Casting Off

by Nicole R Dickson

  “Close your eyes,” she said.

  “How do you know they’re open?” Fionn touched her back gently.

  “Go to sleep.”

  “Guess what I’m spelling.”

  “Fionn, go to sleep.”

  “Come on, Becky. Play a little. Guess what I’m spelling.”

  “God,” Rebecca breathed nervously. She opened her eyes and concentrated on her back.

  “I-P-L-A?”

  “Aye.”

  “ ‘I’?”

  “No, ‘A’ is correct.”

  “Y-T-H-E-V-I-O-L-I.”

  Rebecca bolted up in the bed and flipped on the light. Fionn sat up with her, smiling a great smile.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I play the violin.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “You said the man you marry will have red hair and play the Irish fiddle.”

  “Who said I said that?”

  “Sharon.”

  “I never told Sharon that.”

  “No. But you told Rowan, who told Sharon—during a particular telephone conversation last year.”

  Rebecca frowned.

  “No one’s ever been that specific in asking for me before. And I know it’s true, because Rowan asked me about it the very first day you arrived,” Fionn said, chuckling.

  “I never said that.” Rebecca flipped off the light and flopped back down in bed. She had known Rowan had told him she liked the fiddle, but she hadn’t realized her daughter had said more. The thought that the conversation had gone halfway around the world to a man with red hair who played the fiddle was embarrassing. She cowered, pulling the covers tighter under her chin.

  There was a bounce behind her and Fionn was gone.

  “Where are you going?” Rebecca asked.

  “To get my fiddle.” She could hear a drawer open and, shortly, metal clicking as Fionn opened his violin case. The overhead light popped on. “What do you want to hear?”

  “Fionn . . .”

  “Come on, Becks.”

  Rebecca rolled over, ready to deny that she’d ever said she would marry a redheaded, fiddle-playing Irishman, but the words stuck in her throat, for he truly was the most beautiful man she had seen in her entire life. She just stared at him, his fiddle tucked beneath his chin, his red hair gleaming in the light.

  “What do you want to hear?” he asked softly.

  Rebecca didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Gently Fionn laid the bow on the strings and from his fiddle poured a song. It was “My Lagan Love,” the song he had sung to her as they crossed the ocean in a tiny boat—the tune Rowan played so well on her flute. It hurt so much to watch him, her throat tightening like she was going to cry and a pain crushing her chest like she was suffocating. But she didn’t look away. She couldn’t. As he finished the song, Fionn sat on the side of the bed and when he was done he laid the violin on the floor and crawled across the covers toward her.

  “You play your fiddle for all the women you bring home?” she asked quietly.

  “It’s never been a prerequisite for lovemaking before,” he replied, sliding on top of her.

  “Are we lovemaking?”

  “Oh, yes. You think I’m beautiful.”

  “You seem sure about that,” Rebecca whispered, touching his beard.

  “I have red hair from the top of my head to the tips of my toes and everywhere else in between. I’d be happy to show you.”

  Rebecca giggled.

  CHAPTER 26

  Zigzag with Ribbing

  Zigzag with Ribbing. 1. A zigzag with ribbing inserted on either the “zig” side or the “zag” side so the pattern looks like waves coming ashore on cliffs. 2. Dreams.

  —R. Dirane, A Binding Love

  That night, the dream came again.

  It was cold. The mist hung about the police car’s flashing blue and red lights like a shroud. Rebecca spotted Rowan’s tiny sweater clinging to the barrier railing off Highway 1 high above the ocean.

  “Rebecca,” Dennis called to her. “Rebecca, help me.”

  “Rowan?” Rebecca asked, stepping closer to the sweater. “Where’s Rowan?”

  “You think you can save her?” Dennis asked with a chuckle. His voice was close behind her. Rebecca spun around, her heart pounding in her chest, but instead of Dennis she saw Sharon standing just six feet away, holding her hand out.

  “I’ve got you now, Becky,” she said.

  “Rowan?” Rebecca called louder as Sharon wrapped her arms around her waist.

  “I won’t let go. I’ve got you now.”

  Rebecca felt Dennis’s hands grab her neck from behind, strangling her.

  “Help!” she screamed, but when she turned around, she found nothing, just the night and Rowan’s tiny sweater slipping off the railing.

  “No!” Rebecca raced to the barrier, but she was too late. The sweater was gone. “Rowan!” she screamed into the black abyss of water below. “Rowan!”

  “I’ve got you, Becky,” Sharon called, her voice echoing through the mist.

  “Becky. Becky.”

  Rebecca’s eyes popped open and she found an arm holding her tightly around the waist as her heart pounded like an ocean tide against her ribs. Pale gray light whispered through the window above her head, suggesting that dawn was on its way.

  “Let me go,” she choked out quietly, shuddering under the weight of Dennis’s hold.

  “I’m here,” Fionn replied softly into her ear.

  “Dennis?” she whispered.

  “No, Becky. It’s me, Fionn.”

  “Where’s Rowan?”

  “She’s safe. She’s with Paddy and Annie—back on the island. Remember?”

  “Rowan’s safe?”

  “Yes, Becky. Everything’s fine.”

  Rebecca buried her face in the pillow. It smelled like Fionn.

  “You’re shaking. That was a bad dream.”

  Rebecca didn’t answer. She could still feel Dennis’s hands around her neck.

  “You wanna talk about it?” Fionn whispered as he tucked her closer to him.

  “He’s here,” Rebecca mumbled into the pillow.

  “No, he’s not. I’m here and I’m not him.”

  Rebecca closed her eyes tightly as Fionn kissed the back of her head.

  “This is too hard. I can’t do this,” she said.

  “Nothing happening, Becky. It’s all fine. You can let it go.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “Turn over.”

  “I can’t. I can’t,” she said, trying to pull away.

  “Come here.” Fionn pulled her back to the bed, gently wrapping his arms around her body as he laid her head upon his red-haired chest.

  Rebecca had been pulled to the bed before and held down with harsh, demanding hands. She could still feel those hands about her throat. She was stiff and tight as she pressed her palms to her mouth. But as she lay there, she began to hear a hum in Fionn’s chest. It was a low treble note, reverberating through his skin, tickling her cheek. He rubbed her back and her hair, humming “My Lagan Love.”

  “I’m broken, Fionn. Like that lady in the tub in your painting,” she whispered.

  “She wasn’t broken, Becky. She was troubled.”

  “I’m troubled, then.”

  “No. You’re a lot of trouble, but not troubled,” he said with a chuckle.

  Rebecca smiled, looking at his chest rise and fall as he sang, returning to his humming song, which buzzed through her ear. Fionn’s hands were kind, brushing the hair from her face. She closed her eyes, feeling his touch—listening to his song.

  “You sing well,” she said.

  “I’m better at the fiddle.”

  She looked up and found him smiling down at her. She smiled back, lifting her left hand and placing it on his chest, watching her fingers twirl his curly red chest hair.

  “Don’t you agree?” he asked.

  “You play the fiddle beautifully.”

>   “I know. And I have red hair—everywhere.”

  She chuckled. His laugh rumbled through his chest beneath her head. At that moment, his cell phone buzzed next to the bed. Rebecca closed her eyes, resting on him as he answered the line.

  “Hallo? Oh—a C-section last night. Excellent! What is it?”

  Rebecca rose up on an elbow.

  “A girl! Einin Margaret Fitzpatrick. How’s Sharon?”

  “Ai-neen Margaret,” Rebecca repeated, rolling over and grabbing her T-shirt.

  “Sharon’s fine. Huh? Why am I repeating everything you say out loud?”

  Rebecca spun around and shook her head. Fionn nodded vigorously. Rebecca frowned, shaking her head adamantly.

  “I like the sound of my own voice, Peg, my love. Look, I’ll go pick up Beee-ckyyy and we’ll come down to see wee Einen. Brilliant! Bye.”

  Rebecca stood, staring down at Fionn, who lay still, watching her.

  “Can I take a shower?”

  “Can I take one with you?”

  “I—I’d like to take it alone,” she said, picking up her clothes from the floor and backing into the bathroom.

  “That’s no fun.” Fionn shrugged, climbing out of the bed. “I’ll wash you and you wash me.”

  Rebecca shuffled backward into the bathroom, watching as Fionn walked toward her. The bathroom was so small, they had to scrunch together as he shut the door.

  “I don’t know how to do this,” she said softly.

  “There’s nothing to do.”

  Turning the shower on, Fionn brushed Rebecca’s clothes from her arms and backed her into the shower. They let the warm water wash over their bodies. Slowly, they began to wash each other. As Rebecca scrubbed Fionn, his red hair darkened in the water.

  “I don’t know why you put up with me,” she said, rinsing his hair. “I’m a lot of trouble.”

  Fionn laughed. “Because, Becky, my love, from what I’ve heard for years, you are a tender soul. You’re tender with your daughter. You’re tender with Sharon, though truly, I don’t know why.”

  Rebecca giggled.

  “From what I’ve seen, you’re tender with Maggie, with Rose, with Liz, with my parents. You’ve helped Jim Fitzgibbon. You like my dog.”

  Fionn turned the water off and grabbed two towels.

  “You seem to be tender with everyone but yourself.”

  Rebecca looked up into his eyes as she took the towel from him. They were staring right into her and she wanted to look away, frightened of what he might see there, gazing back at him from Thanksgiving night. But if he saw that horrible thing within her, he made no move to look away.

  “So, I’m tender with you, as you asked for me precisely, remember? Red hair? Fiddle?”

  Rebecca smiled.

  Fionn kissed her on the cheek and stepped out of the bathroom.

  “I forgot my clothes in the rush to get in the shower with you,” he said as he closed the door behind him.

  Rebecca dried off and slipped into her clothes. On the other side of the bathroom door she found Fionn standing with a cup of tea in his hand. He gave her the tea and with another peck on her cheek stepped back into the bathroom.

  She set her tea down and made the bed. On the nightstand she found the notebook that contained his drawings. She sat down on the pillows and flipped through the pages as she sipped her tea. The drawings Fionn had made from the Book of Kells were copies of the illuminations. Rebecca thought the spiraling, twisting patterns looked like the monks who drew them were celebrating life by dancing in ink. In her studies, she’d found only one reference to the island ganseys being derived from the Book of Kells. It was not so much a question of the origins of the patterns, but rather it was an actual drawing of a man who looked to be wearing an island gansey. She wondered if Fionn would have time to go back to Trinity, for all she had from a day in that library was his drawings. Turning the page, she found his mistle thrush. She touched it as he opened the bathroom door.

  “You hungry?” he asked, shaking his curls and pulling a T-shirt over his head.

  “A bit.”

  “We’ll pick up somethin’ on the way to the hospital.”

  “Can I keep this, Fionn?”

  “It’s your notebook, Becky.”

  “I mean, it has this mistle thrush.”

  “Ah. That one’s for you. It’s your Irish.”

  “My Irish,” she repeated, setting the book on the bed and putting her shoes on.

  Outside, Fionn and Rebecca found that dawn had brought a clear Dublin sky. Birds, bikes, and cars were all awake, filling Rebecca’s ears with the the urban buzz that had gone from her mind on the island. She hadn’t missed it. She hung on tightly to Fionn, anxious about riding on a motorcycle through city streets. After they stopped for coffee and croissants, they headed to the hospital, picking up a bouquet of flowers from a street vendor on the way. Together, they walked in, and as they got on the elevator Rebecca let go of Fionn’s hand and stared down at her feet.

  It had been six years since she had seen Sharon. Their telephone conversations were about work and life—knitting and their daily routines. Now, as the elevator rose, Rebecca felt the weight of that night six years ago pressing down on her shoulders, the entire mass of it heavy and unforgiving. Part of her very much wanted to see Sharon, but part of her very much wanted to get on the motorcycle and go back to the island.

  The elevator bell chimed. The door opened and Rebecca didn’t move.

  “Come on,” Fionn said.

  “I can’t,” she whispered. “I haven’t seen her since . . .”

  “I’ll help you,” he said. She looked up and found his right hand stretched out to her as he held the flowers in his left. “Everything’s fine.”

  Rebecca reached out and took Fionn’s hand. The blood surged into her ears as she walked down the hall. Peg stood at the open door of Sharon’s room, holding a small bundle of yellow blankets; Peg had held Rowan just like that six years before.

  “Sharon, it’s Becky,” Peg called into the room.

  Rebecca slowed down as she squeezed the pain that was crushing her heart into Fionn’s hand. He pulled her forward through the door. Carefully, she gazed over at the bed, and there she saw Sharon. Her black hair was tangled about her shoulders and she looked tired and pale. But her black eyes were as steady and sparkling and sure as when Rebecca had seen them last. Rebecca put her hands over her mouth, muffling the cry that burst from her lips. Six years of tears poured from her eyes, the pain wrenching her heart.

  “Come here, Becky,” Sharon said, holding her arms out.

  Rebecca came around the bed, leaning down and taking Sharon into her arms, crying on her shoulder. Sharon, however, did not shed a tear. Becky knew why. She remembered that Sharon had told her that for those born to the island, some feelings were so deep that weeping or laughing or talking could not express them. Rebecca knew Sharon had hold of those feelings now, and it was to those deep feelings that Rebecca clung as she wept, having been in free fall for six years and only now returning to someone that she knew had enough strength to grab hold of her.

  “It’s all right, Becky. I’ve got you. Here, lay down.”

  Rebecca shook her head, pulling away. “Doesn’t your C-section hurt?” she mumbled through her tears.

  “I’m fine,” Sharon replied, moving over with a wince.

  Rebecca didn’t want to lie down, but she didn’t want Sharon to spend energy pulling her to the bed. And now she remembered why she was here. Reluctantly, she climbed in as she said, “Where’s your new baby?”

  “Put Einin between us, Mum,” Sharon said.

  Rebecca stared in wonder as the tiny bundle of yellow blankets was tucked in the nook between her breast and Sharon’s. A small tuft of black hair poked out of the swaddle.

  “Remember the last time we laid like this?” Sharon asked.

  “I don’t want to,” Rebecca whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks to hit the pillow.

  “Remembe
r, Becky.”

  Rebecca closed her stinging eyes, willing the memory away until Sharon brushed her cheek, as softly as she’d brushed Rowan’s the day she was born.

  “It’ll have to be something strong and magical,” Peg muttered, gazing out the hospital window to the gray-blue sky of a Los Angeles autumn morning.

  “I don’t have it yet,” Rebecca whispered, brushing her baby’s fine brown hair with her fingers.

  “Okay, we’ll come back to the baby’s name,” the nurse said. “What’s the father’s name?”

  Rebecca looked up at Sharon, who stood next to the bed, looking as weary as Rebecca felt. It had been thirty-eight hours giving birth, but together, they had come through it.

  “There is no father,” Sharon replied, with a half smile.

  “N-no father?” the nurse asked, glancing quickly in Peg’s direction.

  “Well, one man did apply for the job, but he didn’t like Irish fiddles as much as he professed to have done in the beginning,” Sharon added.

  “I don’t know who the father is,” Rebecca affirmed. It wasn’t really a lie. Technically, she knew Dennis was the man who was there the night her baby was conceived, but who he had become over the two years since they had met, Rebecca really had no idea.

  “Fine,” the nurse replied, her pen scratching loudly against the paper of the birth certificate in the silence of the room.

  “Rowan!” Rebecca exclaimed.

  “Rowan?” the nurse asked, looking up.

  “Witchwood! Strong and magical, just like you said, Peg. Rowan is witchwood.”

  “ ’ Tis a good Irish name, as my da would say,” Sharon sang, her accent thick and lilting.

  Rebecca chuckled, touching Rowan’s perfectly round head. “Her name is Rowan Moray,” Rebecca said.

  “Can we have a moment?” Sharon turned to the nurse and smiled. Nodding, the woman stood, tucked the birth certificate under her arm, and left the room. As the door shut, Sharon sighed. “Everything’s fine, Becky.”

  “Is it? My parents are gone—I have no home, no husband, and now look. No father for Rowan. I have nothing.”

  “You have your beautiful baby,” Peg said.