by Calinda B
The local haul-away lads had found this job to be a gold mine.
Every couple of months or so, she’d drag her ass to the Goodskeeper and sort through shit. Thank mercy for Mary. A very distant relative, Mary had enough knowledge of Finn history to know what needed to be kept and what needed to be discarded. But, at this point, it would take another fifteen years to get it all sorted.
Once the house had been cleaned of debris, local carpenters Tommy O’Cleary, Billy the fisherman’s brother, and his crew had set to transform the place. They’d altered a few walls, enlarged the closet, so it held more than three shirts and two dresses, added a few coats of paint, and voila. A blue bedroom, yellow kitchen, and an eggshell-white front room and living room belonged to her. She lay surrounded by an acceptable amount of cleanliness and a nice-to-live-in dwelling.
So it wasn’t her sleek apartment in Dublin. Here, she had a job, friends, and—something she never had for long in Dublin—a boyfriend…at least she hoped she still had a boyfriend.
With a groan, she rolled out of bed, jammed her feet into slippers, shrugged on her robe, and made her way to the kitchen. Her orange and black tabby cat and supposed familiar, Crusty McKitty, greeted her with purrs and figure 8’s around her ankles.
“What the feck is wrong with you?” Lassi said, tripping over the small beast. “Usually you save your greetings for Cillian or our visitors. You hiss at me, tolerating my presence with the air of an old-world martyr. Sometimes I swear I can see your crown of thorns.” She stooped to pet Crusty.
He backed away, hissing.
He swiped at her, nearly snagging her skin. She yanked her hand away, lurching to standing.
“There you are. I wondered where you went. It must have been a momentary lapse, eh?” She nudged him gently with her foot. “Stupid familiar. ‘He’ll get used to you,’ Mary said. ‘Give him time.’” She scoffed. “It will take an act of wild nature for you and me to get all cozy-like.” She glared at the cat. “Oh, sure, you were useful during the great ‘Holy Shite! Mice in the Pantry’ crisis of last fall. But, I’m nowhere near ready to commemorate it as a national holiday and celebrate with extra tuna rations. You get that, right?” When he didn’t respond, she filled her stainless-steel kettle with water from the tap. “And don’t you dare pee in my shoes again. I’ll write up another scathing performance review like I did last time.”
Which you shredded with your tiny nipping teeth and claws, destroying my neatly penned review, and used it for cat litter. Fecking feline.
Sighing, she placed the kettle on the butter-yellow, cast-iron Rayburn range she’d used to replace Roberta’s piece of shite iron monstrosity. The range had been a frivolous purchase. She didn’t cook much, rarely baked. But Cillian could cook the socks off a cow and come up with a gourmet meal, so she bought it for him. The Cillian who’s acting all sketchy around me and not showing up to sleep with me this past week.
Once the kettle began to whistle, she retrieved her favorite mug from the dish rack—the one that had hearts all over it which Cillian had given her. She scooped some loose-leaf Irish breakfast tea into a strainer, dropped it in the mug, and poured the hot water. The smell of tea made her want to gag.
“What the…? Since when do I gag on tea? Well, there’s another sign that my world is going to change. All sorts of freaky things happened to me in this kitchen when I came here two years ago. Water hung suspended in mid-air, I couldn’t get a proper cuppa to save my life, and my body burned with an electrical charge strong enough to scorch the sheets. I had no idea the Finn family magic sang so strong in my bones.” She brought the cup to her lips, blew on it, and sipped.
Her stomach rumbled, resembling a rocket initiating the launch sequence. She sprinted for the toilet, only making it to the bowl just in time to keep from spewing her guts all over the new blue and white tiled floor.
“Oh, Christ on a cracker,” she muttered, as she stood in front of the sink. “This flu is horrific.”
With a sigh, she picked up her clear plastic toothbrush and scrubbed the taste of stomach acid and undigested food from her mouth. After she finished, she strode from the bathroom to make another cup of tea, only to be interrupted by the blurting of her phone.
She scurried to her bedroom and answered it. “Lassi here.”
“Lassi, it’s Siobhan.”
“A very good morning to you, Siobhan. What can I do for you?” Lassi said, knowing the answer. She mouthed the words, “It’s Paul” at the same time Siobhan said them.
“I don’t know what to do,” Siobhan wailed. Her voice plaintive and weak, she sounded ruined by fatigue.
“Did you take him to see Bres like I suggested?” Lassi glanced out the window. Up the hill at the rectory, the lights were on. Her jaw tightened.
Cillian chose not to come home.
“Yes, and I did everything he suggested. It doesn’t seem to be working.”
“Well, what’s it been? Twenty-four hours?” Lassi rolled her eyes then caught herself. Stay professional.
“Yes, but he should be better now, shouldn’t he? Can’t you try some magic on Paul? That always works.”
Lassi took several deep breaths while gripping her phone. Stay calm. Calm. Fecking calm, goddamnit. “I haven’t eaten breakfast. I’m still sick. Even beloved smells are starting to get to me, like black tea. I just hurled a lot of nothing into the toilet. And the same nothing is threatening to come up again.” She clutched her stomach. A horrifying thought curled her insides about what this might be, aside from a cough.
While Siobhan kept up her worried tirade, Lassi slid down the wall to the floor.
This can’t be what I think it is, can it? I use birth control like a zealot and besides, how can someone who transformed herself into a Leviathan get pregnant?
She’d fallen hard for Cillian. She thought herself a foolish sinner, falling for a priest, but it turned out he had been turned into a Leviathan in the 1700s to guard the grave of the Dearg-Due. She wanted to be close to him, so when she found the spell to change herself, she took the bait, hook, line, and sinker. And now, after storms battered and surged around the grave, washing stones away, she and Cillian transformed into beastly sea-creatures and swam to the bottom of the sea together. In unison, they retrieved the right kind of rocks to toss on the grave of the Dearg-Due. It was a little odd to turn into something humans would consider a monster, but sometimes one simply had to do what was best for the community. And, keeping the community safe had become a life mission of sorts. That, and loving Cillian Ward.
But to bring a baby into some strange new form? Oh, hello, little Ryan or Kiernan or whatever your name is. Your parents are monsters. You’re probably a monster, too. She ground her palm against her forehead. What if I go into labor while at the bottom of the sea?
“Lassi. Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, yes, I’m here. Look, I’ll log in and rearrange things again, so you can get in to see Bres first thing again. But, Siobhan?”
Siobhan sniffled. “Yes?”
“Everything is going to be all right.” At least I hope it is, for you and for me.
“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Lasairfhíona Finn.” Siobhan’s voice wavered.
Lassi’s fingers tightened around the phone. No one used her full name unless they meant to seduce her, like Cillian, or they were dead serious. Siobhan was serious. She suffered, pure and simple. Heck, she probably had lingering PTSD from the whole murderous vampire debacle. Lassi vowed to rein in her snark with Siobhan and see to her well-being.
“If I weren’t in your life, you’d be fine, Siobhan, but I’m happy to help. You’ve been through a lot.”
“I don’t know about fine. I’m a wreck,” Siobhan said. “But, thank you.”
After they disconnected, Lassi made the arrangements with the office to squeeze Siobhan into the schedule. She also decided to scoot down to the center herself and get tests for both the flu and for the prospect of preggers.
“Dr. Breslin’s office, can you hold please?” April said when she answered the phone. Her jet-black hair began to pull from its ponytail, wisping around her face. Her fingers flew as she punched buttons on the phone console. “Dr. Breslin’s, can you hold please?” She sighed and jabbed more buttons. “Dr. Breslin’s. Can you hold… Oh. I’m sorry, Mrs. Lawder. Yes, I know Sammy is sick. Half the county is calling me this morning.”
Lassi stepped toward the front counter, straightening magazines and picking up toys along the way. She tossed the toys in the children’s basket in the corner, making a mental note to check with April to sanitize them. If she had the flu, her germs now covered the colorful plastic ponies and dolls. Then, she leaned over the counter, fetched a notepad from April’s desk, scribbled her sanitizing request, and slipped it in front of the poor frantic woman.
April glanced at it and gave a thumbs-up.
Lassi nodded and slipped through the door into the back hall. Eager to get out of sight before the patients started to show for their appointments, she scurried toward her office.
She loved her blue-walled office space. Sure, it wasn’t the prestigious office space she’d had at Royal House, but then she also didn’t have to share it with the haughty nurse Marsha O’Neill. Or, her sidekick, Irene. Both women had made it their mission to annoy her with their toe-the-line and follow-policy obsession.
“We have a job to do, Nurse Finn,” Nurse Marsha would chirp in her harpy voice. “We care for the patients, but charts are vital to the operation of this hospital.”
“Nurse Marsha’s correct,” Nurse Irene would say. “You can’t simply sit with them while they’re in labor. I’m hardly doing nothing.”
“Right-o,” Lassi would retort. “Why would they need my full attention when they’re absorbed in the miracle of birth? You want me to sit by their side, completing fecking charts, then run across the hall, pick up another chart, and sit by the side of another laboring mother and record data, so I don’t get behind. No. N.O. They deserve my attention.”
“A good nurse cares about the people, Nurse Marsh-ass,” she said, scoffing at the memory. “That’s why here, we race around Dungarvan to check on patients too ill to drive here. Because we care about the people in this community.” She shook her head. “Maybe Royal House wasn’t as good as I remember. Maybe life here is way better. I’m one-on-one intimate with all my patients.”
Then, she gazed lovingly at her very own office. One with a lock. And a Stay the Feck Out sign which she only put up after hours when crankiness ruled her mood. Which, when she thought about it, had been happening more and more lately.
Please don’t let me be pregnant.
The glory point of the office faced her in the form of a huge window that looked out over the harbor. On hectic days, she escaped here to lose herself in the bobbing boats and sea. So unlike my life as a Dubliner, where a hectic day meant a wild pub crawl night with friends.
She made her way to the white side counter. Opening a drawer, she rustled around for a throat swab to administer a rapid influenza diagnostic test to herself. Not here. She whirled around and leaned against the counter.
Bres rushed down the hallway, passing her office. He quickly reappeared in the doorway. Usually, he dressed in smart-looking, professional attire. Today, his clothes were rumpled. His shirt under his jacket may have been inside out, too.
“Oh, good. Are you here to work?” He looked around wildly.
“That depends on the results of the tests I’m here to take. What’s going on?” Lassi plopped into the chair behind her desk. An expensive thing she’d purchased herself, it hugged the back, supported the sacrum, and twirled round and round. She’d made damn sure to retrieve it from Royal House.
Bres’ expression sagged, like peeling wallpaper. “I wish I knew. I had to call April in early. My cell phone started ringing at 5 a.m. with emergency calls. This kid sick. That kid sick. Sudden onset. I’m afraid we have some sort of epidemic.”
“Well, that’s good,” she said, her shoulders sagging.
It means I probably have the same nasty flu.
“Good?” His eyebrows lifted.
“Not for the kids,” she said, her cheeks beginning to heat. “I only meant…it probably explains…never mind.”
Bres cocked his head, his gaze chiseling into her.
April called from the front. “The hordes are arriving. The parking lot is beginning to fill.”
“Oh, boy. Are you sure you can’t help out?” Bres’ face pinched tight.
“I’m still sick. I threw up again this morning.”
His eyes flicked to her tummy and back to her face.
She squirmed under his scrutiny. “That’s all right. I can wear a mask and gloves. No problem.”
“Thank you,” he said, his face relaxing into relief. “I owe you, big time.”
They swiftly divided the workload, and Lassi set out to do house calls.
At day’s end, after tending to the needs of half the county, she dragged herself back to the clinic. She’d seen Aiden and Bartley, Eirine, Aefa, Ashley, Darcy, Caitlin, Glendon, and a blur of other screaming children, all with similar flu-like symptoms. They all bore smudged circles under their eyes. They couldn’t keep food down. They couldn’t sleep. Many were frightened of seeing her in mask and gloves, so she’d had to pull the mask away, assure them she truly was Nurse Lassi, and get them to at least consider smiling at her.
Aefa had asked her if it was Halloween.
“Not for at least a month,” Lassi replied. “I’m rehearsing.”
That made Aefa giggle.
Still, the day had been exhausting. And now, as she pulled back into the parking lot of the clinic, Lassi’s muscles threatened to melt away from her bones like pulled pork from Tommy’s Southern Barbeque joint, only without the delicious satisfaction.
The sun lurched toward the horizon, appearing as eager to close out this day as she felt.
The doors to the clinic were locked, thankfully. Hopefully, April and Bres had survived. Only one light winked at her from Bres’ office on the side of the building.
She let herself into the clinic and slunk down the hall. Once inside her office, she slumped into her chair and let her head fall back. Within seconds, she dozed.
A soft knock stirred her awake.
She jerked upright, her arms and legs extending like a scarecrow.
Bres stood propped in the doorway. Dark circles, like bad-tattoos, hung from his eyes.
“Feck me. I fell asleep.” She sat up and stretched. “What a day.”
“Tell me about it,” he said, clutching the doorframe. “The flu has struck Dungarvan without mercy.”
“So it seems.”
They both lapsed into fuzzed-out silence, fueled by fatigue.
Bres gathered himself into something resembling alertness. “Oh. You mentioned something about getting tested today. What kind of tests?”
“Don’t trouble yourself. I can handle it.” Lassi swiveled back and forth in the chair, unsure how much she wanted to share with Bres. “I can do a flu test. And, the other test is one I’m familiar with.”
His eyes narrowed. “First off, no one should have to stick a nasal swab up their own nose. I’ve had plenty of practice today. I’ll do it. What’s the other test?”
“It’s nothing.” She straightened a few reports on her desk, lining up the edges.
“What is it? I am a medical doctor. I’m trained not to squirm.” He smiled at her, striding into her office.
He had a beautiful smile. It revealed the depth of his caring compassion.
He pulled out the chair in front of her desk and collapsed into it, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
She blew out her breath. “Okay, fine. I think I might not have the flu. I think I might be pregnant.”
His eyes widened. He pulled his legs toward the chair and sat up. “Oh! Should I say congratulations?”
She let her gaze land on him like a butterfly, before flitting away. “I’m not sure. Cillian and I…we’re not…that is, he’s not… Oh, feck me, I don’t know.” She placed her elbows on her desk and pressed her face into her hands. Lifting her head, she let her gaze meet his. “We seem to be at odds. I’m sure it’s just a moment.”
He nodded. “Sure it is. You two have always seemed well-matched to me. You can see the love between you. And you seem well suited for your life in Ballynagaul.”
She frowned. “What does that mean?”
“You know what I mean. I’ve already told you most of my story which parallels your own story.”
“Well, tell me again. I’m tired, stressed, and could use the distraction.” She propped her elbows on the desk and rested her chin in her hands.
He leaned forward, placing his forearms on the desk. “You could have had the high life, like me. You’ve got similar laurels to your name.” He lifted his arms and swept them in a wide arc through the air. “Someone did a puff piece on me once in the States on why ‘someone like me’…” He shaped his fingers into air quotes. “Why he would let his prestigious career die in favor of life in a small town in Ireland.” He lowered his voice. “‘A graduate of Case Western Reserve Medical School, Breslin did his residency at Temple University in Philadelphia and learned all he ever wanted to know about gunshot wounds, drug abuse, poverty, and worst of all, insurance. He abandoned his plan to specialize in immunology and got himself certified as an internist, or what they call a General Practitioner in Ireland and the UK. And then he decided to move to Dungarvan, a small fishing town in Ireland. His fiancée, Lois, was heartbroken. All her dreams of being married to a prominent, wealthy physician were shattered. But, from the first time he came to Ireland with his parents at the tender age of six, he knew that Ireland was home.” He resumed speaking in his normal voice. “Blah, blah, blah. I did Lois a huge favor. I’m not cut out for social circles, fine dining, and bullshit. She got to keep the 3-carat diamond ring that she had gone along with me to find because she didn't really think I was capable of picking out something appropriate on my own.” He chuckled. “I’m sure I could have managed. She’d place magazines on counters and the coffee table, open to pictures of diamond rings. She even circled the ones she liked. And they were all the biggest, priciest pictures on the page. Talk about a hint.”