Lost in Ireland

by Cindy Callaghan

  I asked, “Is your mom here somewhere?”

  Anna pointed to a woman at a table selling handmade sweaters. She was sipping a mug of something steamy. Two other women worked the cash box. “There she is with Aunt Mary and Aunt Colleen.”

  “Do they know about the surprise?”

  “CiCi explained everything.”

  “Did someone say surprise?” CiCi walked up behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist in a hug. Then she did the same to Carissa. “Is this one of your sisters?”

  “No. This is my bestie, Carissa.” CiCi hugged her again.

  “She looks like she could be a McGlinchey. Doesn’t she, Anna?”

  “Sure.” Anna squeezed a packet of mustard onto a pretzel and bit off a huge piece.

  “I need to find Quilly,” I said.

  “I don’t think he’ll come to something like this,” CiCi said. “He has issues with public places.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “We need him.”

  “Tell you what,” Anna said. “I’ll call him. I know exactly what to say.”

  “Thanks.” Before I walked away, I asked her, “Do you have any extra mustard for my friend?”

  “Sure. Sure I do.” She handed Carissa three packets. “You’re okay,” she said to Carissa.

  Carissa took the mustard. Under her breath she asked, “Why do I want mustard packets?”

  Quietly I said to her, “Just say thank you.”

  “Thanks!” Carissa exclaimed. “I love mustard!”

  “Who doesn’t?” Anna asked, and she slapped Carissa hard on the back, making her wince.

  We left Anna and CiCi, and I walked right into a familiar-looking woman who was attached to a big wooden tray.

  33

  “Honey!” It was the woman I’d been certain had been planning to bake me in her oven but instead had rescued us with a tractor. She’d tied a wooden tray to herself with straps around her waist and neck. It was covered with soda bread.

  “Oh, m’dear Meghan. How are you? How did you do on your search for those people?”

  “So much better than I ever hoped.”

  “I’m glad for ye.” She tried to reach into the pocket of her apron, which was difficult because of the tray on her stomach. “I have your gadget. It’s in my pocket. Can you reach it?”

  “My phone! Oh, yay! I really missed it.”

  “I was going to try to call you on it, but I couldn’t figure it out.” I was so happy to have it back. She also gave us each a loaf of soda bread.

  As we walked away Carissa said, “She was nice.”

  “Yeah. After I figured out that she wasn’t going to eat me, then I liked her.”

  “What?”

  “Long story.”

  In the distance we heard someone yelling, “Ah! Ey! Oy!” And then something flew into the air.

  “Let’s check that out,” Carissa said.

  It was pizza dough being tossed high and made into a flat circle. “I know him!” I exclaimed.

  “You seem to know everyone,” Carissa said admiringly. “You had a busy couple of days without me.”

  When Enzo saw me, he called out, “American girl!”

  I waved and went over to his table.

  “You wanna try my pizza?”

  “Sure,” I said. He put a slice on a plate for Carissa and me.

  “I hear that the hostess today is an American. Maybe someone you know?”

  “Well, I don’t know everyone in America. But I happen to know that person very well,” I said with a smile.

  Just then there was a tap, tap, tap on the microphone. A man in a tall green-and-white Cat in the Hat–style hat stood in front of everyone. “Excuse me.” His words bounced all over the top of the hill. “It’s time for the celebration to begin. It’s my pleasure to announce this year’s lucky hostess—all the way from the USA—from Wilmington, Delaware. Miss Meghan McGlinchey.”

  Everyone clapped for moi. I hadn’t really prepared a speech for this, but I stepped up anyway. I looked out at all the people in the crowd who stared, waiting for me to say something. Owen and Gene clapped and whistled. Carissa and Finn stood at my side.

  I said, “I’ve had a great time in your country over the last few days. I met new and wonderful friends that shared so much with me, so thank you all very much.” Everyone was listening—nothing like the school gym. “My father came to Ireland to meet his sister Colleen for the first time here today at this Spring Fling. But I have a very, very big surprise for him.”

  I watched his face redden and his mouth gape open.

  “Dad, this is your sister Colleen.” I pointed to the woman at the table. She approached him, and they embraced. Everyone at the top of the hill clapped. “But there’s more.” Colleen and Dad let go of each other. “You also have a sister Elizabeth and a sister Mary.” The other women at the table approached Dad and smothered him in hugs. The hill clapped and clapped more. Tears rolled down Dad’s face. “And all these people over here, Dad”—I pointed to a group of twelve kids and three men—“these are your twelve new nieces and nephews, and three new brothers-in-law.” The crowd exploded in applause the way that I’d imagined the school gym would with my election speech. “I wouldn’t have found these people if it hadn’t been for the kindness of all the strangers I met over the last few days. Thank you, Ireland. And welcome, spring!”

  CiCi and her dancing friends must have known that was their cue, because they began to jig on a rolled-out wooden floor.

  Quilly grabbed my arm as I stepped down from the podium. “Nice speech.” He handed me a pair of hard-soled Irish shoes. “Put these on. I’m deliverin’ you to the floor.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said shyly.

  “You want to do it the hard way?” He peered over the top of his sunglasses.

  “No.” I put the shoes on and followed him to the tapping sound.

  CiCi saw me and said, “Come on, come on, come on.” She pulled me into line with the girls, and when they stomped, I stomped. Before I knew it, I was kicking in step. Everyone clapped and cheered. The retreaters—now liberated—were the loudest of all. I looked up and smiled at all of my new friends and family who watched me dance.

  We stayed at the Spring Fling all day. Eventually, probably out of hunger, Eryn made it to the top of the hill. CiCi ran over to her. “Wait! Are you another sister? You look just like the McGlincheys.” She hugged Eryn, who really didn’t like to be touched. “You know, I think people get grumpy when they’re hungry. Come on!” CiCi dragged her away. “You need to meet Paddy Flanigan. He makes the very best cookies.”

  My dad was spoiled by three older sisters who had missed nurturing him through his childhood. I’d never seen him so happy. Aunt Elizabeth and Aunt Mary took the baby for the whole day, and my mom was finally able to jig a little herself. At one point Dad mouthed “Thank you” to me from afar. He didn’t say I was his favorite daughter, but he probably thought it.

  After a full day of dancing and celebrating, we eventually hiked down the hill and toppled into our saggy castle beds.

  34

  Saying good-bye to Castle Ballymore was tough. Saying good-bye to the people in Castle Ballymore was really, really tough.

  “I’m going to miss you guys,” I said to Owen and Gene. They smothered me in their burlap-smelling hugs. Both of them cried. They hugged Shannon even longer and harder than they had me. They pecked Carissa and Piper on each cheek and hesitantly patted Eryn on the back.

  My whole family and Carissa got into the airport shuttle. We found Carissa’s parents already waiting for us at the airport.

  “I’ll e-mail you,” I said to Finn.

  “And I’ll e-mail you back,” he said. “I’m so glad I met you, Meghan.”

  “Me too,” I said. He held my hand between both of his for just a second. I thought he might kiss me, but I guess this wasn’t my lucky day.

  Before getting into the shuttle, I gave him a ladybug. “Just in case luck is real, I want you to have
some of it. I have one too. They come in threes. And, well, Quilly has the third one, which is a little weird, but don’t pay attention to that part.”

  “Thanks.” Finn smiled.

  The shuttle drove away down the narrow, bending road, past the low rock walls and the fields of green speckled with white fluffy sheep. I glanced back and waved one last good-bye.

  35

  Six months later

  Saint Anthony’s feast day was a big deal in Wilmington.

  Americans didn’t celebrate with festivals, street parties, or random jams the way the Irish did. I had been in full-scale party withdrawal since returning home, so I counted the days until this Italian festival.

  It took up four square city blocks and was an amazing display of homemade Italian cuisine, from antipasto to ziti. Singers, dancers, and comedians occupied the many stages. There were rides, carnival games, and parades.

  This year it would be even more spectacular because we’d rented a section of the piazza for a party—a McGlinchey family reunion. My dad sat around a table with his three sisters. They looked at pictures, shared stories, and laughed. You could see the resemblance among them in the way they looked and moved. Even after years and oceans apart, they were family.

  My cousins were there too. They all waited in line with Carissa, Piper, and me for our favorite ride, the Cliffhanger. On this ride, you lay on your belly, and the machine lifted you up and flew you around like you were Superman. I loved it because I could see the whole Saint Anthony’s feast day event from up high, with the backdrop of Wilmington’s Little Italy. It was nothing like Dublin. It was home.

  The Cliffhanger lifted me, and I began to fly, totally free, with the mid-Atlantic summer wind in my curls. Carissa and I held hands until the wind was too strong. My screams caught on the air and sailed away, maybe over the ocean, maybe all the way to Castle Ballymore, to Finn.

  From up there I could also see the dunk tank that the student council from my school had donated. Each year the class president chose the color that we painted the tank. This year I’d chosen green. That’s right. I’d become class president. Carissa had demanded a recount when a fistful of ballots had mysteriously turned up under a rock in the school courtyard.

  BLING!

  Someone had nailed the bull’s-eye, and Avery Brown splashed into the tank.

  Finn.

  Not a day had gone by when I hadn’t thought of him.

  As I flew through the air, I scanned the crowd below, wishing he was here too.

  Suddenly I saw a flash of sandy blond hair.

  Could it be?

  When the ride ended, I ran ahead of Carissa. “Hey,” she shouted after me. “You gonna barf?”

  I ignored her and kept running.

  “Finn?”

  The guy turned.

  It wasn’t him.

  “Sorry,” I apologized. “I thought you were someone else.”

  Carissa caught up. “What’s up with you? Where are you going?”

  “I thought I saw him,” I said.

  “Him? Finn? Again?”

  “Yeah. But I was sure this time.”

  A familiar voice from behind me said, “Well, would you look at the time? It’s 12:10.”

  I turned and saw Finn. He was dressed like an ordinary guy in cargo shorts, a white T-shirt, and sandals.

  I stepped closer. “It really is you.”

  Carissa said, “Hello, castle dweller.”

  I gave her a look that said, Scram.

  “Jeez,” she said, backing up. “I’m going.”

  “I didn’t expect to see you,” I said, turning back to Finn.

  “Surprise!”

  I laughed. “Good one.”

  The band behind us started playing the newest hit from The Warehouse Boys.

  “I love this song!” Carissa yelled. She started dancing around. The crowd grew louder with the music.

  I leaned into Finn. “It’s really good to see you.”

  He took my hand. “I had to come here to ask you something that I didn’t get a chance to in Ireland.”

  The fountain next to us turned on, spraying water high into the air. Then a thousand little white twinkly lights wrapped around floral garland turned on. It looked like fairies carrying flowers.

  “What?”

  “Do you still think that letter was bad luck?”

  Then I had the best snow globe moment yet: Finn took my chin in his hands, closed his eyes, and gently touched his lips to mine. He held me tight. It was—how can I explain this?—awesome!

  Maybe that letter was pretty lucky after all.

  Pack your bags and get ready for another adventure!

  I’m a totally normal thirteen-year-old girl. For real.

  The problem is that I’m surrounded by weird.

  Dad said, “Come look at this one, Ginger.”

  He was talking to me. I’m Ginger. I was named after one of my mother’s favorite old movie stars, a lady named Ginger Rogers. (Mom is totally obsessed with old movies.)

  I walked over to see my dad’s latest contraption; he loves to try and make new things out of stuff around the house.

  I looked at this Saturday’s gizmo. “What is it?”

  “I call it the Drool-O-Dabbler.”

  “Uh-huh.” He had taken the plastic chin strap off my little brother’s football helmet. FYI, Grant—who’s also named after an old movie star—doesn’t use the helmet for football. He tapes balls of aluminum foil to it to help him connect with aliens that might try to talk to him. Although they never actually have; he does it “just in case.”

  I told ya—surrounded by weird.

  Anyway, Dad took the chin strap and melted it to pipe cleaners that he’d bent like candy canes. Then he stuffed the cup of the chin strap with wads of gauze, like from a first-aid kit.

  Dad hooked the pipe cleaners over his ears. “You can wear this to soak up your drool while you sleep. Or, I suppose, while you’re awake, if you’re the kind of person who drools when you’re awake. I would imagine there are people like that. And it keeps your pillowcase dry—or your shirt, if you’re awake.”

  “I guess it would come with extra gauze pads,” I pointed out.

  “Replacements? Sure.”

  “It’s . . . ah . . . great, Dad. This could be TBO.” He was always looking for TBO—The Big One. While I agreed there might be people who drool a lot in their sleep—and maybe even some when awake—I wasn’t convinced this was TBO, but it always made my dad smile when I told him that.

  “I’m gonna need you for the video.”

  “Of course.” I was always in the video. Usually my part was to say, “You know what you need?” Then I would say to someone, usually a part played by Grant, “You need a Drool-O-Dabbler.”

  Grant would ask, “A Drool-O-Dabbler? What’s that?” Then my dad would introduce the product, and a staged bidding war would begin. Well, “war” is a bit of an exaggeration. The highest bidder buys the Dabbler. The craziest part is, there are always people who really want his stuff.

  “Just let me know when we start filming,” I said, and went to let Grant know about our next acting gig.

  I knocked and opened his bedroom door. Until just recently, his room used to be our room, which was wrapped in posters of UFOs and extraterrestrials. I just had to get out of there. My new room is very pink and neat. I picked out every single thing in it: lamp, curtains, beanbag chair, etc. . . .

  “Greetings, earthling,” he said.

  I rolled my eyes. Some girls have brothers who burp; some have brothers who punch them. I have one who thinks he’s parked at my house temporarily while he’s in between intergalactic voyages.

  Yay me!

  Payton and I have said that Grant will be our first patient.

  Payton, BTW, is my BFF and future business partner—we’re going to be brain surgeons.

  “You’re needed for an Internet video later,” I said.

  “I comprehend.”

  “No duh. No
t like it was complicated,” I said. I didn’t know if Grant actually had a shortage of brain cells or if he had some type of cerebral condition that contributed to his whack-a-doodle behavior. I was about to harass him more, when the phone rang. I ran to the kitchen to grab it.

  “Hello. This is Ginger Carlson,” I said. One day I would have someone who would answer the phone for Payton and me, “Hello. Dr. Ginger Carlson and Dr. Payton Paterson’s office.”

  “Hello. My name is Leo. I’m Betty-Jean Bergan’s housekeeper. Can I talk to you about her?”

  This guy thought I was my mom. Probably because I sound so mature. People always told me that.

  “Uh—” I tried to interrupt, but didn’t succeed.

  “Your aunt has had another incident. It was serious. Dude, I don’t know what to do about her.”

  I asked, “What do you mean, another incident?” And why is he calling me (or my mom) “dude”?

  “Oh, my bad. I thought your hubs told you. I spoke to him the other day . . . about her behavior. It’s strange. Odd. Halloween without the candy. And today, well . . . she fell.”

  I gasped. “Is she okay?”

  “Get this, she wanted to climb the Hollywood sign,” Leo the housekeeper said.

  “THE Hollywood sign? The big famous one?”

  My mom’s aunt Betty-Jean (or ABJ, as I call her) lives in Hollywood, California. She’s my coolest relative: she’s beautiful, used to be an actress, and lives this totally glam life in Hollywood. I’ve always wanted to visit her, but she comes here instead of us going there. At least, she used to; it’s been about three years since I’ve seen her. Although I don’t understand why she would want to come to Delaware when she lives in California.

  “There’s only one Hollywood sign,” Leo continued. “She’s out of the hospital, and they said she’s gonna be okeydokey, hunky-dory, A-OK, but there’s something else. A sitch.”

  “What kind of sitch?” I asked.

  “The money kind. She has none. Zip. Zero. Piggy bank empty.” He paused. “The bank wants to take away her house.”