Casting Off

by Nicole R Dickson

  John called the next morning, saying Sharon was no closer to having the baby. The doctors were debating a cesarean section the following morning if there was no progress today. That would be against Sharon’s wishes, for she wanted to have the baby naturally.

  Peg greeted Rebecca with all this news when she came downstairs for breakfast. Peg had indeed been busy that morning—breakfast consisted of eggs and sausage, black pudding, toast, tomatoes, and tea. Rebecca laughed and said that if Sharon didn’t have the baby soon, Peg would need to open a restaurant.

  Fionn was at the door by ten o’clock. He made Peg promise that she’d call if anything changed, and then he took Rebecca to the library, arriving at eleven. When Rebecca entered the building, she felt more at home than she had since arriving in Ireland. Libraries had a scent, an ancient perfume, and it was in libraries where she felt most comfortable. Trinity’s library was older than any Rebecca had experienced, and the aroma of the building intermingled with the books’ perfume to create the perfect setting for her. She was happy.

  At the information counter Fionn handed the librarian a note from a friend of his who was a professor at the university and who had given Rebecca permission to use the library’s resources. As soon as the woman nodded her acceptance, Rebecca asked her for the locations of textiles, art, and Irish history books. As she turned toward those sections, she found Fionn following her.

  “Aren’t you going to work?”

  “I have to work tonight.”

  “Oh.”

  Rebecca had spent long hours of her life alone at tables in libraries, poring over manuscripts or bent over laptops, taking notes. Scholarship was a solitary endeavor, and no one had ever come along with her to share her work. But here Fionn was, following her into the depths of silence, going exploring. She was happy about that, too.

  After locating the section dedicated to the west of Ireland, Fionn began to pull books from the shelves. He seemed to know better than Rebecca what was important, and as he placed the books on a table she sat down with her backpack and pulled out her laptop, a notepad, and her box of pencils. Fionn sat next to her. Without asking, he slid the notepad and the pencil box in front of him and opened a book.

  They read together in the quiet of the library, Fionn scratching notes on his pad of paper, Rebecca watching him do so. She wasn’t typing anything. She wanted to know what he was writing. After an hour, he stood and, taking his book, his notebook, and his pencil, he walked away, without so much as a wave or a good-bye. Rebecca shook her head, watching him go.

  “He’s not right,” she muttered and sat back in her chair.

  Since she had arrived in Ireland thirteen days ago, Rebecca had not succeeded in achieving any of the goals she had set for herself. She had very little in the way of film about the sweaters, very few stories from Rose and Liz about the patterns they used, and only a smattering of pictures. Most of her time had been spent with the townspeople. But somehow getting to know them kept turning her mind back to her past with Dennis. She hadn’t come all the way to the island to remember the worst moment in her life. If anything, she’d come to free herself from those memories once and for all. And she had certainly come to set down on paper and film the history of a people’s life. She had a grant. She had a responsibility.

  “I have nothing,” she whispered.

  Sitting up straight, she opened the book to her left and found the history of Ireland—not the west but the whole of it. It was a shortened version, to be sure—only a thousand pages with pictures. Rebecca knew well that the Irish were old. Sharon had said so. The book fell open to a page with an ink drawing of the potato famine. A weeping woman knelt before a stone wall with her six small children and a babe in her arms. In the background were English soldiers, tossing out the contents of her small cottage.

  “I have everything,” Rebecca breathed, touching the page, and as she did so a memory from long ago passed through her mind.

  Sharon sat on her bed in their dorm room, watching Rebecca knit her last row.

  “How do you get the stitches off the needle?” Rebecca asked, holding her first knitted slipper out to her best friend for help.

  “You cast off.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You bind the stitches into place, so they know where they belong. That’s how it’s done where I come from.”

  “Show me,” Rebecca said, letting go of her needles into Sharon’s hands.

  “You have a place and it’s just for you. You don’t ever feel like you’re blowin’ in the wind, up against it by yourself. You know? Always, someone has hold of you, helping you stay in place, even if you travel, like me. I still have my place. It’s there for me when I go home and in my soul when I’m away.”

  “I want that.”

  “You’ll have it, Becky. One day. You’ll see.”

  “I’m up against it, Sharon. Blowin’ in the wind.”

  Rebecca closed the book and left the table. Heading into the art section, she searched for Fionn. She didn’t find him. She looked in the textile section. He wasn’t there either.

  “I have to work,” she reminded herself and grabbing her laptop and backpack from the history area, she settled into textiles for the rest of the day. She looked for knitting and wool but found instead a section on lace. She thought of Father Michael’s mother’s wedding dress and, distracted from her purpose, it was lace that she read about until she looked out the windows and realized the sun had fallen from its zenith. Fionn reappeared then, smiling a great smile through his beard.

  “Where have you been?” Rebecca asked.

  “Finding things for you. You done?”

  “I’m done,” she sighed, closing the book before her.

  “Excellent! I’m famished. I’ve not eaten all day.”

  He led her out of the library to his bike. He didn’t say one word—nothing about where he had been all day or what he’d found or why he was so happy. Watching his red hair catch the wind as he handed her a helmet, Rebecca glowered. He was so unreadable at times.

  It was only a short drive to a pub and when they stepped in, several people called Fionn’s name, waving to him from far tables and behind the bar. They slid into a booth by the window and Fionn dropped his notebook on the table.

  “A pint of bitters and a pint of cider, love,” he called to the woman behind the bar. Then he said to Rebecca, “I was reading a book this morning and it started discussing the jumpers of the islands. It said that some of the patterns can be found in the Book of Kells.”

  “Ah—I forgot the Book of Kells was at Trinity.” Rebecca scowled. Her mind was not on her work.

  “You knew that?”

  “Yeah. There’s a drawing in it that shows a man wearing what looks to be a gansey.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s not what I found.”

  “What did you find?” Rebecca raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

  “Guess.”

  “Knock it off.”

  “You don’t like playing, do you?”

  The woman from the bar set the drinks on the table.

  “Can we get supper, please, Mary, my love?”

  “Anything for you, Fionn.”

  He smiled and turned back to Rebecca. “Look.”

  He opened his notebook, and there Rebecca found a beautiful pencil drawing of an Irish knot. It was square and intertwined so as almost to create a trifold in the middle. She had seen this before.

  “This is from the shawnash—”

  “Aye—the shanachie gansey.”

  “You draw beautifully, Fionn.”

  Fionn’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket to answer. “Peg!” he said. “Ah!” He was quiet for a minute, then said, “Then no baby yet?”

  Rebecca frowned.

  “Well, then she’ll come with me.”

  “Come where? Is Sharon all right?” Rebecca inquired.

  “All right, then, love. We’ll see you later. Bye.” He hung up.

  “What’s hap
pening?”

  “John’s coming home to shower and Peg’s going to stay with Sharon for a while.”

  “We should go help,” Rebecca said.

  “We’re not invited. We’re invited to wait. But now you can come with me,” he said happily.

  “To your work?”

  “To hear a band.”

  “I thought you had to work.”

  “It is my work. That band is playing. The one I told you about. It has three fiddles,” Fionn said, winking at her. “You think I draw beautifully?’

  “Yes,” she replied.

  As Fionn flipped through several pages of his notebook, Rebecca saw more intricate Celtic designs drawn in pencil. Her eyes widened, for several of them looked to be from Father Michael’s grandfather’s gansey. Fionn stopped on a page that wasn’t from the Book of Kells. Rebecca knew it wasn’t, for the design was almost Japanese.

  “A bird,” she stated, touching the shadowy suggestion of wind blowing across the bird’s open beak.

  “A mistle thrush,” he corrected.

  “It’s wonderful, Fionn.”

  “Thanks. You think the band will like it?”

  “They’ll love it.” She beamed.

  Fionn smiled, staring into her with his black eyes. To Rebecca’s relief, supper arrived at their table.

  Rebecca gazed at the mistle thrush and thought of holding Rowan in the storm as they watched the little bird in the bramble sing in the wind.

  “Fionn? You know Annie’s phone number?”

  “You wanna talk to Rowan?”

  She nodded. Fionn opened his cell phone and dialed. She was glad to hear her daughter’s voice, and the news was all good. Rowan was happy with Siohban, and they’d spent a rainy day practicing their spinning. When they said good-bye for the night, Rowan sounded a little sad, but Rebecca knew she was happy and safe and the feeling would soon pass in the fun of her second sleepover night.

  When they finished eating, Fionn and Rebecca climbed onto the motorcycle and rode through Dublin, the wet streets glistening in the fading sun and the glow of the streetlights. Fionn came to a stop in front of a row of houses, parked the bike, and tossed Rebecca’s backpack over his shoulder. From there, the two of them walked five blocks to a club. Rebecca couldn’t understand why Fionn had parked so far away; there was clearly room for his bike in front of the pub. She turned to ask him as they entered the place, but before she could get a word out of her mouth, she was standing in a pressing crowd. People reached over her to shake Fionn’s hand, calling his name as they did so.

  Sliding past men and women into the darkened interior, Rebecca felt her heart skipping and her chest tightening. As she was a single parent, she didn’t go out much and when she did, she mostly went to quiet dinners with colleagues. It had been quite a long time since she had been in a club, and she found the crush of people a bit alarming. Turning around, she tried to move back to the pub door. Fionn grabbed her hand.

  “I need to leave,” she said quietly.

  “What?” Fionn called over the noise.

  Rebecca pulled his ear to her mouth. “I don’t go out mu—”

  “It’ll be fine,” he replied, his mouth so close to her ear that she could feel his breath. The bartender called Fionn’s name and he shook the man’s hand at the same time handing him Rebecca’s backpack to mind.

  “I can’t breathe with all these people.”

  Fionn wrapped his arms around her waist and moved her farther into the club.

  “Fionn, I’m serious.”

  “Almost there,” Fionn replied.

  Just as Rebecca was going to break free of his grasp and turn around, the crowd broke up. Holding her chest, she peered around. She was standing on a dance floor.

  “Dance with me.”

  “Oh—I—haven’t danc—”

  “Play a little, Becky,” he said. “Try to remember how. I know you used to. Sharon told me.”

  Fionn pulled her to his chest, swaying slowly back and forth. “I feel your heart pounding,” he whispered, moving in time to a gentle fiddle singing in the background.

  “It’s the crowd.”

  “You sure?” he asked, pulling away from her a little, gazing down into her eyes.

  She nodded.

  “We’re just dancin’ and listenin’ to the fiddles.”

  “We’re not really dancing. We’re just rocking back and forth,” she replied, smiling a little as she looked over to the violins.

  “Same thing.”

  And then they were silent, rocking softly together to the quiet song. When it was done, Fionn gave her a hug and said, “Come on, girl. Let’s get you a pint.”

  At the far end of the bar, they found an empty stool. Rebecca sat down and in seven large gulps slammed down a pint of cider. Another appeared before her.

  “Thirsty?” Fionn asked with a laugh, sipping a beer.

  “Still a bit anxious, I’m afraid,” she replied.

  “About what?”

  She met his gaze for a moment. “I—I’m not really sure. Maybe it’s just that I haven’t been out with—I haven’t been out in a long time.”

  “Well, it’s just me,” Fionn replied. “The man who taught you how to hurdle stone walls like you were born to the island.”

  Rebecca laughed.

  “It’s good to hear you laugh.”

  She shrugged, looking down at her knees. She sat there with Fionn standing by her side, listening to the fiddles. Several people came up throughout the evening, each one introduced to her. But no one stayed to chat. Everyone was listening to the music. Fionn would now and then touch her hand gently or brush the back of her hair. A couple of times, she almost reached out to touch him, but stopped herself. It was then that her attention turned away from the music to focus inside. She wondered what was wrong. If it was Dennis and the past that was the problem, then surely she wouldn’t want to be touched, period. Or so she thought. But she was glad when Fionn touched her. Rebecca just couldn’t reach out to him.

  When the band was finished, Fionn led Rebecca outside. The crowd was just as thick leaving as it had been coming in, but it didn’t matter to her anymore. She was warmed by the cider and the music and she was behind Fionn this time. The bartender handed over Rebecca’s backpack and they stepped out of the club into the night, holding hands.

  “Did you like the band?” Fionn asked.

  “I did,” Rebecca said quietly, pulling her hand away.

  “Are they like the mistle thrush?”

  Rebecca thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t know. There’s no storm.”

  Fionn shrugged, putting his hands in his pockets as they walked back to the motorcycle. The drizzle fell heavily between them. “Well, here we are,” he said finally. The bike’s saddle glistened in the streetlight.

  “Seat’s wet.”

  “We’re not getting on the bike.”

  “We’re not?”

  “No. I live here.” He pointed to the door behind him.

  “I’m not staying with you,” Rebecca replied, squinting at him. “I have to get back to Sharon’s.”

  “Come on, Becky,” Fionn said, grabbing her around the waist and dancing her to the door.

  “I’m not staying with you, Fionn.”

  “I’ve had drink. You’ve had more than me. The roads are wet. It’s raining. Peg and John are both probably at the hospital. What’s it matter?”

  “I—I don’t want anything to happen,” Rebecca said.

  “Like what?” Fionn asked, holding Rebecca in his arms.

  Rebecca wouldn’t meet his eye.

  “Nothing’s gonna happen.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  “You want something to happen?” Fionn let her go and slid his key into the lock.

  “No.”

  “Then that’s what will happen. Come on.”

  “I’m sleeping on the sofa.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be possible,” Fionn replied, climbing the
stairs as the door shut behind Rebecca.

  “Why?”

  Rebecca followed him to the second floor, where he unlocked the door to his flat. Stepping into his apartment, she found one room only. In front of her, a great window looked out on the spires of a church in the distance. His bed sat beneath the window. Directly to the right of the door she saw a small sink, a refrigerator, and a two-burner stove, and to the left, his dresser, stereo, and a thousand CDs in a bookcase pushed neatly against the wall.

  “No sofa,” she noted.

  “You think it’s small.”

  “Well . . . ” She shrugged.

  “No need for anything bigger,” Fionn said, putting his keys on the dresser. “It’s just me. It also prevents the accumulation of stuff. I move around a lot.”

  “You do?”

  “Aye.”

  “So do I,” Rebecca said.

  “I’ve heard that. You looking for a home, too?”

  Rebecca frowned, gazing around the floor. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  “You’ll sleep with me in the bed. Nothin’s gonna happen.”

  Rebecca sighed. “I need some jammies.”

  “Jammies?’

  “Pajamas. Nightshirt. You know.”

  Reaching into his top drawer, Fionn pulled out a T-shirt and handed it to her. “The loo is there.” He pointed to the door on the far right wall.

  Rebecca slipped into the small bathroom and changed into the T-shirt. When she opened the door and stepped back into the room, she caught her breath. There on the bed lay Fionn. He lounged on the pillows with his hands behind his head and his legs crossed, wearing nothing but his boxers and his grin. Rebecca swallowed hard as she stared at him, for his red hair was not only on the top of his head and beard but also upon his chest. He was so beautiful. She looked away to the lamp, which was tilted slightly, creating what appeared to her to be a purposeful effort on his part to place himself in a spotlight. She smiled wryly.

  “Am I sleeping on the floor?”

  “No. With me, please.”

  “Well, then, scoot over.”

  He obeyed. Rebecca walked swiftly to the bed, slipped under the covers, turned off the light, and curled into a tight ball. Her heart raced in her chest. Closing her eyes, she slowed her breath, trying to calm herself.