Casting Off

by Nicole R Dickson

  “Da!” the little boy cried, clutching Sean’s gansey.

  “Matthew? Where are you?”

  “Here, Da. Where are you?”

  “Here.” The wake of the curragh pushed Sean under slightly. He grabbed the side.

  “It’s right side up,” Sean breathed, shoving Joe over the side.

  “I have one oar only,” Matthew said in the darkness, grabbing Sean’s feet, helping pull his father back into his boat.

  Sean lay on his back, looking up to the black heaven, silently thanking God. Joe crawled over and lay beside his father. He wept.

  “It’s all right, now. It’s all right,” Sean soothed, holding Joe to his chest.

  “You hear ’em anymore, Joe?” Matthew asked in the silence of the sea.

  “No.”

  Joe shivered in his father’s arms. Sean had to get the boys moving, oars or no, because they were wet and it was cold. Small bodies don’t hold on to heat like larger ones, causing sickness to take them, and Sean would never willingly allow the sea or sickness to take his boys from him.

  “You’re fine, Joe,” Sean said, sitting up with his son in his arms.

  “I’m afraid.”

  “You don’t hear the whales anymore, do you?”

  “No.”

  “So we’re fine. We need to find the oars,” Sean ordered, setting Joe on the bench next to him. If luck was with them, the Diranes or Dooleys or O’Flahertys saw the lantern before it hit the water, but Sean wasn’t one to believe in luck. He had to make things happen.

  “Which direction did you come from, Matthew?”

  “I think north, there.” Matthew’s finger was a silhouette on the eastern sky, the horizon hinting of dawn. He was pointing south.

  “That’s south.”

  “South, then. That way.”

  “You didn’t see the oars?”

  “Just the one.”

  “Then we need to find the rest. Joe, you go up front and look at the water before us. Matthew, you look on the sides. No one stand.”

  Seated at the back of the boat, Sean rowed south with the one oar. If there was to be any fishing today, they’d need the oars. As he rowed, he looked at the back of Joe’s head, nothing but a darker shadow in the early-morning darkness. Sean’s feel for the sea had been taught to him by his father and his father and his father before him. If Joe could sense a whale in the water from shore, that was nothing Sean had taught him. Perhaps it was just coincidence. But Joe had also heard the whales below the boat. Sean had never known anyone who could do such a thing.

  “Go that way, Da,” Joe said, pointing east.

  “You see the oars?”

  “No, but they’re that way.”

  Sean could just barely make out Matthew’s eyes as he turned around to look at his father. He raised his own eyebrows and shrugged.

  “All right, then.” Sean turned the curragh east, and sure enough, the three other oars bobbed on the gentle waves just over the horizon.

  “You’re good to have around,” Matthew noted, pulling an oar out of the sea. “Isn’t he, Da?”

  Sean nodded.

  Joe beamed, shining in the darkness.

  Joe was gone, as was his pipe on the wind. The old man’s heart was heavy and hurting. He shuffled down to the rocks and when he came to Old Man Dirane’s dinghy, he peered inside and found Siobhan and Rowan curled up together. They had fallen asleep in the warmth of the noonday sun.

  Sean stepped into the boat. He sat down on the bench behind them and buried his face in his hands, hiding from his past.

  CHAPTER 28

  Entwined Zigzags

  Entwined Zigzags. 1. Two zigzags knitted together, directly next to each other, in such a way that one is “zigging” down as the other crosses it and “zags” up. Sometimes one zigzag is on top as it crosses and on the next intersection it is on the bottom. 2. The struggle to understand.

  —R. Dirane, A Binding Love

  Fionn called Iollan. They could meet in Galway toward the afternoon. Grateful for his silence concerning Sharon and her red-hair comment days before, Rebecca held on to Fionn, letting his red curls, which peeped out from beneath his helmet, tickle her nose.

  The feeling of Einin’s little body in her arms was still fresh—a tiny, helpless person with her soft hair and her light eyes, wrapped securely in a blanket. Suddenly her thoughts about the baby were interrupted by a siren screaming to life ahead of the motorcycle. Rebecca closed her eyes, the flash of emergency lights beating against her eyelids.

  Kneeling on the glistening asphalt, Rebecca heard small whimpers escaping Rowan’s baby-bird lips as flashing red and blue lights pulsed in the fog.

  “Becky,” Peg’s voice called in the distance. “Becky. Look at me.”

  Peering up through the mist, Rebecca found Peg squatting before her.

  “Give Rowan to the paramedic.”

  Rebecca flicked her eyes in the direction of the young man in uniform, his arms wide to take her baby.

  “He’s going to take her with him,” Rebecca whispered.

  “He needs to look at her. We’ll go too. Me and you. Give Rowan to the paramedic.”

  Slowly, Peg reached into Rebecca’s arms and extricated the baby from her tight embrace. After putting Rowan into the paramedic’s hands, Peg wrapped her arms around Rebecca’s waist and pulled her up from the road. They walked together to the ambulance, and as Rebecca climbed inside, she glanced over and saw Sharon speaking to a police officer. Then Sharon turned toward Rebecca, her black eyes flickering in the flashing lights. She stopped talking, standing solid and immobile as a rock while the Pacific crashed far below. Sharon offered a small smile. Rebecca frowned.

  In the ambulance Rebecca sat opposite her baby, the tiny body covered by nothing but a diaper. The paramedic ran his hands gently over Rowan’s ribs.

  “Her hip popped,” Rebecca said quietly.

  The young man looked up at Rebecca. “Which one?”

  “Her right.”

  He put his stethoscope into his ears as he touched Rowan’s hip. She whimpered, her eyes closed and her breathing shallow. The ambulance lurched forward.

  “She’s cold,” Rebecca said. “The sweater saved her.” She glanced over at Peg. “It’s magic.”

  “Aye,” Peg replied.

  Dublin had been left in the distance when Rebecca finally pulled her face away from Fionn’s back and her mind from the past. They rolled into the same small town where they had had lunch six days before. Pulling over, Fionn disengaged the engine.

  “I’m hungry,” he said.

  “I—I want to get back to Rowan,” Rebecca said.

  “I know, but you need to eat,” he said.

  “I need to go,” she said, tears threatening. As he reached for her, Rebecca stepped back, shaking her head.

  Fionn let out a deep sigh. “What’s wrong, Becky?”

  “I—I just can’t.”

  “Can’t what?”

  Rebecca looked away from his black gaze up to the clear Irish sky. She saw that it was beautiful, but she couldn’t feel it. She felt only the hollow in her heart. “I’m broken, Fionn. I am,” she whispered.

  “No, you’re not. You’re hurtin’ from somethin’ that’s past. Gone. You’re just hangin’ on to it.”

  “I can’t let go.”

  “Come. You go fetch us lunch. I need to get something.”

  Rebecca followed him across the street and around the corner, wiping her cheeks as she walked. They stopped at a little shop with a red door. Fionn waved through the window to the woman behind the counter and she waved back, smiling.

  “You go in here and get lunch. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Pear and Stilton on a pita, please,” he said, kissing Rebecca’s cheek and trotting away.

  A tiny bell rang as Rebecca entered the shop. She stood staring at the woman behind the counter.

  “Everything all right there?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Uh—two pear and Stiltons on pitas, please?”r />
  “That’s a good choice.”

  Rebecca turned around, gazing at all the Irish keepsakes displayed on the shelves next to the door. There were sweatshirts and four-leaf-clover key fobs. Claddagh picture frames with the Irish Blessing sat beside small statues of Saint Patrick. Next to a pair of praying hands, she found several crosses woven of grass, each six inches in diameter. She touched one to see if was plastic. It wasn’t.

  “Saint Bridget’s cross,” the woman behind the counter said.

  “Saint Bridget?” Rebecca inquired.

  “Aye. Also known as Brigid’s cross.”

  “Breed’s cross.”

  “That’s how you say her name in Irish—Brigid.”

  “Breed. She’s not a saint, then?”

  “She’s the mother of us all. Well, was before Saint Patrick.” The woman glanced down as she sliced a pear.

  “Before Catholicism,” Rebecca said

  “Aye. He was the first to try and make us something we’re not. He tried to give us just ‘the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’ But we knew we had a Mother. Can’t take the Mother away. So, we just made her something else so we could keep her and keep him off our backs about it. Did the same with the English. Pretended to be something we’re not to get them off our backs till we could figure out how to get them out.” She laughed. “We’ve always known who we are, though.”

  Rebecca nodded, turning away as a lump grew in her throat. She hadn’t cried in so long, and now everything set her off. She took a deep breath of frustration. Glancing up, she found a Saint Bridget’s cross over the shop’s door.

  “Crossroads are never comfortable,” the woman said.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Crossroads. Being in the center of things—exposed from all sides until you decide what road to take. Very uncomfortable. Good to have one of those with you for protection. Brigid crosses are the crossroads. We put them at our doors and nail them to the roof beams for protection.”

  “Why the roof beams?”

  “Need somethin’ up there when there’s sparks comin’ out your chimney and the roof’s nothin’ but thatch.” She smiled and slid the sandwiches onto the counter.

  “Ah! My money’s in the bike. I’ll be right ba—”

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “I don’t?”

  “You’re with Fionn.”

  “He doesn’t pay?”

  “He usually brings me or my husband or our wee ones things from Dublin. Like bartering.”

  “I see.” Rebecca smiled and picked up the bag from the counter.

  “I put some blackberry tarts in there, too. It’s not February 1, Brigid’s Day, but since we were talking about her I thought I’d give you some of her tarts.”

  “Blackberry tarts are for Brigid’s Day?”

  “Blackberry anything is for Brigid. Oh, Saint Bridget. Since we were talkin’ about her, good to celebrate her.”

  “Thanks.”

  “See ya.”

  Rebecca looked up and down the street but found no sign of Fionn. She stood there a moment, wondering what could take him so long in such a small town. She decided to try to think like him. It was difficult, but then she chuckled and headed toward the next street. She smiled broadly when she turned the corner and found him sitting on the same grassy spot where they’d eaten their lunch the last time they came this way.

  “You were a long time about it,” he said.

  “I was learning about Brigid.”

  “Excellent! Have a seat.” Fionn patted the grass next to him as Rebecca lowered herself to the ground. Opening the bag, she reached in for a sandwich.

  “Here,” he said, holding out a small jewelry box.

  Rebecca’s mouth dropped open.

  “Go ahead.”

  Rebecca shook her head as Fionn took the lunch bag from her lap.

  “I—I ca—”

  “You need it,” he said, eyes steady and sure.

  “Need it,” she whispered.

  Fionn nodded. Slowly, Rebecca took the box. Fionn peered into the lunch bag and pulled out a sandwich. Opening the box, Rebecca found a small gold Saint Bridget’s cross. She started to cry. Fionn chuckled.

  “Does everything make you cry?” he asked, reaching for the box. He pulled the necklace out and undid the clasp.

  “Apparently,” she replied hoarsely.

  “I thought maybe you could use this. You held on to me so tight I couldn’t breathe comin’ out of Dublin, I figured you needed something for protection.” He placed the cross around her neck. She lifted her hair as he fastened the clasp.

  “Now I see you’re at the crossroads. So you need this double. You’ll need to either let go or not. Can’t find home if you’re blowin’ away.” He kissed her neck.

  She peered into his black eyes, tears pouring from her own. She didn’t want to blow away anymore, but she didn’t know how to stop.

  “You gotta breathe to stop cryin’. Breathe down here,” Fionn said, touching Rebecca’s stomach. “Push your stomach out when you take in a breath. My dad says that’s the best way to get air. When you row a curragh in a storm, you’ve got to get a lot of air. Fishermen breathe like that.”

  Rebecca pushed her stomach out as she breathed in. “That’s hard.”

  “But you can do it.”

  Rebecca breathed as Fionn gazed back down in the bag. He grinned. “We have blackberry tarts. My favorite.”

  Fionn hummed as he ate. Rebecca ate a little, but breathed more. Every time she looked at him, she started to cry and she had no idea what the problem was. When she put her unfinished sandwich down, he picked it up and handed it back to her, nodding for her to have more of it. He didn’t argue, though, when she said she didn’t want her blackberry tart. He ate both of them, and when he stuck the last morsel into his mouth, he stood up, offering his hand, which Rebecca gratefully took, and together they climbed back on the motorcycle. Rebecca leaned into Fionn’s back. Left to herself, she found her mind racing back to California and Thanksgiving night and sirens and babies. Now and then, Fionn would lift her palm from his chest and kiss her fingers, bringing her back to Ireland. Then he’d tuck her hand into his jacket pocket and hold it there a while, warming it.

  By the time they entered Galway, it was late afternoon. Iollan’s boat rested at the docks and when they pulled up to it Rebecca got off the bike. Fionn did not.

  “You’re not coming back to the island?” she asked.

  “I need to get back to work.”

  She handed him her helmet.

  “Almost time to go,” Iollan said, grabbing Rebecca’s backpack from the bike as he went by.

  “Fionn?”

  “Yes, Becky.”

  “Thanks for—the cross.”

  “You need it.”

  Rebecca nodded, heading to the boat. She stopped and turned around, swallowing hard.

  “Breathe,” he said.

  She took a deep breath, and then, instead of her feet turning her around to the boat, they walked her back to the bike. She kissed Fionn and hugged him. He hugged her tightly.

  “Thanks for holding on to me today,” she whispered in his ear.

  “I have you,” he said in her ear.

  Quickly, Rebecca let go and trotted onto the boat. Iollan and his partner pulled in the metal plank from the dock.

  “See ya, Fionn.”

  “See ya, Iollan.”

  Fionn stared up at Rebecca. He wasn’t smiling.

  “Bye, Fionn.”

  “Bye, Becky.”

  The boat pulled away from the dock and Rebecca waved. Fionn waved back. She stepped over to the bench and sat down. The wind caught her hair and the cry of a gull overhead brought her attention to the sky. Something was wrong—very wrong. She felt a crushing pain in her chest, and clutching her heart, she was up, running to the back of the boat, looking to the shore, and there, still standing on the pier, was Fionn. She waved again. He waved back.

  Rebecca watche
d Fionn grow smaller and smaller, waving now and then. He waved in return until he was nothing but a tiny red reflection in the distance. Rebecca didn’t leave the stern, even when Fionn and the mainland disappeared. Her hand pressed the cross to her heart and as the boat headed west, she stared east and wept.

  CHAPTER 29

  Diamond/Basket Within

  Diamond/Basket Within. 1. A diamond pattern with the basket stitch within. 2. A place where intentions are honest, though an injury occurs. 3. An apology. 4. Morahan—a family of the island that usually knits this pattern into their ganseys.

  —R. Dirane, A Binding Love

  Theocean surf rolled into the rocks, but only little rivers of salt water crested into the small tidal pools, flowing over the living creatures that found a home within their secure boundaries. Sean sat for a long while, watching the girls sleep. When he could take his thirst no longer, he reached down and shook Rowan. The little girl rolled over and looked up at him.

  “I saw my dad,” she said sleepily.

  “Did ya now?”

  “Aye. He was singing with the mistle thrush.” She started to cry.

  Sean watched the tears pour from her eyes, the color of her irises turning slightly redder. “I’m sure he’s fine,” Sean said quietly.

  Rowan stood up and crawled onto Sean’s lap. He jerked back a little as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He grasped the bench, steadying himself, less from her weight than from his own emotions. No one had held on to him in more than forty years. Carefully, he lifted his left hand and rubbed Rowan’s back.

  “Shh, there now, girl. Nothin’ to worry about. Your da’s probably buying you a doll, waiting for you to get back.”

  “I don’t think so,” Rowan mumbled in his neck.

  “All das miss their wee ones when they’re away.”

  Rowan lifted her head and looked into Sean’s face. “You miss your sons?”

  Sean swallowed and nodded his head. He changed the subject. “So, you hear from Old Man Dirane?”

  “Siobhan did. He said that the south wind is magic. It was a south wind that brought him home to these rocks.”