Rain and Revelation (9 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Cold barges in with a gale force as Da leaves with Paddy. Shuddering, I lift my leg down and make room for Fiona on the couch. She plops next to me and sets the bottle of Jameson in the center of the coffee table. No doubt she took it from Paddy’s while he was here with Da. She flashes Hunter a wide smile. “Oh, bloody hell, I forgot the glasses. Be a love, Hunter, and get them from the kitchen.” Hunter goes searching for glasses. Jake sidles up next to Fiona, who is sandwiched between us. I shift closer to the arm of the couch.

As Hunter returns with the glasses, Fiona prattles on about how testy Maeve was the other day when she saw her at the chemist. “A real pain in me hole,” Fiona says. Jake kisses her rosy cheek and she giggles. Hunter looks bored. His eyes land on the pictures on the fireplace mantel. There’s one of Fiona and me in our princess outfits and another one taken on the last day of school. As long as I can remember, we dreamed of the places, imagined and real, that we’d go.

At some point we stopped talking of going away. We stopped talking about our dreams.

Fiona hands me a full glass of whiskey, which I take. It burns my nose and turns my stomach. I set it down. Jake offers Fiona a cigarette and lights it for her. Sucking it with her brightly painted lips, she inhales, closes her shimmering eyes and then exhales. Jake tries catching the lofting smoke into his mouth. Fiona lets out a high-pitched squeal.

After locking lips with Jake, Fiona untangles herself. “Oh my God. Darling, I almost forgot to tell you. The most dreadful thing happened.” Fiona sweeps her short fringe aside and drains her glass. Jake refills it, nearly to the top. “We went to Galway the other day. You know the store we love? The one with the great shoes. Get this…” Fiona pauses and waits for everyone to look at her. Then, with dramatic flair, she says, “The damn store has closed and now it’s a
Starbucks
.”

Fiona tosses her hands up, forgetting she’s holding the glass. “Oh, shite. Look what I’ve done.”

“I’m looking, baby.” Jake’s hand grazes Fiona’s shirt. “And I like what I see.”

They melt into each other laughing. Hunter gets up, goes to the kitchen, and returns with a hand towel. “Here,” he says, tossing the towel at Fiona, who makes no attempt to catch it. Instead, she reaches for the bottle of Jameson.

I lurch forward and snatch the bottle before she does.

Fiona stares at me, her heavily-lined almond eyes wide. “Do you want more, too?”

“I do want more,” I growl.

“Then take some and pass it here,” says Fiona, challenging me.

Mute and breathing shallow, I clutch the bottle.

Fiona pouts. She reaches for the bottle. I bury it further under my arm. Squinting her eyes, she says, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

My heart beats fast. I feel weighed down, as if sand gathered from the beaches along Clew Bay was bagged and heaped on my chest, crushing my breath. I can’t escape. My insides feel like a pressure cooker, churning and boiling. Ready to erupt. I fling the bottle. It crashes at Fiona’s feet. Shards of glass skitter to the corners of the room and amber fluid splashes all over the warped, wooden floor.

Fiona screeches, “Holy, shite. You’ve gone mental. What the—”

Glaring at Fiona, I shout, “Get out!” No one moves. Scooting to the edge of the couch, I grab my crutches. “
Now
.” Swiping at the bits of glass with the rubber tip of my crutches, I get my bearing and stand. Everyone stares at me, but no one says anything. Glass is scattered everywhere. No one offers to clean it up. No one offers to help me.

Instead, Fiona shrinks into the couch like a dog that’s been kicked. Jake wraps his spindly arms around her. I wait, thinking Fiona will know what to do, but she turns away and buries her head in Jake’s shoulder.

I’ve never yelled at Fiona. Not even when we were children and she cut the hair off all my dolls. Not even when she took my car without asking and left it at the side of the road outside a pub in Westport when she got a lift home from someone else. Not even when I found out the person she left with—and then slept with—was Mikey. Even with all that, Fiona was the one who helped me to escape the silence of my home.

A sour taste rises from deep inside and settles in my mouth. Gripping the pads on the crutches, I thump down the hall to my room. Even as I make my way down the narrow, dark hall, I think Fiona might come after me and ask what’s wrong.

I collapse onto my bed and smash the pillow over my face, overtaken by sobs. I want to scream, for them to go away and leave me alone. Yet I hold out hope that Fiona will unlock from the stranger’s arms and come into my room. I wait to feel her arm soft on my heaving back.

Finally, I lift my head and listen carefully. The wind has died down. There are low voices, but no words I can make out. Then there are footsteps crunching broken glass, and the door slams shut.

I’m alone again. A stranger in a place that once felt like home.

Chapter Seventeen

My bedroom is dark when Da comes home. First I hear him shuffle down the hall and stop at my closed door. One light knock. Then the door creaks open. Soft footsteps come toward me. I smell the cigar smoke on his jacket and whiskey on his breath as he leans over the bed. My eyes remain shut, my body still. It feels like forever that he’s standing there. Finally he turns, walks away, and closes my door. His scent lingers for a while, then evaporates.

When I wake up, Da is gone. Hobbling out of my room, I look down the narrow hall and notice Da’s bedroom door is open and his bed, normally unmade, is stripped. When I get to the main room, I expect to clean up the broken glass and Jameson, but it’s already done. Da’s jacket is gone along with his tackle box.

On the kitchen table is a scone from the bakery. My favorite. Next to it, scribbled on a piece of paper, Da wrote, “I’m sorry.”

I toss the paper and eat the scone.

Two months pass. The only person I’ve talked to is Maeve. Sometimes Granda checks in, but then he calls Maeve for the full update. Mostly, I stay inside, trying to build strength in my ankle and avoid Da. Fiona and I text, but have nothing to say. Nothing is the same.

Today, after weeks of grey skies and relentless rain, the sun shines bright. A warm breeze brushes my cheek as I stand outside the cottage, leaning on my crutches. The sunlight stings my eyes, which have grown accustomed to the dark cottage. I close my eyes and inhale deeply the sweet air. Warmth floods my face. I imagine my ankle strong and my legs carrying me over the beaten path overlooking Clew Bay and the Bunowen River, over each embedded rock and around each bend. I feel each breath rising from deep in my chest and escaping through my open mouth.

“Hey there.” A voice I don’t recognize startles me, and I almost topple over.

Opening my eyes, I see Hunter. He’s not wearing a jacket, just a faded t-shirt, jeans and hiking boots.

I muster a smile, and he strides over. His hair, cropped short when I first met him months ago, is longer now and the stubble that had shadowed his face is a well-trimmed beard.

He leans against my car and points at my leg. “Moving better?”

I stand up straighter to demonstrate that I don’t have to lean on the crutches for support. “Almost good as new.”

“I’ll be damned.” His eyes, the color of shadowed hillsides, are either laughing at me or pleased at the progress. I can’t tell.

We chat about how nice the weather finally is. He agrees that there’s no finer place than Ireland in the spring. He tells me that’s why he extended his time here. I don’t ask about Fiona, and he doesn’t volunteer anything.

I hear squeaking and, from the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Walters pedaling his three-wheeled bicycle down the road with Johnny perched in the wire basket on the back. A cigar dangles from his mouth. Despite the warm May day, he’s wearing a wool coat and tweed hat. He doesn’t turn or look in my direction.

Hunter asks if I want to walk down to the beach.

I grimace. “That might be interesting. It’ll take forever. What with the crutches.”

“I’m not in any hurry,” he says.

“You may be sorry you said that,” I tell him. My calloused hands grip the handles of the crutches and I start down the uneven road. Hunter’s boots crunch on the gravel.

Soon the road ends and a narrow path to the sandy beach begins. Large rocks border the beach. Hunter offers his arm and I lean on him as I lower myself to sit on one of the larger rocks. Wiping my brow, I look out at the calm water under the cloudless sky. Hunter sits beside me. With his well-shaped sideburns accentuating his high cheekbones, he looks like someone you’d see in a truck commercial.

“That’s the most activity I’ve seen since I got here.” Hunter points at the kayakers alongside the swimmers hugging the rugged shoreline. Another group of people watch from shore.

“They’re training for the triathlon coming up.” My gut feels hollow recalling my own unused wetsuit hanging in the closet. I squint and look for Ryan. Would he be part of this group or training on his own?

Hunter’s square jaw juts forward, and he shakes his head. “Seems stupid.”

“What?”

“A triathlon. Why put yourself through that?”

“It’s something to do.” My breath is still rapid and my leg throbs from the walk. “To push yourself.”

“Plenty of ways to push yourself other than swimming in frigid water that you could drown in.”

“That’s the challenge,” I say.

“I’d rather feel the ground under my feet.” He leans back on his muscular arms and stares at the cadre of people in the water.

The soft breeze off the water carries the blended scent of fish and blooming vegetation. Boats angle in the distance. I turn to Hunter, who is staring straight ahead like he’s trying to count the hundreds of small islands speckling Clew Bay, and say, “Where are you from again?”

“Montana.” His voice is low and deep.

“Never known anyone from there, Do you miss it?”

Hunter reaches down and pulls out a clump of grass and turns it over in his hands until the dirt falls off. “Some parts I miss.” He tosses the grass aside. “Other parts I don’t.”

He shifts and now his leg touches mine. He doesn’t seem to notice. I don’t move.

Several swimmers emerge from the water and begin unzipping their wetsuits. Propped against the rock wall close to the water are bicycles. The second leg. Today they are doing bricks, the back-to-back training to build stamina for the race. It was in the training program Ryan sent to me. I watch them transition from the water to the bicycles. Some wobble, trying to get their land legs. A few topple over trying to get out of their rubber armor. Hoots of encouragement and laughter rise from the support crew. I don’t recognize anyone.

“You miss
that
?” Hunter’s voice rings with either sarcasm or disbelief.

I nod. “It was going to be my first triathlon. It just would’ve been nice to see if I could do it.”

“I guess.” Hunter’s voice lingers on the breeze.

I recognize Ryan running toward us along the path. He’s gripping the handlebars as he runs alongside his bike. He’s getting ready to mount at the road. Shorts cover his lean thighs like a second skin. He focuses straight ahead, eyes narrowed with intensity beneath the visor of his racing helmet.

I sink back on the rock, trying to merge with Hunter’s shadow. Looking away, I imagine myself invisible, like a child playing peek-a-boo. I hold my breath.

He’s nearly past when he stops and turns to look at me. Breathlessly, he says, “Eliza?”

My breath escapes as I sit forward. Forcing a smile, I try to stifle the thumping in my chest. “Hallo, Ryan.”

His face contorts as he says, “You never returned my calls or emails.”

A tight band constricts in my chest. I look down, avoiding his penetrating eyes. “Yeah, well…Sorry. I’ve been busy.”

Ryan looks straight at Hunter. He looks like he might say something when one of his friends shouts at him to hurry up. He grips his bike and mutters, “Right.” Then he quickens his pace to catch up with his mates .

Many days I started to call him or respond to his emails or text messages, but then I’d wonder what he and Alex were doing at that moment. Enjoying a nice meal together? Snuggling on the couch watching a movie and sipping a French wine? I wondered why in the hell he’d bother calling. Except maybe he still felt guilty about the fall and break.

When I can’t see Ryan any longer, I hoist myself up, turn to Hunter, and say, “Want to get out of here? Go somewhere?”

Chapter Eighteen

The message on the home phone stops me cold. It’s Ma. She called while I was at the beach and said she’d try back, although she didn’t say when. Her voice is familiar, but distant.

I collapse on the couch and grip the phone to my chest. My heart is beating fast. Ma’s words echo in my head, “Wanted to catch you and say hallo.” It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what’s different in her voice. It is almost perky and light, like she’s leaving a message for a stranger.

“You okay?” Hunter sits beside me. I just nod and stare at the cold stone fireplace. The stack of peat next to it is gone. “You sure? You look pale all of a sudden.”

“It was Ma.”

He rests his hand on my shoulder. “She okay?”

“It’s the first time she’s called since…” Tears feel close to the surface, but I blink them back. I turn my face toward the hall leading to the bathroom.

“Fiona told us about your mom. I’m sorry.” Hunter says.

I turn the phone over in my hands. I want to listen to Ma’s message again, just to hear her voice. It suddenly dawns on me that Ma usually calls my cell phone, which is always with me. But, it never rang while I was at the beach. Had she really wanted to talk to Da and not me?

Hunter says, “Anyone ever tell you that you talk with your eyes?”

His voice startles me. I scrunch my face. “No.”

Hunter is looking at me intently. “You do. Horses do, too. You learn to look in their eyes and watch their body movements. It’s easy to miss if you’re not paying attention. Not like dogs. They yip and do as they’re told. Well, most of them. No, horses have a mind of their own and don’t care what people think. The problem is that they’re unpredictable. Until you learn to read them.”

I cross my arms and arch my brows. “So, you think you can read me?”

He says, “I’m working on it.”

Outside the American students are walking back to their cottages, laughing and talking loudly. The sun filters through the streaked windows. My eyes focus on the dust suspended in the air, caught in the light. I release a deep breath. “I was beginning to think Ma would never call.”

“Maybe she needed time.”

“I don’t know how to help her.”

“Why do you think
you
need to help her?”

“Somebody has to.”

“They are. At that hospital.”

“They’re not family.”

“Maybe that’s better.”

“I should be there with her. Not here.” Looking out the window, I say, “This isn’t my home anymore.”

Hunter runs his hand over the faded fabric of the couch and, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, he says, “Running away doesn’t help.”

“What do you know about running away?”

Hunter sits forward. “Maybe I thought leaving Montana would help.”

“Help what?”

“Forget. Figure out what I want.” He looks at the palms of his calloused hands. “But at some point I have to go home and deal with it.”

“What?”

“My girlfriend. Or she
was.
We were high school sweethearts and planned to get married after I finished college. Then her friend called me at school and told me that she had an abortion and wasn’t even going to tell me.” His face reddens and he clenches his fists for a moment and then rubs his hands together.

“Jaysus.” I turn to face him directly. His deep set eyes look sad. “What’d she say when you talked to her?”

“I didn’t. Told my folks that I needed to get away and then talked Jake into coming with me to Ireland.”

“Why Ireland, of all places?”

“My mother’s family came from Ireland a long time ago. It seemed as good a place as any. I wanted to get as far away from her as I could.”

Reaching over, I touch his muscular arm. “Maybe your girlfriend felt she couldn’t talk to you. I mean, it would be hard.”

Even though Hunter doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t acknowledge that I’ve moved closer. He mutters, “Not with someone you’re supposed to spend your life with.”

“Well, if I really didn’t want to have a baby, but I knew the father would want me to, then I probably wouldn’t tell him either.”

“That’s not fair. Or honest.”

“Maybe not. But a baby changes everything.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

“It would for me. It did for Ma.”

Hunter picks at his cuticle. He seems lost in thought. I touch his smooth, thick hair. He looks at me, startled at first, and then he pulls me closer. Musk rises from his skin. As he strokes my hair, my body melts into his. Our blended, shallow breath fills the space between us. I touch his leg. He pulls me tighter. Then he leans down and kisses me. Soft. Lingering. Then hungry.

There’s not much I hold back as I return his kisses.

Later, we lie together in my darkened bedroom while the night breeze tickles my exposed skin. I begin telling him about Ma. How I found her. How I was beginning to think she’d never call. Eventually everything pours out. I can’t stop it. I feel comfortable telling Hunter, who will soon return home, the story I’ve unraveled.

I hold nothing back, except…

I don’t tell Hunter that the man who talked to us at the beach was the one who saved Ma and was with me when I broke my ankle. I don’t tell him why returning Ryan’s call is hard.

I wait all weekend, but Ma doesn’t call back. I tell myself that I should have known she wouldn’t, but every part of me burned with hope that she would. I call St. Patrick’s Hospital on Monday morning, and they tell me that Ma is not accepting calls or visitors, then transfer me to Dr. Mary Kilkenny. The doctor reports that Ma is making progress. She says she wasn’t aware that Ma had called me, but promises to keep me updated.

Again, there’s nothing to do but wait.

I have just hung up from talking to Dr. Kilkenny when there’s a sharp knock on the door. It’s Maeve with the twins asleep in the pram. Maeve’s hair is pulled back tight and beads of sweat line her forehead. She looks past me. “Is your da home?”

“No. Why?”

“A damned pipe burst at the B&B. We got guests coming later this week.”

“Call him.”

“Don’t you think I tried? Where is he?”

“No idea. You’ll have to track him down. It’s been days since I’ve seen him, and I’m going to be gone a day or two.”

Maeve scowls. “Aren’t you a help.” She thrusts her double chin forward as she eyes me. “Where you off to?”

“A friend’s taking me to the doctor in Castlebar and then we’re driving to Galway and then, maybe to the Dingle Peninsula. He hasn’t been there yet.”

Maeve scoffs. “Let me guess. That American lad who is friends with Fiona’s new love?”

I can’t help smiling. “He’s very nice.”

“Just what you need.” Maeve sneers and turns the pram around. “Glad you’re having fun.” One of the twins stirs. She reaches down and pulls the blanket up, and he snuggles in. Under her breath, she says, “Never mind me. I’ll deal with everything.” Then, she strolls off without a backwards glance.

Retreating indoors, I finish packing. Hunter arrives within the hour and loads my car with our bags. As we’re leaving the cottage, Hunter says, “Aren’t you going to leave a note?”

“No. Maeve knows.” I grip the handles on my crutches and shuffle toward the door.

Hours later, at the clinic in Castlebar, the doctor proclaims my ankle fit for bearing as much of my weight as can be tolerated in the removable boot. Walking out of the clinic, I put weight down on my foot and pain shoots up my leg. Grimacing, I stop and hold onto the handrail.

Hunter holds up the crutches. “You can still use these until you get used to it.”

“I’m fine.” My tone is gruff. I wait a few seconds. My breath steadies and the pain ebbs. Then, standing upright and taking small steps, I limp to the car.

Hunter holds the door while I get into the passenger seat. On our way to Galway, I point out things of interest, and when we arrive, I direct him to one of my favorite places on the waterfront for a late afternoon lunch. The barman waves as we slide into a corner booth in the nearly empty pub.

My eyes adjust to the dark interior. Light filters in through the front window as we look at the menus. We each order a pint of Guinness, and later, fish and chips.

As we wait for our food, we make small talk about the antiques hanging from the ceiling and the pieces of memorabilia covering every inch of wall space in the musty pub. A man with grey, wispy hair peeking out of his tweed cap stops at our table, tips his cap, and says to me with a toothless grin, “Hello, gorgeous.” He winks and then shuffles to the bar.

Hunter smiles. “You seem to have a way with men.”

“Apparently so.” I sip my stout. It glides easily down my parched throat.

Hunter reaches over and wipes foam from my lip. “There. Now you’re perfectly gorgeous.”

I feel my face flush and notice his hands resting on the table. Large. Calloused.

“What exactly do you do in Montana with horses?” I ask.

“The typical things. Feed them. Ride them. Work with the guests.”

“Guests?”

“It’s a guest ranch. People—families mostly—come to experience horseback riding and hiking in the mountains. Been in the family for generations.”

“You’ll work there after school?”

“Someone has to.” Hunter grows quiet. I’m about to ask him more about the ranch when he blurts out, “I’ve been thinking about something you said. About your mom.”

“Oh?” I suspend the glass in front of my mouth.

“Well, you said that the Walters guy told you that he and your mother had a relationship when she was a student, but he was married. Do you know when their relationship ended? I mean, could he be your dad?”

“Hell, I dunno.” I drain my stout and push the glass away. “I’ve wondered, but couldn’t bring myself to ask. It’s all so feckin’ unbelievable. How can this be my life?”

The server brings the fish and chips with peas and a bottle of vinegar. She asks if we are ready for another jar. We both nod and she goes off to get it. For a while neither of us says anything. A group barges into the pub, laughing and talking loudly. The musty air envelops me. Hunter grabs my hand and says, “Don’t you need to know the truth.”

After we leave the pub, we linger around the waterfront for the rest of the afternoon and evening. A light mist falls. My mind stews over all that Hunter said. I barely know where we are even though I’ve been to Galway more times than I can count.

We stop often so I can sit and rest. Still, I refuse to go back to using crutches. Instead, I lie and say it’s not too bad and that the boot just takes getting used to. Finally, after a late dinner at a pub with loud music, I admit that I’m not up for driving and spending time on Dingle Peninsula the next day. I’d rather go home, where I can prop my leg and take something for the pulsating pain. Hunter agrees, and we walk back to the car.

Just past Galway in the direction of Louisburgh, a few large drops of rain splatter on the windshield, and then a steady drumbeat on the roof. Soon the wipers can’t keep up with the rain pelting the windshield and making the road barely visible. A wave of exhaustion washes over me. My eyes grow heavy as I listen to the wipers swishing. I drift to sleep. When I wake up, we are entering Louisburgh.

The streets are empty except for a few parked cars. In the shops and in the flats above the pubs, all the windows are dark. Our headlights funnel light toward the holiday cottages. A few still have lights on, but our cottage is completely dark. Because the outside light above the door is turned off, Hunter leaves the headlights on so we can see our way inside.

Pulling up the collar of my jacket to cover my face, I lower my head as I walk to the cottage without crutches. The pain in my ankle slows me down. The stone path, polished with the heavy rain, is slippery and the boot has little traction. By the time I reach the door, I’m drenched. Water cascades from my hair onto my face. I fumble for the key, unlock the door, and push inside with Hunter right behind me. One of Da’s boots lies in the entryway. Hunter kicks it aside.

The only light in the cottage glows from the fireplace across the room. The air smells of peat and cigar smoke. I’m trying to take off my soaked jacket when I hear Da’s snoring. It’s not coming from his bedroom. It’s close, like he’s on the couch. Then I see a movement in the shadows and my body turns ice cold. Someone’s on the floor. Crouched. Like an animal.

I feel around on the wall for the light switch and flip it on. Staring at me from across the room is Paddy, wide-eyed, on his knees. He’s wearing only his undershirt and socks. Grabbing a magazine to cover his crotch, he lunges for his trousers which are tossed over the back of a chair, yanks them down, and scrambles to put them on.

Hunter says, “Shit, man. What the fuck?” He reaches for me and tries pulling me in close so I can’t see anymore. But, I pull back. I have to look. I have to see.

Paddy’s got his pants and shirt on now. He’s shaking Da, who’s passed out naked on the floor.