Casting Off

by Nicole R Dickson

  “You have me,” Sharon said.

  “You’ll go back to Ireland. Just like you did after college.”

  “You come with me.”

  “What am I gonna do on the island? I teach university.”

  “Study the sweaters. You’ve always wanted to do that.”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes.

  “Find your home. Maybe—maybe your husband and Rowan’s father is there.”

  “Her father is here.”

  “Where?” Sharon gazed around the room. “Not on that birth certificate. There’s nothing holding you here.”

  “He’s filed paternity. They’ll test Rowan, and we know the answer to that.”

  “If we leave n—”

  “He’s already filed papers, Sharon. Court orders to stay put.”

  Sharon sighed again.

  “I shouldn’t have told him we would keep him off the birth certificate,” Sharon mumbled, turning to her mother. “My temper. Sorry, Becky.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Rebecca said, pulling Rowan’s tiny hand from the swaddle. The baby rested without a care in the world, not knowing the storm that raged around her. Rebecca looked up at Sharon and began to cry.

  “Can you hold me?” she choked.

  Sharon crawled onto the covers. Rowan lay safe and still between them. Sharon brushed the baby’s cheek and then rested her arm on Rebecca’s waist.

  “You’re not alone, Rebecca Moray. I have you and I’ll not let go.”

  Rebecca wept, touching Sharon’s freckled cheek.

  “I’m still holdin’ on,” Sharon whispered.

  Rebecca nodded, pulling the yellow blanket from Einin’s face. The baby gazed up sleepily into Rebecca’s eyes. “No freckles,” she noted.

  “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Green eyes,” Fionn said.

  Rebecca gazed over her shoulder and found him standing next to her near the bed.

  “Just like all Dooleys. Right, John?” Fionn said.

  “I’m not getting into this,” John said from his quiet corner of the room.

  “Her eyes are light, like all babies’ eyes, Fionn,” Rebecca explained.

  “O’Flahertys have the green eyes,” Sharon said.

  “Don’t get into it, Becky,” John warned.

  “O’Flahertys have the black eyes,” Fionn replied.

  “Dooleys have the black eyes and dark hair,” Sharon said.

  “Dooleys have green eyes,” Fionn said.

  Rebecca peered from Fionn to Sharon. They both had black eyes. She’d noticed but not really realized the connection before. Their eyes—the most trusted eyes in her life—were the same.

  “O’Flahertys have hazel eyes and red hair. Everyone knows that. Dooleys have black hair and black eyes,” Sharon said.

  “You related?” Rebecca asked, gazing from Sharon to Fionn, astonished to find their eyes were exactly the same color and shape.

  “It was your grandmother’s grandmother who had the black eyes, love, and she was an O’Fla—” Fionn said.

  “Your great-great-grandfather married a Dooley and that’s where the O’Flahertys got the black eyes,” Sharon corrected.

  “Are they always like this?” Rebecca asked, rolling over to sit on the edge of the bed and turning to Peg.

  “Always,” Peg answered. “Fionn came out first. He was quiet until she was born and they’ve been arguing ever since. No peace on the island until they left.”

  Rebecca laughed. Einin yawned and gave a little squeak.

  “Now look,” John said. “You’ve woken up my daughter with all your bickerin’.”

  Rebecca lifted Einin, the baby wiggling around in her arms as she stood. Her hair was black and her eyes were light. Her lips were pursed just like a tiny bird beak, and slowly a wrinkle appeared on her brow. With that worried expression, her friend’s daughter won Rebecca’s heart. She knew this child would always be like a child of her own. “She’s beautiful, Sharon.”

  “Aye.”

  A tear fell from Rebecca’s cheek onto Einin, but it wasn’t from pain. It was a tear of wonder. She watched it disappear into the yellow blanket.

  “How long has it been since I cried? And now look—I can’t stop,” she said with a laugh.

  Sharon smiled, her eyes shadowy and hollow underneath. The furrow on Einin’s brow deepened as her baby-bird mouth formed a frown. Rebecca smiled wider, remembering that face on Rowan. Even as she missed her daughter, she knew she held a daughter of her heart in her arms. Looking up, she found Sharon with her eyes closed. “We should go. You look so tired, Sharon. We’ll come back later.”

  “Aye,” Sharon breathed. “I’m in here until tomorrow night. It’d be a great help to me if you’d stay until I got home.”

  “You bet,” Rebecca said. She turned around and found Fionn right behind her.

  “You want to hold Einin?” she asked.

  Einin opened her mouth and cried.

  “Look, Sharon! He has the exact same effect on our daughter as he has on you,” John declared. They all laughed as Fionn took the baby.

  “Ah, you’re just like your mother, aren’t ya now? There’ll be no peace a’tall. Just temper and storm from now until the end of the end.”

  “I think she’s hungry, Fionn,” Rebecca said.

  “Aye.” Fionn bent over and slipped Einin onto the covers as he kissed Sharon’s cheek. “She’s a beauty, Sharon.”

  “Thanks,” Sharon said.

  “We’ll come back later,” he said.

  Rebecca headed toward the door.

  “I’d love you to do that,” Sharon said. “Oh, and Becky?”

  Rebecca turned around.

  “You need the keys to the house?”

  “Huh?” Rebecca cocked her head.

  “How’d ya get in the house last night? Mum and John were here.”

  Rebecca’s eyes widened, gazing from Sharon to Peg, who was smiling a devious smile. John chuckled as he stood up from his chair. He dug his hand in his pocket and extricated the keys, dangling them gingerly.

  “You don’t have to answer that one,” Fionn said, taking the keys from John and leading Rebecca out the door.

  “He has red hair,” Sharon yelled through the door as they made their way down the hall.

  “Did he play his fiddle?” John asked. Laughter roared out of Sharon’s room through the hospital floor. By the grace of God, the elevator door was open.

  Fionn and Rebecca spent the next day alternately between the library at Trinity and the hospital and helped Sharon home that night. For two days Rebecca stayed, talking with Sharon about babies, breast-feeding, sleeping, and C-sections.

  The next Friday morning, Fionn pulled up to the house to take her back to the island. With tears in her eyes, she climbed onto the back of his motorcycle, sad to be leaving Sharon but at the same time happy to be returning to the island and Rowan. Burying her face in Fionn’s back, she let out a sigh of relief, for even though she’d spent three days with Sharon, the subject of Dennis and Thanksgiving night had not been discussed. Her heart, though heavy with the memory itself, was lighter now for knowing she need no longer be afraid to see Sharon.

  CHAPTER 27

  Joe’s Magic

  Joe’s Magic [Template 5 Pattern 2 Dye Lot 1] Center Panel—A

  Celtic Knot/Tree of Life. Within, triple spiral at one-third and

  two-thirds of the way through the pattern. On each side of center panel, moss stitch to the column of lunettes (note small

  missed stitch at the top of each lunette, appearing like a whale’s

  spout), followed 24 repeat panel by single braid. Basket stitch

  used as texture at edge. Color—traditional fisherman’s blue.

  2. Understanding what cannot be seen.

  —R. Dirane, A Binding Love

  The periwinkle blue sky did not bother Sean today as he made his way into town to shop for dye. His mind was filled with mahogany. It was not a color he knew how to make, nor did he h
ave any dye that would create the particular brown in Rowan’s eyes. He smiled, remembering how angry she had been when they had first met. He took great pleasure at having experienced firsthand her righteous eyes close to his nose. Chuckling, he entered the town with Friday’s noonday sun just overhead.

  The bikes raced by him as he crossed the street. He was very thirsty but had no desire to step into the dark interior of O’Flaherty’s Pub. Rounding the corner to Hernon’s Shop, he found a line of tourists. Weary from the heat and the walk, he sat down on the edge of the stone flower bed that ran the length of the church.

  “Excuse me.”

  Glancing up, he found two young men on bikes stopped just to his right.

  “Aye?” he replied, pulling his hat back from his eyes.

  “Can you tell me where the fort is?”

  “Down the street, then left at Dooley’s, then right and straight south. You’ll run into it.”

  “Thanks.” The boys rode off.

  “Good afternoon, Sean.”

  Peering to his left, Sean found Father Michael standing just inside his gate.

  “Father.”

  “Would you like to come in and have some lemonade? Liz made it. It’s the best on an early summer’s day.”

  Sean was thirsty. “That would be fine,” he replied, extricating himself from the flower bed and making his way to the gate. Inside it, he found rose cuttings and weeds lying about the garden paths. “Cleaning your flower beds?”

  “I’ve a rose show Tuesday and I can’t decide which buds to use. Every time I make up my mind which colors would go best with my pots, I go to those bushes. But I can’t seem to cut the roses. Instead I just clip stray canes and pull weeds. Sit here.” Father Michael pulled out a chair for Sean at the small wrought-iron table.

  “What are your pots?”

  “Brass,” Father Michael replied, stepping up to his kitchen door. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  Sean took off his hat. The table was situated under a tree, providing a bit of shade. Rubbing his head, Sean glanced around the garden. The roses were opening to the sun, smiling warmly in their rainbow of color. The scent came to Sean as whispers on the gentle breeze that blew through the gate. Closing his eyes, he slumped back in his chair, wondering when was the last time he had sat down and done nothing but smelled the roses. It was a long time ago, to be sure. His roses kept dying after Claire left.

  “Father?”

  Sean opened his eyes. Maggie O’Flaherty stood at the gate, her face drawn.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed when she spotted Sean in the shade of the tree. “Good afternoon, Sean.”

  “Good afternoon to you, Maggie,” Sean said, standing up.

  “What’s happening, Maggie?” the priest asked from his kitchen step, holding two glasses of lemonade.

  “Have ya seen Rowan and Siobhan?” Maggie asked.

  “No,” said the priest.

  “Are they missing?” Sean asked, taking a step closer to Maggie.

  “They told Annie that they were going to listen for fishing secrets. We looked arou—” Maggie began.

  “Have ya checked Old Man Dirane’s dinghy?” Sean asked with a smile.

  “Anne Hernon went to the rocks, but she didn’t see them. She had to get to the Fitzgibbons’—”

  “What’s happening there?” Father Michael asked.

  “Mairead’s in labor.”

  “Ah! A baptism! My favorite!”

  “Me and Annie need to go help Liz and Rose with the birth. Anne’s left Hernon’s Shop to go get the Fitzgibbon children. Paddy and Eoman are in Galway and we called to have them bring the doctor. Liz says this will be a fast one for Mairead. I need to find the girls.”

  “You go,” Sean said, touching Maggie on the shoulder. “I’ll find the girls.”

  “Sean?” Maggie inquired, gazing down at the warm hand resting on her shoulder.

  “There’s only one place to listen for fishing secrets,” he said with a smile. “No need to get yourselves all wound up.”

  Sean walked out of the gate, leaving Father Michael and Maggie behind. He smiled wider as he realized he knew more about what Siobhan and Rowan would do than the rest of the village did. Looking back just before he rounded the corner to the docks, he saw Maggie and the priest watching him, their mouths bobbing up and down like fishing hooks in the waves. He chuckled.

  He came round the bend that led to the piers and was promptly engulfed in a stream of tourists flowing toward town from the ferry. Tucking his chin to his chest, the old man waded through the people, fighting like a salmon does when swimming upstream from the ocean. As he approached the corner, he heard a pipe, clear and smooth. It was Rowan. He had been right. As he came around the corner, he skidded to a halt.

  In the distance he could see the outline of Old Man Dirane’s dinghy on the rocks south of town, just where it was supposed to be. But right in front of him stood six-year-old Joe, playing on his little tin pipe.

  “Joe?”

  Sean’s little boy pulled the pipe out of his mouth and looked up into Sean’s face, his eyes wide and frightened.

  Somethin’s wrong, Da.

  “It can’t be,” Sean whispered, grabbing his chest as his heart palpitated.

  It was dark. Autumn had passed like a whisper of wind from the south, taking with it Old Man Dirane and the shanachie’s bright laughter. Sean would miss him, to be sure, especially after a winter’s day on the water. He looked toward the sea and there he saw Joe, who was but six and not half again as big as the lantern he held in his hand, standing still upon the shore behind their house.

  “Da?” the little boy called over his shoulder.

  “Aye, son.”

  “It’s dark.”

  “That it is.”

  “How will we find our way?”

  “When you’re as old as me, Joe, you’ll not be needing light. You’ll know the sea like it was just more of your own soul.”

  At least, that was as true as Sean could manage. If he had been one to tell his boys all that a man feels at every moment of his life, he would have mentioned that for the last eight days he had been a bit confused out on the water. The shipping lanes of the freighters had changed since the war, and their oil smell was bitter and black upon the waves, masking the scent of sea and land. Residual chaos left over from that conflict, it was. People’s lives were still settling, as the war had ended less than a year before. Stories of all the horrors still rolled across the news, creating a deep-seated, lasting fear, now that the world knew what one man could do to another.

  Fear was a feeling a fisherman couldn’t afford, particularly someone else’s fear. Terror brought panic and panic brought chaos and the last thing a fisherman needed was unpredictability. Fish were skittish and simple. To find them, the sea and the weather needed to remain immutable. Sean was a fisherman. He needed no change, especially with winter coming on—especially because he had a family to feed.

  “Something’s wrong, Da,” Joe insisted. “The waves aren’t right comin’ on the sand.”

  Sean looked at the surf. He couldn’t see anything but darkness.

  “It’s just the lantern light, son.”

  “I’m afraid, Da.”

  “No need to be, boy.”

  A small breeze brushed Joe’s hair and as it passed over to Sean, he could smell his little boy’s scent upon it. He could also taste a certain earthy flavor. That did not bode well. Turning north, Sean closed his eyes but found the breeze clear.

  “No need to be afraid, Joe,” he repeated.

  Matthew skipped up behind his father, chewing a bit of fish from breakfast.

  “Let’s get the curragh out,” Sean said.

  With his lantern in his small hand, Joe walked toward the boat, which sat upon the sand on its keel, ready to cast off to sea. Sean lifted Joe into the boat as Matthew pushed it into the surf. Taking up the oars, Sean and Matthew rowed out into the darkness.

  “Something’s wrong, Da.”

>   “What ya talking about there, Joe?” Matthew asked, laying into his oars to keep up with his father. His eight-year-old legs and arms had to go at double speed to do so.

  “Leave him, Matthew. It’s dark. He’s not been out in the dark.”

  “It’s not that, Da.”

  “Be quiet, boy,” Sean ordered.

  Pulling on his oars, Sean maneuvered the curragh north and west. The last time the moon was new, mackerel ran from that direction and he had every intention of getting to them before the Dooleys or the Diranes or the O’Flahertys did. He had caught the fish by watching their run change slightly the month before. The rest of the island hadn’t seen the shift, but Sean had, and he had returned with a full net when other nets came back empty. He knew they’d be watching him, and when they saw him they’d follow his bobbing light.

  “Da!” Joe screamed, standing up in the boat, startling Sean from his thoughts.

  “Sit down, Joe!” Matthew yelled.

  “Be quiet, the both of you!”

  “I hear them!”

  “Sit down!”

  “Can’t you hear them? They’re underneath us!”

  “Who? What are you talking about?” Sean yelled.

  “Wha—” Before his son could finish the word, a giant bump hit the bottom of the boat, raising the curragh clean out of the water and tossing Sean, his boys, and the lantern into the sea.

  “Da!” Joe screamed.

  “Da!” Matthew yelled.

  Sean went under, a slick sensation brushing his fingertips in the blackness. He was up again.

  “I’ve got the curragh!” Matthew shouted. “Where are you, Da?”

  “Help!” Joe sputtered, not far from where Sean floated.

  “Here, Matthew! I’m here! Hurry!” Sean yelled to his son.

  “They’re under me!” Joe’s voice was shrill with terror.

  “Hold on, boy!” Sean called, swimming in Joe’s direction. “Where are you?”

  Joe was silent.

  “Joe!” Matthew called.

  “Help!” Joe cried.

  Sean swam, the frigid water seeping through his shirt. He felt splashing to his left. Reaching out, he grabbed Joe’s hand.