Rosewater and Soda Bread (35 page)

She felt alone all the time.

That was one of the questions she had decided to ask: why she felt so lonely, even now, with someone looking after her. The woman, Estelle, had told her that any question she asked while walking would be answered by the time she found the center. But she wasn't so sure this was true, especially as she could not find her own center. She had lost her compass last year, and now knew not where to begin.

She looked out onto the valley. The fields had taken a soaking in the past hour, but it had not deterred four Jersey cows from congregating in the next hollow, wet and luxurious in patches of dandelion.

A weed to many, the dandelion. Though she knew better than
to disregard the bright yellow petals: roasted and grated, an infusion of the peppery plant strained all impurities from the blood—bar of course the one impurity she could find no potion for, the hurt she had already caused to those who loved her.

And to the baby below her navel.

The girl stopped at the paths center stone. One more step and she'd be in the middle of the meditative circle, where Estelle said she would know. Know what to do about all her sadness. The kind lady had not asked her any questions, even after their sessions in which Estelle had seen, despite all Teresa's efforts, one of her most beloved childhood memories: the day of her confirmation.

She had known she was transferring her memory of that day, that glorious morning when her mother had helped her change into her white dress and veil, her pearl rosary wrapped around her ten-year-old wrist; sometimes there was no way of stopping the memories. But the kind widow had needed her hands, needed some healing as soon as possible. It was the least she could do to thank Estelle for saving her, for taking her in from that sea, from the death of her baby.

She stayed still on the limestone square. She lifted her hand to her center. The pain there was no longer unbearable, and every day she felt stronger. She didn't deserve a second chance, but a second chance she was still getting. He had said he loved her in Irish.
Ta gra agam ort
. He had said he loved her but had left as soon as he heard about their baby. She pressed her hand against her belly. They could heal others, her fingers, but not her own soul.

She lowered her hand and stepped forward.

THE RED LAVAZZA SIGN
blinked with a sleepy, almost reverent glow as Sophia Loren blew them a kiss from her cupboard marquee.

Marjan looped her forefinger in the handle of a mug of hot tea and smiled. Across from her sat Estelle, grinning with a benevolent light; the older woman had not stopped smiling since Sean McNully had entered her cottage nearly an hour ago. So delighted was she with father and daughter reuniting that every few moments were punctuated by chuckles and snapshots of her married life.

“Today I am so happy it is almost like Luigi is alive again. You know, I think I could even climb a big elephant, I feel so young!” Estelle lifted her hands above her head and laughed. She licked her sugary lip. “I can hear them talking. Can you hear talking?”

Marjan cocked her ear toward the hallway; a gentle murmur of voices, two voices, emanated from the closed bedroom door. Sean had been in there for nearly the entire hour.

“I didn't know if she—Teresa I mean—would be happy. But it was important to bring her father here, wasn't it?” Marjan turned to Estelle.

The widow nodded. “Of course it was important, darling. He is her papa. And she was happy—I could see it in her eyes.”

“And she did talk,” Marjan said, relieved.

Teresa McNully's words had a silvery timbre to them and continued to ring in her ear. She had turned from her wheelchair when her father was shown in, her delicate features breaking into immediate tears: “
Ta bron orm. Ta bron orm
. ” There were only a handful of words Marjan recognized in Irish, and those weren't ones she knew. Still, it wasn't hard to surmise their meaning. Teresa's young face was filled with regret. Both Marjan and Estelle had broken into tears as well.

Estelle seemed to be recalling the same moment. “She was ready. After I saw her last memory, I knew she was ready to speak.”

As Sean and his daughter continued their private conversation, Marjan filled the widow in on what had happened since she left for the Aulde Shebeen that morning, everything from the man who had helped her find Inishrose, Dara O'Cleirigh, to the puffins along the cove. She told her about the Minister of Health and his visit to that little paradise on earth.

Estelle was especially intrigued by her account of Sean's greenhouse; Marjan could tell she had a lot of questions to ask the man with the healing abilities.

The only part of the story she left out was her decision, the thought that had finally sorted itself out for her on that wooden pier. Marjan had never told Estelle what had really happened to her during those three days inside Gohid Detention Center, nor of the time right after it, when Bahar had married Hossein. The latter wasn't hers to tell, but the details of those three days and what led up to them Marjan did hope to confide in the kind lady sooner rather than later.

But first, she reminded herself, first she had to tell her sisters. First there had to be
sohbat
—there was no way around it.

Deeper than a tête-à-tête, more concentrated than everyday speech,
sohbat
was the word in Farsi for space: the area inhabited by two souls during deep and truthful conversation.
Sohbat
could take place anywhere, around a
sofreh
or within prayer: “The same whisper that made the rose open was hushed to me here inside my breast; the same advice given the cypress so that it grew with strength, touched the jasmine and its fluttering breath …” Those were Rumi's words, but they reflected her own emotions, Marjan told herself.

The poet was speaking of those midnight conversations when
the moon spoons lovers and honesty is the only way to connect. He was talking of the trust one had to have in others, and in one's self. She had forgotten about
sohbat
, Marjan told herself. She had forgotten to be honest.

“You are all right, darling?” Estelle tapped her on the shoulder. “You look surprised all of a sudden.”

Marjan smiled and shook her head. “I just realized something, that's all,” she said.

Estelle raised her finger as though testing the air. “Ah. That is what my mama used to call ‘the coin dropping.’ Yes?” Estelle flashed her a grin and sipped her jasmine tea.

Marjan nodded. Yes, she though. The coin dropping in her head.
Sohbat
. Conversation. That was what she would do when she got back to the café; she would tell her sisters the truth of Gohid, of why she had come to leave them for three long days.

“AND THAT WAS ‘The Monster Mash,’ folks, right here on your local pirate station, Craic FM!

“Well, it's a proud priest I am for announcing that it's been two weeks today since we—my lovely assistant, Mrs. Boylan, and I—have been sending out happy rays to your hearth and home. We're a babe on the crawl for now, but I have great confidence in our bit of western craic.

“And don't think I don't appreciate a bit of criticism. Haven't heard too much from all of you out there, so don't be shy. Tell me what you really think of my latest foray. Two heads are greater than one, they say. And a village, well, with all your support we could carry this little ship to a whole new world!

“So, for letting go of all ego, here's a tongue in cheek if I ever heard it: Carly Simon's ‘You're So Vain’!”

MARJAN WAITED for Fiona and Evie to cross the street before lugging the two large pots from the window-side table. In honor of the All Hallows' Eve ceili, she had cooked up double batches of stew made with cinnamon, lamb, and apples, the fruit of the season.

Fiona took one of the pots and Marjan the other, while Evie held on to the book she had been reading.

Marjan had tried not to smile when she saw the young stylist in her latest outfit—fishing pants and Aran sweater to match her hardier employer's—and only nodded as Evie read to them from
The Female Eunuch
.

“I can't get her to put it down,” Fiona explained as the trio marched up the cobblestoned Mall. “Makes me regret I gave it to her in the first place,” she said with a smile.

Evie looked shocked. “But Fiona, how could you say that? It's like my eyes have been opened. I can't believe what I've put up with from that gobshite Peter Donnelly all this time.” She held the book out in front of her with both hands. “Germaine Greer is a goddess.” She sighed reverentially.

Fiona winked at Marjan, who couldn't help but laugh.

“Let's go, goddesses. There's a ceili out there with our names on it.”

A FAMILIAR SIGHT GREETED the three of them as they approached the Town Hall. Parked in a semicircle around Saint Patrick's monument were four horse-drawn carriages heralded
with lively pink and orange banners. The McGuire Family Circus had come back to town.

The youngest of the seven McGuires who controlled Balli-nacroagh's drinking establishments, Kieran McGuire had been the only sibling with a taste for trails less beaten. The same strain that sent his nephew Tom Junior to seek the solace of a Califor-nian ashram had driven Kieran to establish the troupe of actors and street performers setting up now in the square. Traveling the Continent, the McGuire Family Circus performed variations on Celtic themes and festivities and were in constant demand wherever they went.

On this All Hallows' Eve, they were going to enchant Balli-nacroagh with a dance based on
The Faerie Queene
.

Fiona sniffed the air. “Can you smell the greasepaint? Makes me long for the stage again.” She waved at Kieran, who was busy applying makeup to his face inside one of the canvas-topped caravans.

The Ladies of the Patrician Day Dance Committee had really performed miracles this time, thought Marjan. The Town Hall's Palladian exterior, crumbling as it was, looked for once as lavish as it must have when it was first built. Yards of twinkling lights swathed the pillars with their fluttering song, meeting wide steps illuminated by hurricane lamps that looked like their
Arabian Nights
counterparts.