Devil's Mountain (3 page)

Seamus’s old cat was the only creature to accompany me to my car. I nuzzled his ears before I opened the boot and retrieved my bags. I brought them inside and hung the sensible navy blue dress I’d worn to Bobby’s wedding in the wardrobe. Next to Nellie’s sparkly mother-of-the-bride dress, I’d looked like a poor relation. But I hadn’t wanted Him to get suspicious if He’d heard I’d been shopping at Nolan’s Dress Shop in town. Fool that I am, I shouldn’t have bothered. I should have worn what I wanted. I’d pay the price tonight anyway.

But despite Him, I escaped to New York to see my beautiful Bobby and his plain wren of a bride. Plain, but good-hearted. Unlike the mother. Please God, they’d be happy together. And safe.

I wrapped the navy pumps in paper and placed them in an old shoe box. Those shoes likely wouldn’t go farther than Kilvarren town now. At least they’d gotten a chance to dance in New York. To dance with my son and my sweet, sweet Paul. My Paul, and only mine. Nothing He did to me tonight could take that away. Nothing.

The bed my grandfather had made for my grandmother as a wedding gift beckoned me. I suddenly felt tired. And old. No matter what He and the magic had done to my face, to the outside of my body, these sixty year old bones get tired. I slipped under my mother’s eiderdown and released myself to the sweet oblivion of sleep.

* * * *

I pulled the long red cape close to me. Its ancient wool protected me from the strong damp wind that whipped along the fields. My mother’s shoes pinched as I made my way along the pitted lane. In the distance I could hear the mournful lowing of Seamus’s brown heifers. A black rook flew before me, beckoning me along the lonesome lane.

I turned right into the copse of trees and followed the narrow path. The thicket blocked all but a trickle of light. The dark woods that had frightened me as a young girl enveloped me, embraced me now in its cold arms.

In the clearing before the foot of His cave was a fire and beside it, a carved table. On the table was a roast pig and two goblets filled with an amber liquid. Behind me a rush of wind lifted my cloak.

“My love.”

I turned around.
Slanaitheoir
took my hand in His strong one. The blood roared in my ears. This apparition,
Slanaitheoir’s
most beautiful, most cruel. He stood over six feet, His broad shoulders draped in a golden silk tunic. His bright green eyes danced with desire and malice.

Despite myself, my cheeks burned. I lowered my eyes, suddenly shy, unable to face Him.

“My lord.”

“Come, my love. See what I have prepared for you.”

He led me to the fire and removed the cloak from my shoulders. I covered my chest, aware that my thin silk sheath offered little protection from His probing gaze. He laughed.

“You hide yourself from me? My sweet child. Please, sit down. Eat. I know you haven’t feasted in many days.”

How? How did He know my every move? With my stomach in knots since I’d left for New York, I hadn’t eaten more than tea and toast for days. Suddenly ravenous, I devoured the meal before me.

The meat, succulent and unlike anything to be found in Dorothy Collins’s butcher shop, almost called to me. Its sweet juices ran down my chin, and I, like an animal, tore the pig’s flesh.

His lordship joined me as we cleared the table of meat and mead.

When we were sated, He led me to the fire. We sat on the finest furs. “My love, I’ve missed you. Tell me, tell me about your trip.” His eyes, soft now and tender, glowed in the firelight. His fingers burned my skin as He stroked my hand.

And I told Him. Everything. How Nellie called me a witch, how my sweet Paul held me in his arms and cried. The beautiful creature before me entranced me, bewitched me, and I burned with love for Him. With desire.

He laughed softly. “My love, why do you leave, when you know the world will only cause you pain? I am all you need.”

The buzzing in my ears grew louder, and all I could think about was His strong arms. His musky scent--old, as old as the earth. Why do I leave Him? Why do I fight Him? I fell into His eyes and could see our past, the past of all the Devlin women. My skin was on fire and I didn’t stop Him when he ripped the thin sheath from me, scattering the pearl buttons on the ground. He parted my lips and I yielded. I closed my eyes. I loved Him. Oh, God forgive me, how I loved Him.

He pulled my hair and His lips left mine. I heard before I felt the tearing of my cheek’s tender flesh. I opened my eyes and could see His hand was now a claw. Warm blood fell onto my breast.

He dragged me to the entrance of the cave. He smiled. “It is time, my love.”

* * * *

Seamus’s cat licked my face. I tried to open my eyes, but they were slits. I didn’t need to see where I was. I knew He had left me under the hawthorn tree. Every inch of me screamed in agony. The wool cape, carefully draped over my naked body, was like lead, heavy with the early morning rain. And my blood.

I struggled to sit up. The cat meowed at me in concern. My arms, too weak to support me, collapsed and I fell back into the mud. The morning drizzle continued, as if to cleanse me from the previous night’s sins.

The cat cried, as did I, as helpless as a kitten. When I could cry no more, I slept.

The ground shook from the distant rumble of cattle. The sharp bark of the dogs erupted above the mournful lowing of the cows. I opened my eyes and in the distance saw a tall figure. I croaked out a greeting.

“Move on, you whore,” Seamus shouted to an errant heifer. I called out again. He turned toward me, his green eyes, eyes common to the Mountain families, shone through the gloom like a beacon.

He strode through the mud. I groaned in agony, and relief. Seamus gathered me in his strong arms, unsurprised to see me in my usual spot, unfazed by my injuries and my nakedness.

“You poor woman,” he murmured as he carried me through my garden gate. “You poor, poor woman.”

Chapter 3

Caroline

“Of course, I understand,” I said into the phone, struggling not to cry. “I’ll stop the shots immediately.”

“Mrs. Connelly, I am sorry.” For once, a bit of warmth broke through Dr. Feinberg’s cool reserve. “I thought with the new drug regime you’d have a better result this time.”

“Me too. When should I start another cycle? Next month?”

He was silent for a moment. I stared vacantly out the apartment’s window and barely noticed the hum of the Park Avenue traffic below. “We generally don’t recommend more than four cycles. With your poor response, I can’t recommend you continue. I think it’s time to consider other options.”

Numb, I asked without inflection, “Other options?”

“Donor egg, donor embryo, adoption.”

“No, no,” I said, suddenly frantic. “I want my own baby. I need to have my own baby.”

“Many of my patients use third party options to build their families.”

I could see a woman struggle to fold her stroller into a waiting cab on the street below.

“There must be something else we can try. More drugs. There have to be different drugs. A second opinion?”

“Mrs. Connelly,” Dr. Feinberg said, the cool professional remove creeping back into his voice, “we’re the foremost fertility clinic in the country. I can certainly provide you with the names of some other fine centers here in New York, however, I’m afraid their opinion will be the same as mine. You were on the highest dosage permissible by the FDA. We did everything we could. Unfortunately, IVF can’t help everyone.”

“I’m only thirty-one!”

“I know, and I’m sorry. Call the office and make an appointment if you want to explore donor eggs.”

Pointless. Arguing with him was pointless. “All right, Dr. Feinberg,” I choked out.

“Thank you.”

The midday sun from the window blinded me, and I closed the heavy custom made curtains. I sank into the couch, unable to think what to do now that my precious embryos had disintegrated in my useless womb.

Bobby wasn’t due back from Brazil until this evening. I had no job to go to, since we’d decided six months ago I should quit. We blamed my infertility on stress, although to be honest, my job as an assistant marketing director at the small advertising firm was hardly stressful. I’d gladly given it up and immersed myself in all things related to Project Baby.

I’d taken up yoga. I’d drunk vile shots of wheatgrass at least twice a day. We only ate organic meats. Bobby wore boxers. I’d cut back on dairy, but later read an article saying dairy increased IVF success, so I drank two glasses of organic milk a day. I meditated. I’d gone back to church and lit candles after Mass. I’d visited the store-front psychics that lined Lexington Avenue. I’d joined an online chat-room for other Manhattan Wanna-Be Moms. I went to acupuncture three times a week. And of course I’d turned myself into a human pincushion with upward of five shots a day whenever we were “cycling.”

And poor Bobby had stood by, bewildered. He’d bought flowers and chocolates whenever we’d gotten bad news and paid the clinic’s astronomical bills without complaint. He was unfailingly optimistic, a saint, really. I didn’t deserve him.

After our last failure I offered to let Bobby go, divorce him or file for an annulment.

Allow him to find a woman, a real woman, who could give him what he wanted. What he deserved.

That was the only time he’d become angry, really angry. “Don’t you know, Caro? Don’t you know how much I love you?”

I was an empty husk at that point, past caring about anything. I’d stared at him like a zombie. “Why? I’m nothing. I don’t have a career, I’m not much to look at. Don’t you see how women look at you? You would have no problem finding someone new.”

“I don’t want someone new.” He’d pulled me into his arms. “You’re my life, Caroline, you’re my life.” After a long weekend in East Hampton he’d convinced me not to lose hope, to try again. For all the good it had done.

The phone rang. I grabbed it, hoping against hope it was Dr. Feinberg calling back to apologize, to tell me the test results had been mixed up and that I really was pregnant. It was a telemarketer. I took the phone off the hook and retreated to my bed.

Later, I stared out the window and watched the evening parade of taxis fly by. I didn’t even hear Bobby walk up behind me. He encircled me with his strong arms and nuzzled my ear.

“I missed you, sweetheart.”

In a voice still rough from my earlier sobs, I choked out, “I missed you too.”

He spun me around. His green eyes were filled with concern. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Dr. Feinberg called. It didn’t work. We’re out of options.”

“No, don’t say that, Caro. We’ll try another doctor.”

“They’re the best. It’s no use. There’s no way I’ll ever be able to have my own baby.”

“Caro, you’ve done all you could. When I think about what you’ve put your poor body through... Maybe the doctor’s right. Maybe we need to stop.”

I turned away from him and looked out the window again. “I’ll die, Bobby. I’ll die if I don’t have a baby.”

“Would it really be so bad if it was just us? We have a wonderful life and you’re all I need.” His arms encircled me again and he buried his face in my hair. “Aren’t I enough for you?”

Years later, I would torture myself, remembering my response. How I wished I could go back in time and say to him, “Yes, my love, you are all I need. All I’ll ever need.” But I was caught up in my quest for a baby. As if in a fever, the desire burned through me. Instead of pledging my love to him, I broke out of his arms. “If I don’t have a baby, I don’t want to live.

* * * *

A week later, my mother stripped the covers off my bed and flipped on the overhead light.

“Get up, miss. It’s after eleven o’clock.”

I pulled the sheet over my head. “Give me ten more minutes.”

“You’ll get up, and you’ll get up now.” She pulled the sheet off me. My mother was wearing her typical going-to-the-city outfit: skirt, heels, lipstick. I was wearing a grubby old nightgown that hadn’t seen a washing machine in I didn’t know when.

I rubbed my eyes. “How did you get in here, anyway?”

“I spoke to Bobby last night and he left a key for me down with the doorman. Have you any idea what you’re putting that poor man through?”

“Oh, now you’re a Bobby fan?”

“Caro, you know I’ve never blamed him for his family. Once you’d decided to marry him, I tried to make the best of it. In a way, I’m quite fond of Bobby.”

I came out from under the sheet. “You’re right, Ma. I’m sorry.”

“I know I’m right. You insisted on marrying him, despite the risks. Now you have to pay the price.”

I sat up. “How is it Bobby’s fault my ovaries are the size of raisins?”

“Oh, nonsense. My mother had ten children. I could’ve had ten if your father was up for it. You’re not the problem, love.”

“The New York Infertility Institute would disagree with you there.”

“Doctors don’t know everything. Now get up. I cooked bacon and eggs in that showplace you call a kitchen. It’s a thing of beauty. Aside from warming up take-out, do you people ever cook in there?”

“Hand me my robe,” I said in defeat.

I hadn’t eaten much the last few days. I hadn’t drunk much either. I’d slept as much as I could and intermittently popped the mystery pills one of my fellow Wanna-Be Manhattan Moms had dropped off after she heard my news. Unable to face Bobby or the seeming emptiness of my life, sleep had become my best friend.

I shuffled into the kitchen, wearing Bobby’s too big slippers. My mother had invaded my sterile kitchen and filled it with the thick smell of bacon. Despite myself, my mouth watered and I soon found myself polishing off a second helping of eggs.

“Bobby wants to take you to Ireland,” my mother said in a tight voice.

I poured myself another cup of the strong Irish tea she’d brought with her from Westchester. “I don’t want to go anywhere. I don’t want to do anything.”

“He wants to take you to Kilvarren, to the Mountain. Thinks the fresh air will do you good.”

“Absent an ovary transplant, nothing will do me any good.”

“You’re disappointed.” She took my hand. “You must feel desperate. Caro, I know what it’s like to be desperate.”