Casting Off

by Nicole R Dickson

When the ship arrived in Galway, the plank was put down off the boat, and Fionn drove the motorcycle onto the dock. Rebecca walked slowly down the plank.

  “Thanks, Iollan, for the ride,” she said and then turned to Fionn. “I’ll find a bus. Can I have my backpack, please?”

  “The bus will take forever, Becky.”

  “You are not listening to me, Fionn. I don’t like motorcycles. I don’t want to go on one.”

  “Look. We’ll go a little way. We’ll clear Galway and if you’re still not happy by the time we reach Athlone, we’ll find you a bus.”

  “Where’s Athlone?”

  “Halfway between here and Dublin. Come on, Becky. Meet me halfway.” He held out her helmet.

  “My dad hated bikes,” Rebecca muttered, taking the helmet and putting it on her head.

  “He never rode with me,” Fionn replied, patting the saddle behind him.

  With a wave, Rebecca and Fionn left Iollan, his single crewman, the trawler, and the city behind them, heading east to Dublin. Rebecca held on to the handle behind her. She knew the trip across Ireland to Dublin would take about three hours, and for the first time she thought of Sharon and what she was going to say to her.

  It had been six years since they had seen each other, though they had talked on the phone every week or so. Six years since that horrible night. She and Sharon had never spoken about it, and now that she was heading east, heaviness enveloped her. The fields and stone walls and little towns of Ireland glittered in the early-summer sun, but Rebecca didn’t see any of it. She was shrouded by the past.

  As they approached Athlone, Fionn stopped the bike in a village just outside of the town and without so much as a dozen words, directed Rebecca to sit on a spot of grass while he went and bought something to eat. Rebecca had left Father Michael’s house just before lunchtime. She hadn’t eaten, having instead made the sudden trip into the priest’s attic. Now she was hungry.

  Before long, Fionn returned with two sandwiches, two apples, and a couple of bottles of water. Sitting down next to her, he unwrapped his sandwich, took a bite, and then opened his book again. Rebecca stared at him, looking at his red hair shining brightly in the sun. He had the most beautiful hair. As she gazed at him, she realized just how beautiful she thought him to be. Quickly, she looked down at her sandwich, still neatly wrapped. Suddenly she was uncomfortable sitting next to him in stillness. “Good book?” she asked, wanting some sound to break the silence.

  “Huh? Oh. There’s something waiting for me back at work and I wanted to figure it out before I got there.”

  Rebecca unwrapped her sandwich. “What do you do?”

  Fionn looked up from his book, his mouth hanging open.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You don’t know what I do?”

  “No,” she replied, leaning away from him.

  “I work with John. You know what he does, don’t you?”

  “He owns a music studio.”

  “We—own a music studio. Sharon never mentioned that?”

  “Well, I don’t remember everything she says. We talk a lot.” Rebecca bit into her sandwich. Now that he’d said it, she did remember, but she didn’t want to tell him that.

  “We produce Irish music.”

  “I like Irish music.”

  “Aye, you do. You have an affinity for the fiddle.”

  Rebecca nodded slowly, glancing at him sideways now. How did he know that?

  “I know that about you because Sharon told me. I listen to her when she talks about you.”

  Rebecca frowned, remembering that Rowan had asked him whether he played the violin. She looked into Fionn’s black eyes and her mouth went dry, making it difficult to swallow her sandwich. “I listen, too.” Rebecca put her sandwich down and reached for her water.

  “Really?” Fionn asked, his lip curling in a smile.

  “Yes,” she replied, mimicking his look.

  Fionn shrugged and turned back to his book.

  “So what are you researching for your work?”

  “We’re finishing up a recording session and the band asked me to come up with ideas for the jacket design. I really like this band. They remind me of—home.”

  “Your parents’ or the one you haven’t found yet?”

  “You do listen to me when I talk,” Fionn said, grinning.

  “I pay attention, Fionn, whatever you might think,” she replied, taking another bite of her sandwich.

  “Excellent!” he said. “Then the one I haven’t found yet. This band is very much like that island—alone with moody weather. Only it’s warm, too, and—connected to everybody. It’s together so there’s no fear.”

  Rebecca glanced up at the sun. She felt its warmth above her.

  “So I got this art book to help me. It has paintings.”

  Rebecca closed her eyes, feeling the sun on her back, smelling the grass around her, and thinking about what he was saying. To sing and be unafraid. She wanted that.

  “There’s a bird in the berry bramble outside our bedroom window. It sings in the storms.”

  “Mistle thrush.”

  “That’s it!”

  “What about it?”

  “Only the Irish would have a bird like that.”

  “Really?”

  “Maybe the jacket design could have a mistle thrush.” Rebecca glanced over at Fionn and smiled into his black eyes.

  He smiled back. Her stomach rolled. She looked away.

  “Why would the Irish have a bird like that?” Fionn asked softly.

  “That’s what it is to be Irish.”

  “Really. You Irish?”

  In her peripheral vision, Rebecca could see he was still watching her. She wished he would look away. “No. But I think I’m getting the flavor of it on the island.”

  “What flavor were you before?”

  Rebecca peered at him cautiously. He was staring still. A wind brushed his red curls. She swallowed.

  “Well?”

  “Maybe just a mixed-up American.”

  “That’s a good flavor.”

  “You think so?”

  “Mmm. Potpourri.”

  He laughed. He had misunderstood her, but she had avoided saying anything she didn’t want to, so she laughed with him. Then she took a bite of her sandwich, turning her head to the road. “Did you find any ideas for the jacket design in that book?” she asked.

  “Only one.”

  “Can I see?”

  Fionn flipped through the pages, stopping on one and handing her the book. She coughed. It was a picture of a woman lying in a bathtub, fully naked. Rebecca rolled her eyes.

  “Figures,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “A naked woman.”

  “Why does that figure?”

  “Never mind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Rebecca looked at Fionn. His black eyes were on her, but now they were as still as the day when she had apologized to him for slamming the door in his face.

  “You’re a man. It’s a naked woman,” she replied.

  “Yeah?”

  Rebecca shrugged.

  “All men aren’t the same, Becky.” Fionn stood up.

  “It’s a painting of a naked woman, Fionn. What am I supposed to think?”

  “You didn’t ask me what I think. This was about it reminding me of home, remember?”

  “Okay, why does it remind you of home?”

  “Never mind.” Fionn walked away.

  Quickly Rebecca pulled herself up from the ground and gathered her lunch. She was mad. “You don’t get to set me up like that, Fionn, and then just walk away!”

  “How does it feel?” he replied, turning back to her.

  Rebecca skidded to a halt.

  “Makes you mad, huh? Doesn’t feel very good. Welcome to conversations with you.”

  Rebecca’s mouth flapped silently.

  “Here, I’ll be me, not you. That picture reminds me of home not because there is a w
oman naked in a bathtub, but because of the man painting her. As she aged, that woman spent more and more time in the tub. She was troubled in the mind. But he loved her and wanted to be with her, so he’d sit by the bath and paint her. You can’t tell if this is her at nineteen years old or sixty, though her body is clearly portrayed. You know why we can’t tell? Because the painter sees her as forever, the way she was when they met. To him, this is how she looks. All of her beauty seen with the eyes of love. Without this painter, all we’d see was an old woman with a troubled mind lying in a tub.”

  Fionn spun around and headed for the bike.

  “I know a man like that, Becky. His wife isn’t troubled. But I know that man who sees his wife as forever. I want that, and when I have it, then I’ll have my home.”

  Rebecca stood on the grass, unable to move, unable to speak. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have said his hair had turned brighter red. She wasn’t sure if it was the sun or his anger. Slowly she pulled her feet forward, mired as they were in the fresh green grass, and made her way to the motorcycle. Nausea washed over her, so she dumped her lunch in a trash can. She wished she could leave. She wanted to run away from Fionn, but her only way to anywhere was with him.

  “Fionn?” she asked quietly, stepping up to the bike.

  He looked over at her.

  “Who’s the man you know like that?”

  “My dad. He sees Mum as forever. Have ya not noticed?”

  Rebecca nodded. She had noticed.

  “I want that, Becky. And to get it, I have to see with clear eyes and hear with clear ears and speak with clear words. The dust of the past can be in my clothes, on my hair, covering my shoes, but it cannot be in my eyes or ears or mouth. I wonder, Becky, will you see the eyes of love when they look at you or will you see only the dust of your past?”

  Fionn straddled the motorcycle and started it, handing Rebecca her helmet. She climbed on, grabbing the handle behind her. She wanted to be anywhere but riding behind Fionn.

  They rode on in silence. Rebecca could feel her heart racing. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and she was on a motorcycle with a stranger in a foreign land. What if they had an accident? Had Sheila packed her passport? Would anybody know who she was if she died here on an Irish road? What would happen to Rowan? She let go of the handle and held on to the sides of Fionn’s leather jacket. Within fifteen minutes of leaving their lunch in the garbage can, they reached the outskirts of Athlone and Fionn pulled over.

  “You want to find a bus?” he asked through his helmet.

  “No, thanks,” Rebecca replied uncomfortably. “I’m fine.”

  “See, Becky, I do listen to you.” With that, Fionn pulled away from the curb and they rode through the streets of the small city and out again into the Irish countryside.

  There were more cars on the road the closer they came to Dublin, and with the increase of traffic Rebecca’s anxiety increased. It had been so long since she’d seen Sharon, and she wasn’t sure she could avoid talking with her about that Thanksgiving night if they were face-to-face. By the time they reached the city limits, she held Fionn around the chest, resting her cheek against his back. His red curls spiraled from his helmet and tickled her nose. She closed her eyes, hanging on tightly, taking in the scent of his hair. Her heart slowed a little as they made their way through the city streets and when the motorcycle stopped, she looked up.

  “Where are we?”

  “Sharon and John’s house.”

  “Not the hospital?”

  “We should find out what’s happening,” Fionn said.

  As Rebecca climbed off the back of the motorcycle, the door to Sharon’s house opened, with Sharon’s mother right behind it.

  “Peg?”

  “Come in, come in. I’m so anxious, I’ve made enough tea for the island,” she said, wringing her hands.

  Rebecca laughed. Glancing at Fionn, she found he had a smile on his face, but his eyes were just as dark as they had been when she stood up from the grass two hours earlier. He opened his left saddlebag and pulled out Rebecca’s backpack. He swung it over his shoulder.

  “How far along is she?” Rebecca asked, quickly looking away from Fionn as she climbed the steps toward the door.

  “She’s been at it since yesterday afternoon. It’s a hard one. I had to take the ferry yesterday and have Danny drive me here. But they want us to wait at the house.”

  “Danny?” Rebecca inquired.

  “My little brother,” Fionn replied, shutting the door behind him. “Is he still here?”

  “He left this morning. Eat,” Peg said, stepping into the kitchen. True to her word, there was a tea like no other Rebecca had seen. There were lemon tarts and scones, and salmon sandwiches with malt vinegar on a tray next to carrot-ginger sandwiches. Small pork pies and pasties and two pots of steaming tea rested on the table.

  “Good Lord, Peg,” Rebecca gasped.

  “I know, I know. Eat.”

  Rebecca was hungry. She hadn’t touched her lunch sandwich and with Peg as a distraction from Fionn’s dark mood, she decided to sit, eat, and hope he’d brighten up.

  As they ate, Peg talked of Maggie’s births. They were both boys, and though Peg said she simply hoped for a healthy child, Rebecca knew she wanted a granddaughter. Sharon had said so right before Rebecca left the States for the island. Rebecca spotted a brown paper sack on the counter. Sharon had brought one just like it to California when Rowan was born. It contained the shanachie gansey. As that thought crossed her mind, a small gasp escaped her lips.

  “You okay, Becky?” Peg asked.

  “Huh? Oh—yeah. It’s just the tea.”

  Peg peered over at the little brown package and, reaching for it, pulled a long box wrapped in California poppy paper from behind it.

  “Here,” she said, sliding it across the table. “Sharon got this for you. It’s just a little something,”

  Opening the box, Rebecca found a package of incense. “Are these sparklers?”

  Peg burst out laughing. “No,” she replied. “Incense.”

  “That wasn’t funny, Peg. I could’ve burned down the house.”

  “Oh, come on, Becky. It was funny and you know it.”

  “Rowan thought it was funny,” Fionn said.

  “How do you know?” Rebecca asked.

  “She told me. You think she only talks to you, Becky?”

  Rebecca sighed. She should call the island to check on her daughter.

  “You’re gonna miss it this year,” Peg said.

  “Yeah.” Rebecca shrugged.

  “Miss what?” Fionn asked.

  “Fourth of July. Party time for Rebecca.”

  “Really. I like parties,” Fionn said.

  “Well, this is a party of parties, huh, Becky?”

  “How so?” Fionn asked.

  “Oh, my dad was just crazy. Other people celebrated Thanksgiving or Christmas. We did, too, but nothing like we celebrated July Fourth. We closed off our cul-de-sac and everybody pulled out their barbecues. They still do. Rowan and I go back there every Fourth. Like keeping my mom and dad alive.”

  “I love barbecue!” Fionn declared. “What do they barbecue?”

  “Chicken—my mom’s chicken.”

  “What’s in her chicken?”

  “She had a rub and then she made a sauce.”

  “What’s the rub?”

  “Um—brown sugar, paprika—the smoky Spanish kind. Thyme, salt.”

  “What’s in her sauce?”

  “Fionn,” Peg said, shaking her head. “Geez.”

  “I love barbecue,” Fionn repeated.

  “Ketchup, Worcestershire sauce, brown sugar, red pepper, a little soy sauce.”

  “What do you have with it?”

  “Good Lord, Fionn,” Peg declared.

  “Potato salad,” Rebecca replied, laughing. He was brighter now, and that made her happy.

  “What’s in it?”

  “Potatoes, eggs, dill pickles, sour cream
, green onion, bacon, and Louisiana Hot Sauce.”

  “What’s Louisiana Hot Sauce?”

  “Fionn, stop!” Peg shouted, holding her head.

  Rebecca smiled at him. He smiled, too.

  “American potpourri,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Yeah. Anyway, we swim over at the Hernandezes’ pool and later at night have a big scavenger hunt. My dad was a firefighter, so we were only allowed sparklers. But we could line up the lawn chairs in the street and watch the city’s big fireworks display from our cul-de-sac. After the fireworks, my dad pulled out the Constitution and everybody on the street took turns reading parts of it. Then we’d have a great toast to another year of freedom. Still do that part, too.” Rebecca sipped her tea, feeling much warmer now that Fionn was more himself.

  “July Fourth is the Thursday after next,” Peg noted.

  “And I’ve got sparklers,” Rebecca said.

  Peg grinned.

  “Well, I best be getting home. You know, Becky,” Fionn said as he stood, “I talked to my friend at Trinity, and he said you could come and use the library for your book. We’ll see where Sharon is tomorrow, and maybe, since you’re here, we could go.”

  “Yes, I’d love that.”

  “I’ll drop by tomorrow,” Fionn said, walking out of the kitchen. Rebecca and Peg followed. He opened the door and stepped out into the drizzle.

  “See ya tomorrow,” Peg said, kissing Fionn on the cheek.

  Rebecca watched him straddle the seat of his bike. “Fionn?” she called, following him down the steps. As she stepped close to the bike, Rebecca stuck her hands in her pockets and looked down. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For . . . saying what I said about men. It—it wasn’t right and you didn’t deserve that. I’m really sorry.”

  Fionn cocked his head with a half smile. Standing up from his seat, he leaned over and kissed Rebecca’s cheek. “Better be going in, love. It’s wet out here. See ya tomorrow.” He put his helmet on his head, started his bike, and pulled away from the curb.

  “Becky,” Peg called from the door. “Rowan’s on the phone.”

  Rebecca turned to take the call, but then she glanced back and watched as he rode off into the mist.

  CHAPTER 24

  Lattice/Bobble Within