’re serious.”

  I feel my body stiffen. “You just saw me on a bad night.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I drink every now and then. I’m just saying that if you’re serious about training, like you say you are, then every pint will set you back. That’s all.”

  I want to throw my cup of tea at him. “After everything, I just wanted some craic.”

  “Oh, please don’t think I’m judging you. I want to help. Maybe we could even do a run or ride together sometime?”

  “Maybe. Obviously I need to start training.”

  My sarcasm isn’t lost on him. He slaps his leg and tells me he has to get back to Westport. Before he leaves, he asks me for my email address. He tells me that he will email the training programs that we talked about. I scribble it on a piece of paper. Neither of us asks the other for a cell number.

  We walk to his car, making small talk about the weather. Then I watch his taillights fade away.

  Chapter Nine

  The morning sun glows low on the horizon as I run. A light breeze carries birdsongs. My labored breath produces puffs of vapor. My legs barely lift off the ground. They feel like steel girders as I wind through the gently rolling hills. Still, I don’t stop.

  Ryan’s words still sting. I want to prove him wrong: People can have craic every now and then and still compete. I run faster, pushing through the pain.

  When I get back home, drenched and exhausted, it’s quiet inside. I fill a glass with water, guzzle it down, and open all the drapes.

  There’s no sign of Da. His bedroom door is closed. I listen for his snores, but don’t hear any.

  In the freezer is some blood sausage that I defrost and start boiling. I peel and slice a few potatoes and begin frying them with onions. The steam condenses on the kitchen window. In a bowl, I crack eggs and whisk. I grab two plates and silverware. I holler for Da to come eat.

  He doesn’t answer.

  I dump the water from the sausages and begin browning them. Into a well-buttered frying pan, I slide the eggs, sprinkle them with salt and pepper, and turn the burner up. The kitchen smells like Sunday mornings and Ma’s cooking. Except it’s Monday, and Ma is not here.

  I holler for Da again. Still no answer.

  Silence answers when I rap on the door. When I open the door, I see the bed is unmade. Clothes are strewn on the floor and heaped on the chair closest to Ma’s side of the bed. The drapes are open. He hasn’t come home.

  In the kitchen, I look for a note but find none. I call him, but it goes straight into voicemail. I hang up without leaving a message.

  Sitting at the table, I eat my breakfast and stare out the window toward Clew Bay. I wonder what Ma’s doing right now and if she thinks about me. The food sits heavy in my stomach. I scrape most of it into the rubbish bin.

  I get my laptop from my bedroom and power it up. Logging into my email, I think for a moment that Ma might have sent me a message even though she rarely uses a computer.

  Ryan’s email is the first one I see. He writes how nice it was to see me and suggests that we meet for a run this coming Saturday as he will be in Louisburgh visiting his uncle. I can’t believe it when I read his uncle is Mr. Walters. He attached three different training programs: novice, intermediate, and advanced. Even under the novice program, I’m behind schedule. Way behind. I hesitate, but reply that would be fun.

  Fun? Who am I kidding?

  When I go to town a short time later, the sun has slunk beneath grey, stacked clouds. A light mist is falling. Outside his pub, Paddy is unloading full kegs from a truck, hoisting them overhead without effort. He doesn’t notice me until I am a foot away and say, “Hey.”

  He puts the keg down. “You’re out and about early.”

  “Yeah. Seen Da?”

  Paddy motions to his flat above the bar. “On the couch.”

  Even though I know the answer, I say, “All night?”

  “Aye. Fell asleep on his stool. Didn’t make sense to send him home in that condition, so I hauled his sorry arse upstairs. You can go rile him.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  Paddy shrugs and goes back to unloading. I lean against the peeling paint of the pub’s facade, feel the mist on my face, and watch Paddy work.

  “There’s something I’ve been wondering about,” I say. “It’s about Ma and Da.”

  “What about them?”

  “You’ve known them both a long time.”

  “’Tis true.” He laughs and wipes his forehead. “Too long now.”

  “Are they happy?” I ask.

  “Why the hell would you ask me such a thing?” Paddy says.

  “Just wondering.”

  “They’re like every other married couple. Sometimes they get along. Sometimes they don’t.”

  There is no breeze, just the heavy, moist air. Only a few cars are parked along the street. Most stores are still closed. In the distance, the bells from St. Patrick’s Church summon the few people, mostly elderly, who attend daily mass.

  I say, “She left her wedding ring on the windowsill in the kitchen.”

  He scoffs. “So?”

  “She never took it off.”

  “People do things that surprise us.” Paddy rubs the stubble on his rugged, slightly lined face. “I wouldn’t read too much into it.” He goes back to unloading the kegs.

  In a soft voice, I ask, “Does Da love her?”

  He stops. “What kind of question is that? Hell, he married her, didn’t he?”

  “I saw their wedding picture. Just the three of you were there. In Dublin, of all places,” I say. “Why was that?”

  “You’re full of questions all of a sudden. Why ask me?”

  “You’re the only one here right now.”

  Paddy shakes his head and rests his arm on the side of the truck. “Your granda never liked Seamus. No one was good enough for his little Annie. He never even let her date. Not that she seemed inclined.”

  “So they hid it from Granda?”

  “It wasn’t a long courtship. Pissed your granda off when he found out.” A car with no muffler roars past us and turns toward Westport. Smoke trails from the tailpipe. Paddy watches the car until it disappears. Then, with a lowered voice, he says, “Madder still when he found out she was pregnant. Wouldn’t go to the wedding.”

  “She was pregnant when she got married?”

  “Math not your strong suit?” This time his eyes didn’t twinkle like they usually did when he teased me.

  Ma always said I was big and strong for a premature baby. I say, “Did he want to marry her? Did he love her?”

  “Jaysus, Eliza. Ask him.” Paddy heaves a full keg over his shoulder and walks inside, letting the door slam shut.

  It never dawned on me to question Ma.

  I’m about to follow Paddy when the group of Americans who went to Westport with us on Saturday come out of the chemist. They wave. The dumpy one, Henry, walks toward me. I plant a smile and cross, meeting him in the middle of the street.

  Henry’s pocked face lights up. “I’ve been looking for Fiona, but can’t find her. Do you know how I can get ahold of her?”

  I try to look surprised. “Sometimes she helps her parents in the grocery. Maybe she’s there?”

  “I checked. She’s not.”

  “Oh. Well, she may have gone to Galway or Castlebar shopping. I’m sure you’ll see her at the disco this weekend.”

  His face falls. “We have to take the bus on Friday
to Sligo. Or Cork. Somewhere. I can’t remember. We’re gone all weekend checking out some old churches and castles.”

  “That’s too bad. Paddy will be disappointed. He had everything planned.”

  The others join us. The girls smile and say hello; the ponytailed boy looks bored. They tell me everything they’ve seen in town. It’s not much. No one mentions our time in Westport. Another group of American students, walking on the other side of the street, calls their names. I agree to tell Fiona that Henry’s looking for her. They join their friends and walk back toward the cottages.

  I dig my phone out of my pocket and push the number I programmed for St. Patrick’s Hospital in Dublin. After a long wait, the person on the line confirms that Ma won’t take calls or visitors. Then the line goes dead after the person wishes me a fine day.

  Chapter Ten

  After getting Ryan’s email and the training plans, I’d emailed him that a run would be excellent. Luckily he had a conflict, and we pushed our run out another week. Now, two weeks since I last saw him, I’m in a better place. I’ve followed the intermediate plan religiously, eaten better and avoided the drink. Not a drop has passed my lips.

  My old legs are back. I feel more like myself. I’m strong. But logging the running miles in the training plan humbles me. Humiliates might be the better word. Luckily the triathlon isn’t for months. Running is my best leg. Next month I will focus more on the swimming and biking.

  You would have thought that I flung the Holy Bible in Clew Bay and spit on the Pope himself if you talked to Fiona these past two weeks. She never stops reminding me how abandoned she feels. Still, I run. Still, I stay out of the pubs.

  Da and I continue to avoid each other. Actually, I avoid everyone. It’s easier.

  For too long, I’ve been spinning, lost and out of control. Running, alone in my thoughts, I can control where my feet land. Not the lies. Not Ma and the fact she doesn’t want to see me. Not Da and the fact that he can’t go without the drink and doesn’t want to come home. It is just my legs pounding the ground. In wide-open space, I’m free. My head finally clears.

  I’ve tried to explain this to Fiona. She used to listen. She used to care. Or maybe I never noticed that she didn’t.

  Today I’m meeting Ryan at Mr. Walters’s for an afternoon run. As I sit on a chair in the living room and lace my runners, Fiona stretches on the couch like a cat in the midday sun. She stopped late this morning after her mother told her she wasn’t needed to work at the grocery store. Her half-opened eyes are cushioned in puffy bags. She says, “Tell me again why you’re meeting him.”

  “I told you. He’s done all sorts of races and triathlons.”

  “First he saves your Ma’s life. Now he’s your personal coach.” Fiona sits up, her red eyes wide. “Is he yummy?”

  “Christ, Fiona.”

  “Just asking. Maybe I should come with you. I’m sure Weird Willie would love to see me.” Fiona tosses her head back against the faded couch and laughs. “I think I had more detentions than anyone else in his class.”

  “You never shut your big mouth.”

  “We all aren’t as perfect as you, Miss Priss. You used to be at least a little fun.”

  “I’m just off the drink while I train. Lay off!”

  “Fun was better. Now you’re just a dry shite.” Fiona admires her painted nails. “You might want to know that I met two men in Westport last night. From Montana in the States. Real men. Not students.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m taking them to Galway tonight. You should come.” She looks like a child excited for Christmas morning. “One for each of us.”

  “No.” I stand up and lift my wind trousers and jacket from the hooks near the door. In the mirror hanging on the wall, I catch my reflection. My long hair frames my face. My skin is clear and my eyes look bright. I finally look rested.

  “They’re here for three weeks,” Fiona says. “I’ve promised them a good time.”

  “You always deliver.” The plastic trousers crinkle as I slip them over my running tights.

  “Please? You can have your pick.” Fiona does her best pout and flutters her long lashes.

  I walk over to the chair across from Fiona, sit down, and pull my hair back into a ponytail. “I pick staying home.”

  Fiona’s phone rings. It’s in her bag near the door. She scrambles to get up. Her foot, tucked under the cushion, flips it over when she hurtles over the back of the couch. The cushion lands on the floor while Fiona lands on her feet. She digs through her bag. Breathlessly, Fiona answers it. She looks over at me and mouths, “It’s them.”

  As she talks, Fiona checks her face in the mirror. She pushes her short hair in different directions until she settles on how it looks best and then admires herself fully. A tourist once said she looked right out of a trendy magazine with her chic haircut and stylish clothes. She never let me forget that. No one ever said that about me.

  “No. It’s only going to be me.” Fiona casts a look at me and says to whomever is on the phone, “My friend is deserting us. But I’ll see you soon.”

  Fiona hangs up and snatches her leather jacket off the back of the couch. She heads toward the door. Her sweet perfume trails her. Then she stops and says, “You are getting so dull.” In a huff, she walks out, leaving the door open. The cool, salty air wafts in.

  I reach over to replace the threadbare cushion that Fiona knocked off. It smells like peat and wet dog even though we’ve never had a dog. There’s lint, a few coins, and a couple of ballpoint pens scattered on the sagging, ripped lining of the couch. I swipe my hand across it to collect them. My hand hits something hard under the lining. Digging my hand under it, I pull out a book with gold embossed lettering: Journal. My fingers brush the lettering like a feather floating on air.

  Opening the cover, I see Ma’s writing.

  I never knew she kept a journal. Usually she sat at the kitchen table staring out the window, not writing in a book on the couch. She rarely read or even watched the television. Or if she did, I never noticed.

  The cover of the journal is smooth, soft leather. It feels like velvet. I bring it to my nose. It smells like Ma. She sometimes wears the Lily eau de toilette that I ordered online from Crabtree & Evelyn. I get her a new bottle every year for Christmas. Last year, I also gave her Lily body lotion and shower gel.

  The journal is only half-filled. I turn to the first entry. It’s written nearly fifteen years ago. In Ma’s perfect penmanship, she wrote, “He gets mad and says I baby her. I watch her sleep and know I can’t protect her. I can’t be there all the time. It kills me.” My throat tightens.

  The wind slams the door shut. I jump. The sun has dipped behind a cloud, casting shadows in the room. I shudder, curl up on the couch, and stare at the small, perfect writing. It almost looks like calligraphy.

  I remember when Da said I was old enough to sleep alone. I was five. Most nights, Ma curled up next to me in her flannel nightgown. Usually she smelled sweet, especially if she had been baking, but sometimes she smelled more like bleach. She stroked my hair until I fell asleep. I’d wake alone most nights, except when Da didn’t come home. Then Ma stayed all night. Ma eventually stopped coming in, although I can’t remember when that was.

  Ma didn’t write every day. When she did, it was mostly about me, Fiona, and things I was doing in school. It was cryptic. Things I wanted to forget—my first period, my first bout with acne.

  I start flipping through the pages. Most of it is dull, like her lists of things to do and the price of things at the grocer. Some entries don’t make much sense. There are large gaps in time. Ma’s writing starts to get sloppy and the entries are no longer dated.

  The room grows brighter as sun streams through the lace curtains. One minute it looks like rain, and then the sun comes out. Always unpredictable.

  I’m about to close the book when I see an undated entry: “He said it was over. I now know it’s not. He doesn’t think I know.”

  The next
page there is one last, undated entry: “It’s time.”

  The rest of the pages are blank.

  Was this written on the morning I found her? Was she sitting on the couch writing it while waiting for me to call or come home? All of a sudden, the image of Ma in the tub flashes in front of me. A lump in my throat prevents me from swallowing.

  It’s absurd to think Da is having an affair. My head swims in questions. Who’d want him? Wouldn’t I know? Someone would talk. Even Paddy couldn’t keep that quiet. Certainly Maeve would fall over herself to tell me.

  My phone buzzes. It’s Ryan. He’s at Mr. Walters’s house and ready to run whenever I am.

  I slip on my thin gloves and step outside. There is a slight breeze. The sun ducks behind scattered clouds, then reemerges. Without stretching, I start running the short distance to town.

  Slowly, my legs loosen.

  Outside Mr. Walters’s house, Ryan is stretching against his Subaru with the rear-mounted bike rack. There’s a Yakima rack on top. He waves when he sees me and smiles broadly. “Lovely to see you.” He adjusts the straps of a hydration pack slipped over his shoulders. “I hope you’re ready for a good workout. I thought we could even do some off-trail running once we get warmed up.” He puts on a baseball cap that conceals his cowlick and highlights his freckled, boyish face. “From your email, it sounds like training’s right on schedule.”

  “More or less.” I’ve forgotten to bring a water bottle, but don’t want to go back to the cottage. “Lead the way.”

  The pace is manageable—even easy—when we start out side by side.

  We make small talk about races he’s done and won, and races I hope to do after the one in June. He’s a wealth of information. I just listen as he floods me with training tips.

  We take the route away from Clew Bay toward Westport, past the rocky fields, stone fences, and painted sheep. He doesn’t ask about Ma. I’m relieved. I try to think only of where my feet land and how my breath feels. We settle into a rhythm. The wind from the west propels us forward. My breath, originally labored, is now even.

  The sun dips beneath heavy, dark clouds. We have run nearly seven miles when Ryan points ahead to Croagh Patrick. “How about hill training on the Reek?”