by J. C. Long
Oh God, I was going to be an awkward mess come Saturday. A bad thing, knowing this was definitely a bad thing. I considered myself a very socially aware person; I was outgoing and fun, usually, but as soon as emotions got involved, especially when it came to someone I might be attracted to, I turned into this bumbling, awkward idiot.
“Now that you know he’s gay, does it change your evaluation of the outing? Will you reclassify it as a date?”
“You think that two gay men can’t be out together without it being a date?” I challenged, crossing my arms over my chest.
Hannah blinked, alarmed by my implication. “What? No, I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t! Damn it. Fine, I’ll drop it. For now.” She grabbed the last slice of pizza and held it aloft for a moment, her meaning clear: the pizza was more important.
I thought about it for a moment and felt bad that I’d made solo plans so soon after I’d only just arrived—did she think I was bowing her off? “Sorry I didn’t ask you before I made plans. Maybe you could join us, if you’re not busy.”
Hannah waved my offer away as she devoured the pizza. “No need. Brendan will be in town this weekend, so I’ll be busy.”
I raised my eyebrows, interest piqued. “Brendan, huh? Who is Brendan?”
“My boyfriend,” she answered. “I’m getting a beer. Do you want one?”
I nodded, and she retrieved two from the refrigerator and passed one to me. “You said he’ll be in town. Is he usually not in town?”
“He’s from here originally—well, Ballymore Eustace—but he works in London.”
“How long have you been dating?”
Hannah narrowed her eyes at me over her beer bottle. “Are you just asking me about Brendan so I’ll stop asking you about Fergal?”
I shrugged innocently. “I mean, if you don’t want to talk to me about Brendan, you don’t have to. I just want to know about your life—grow our bond as a family.”
Hannah finished off her beer in another long drink and sighed. “Fine. We’ve been dating for four years.”
“Four years? That’s a long time! How did I not know about this?”
Hannah leveled me with an even gaze. “You mean because we talked so much before you came here?”
She had a point.
“Okay, okay, go on. Is it serious?”
“We’ve dated for four years, so I would say so.”
There she had me again. I was doing great in this conversation.
“Are you going to marry this guy?”
Hannah held up both hands in a stop gesture. “Let’s not get into crazy talk. We haven’t talked about anything like that, not yet.”
I plucked a pepperoni slice from my pizza and popped it into my mouth. “After four years, you haven’t talked about the future? I find that hard to believe.”
“Well, since we’re on the topic of the future,” Hannah said, hands on her hips, “let’s talk about yours.”
I winced. “Question withdrawn?”
Hannah shook her head firmly. “Nope. I’m genuinely curious. What are your plans?”
“Thinking ahead has never been my thing. I don’t even know how long I’ll be here, honestly.”
“And employment?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I always thought about going into teaching, but I haven’t taken the time to go back and get my Master’s in Education.” Talk of the future made me uncomfortable; it always had, no matter who it was with. The only person who could get me to even consider the future, something more than a few months away, was Mom, and that was through sheer willpower more than anything else. Dad gave up a long time ago because it always led to the two of us butting heads, and it just didn’t seem worth it.
“He’ll find his way,” Mom always said. Whenever she did, I would feel this churning guilt in the pit of my stomach and would have to take the time to consider what I wanted and where I saw myself. The problem was, I never saw myself anywhere. No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t conjure up a clear image of a future for myself. Now that I had to think of a future without Mom, it was completely impossible.
“What’s stopping you from doing that?”
I hunched my shoulders, staring down at the table, both hands clutched around my beer bottle, hoping she would read my body language and see that I didn’t want to continue this discussion. “I don’t know. I guess I haven’t found the right program that I want to enter.”
“Have you looked?” Hannah pressed.
“Can we just drop the conversation about the future already, please?” I took a drink of my beer more to buy silence than for any other reason. “It’s not really something I’ve done much considering about, given recent events.”
Hannah’s face softened. I felt guilty for using Mom’s death as a weapon in that way, but it worked for the moment, at least. “Okay, let’s not talk about the future—boring topic anyway. Why don’t we see if there’s something trashy to watch on television?”
“Will there be popcorn?”
Hannah looked at me as if I’d asked her what color the sky was. “Can you watch trashy things on television without popcorn?”
She quickly microwaved a bag of popcorn while I washed up the dishes from dinner. Chores complete, we made our way into the comfortably furnished family room and took seats on an overstuffed and surprisingly comfortable couch that looked like it’d survived the First World War.
When she put the television on, the channel played a news broadcast. For a moment I was confused; I thought I was pretty familiar with Irish accents, and yet I didn’t understand a word of what I was hearing. It took nearly a full minute for me to realize the whole broadcast was in Irish.
I looked questioningly to Hannah. She must have figured I would be confused because she had no trouble interpreting my look. “It’s law that the news be broadcast in English and in Irish—a way of preserving the language. At this point it’s a losing battle, but they’re trying.”
There was something comforting about listening to the news reports in Irish. I understood a bit of what I heard. I also noticed something else that I found to be odd. “Why are all of the reporters pretty young women?”
Hannah made a weird sound, a cross between a snort and a chuckle. “The only people who major in Irish language tend to be fit girls—don’t ask me why, I couldn’t tell you. I don’t know if anyone can solve that mystery.”
The next channel she flipped to had what looked like a sitcom; Hannah must not have liked it because she changed the channel quickly, then finally settled on a broadcast of Dragon’s Den. I was familiar with the American version of the show, called Shark Tank, but had never seen the UK version. The differences were quickly apparent.
“This version is much better than the American one,” Hannah commented, resettling the bowl of popcorn on the couch between us. “The American version has so much drama, so many people crying.”
I snorted. “Not to mention terrible puns.”
We watched the show until it finished, to be followed by some police procedural show that was halfway through its season run, which meant that I understood very little about what was going on. The men were handsome, though, so it was worth being confused to hear the sexy accents from the handsome men, who seemed to get shirtless every other scene.
Man, did the Irish know how to make television.
Caibidil 8
I DIDN’T see Fergal again for the rest of the week—he didn’t work Thursdays or Fridays. It was a busy time for Hannah and Aunt Gwendolyn too; shipments of books were coming in to the store, and Aunt Gwendolyn was preparing for a book club meeting that was held there one Saturday a month. I helped out on delivery day, stacking boxes of books and filling empty spaces on the shelves. When not there, I mostly kept to myself, reading the Dublin book or just riding around town on the bicycle Owen loaned me.
Thursday evening Fergal called Aunt Gwendolyn’s house to let me know he would arrive promptly at ten Saturday morning. I did my best not to th
ink about it, knowing that the more I did, the more I would overthink it and work myself up into a nervous state.
Thankfully Friday offered a nice distraction: Brendan was arriving in town from London, and Aunt Gwendolyn was having him over for dinner. Hannah made it out to be no big deal, but I noticed when she came downstairs at six o’clock that evening, she was dressed much nicer than she usually dressed for laying around at home. She wore makeup, had her hair up, and was wearing a cute sundress.
She caught my look at her outfit and raised a finger at me in warning. “Not a word, Ronan Walker.”
I drew my fingers across my mouth in a “my lips are sealed” gesture, then mimed throwing away the key.
“Brendan! Hey!” Hannah threw open the door and pulled the man on the other side of it into a hug. The hug quickly grew into a slow kiss. “I missed you.”
“I missed yeh too,” Brendan said, voice hinting at a few reasons he might have missed her. He started for a second kiss and then noticed my presence. He froze, eyes locking on me.
“Hello,” I said brightly, giving him a little wave.
“Oh right,” said Hannah, like she’d forgotten I was there. She stepped away from Brendan, placing a hand on his forearm. “Brendan, this is my cousin, Ronan.”
“Oh, the one from America, right?” Brendan reached out his hand, and I took it. He had a very firm handshake. “I’m Brendan. Nice to meet yeh.”
“Nice to meet you too.”
“Did I hear Brendan?” Aunt Gwendolyn called from the kitchen. The sound of her hurried footsteps heralded her arrival in the foyer. She beamed at Brendan, opening her arms for a hug, which he happily gave her.
Looks like Aunt Gwendolyn likes Brendan, I mused. It was a good thing too. As close as Aunt Gwendolyn and Hannah were, I couldn’t see Hannah having a long-lasting relationship with anyone that Aunt Gwendolyn disapproved of.
“Dinner’s just about ready,” Aunt Gwendolyn said, breaking the hug. “You three go on and sit down in the dining room. I’ll get everything settled and ready.”
“I’ll help you.” I started for the kitchen, but Aunt Gwendolyn blocked my path with her arm.
“No, no. You go on in there and sit down. It’s almost finished, anyway.”
I tried to make her see by my expression that I was trying to escape any chance of being a third wheel. I was sure Brendan was a lovely guy—he wouldn’t have earned Aunt Gwendolyn’s approval if he wasn’t—but how was I supposed to act around a guy I’ve never met who’s going to marry my cousin? Besides, I imagined that Hannah and Brendan would like some alone time.
Despite that guess, Brendan put an arm around my shoulder and led me into the dining room, Hannah following in our wake. “Tell me, Ronan, do yeh have any embarrassing stories about Hannah here?”
“Ronan and I have only met a few times, Brendan,” Hannah reminded him. She sat at one side of the table, across from Brendan, and I sat on his right.
“I guess I could tell you how she cried for days the first time she visited my family in America.”
“Hey!”
“Don’t worry, love,” Brendan comforted, patting her hand across the table. “I’d cry, too, if they made me go to America.”
“It’s not that bad,” I said, though I couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Well, actually, maybe it is, but still.”
“It definitely is!” Brendan had the tone of a man who was absolutely certain of his convictions. “Crime all over the place, and guns. Nightmare.”
“Oh, Brendan, you’ve never been to America in your life,” Aunt Gwendolyn chided gently as she entered the dining room with a heaping bowl of mashed potatoes and a juicy pot roast. “What would you know about it?”
“I know it’s dangerous,” Brendan insisted.
“Mom and I went and came back alive,” Hannah pointed out. “And Ronan has lived there for twenty-seven years and he’s alive. Maybe you’re overexaggerating a wee bit.”
Brendan waved his napkin in surrender. “Okay, okay, I can see I’m beaten. I concede. Three to one, not really a fair fight, though, was it?”
“You should know by now that Murphys don’t fight fair.”
Aunt Gwendolyn heaped each of our plates with potatoes and pot roast, and we set to eating.
“Hannah told me you’re from here originally, Brendan?” I asked to make dinner conversation.
“Ballymore Eustace,” he corrected. “Yeah, I grew up just a stone’s throw down the road. But even in Ballymore Eustace, the pub here is famous. Yeh won’t find better fare anywhere else.”
“Is that where you met Hannah?”
“I spent a summer working for Uncle Dick in the pub before starting with Mom in the bookshop.” Hannah gave a bemused smile. “Somehow I thought life in food service would be less demanding or stressful than a life in retail.”
“She lasted there for two weeks,” Aunt Gwendolyn scoffed. “Came home near tears one night—”
“Mom, I’m sure Ronan doesn’t want to hear this story!”
“Oh, but I do,” I said, leaning towards Gwendolyn, propping my chin on my hand and my elbow on the table. “Go on.”
“Like I said, she came home near tears one night because she took the wrong order to two different people and spilled gravy on ‘the cutest boy in town.’”
Brendan made a grunt that sounded offended. “You mean there was a cuter boy than me?”
“There were many guys cuter than you, and there will be many more.”
“Great boost for my confidence, love. Thank yeh.”
“I’m still with you, aren’t I?” Hannah smiled sweetly at him.
I had to work really hard not to roll my eyes. Aunt Gwendolyn caught my efforts and hid a smile behind her napkin.
The remainder of dinner progressed in a similar fashion, including me telling Brendan about Hannah’s crying at my house—she was not amused. Brendan, though, loved the story, deeming it “adorable.”
When dinner was over, Aunt Gwendolyn offered to bring out some expensive whiskey.
“Sorry, Mom, but Brendan and I have plans already. We’re going to go into Ballymore Eustace and watch a film at his house.”
Aunt Gwendolyn did a passable job of hiding her disappointment, but even I could catch it. “Oh, all right, then.”
“Sorry, Mom, it’s just….”
Aunt Gwendolyn waved off Hannah’s apology. “I understand—you don’t need to explain. You two go on and enjoy your night.”
Hannah kissed her mom good-bye, and with Brendan following close behind, they left.
Aunt Gwendolyn turned to me. “What about you, then, Ronan? Fancy a nightcap?”
The truth was, despite my Irish heritage, I didn’t much like whiskey. But Aunt Gwendolyn had already had one disappointment for the night, so I decided to suck it up for one glass, at least.
“I don’t know if I told you that I was glad to have you here, Ronan,” Aunt Gwendolyn said as she poured two tumblers of whiskey and placed one in front of me. The fumes reached me even from the glass, and my stomach gave a little flip.
“I’m happy to be here—thank you so much for letting me stay with you.”
“Sláinte,” said Aunt Gwendolyn, raising her glass.
I toasted her and sipped the whiskey slowly, letting it burn a trickling path down my throat.
“Want to tell me why you’re here?” Aunt Gwendolyn resumed her seat at the table, clutching the glass—which was now almost empty—in both hands before her.
I cocked my head, confused. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, why did you come to Ireland? I know your mother was always asking you to come, and I know the story of you deciding to do it, but why?”
I tapped the rim of the glass absently as I pondered her words. It was actually something I hadn’t given much thought once the idea had hit me. It had such a powerful certainty behind it that I just went with it. “I guess I’m running away,” I said at last.
“From what?”
“From�
�� myself? I don’t know. After Mom….” I felt my throat tighten and paused, taking another—deeper—sip from the whiskey. Liquid courage, right? “I was depressed. I mean, deeply depressed. I think if I stayed in America, I would have lost myself in it. I let myself get so wrapped up in my loss that it was the only thing I could see, the only thing I could imagine. So the way I see it, I had two choices—stay there and let depression destroy me from the inside out, or come here and escape.”
Aunt Gwendolyn stared at me intently for a moment before draining her glass of whiskey. “No.”
“No?” I asked, confused.
“No, you’re not running away from yourself. That depression wasn’t you, nor was the loss. I think you’re running towards yourself. This place is part of you, whether you’ve been here before or not. You came here to find that part of yourself. I believe you’re soul-searching.” She paused for a moment, eyes staring off at something over my shoulder, something only she could see. “Whatever it is you’re searching for, I hope you find it.”
With that she pushed her chair back from the table and walked out of the dining room, leaving me with her words.
“Me too,” I said after her retreating form, knowing she couldn’t hear me.
Caibidil 9
I WOKE up at seven thirty the next morning, which was weird because I was not a morning person. It was Saturday, and soon Fergal would be coming to take me into Dublin. My stomach was in knots. It was silly for me to be this nervous; it wouldn’t be the first time I would spend time with Fergal, after all. However, it would be the first time I spent time with him alone in a real social session.
By eight o’clock, no matter how much I tried, I could not go back to sleep and could no longer stand to stay in bed. I hopped up and took a shower, trying to stay quiet in case Aunt Gwendolyn was still sleeping. I assumed Hannah hadn’t come home the night before.
While I washed my hair, the thought of my meeting Fergal was pushed away by the memory of Aunt Gwendolyn’s words the night before, about running toward something, not away from it.
