Casting Off

by Nicole R Dickson

  CHAPTER 19

  Dropped Stitch

  Dropped Stitch. 1. Occurs when a stitch or a group of stitches

  fall from the needle without being knitted or purled into place.

  It is important to catch the loose stitch the moment this happens. If the rest of the row is finished without picking up the

  dropped stitch, it is possible to weave it into place after the fact

  using a crochet hook. If a dropped stitch is left unattended, it

  can, at best, cause a small flaw in the fabric or at worst, cause the

  unraveling of the garment altogether. 2. A lesson learned.

  —R. Dirane, A Binding Love

  Early Saturday morning, Sheila and her son, Fionn, knocked on Rebecca’s door. She answered, her shoulders slumped and her body withered. She had not slept a wink, as she endeavored to figure out the conversation she would have with Jim about the Dam Mad Situation. When she was not concerning herself with that discussion, she was envisioning Rowan in a tiny boat crossing the giant sea to another island. Her mind filled with pictures of the boat turning over, Rowan trying to swim to a far shore, and the waves crashing over her as a storm stole her life. It happened out on these islands. Sharon said it did.

  But when Rebecca stepped out of her door, the island was clean and shining. The sun, having broken free of the horizon, rose in a clear cornflower blue sky. She took a deep breath and the sea-salt breeze filled her lungs, dusting the night’s worries away and inviting her to be as happy and awake as the island itself.

  Sheila and Fionn came in and Rebecca made them breakfast. Their conversation was about anything but the Dam Mad Situation.

  “We’ll wait for you here,” Fionn said after breakfast. He stood at the door and popped a bit of bacon into his mouth as Rebecca pedaled her bike down the gravel drive. When she hit the asphalt, she took a right, toward town. As she rode along, her memory floated back to her father and the first Dam Mad story. Her father had loved to tell it himself, and when Rebecca brought Sharon home every July Fourth, he inevitably would relate the story again. He always told it as if it was his first time sharing it.

  When Rebecca was young, her father, a fireman, was gone quite often. He had several hobbies, not the least of which was golf, so when he wasn’t at work, he spent a great deal of time working on his game. All this time away from his family left her mother to raise Rebecca alone. She was, by default, a single mother.

  Rebecca’s father came from a family of farmers, as did her mother. They grew great orchards of almonds in Turlock, a small town in California’s central valley. Rebecca and her mother would drive down from Redding to spend time there. Racing through the orchards in the spring with the millions of white petals falling from the trees like velvety snow was one of Rebecca’s favorite childhood memories.

  But Rebecca and her mother would come to visit alone so often that her grandfather became very concerned. He was a farmer and was bound to land and family. Living things, like children, required time and attention to grow properly. He had taught his son this, yet his son was not acting like the man he was raised to be.

  So one day Rebecca’s grandfather and grandmother came to visit in Redding. That day they took Rebecca’s mother on a trip to Calis toga, leaving Rebecca, not yet three, in her father’s care. Alone, he would have to figure out how to fit fatherhood into his golf schedule. Though Rebecca’s father greatly protested, his father and mother drove off with his wife, and instead of coming back at the end of the day they didn’t return for three weeks. It was a difficult lesson, especially trying to figure out what to do with a three-year-old when you have to go to work. But Rebecca’s father always said those three weeks were when he finally learned to celebrate life. It was when he slowed down enough to pay attention to the small things that children notice. It was those three weeks that made him a man.

  Rebecca stopped just south of town. How could it be that she, her father’s jewel, had fallen in love with someone who thought so little of her? This was a question she often asked herself, but as always, she had no answer. At first, Dennis was helpful and happy, sharing his sherbet, his surfboard, his life. But over time, very slowly, he changed. He would point out how he was from a great family of bankers, lawyers, and businessmen while Rebecca was from a family of farmers and firemen. In his mind Dennis believed himself to be better than Rebecca, and because he told her so, she began to think that as well. She started changing herself, adjusting who she was, how she dressed, what she thought, so that she would better fit who Dennis thought he was—to be good enough for him. She worked hard, hoping with each day that he would requite the love she felt for him—the man who had stopped to fix her car so long before. But with each change she made, Dennis would like her less, treat her worse, and the more she changed, the less Rebecca was her father’s jewel until she forgot who she had been almost entirely.

  A shadow passed above her. She looked up and spotted a little bird landing on the wall just to her right. It looked just like the bird in the bramble near her house. It cocked its head, winking a beady eye at her.

  “Do you know how I ended up with him?” she asked.

  The little bird puffed out its feathers, bent its head, and began to preen with its tiny beak. Gazing past the bird, Rebecca found that she had stopped right in front of the path that led to Sean Morahan’s house.

  “No? Me neither,” she whispered. She stepped on her pedals and moved on, setting the bike in motion and the bird to flight.

  Before too long, she bumped off the road, climbing the small hill toward Mairead’s house. When she reached the top, she found Ciara standing next to the island’s only car.

  “Maggie!” the little girl called through the door. “She’s here!”

  After coming to a stop, Rebecca jumped off the bike into the floating dust, which had followed her up the drive like a wind following in the wake of a train. Maggie poked her head out the door.

  “You ready?” Maggie asked.

  “I think so. Where’s Jim?” Rebecca inquired, setting her bike against the house.

  “With the bees. Where else?”

  “Great. You better be going.”

  “Aye. Mairead, time to go.”

  Mairead waddled out her front door, kissing Ciara on the head.

  “You help your da, now, Ciara. And get your sister up to help, too.”

  “They’ll be fine,” Maggie said. “It’s only a day.”

  Maggie helped Mairead into the car. As she came around the back, she smiled brightly at Rebecca, a low chuckle rolling up from her throat.

  “I wish I could stay to see,” she whispered, then giggled wickedly.

  Rebecca smiled and shut the driver’s-side door.

  Maggie rolled down the window. “Don’t be too long about it. Need to hit the water before the tide changes. It’s hard to get the curragh in the water when the sea’s farther out on O’Flahertys’ beach.”

  “I’ll be along.”

  Maggie smiled again as she started the car. Slowly, quietly, she backed down the drive. Ciara and her mother waved to each other until the car disappeared over the hill. Rebecca took a deep breath and let it quickly out. She glanced down at Ciara.

  “Can I watch you help my da?” Ciara asked. A small whimper came from inside the house.

  “We’ll see,” she replied, following the sound.

  As Rebecca stepped through the door, Tadhg let out a scream. He stood by the television in his diaper and pajama top.

  “I think you better stay and watch Tadhg until your dad gets in. Can’t leave little guys alone, right?”

  With a very disappointed look, Ciara nodded.

  “No need to wake your sister, though. Your dad should be coming to fix breakfast very shortly,” Rebecca said as she went back out the door.

  Rebecca climbed the stone wall and headed toward the shed. She heard clinking of glass from the lean-to and as she approached, Jim came out of the shed’s listing door with a honeycomb in h
is hand.

  “Rebecca?” he inquired with a surprised start.

  “Perfect timing!” she said with a smile as bright as Maggie’s had been. “ Tadhg is up and I think he wants breakfast.”

  “What do you mean?” Jim cocked his head, glancing toward the house. “Where’s Mairead?”

  “She left. Went to see her mother.”

  “What do you mean, left?” Jim asked. “She didn’t tell me she was leaving.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yes!”

  “You sure she didn’t say anything to you while you were busy with your bees?”

  Jim stopped, staring with alarm at Rebecca. “Well—”

  “Yes, Jim?” Rebecca smiled again.

  “W-well, who’s watching the kids?”

  “I guess you are.” Rebecca turned around and headed down the hill. She rolled her grandfather’s explanation of fatherhood around in her head like a free ball in a pinball machine—waiting for the statement that would set off the lights and bells. She hoped Jim would say the right words.

  “I’m not babysitting today! I have work to do!”

  There they were! Perfect! Rebecca giggled softly. Straightening her expression she spun slowly around to face Jim.

  “Is that what a father does, Jim? A father babysits his own children?”

  Jim’s eyes widened like full moons, meeting Rebecca’s gaze.

  “I think, Jim, you’ve got gold fever, shining at you through the jars of liquid in that shed.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Ciara, Meara, Kieran, Luke, Jim Jr., Katy, and Tadhg—about leaving Mairead alone to take care of the house and the farm. With as much care as you’ve looked at those golden jars, have you looked at your wife? Mairead’s become the mom and the dad while you’ve been busy, Jim. While you’ve been a busy bee. Mom—and—dad, Mad. She’s Mad. And the last thing you ever want is for a Mad woman to take care of everything. She’ll break down. I’m new here and I see it. Father Michael sees it. The entire island sees it.”

  Rebecca stopped for a moment to see if Jim had anything to say. He didn’t; he just stood there, shaking his head, with his jaw moving up and down as if eating the words that wanted to come out. His reaction was normal, exactly what Rebecca had expected.

  “Mairead’s gone home to visit her mother for the day. Time for you to be the dad and the mom. Dad—and—mom, Jim. Dam, a Dam man. You’ll need to work fatherhood into your busy bee schedule. If you need help, you can call for it. Most women do. Pick up the phone. Just about anyone in town can help.”

  With that, Rebecca headed back to the wall and easily hopped over it. Tadhg let out a scream as she straddled her bike, as if to punctuate the end of the conversation.

  Chuckling, she pedaled down the drive, waving without looking back. As she rode back to the north, she found the road dotted with bikes coming the other way toward the big fort. The first ferry must have pulled into the dock. She passed through town, being careful not to hit the tourists who ambled around Hernon’s Shop and the pub. Clearing town, she found far fewer people and in very short a time she turned left and bumped off the asphalt toward her home. Fionn and his mother stood outside her door.

  “Rowan, time to go,” Fionn called into the house.

  Trace trotted out of the bedroom, tail wagging, followed by Rebecca’s daughter.

  “You eat breakfast, Rowan?” Rebecca asked, handing the bike to Sheila.

  “Aye,” she replied.

  “Come on,” Fionn said. “Dad’s got Mairead climbing down the stairs to the beach where we have the curragh.” Fionn took Rowan’s hand in his own. “See ya later, Mum. You stay, Trace.”

  The dog slumped, tucking his tail beneath his haunches as he sat down. His sad, watery eyes gazed at Rebecca, pleading for her to contradict Fionn’s command. Rebecca shrugged helplessly and followed Fionn and Rowan. She crawled over two walls and crossed three fields before reaching a rocky outcrop at the island’s northwestern end.

  “Your family fished from here?”

  “Aye, and hauled the catch all the way to your house for generations. Watch your step going down the stairs. They’re wet and slippery.” Fionn picked Rowan up.

  With her right hand on the rocky wall, Rebecca made her way down the steps. They were not so much stairs as slight indentations in the stone, hewn at irregular intervals down the rocky slope. She slipped twice, and after Fionn put Rowan down safely on the sand, he reached up to help her crawl off the last stair, which was three feet above the beach.

  “They brought the fish up from here?” Rebecca looked up in awe.

  “And the seaweed and sand to make the soil.”

  “Mornin’, Rowan Moray of O’Flaherty’s Pub!” the older O’Flaherty greeted.

  Rowan laughed and ran across the small beach to where Fionn Sr. stood next to his curragh. The boat was black against the gray water. Mairead was already seated in it, hunched over in the cold.

  “In you go.” Fionn Sr. lifted Rowan into the boat.

  Rebecca walked across the sand toward Fionn Sr.

  “Put your life jacket on, Rowan,” she called out.

  “She doesn’t have one,” came Fionn’s voice from behind her.

  Rebecca stopped. “What do you mean she doesn’t have one?”

  “Doesn’t need one. Weather’s clear.”

  “We can’t cross the open ocean without life jackets,” Rebecca declared, her voice climbing an octave.

  “Did you wear a life jacket on the ferry over here?”

  “Well—no. But th—”

  “This is just a smaller ferry.”

  “What’s happening?” Fionn Sr. asked as he trotted across the sand.

  “Becky thinks she needs a life jacket.”

  “Weather’s clear, Becky,” Fionn Sr. said.

  “Well, what if a wave crashes in the side of the boat? What if we get hit by a—”

  “Rowan’s not afraid. Look,” Fionn Sr. said quietly. He nodded toward Rebecca’s daughter, who was standing in the curragh, staring in their direction.

  “There are no ‘what-ifs’ on this island, Becky.” Fionn Sr. spoke softly, holding Rebecca’s elbow and bringing her closer to the boat. “If we lived by all that could happen, my father’s father’s father, all the way back, never would have survived here. It’s a rock. How do you grow crops and families on a rock? But we did. We learned from the sea. We’ve rowed these waters for years. Fionn, me, my father, his father, his father before him. Today, we’re just takin’ Mairead home.”

  Rebecca’s blood surged in her ears, drowning out the sound of the surf as all her worries from the night before rolled back through her mind.

  “In you go,” Fionn Sr. said, helping Rebecca over the side of the curragh.

  “I left you the seat near the front, Becky,” Mairead said, patting the little bench in front of her.

  “I don’t have a life jacket,” Rowan said, sitting next to Rebecca.

  “Don’t need one,” Mairead replied. “We’ll be across in no time.”

  With a jerk and a splash, Fionn and his father pushed the curragh into the surf. Rebecca let out a little scream as she grabbed the side of the boat.

  “We got wet!” Rowan laughed. “Just like on that log ride at the fun park at home, Mama.”

  This was no log ride, though, and Rebecca’s heart pounded in her chest. She had to get out of this boat. She had to get Rowan back on land. She stood up as Fionn climbed out of the water and onto the bench before her, his pant legs wet to the knees.

  “Sit, Becky,” he said.

  She looked over his shoulder and saw a wave rolling toward the bow of the boat.

  “Sit, Becky,” Mairead commanded.

  Fionn pulled out two oars and landed them in the water as the wave splashed the bow. Mairead’s hand had Rebecca’s, pulling her to her seat.

  “We okay, Mama?”

  Rebecca dropped her chin to her chest, strands of her
brown hair falling into her eyes. “Fine,” she said tightly, squeezing Mairead’s hand.

  The ocean beat the sides of the boat. Rebecca couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t swallow. As she listened to the oars hitting the water, the sound of the surf on the sand lessened. Replacing it was Fionn. He was singing. As he sang, Rebecca gazed up through her hair and her terror and saw his steady black eyes coming now near to her and then moving away from her, as he laid on the oars.

  Fionn stopped singing, peering with certainty at Rebecca through her disheveled hair. Holding his oars up together with his left hand, he reached forward with his right and brushed Rebecca’s hair from her eyes.

  “Sing more!” Rowan ordered, pulling her pipe from her sleeve.

  So he did and Rebecca watched his eyes and listened to his voice, and slowly her heart and mind quieted until there was nothing but his oars in the water keeping rhythm with his song. Before long, Rowan was whistling along with him, and when they stopped she clapped.

  “What’s it called?”

  “ ‘My Lagan Love,’ ” Fionn replied, keeping his steady gaze on Rebecca.

  Rowan pulled the pipe to her lips and began the song again.

  Rebecca glanced left toward the west. The pull on the oars made the curragh jerk forward with each stroke, but the little black boat cut through the water cleanly and relatively smoothly. There were no sounds but Rowan’s pipe, the oars, and the wind in Rebecca’s ears. There were no cars, no planes, no smothering sounds—just five people floating in an endless sea. Over Fionn’s shoulder, Rebecca could see an island, rising on the horizon like a green-brown sunrise.

  “Almost there, Becky,” Fionn said.

  In no time they were nearing the island’s shoreline. Fionn pulled on his right oar, slowing the boat as he and his father pointed the bow slightly east. A wave caught the curragh, sending Rebecca’s heart beating. As a reflex, she grabbed Rowan’s hand. The boat sped forward to the shore and just as the wave crested, Fionn jumped out of the curragh and pulled it toward the beach. Rebecca glanced back and saw that Fionn Sr. was out of the boat also, pushing it onto the sand.