by L.J. Shen
I caught Ashton Richards in private moments, while he was suffering from a horrific addiction that led to his death. I don’t see why anyone should witness it. He was obviously desperately chasing happiness, but never quite reaching it.
Mal doesn’t say Ashton’s death wrecked him, but then he doesn’t talk about it much—just listens to me when I do—and he is adamant about not going to the funeral in the States.
Though that could also be because he has a secret lover/family/life here that he keeps disappearing off to. I say this completely lightheartedly, but of course, there’s a void in my stomach that opens an inch every time I wake up and his side of the bed is cold.
Every day I think to myself, This will be the day he opens up to me about the situation.
Every day I am wrong.
Then, a week after we’re back in Ireland, Mal announces he’s ready to go busking again. He needs to unclutter his mind, he says.
“You can tag along. Take pictures of Dublin.”
“I think I’m good.” I give him the thumbs-up.
I finally have a plan. I managed to track down Father Doherty’s new address in an old-school phone book—the kind of fat, yellow thing grandparents usually use to stop doors or as a makeshift coaster. Father Doherty lives bang in the middle of the village, and it’s time to pay him a visit, have him shed some light on my situation.
Mal, of course, can see through me. We haven’t spent an entire month together the whole time we’ve known each other, yet he can somehow read me better than anyone else.
“You sure?” He furrows his brows.
I nod. “Positive.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“Nothing has been positive about you these last days, so I find your choice of words somewhat alarming.”
“It’s been a rough week.” I saunter over to him, linking my arms around his shoulders. “One wedding and an upcoming funeral. I just want some me-time. Maybe I’ll finally call my mother back and catch up with her.”
Mal’s face twists at the mention of my mother, but he nods and kisses my forehead. I don’t know why he acts like he has an open beef with Debbie Jenkins, but if he’s flinching every time I mention her out of solidarity, he’s doing a fine job being empathetic.
“Want to talk tonight?” He skims his lips along my temple.
“About what?” My heart speeds up with hope.
“About everything.”
“Will you finally tell me what’s going on?”
He bends his head down, closing his eyes. “Yes,” he croaks. “God, I don’t want to, but yes.”
I walk Mal to the door, kiss him goodbye again, and wave him off, the Stepford wife that I am not. As soon as I see his car racing down the graveled path, I slip into my Toms, grab my army jacket, and run down to the village on foot.
The weather is crisp and chilly, but no longer freezing, and I’m high on adrenaline from knowing how close I am to the truth. I can feel it at my fingertips, tingling, waiting for me to grab it.
This time, I’m going to corner Father Doherty until he relents. He must. A man who serves God for a living can’t lie, can he?
Besides, I have the perfect thing to lure him into telling me the truth.
It’s simple, really.
My mother is holding out on me.
Father Doherty is holding out on me.
They’re keeping the same secret, obviously.
If Doherty thinks I already know something I don’t, he’ll open up.
My calves burn, and my breath rattles somewhere between my chest and throat. I am running out of oxygen, but I’m not slowing down. This is what I’ve been waiting for. Not just Mal, but also the truth.
The truth about Callum.
The truth about my father.
About my mother.
The story of me.
I slice through the streets of Tolka, passing the newsagents, the pubs, the quaint inns, the spilled flowerpots, and Gaelic-graffitied brick walls of the alleyways—the beautiful, pastoral lie covering the rotten secrets I am about to unveil. And I don’t stop until I’m at the door of the address I found.
I clutch the little note to my chest, the paper so thin and inky my jacket and fingers are stained, and manage a few knocks on the door before my legs give in and I collapse on the stoop.
The door swings open, and I straighten up, clearing my throat.
“Hi, is Father D…”
I stop dead when I see the person in front of me. Because that person? It’s not the old man with the bushy eyebrows.
It’s the person Mal never told me about.
Purple eyes like Mal’s.
And features so eerily identical to mine.
Kathleen’s features.
Seven years ago
Mal
Kath is pregnant.
I don’t even pretend to be surprised when she shows up at my door, sans the skimpy clothes, clad in her usual sensible cardigan and thick leggings and carefully combed hair, and rubs her flat stomach tellingly.
“May I come in?” She clears her throat.
She knows as well as I do that we fucked up royally that night. It’s not about the fact that I didn’t use a condom, or that I was completely ossified when it happened, or that she was a virgin (who’d always proclaimed, as long as I can remember, that she wanted to wait till marriage). And I don’t even want to touch the dubious-consent subject. But the worst of it is the fact that I had to tell Sean what happened—he was one of my closest mates, after all—and Sean and Daniel cut Kiki and me off from their lives completely.
Apparently, Sean had confessed his love to Kath one night. I was aware of his feelings, too. Bit of a shit thing to do, I admit.
Well, maybe a lot.
Kath and I deserve it—every nasty eye roll from the O’Leary twins and shake of the head from Maeve and Heather.
I could tell Sean I wasn’t fully there, that I didn’t know what I was doing, and it’d be the truth. My memory of that night is vague at best. But I don’t want to throw Kath under the bus, even if she ran me over with that particular decision.
Mam and Bridget went to visit Dez in Kilkenny for the month to clear their heads, and so I’m still tremendously alone. I write songs, sing them on street corners, get offers, and turn them down. Then I go home, and since my mates won’t talk to me, and since I stopped sending letters to Rory, as per her request, I no longer reject Kathleen’s attempts to spend time with me. I can’t afford to avoid her.
Sometimes she studies while I write.
Sometimes we feck with the lights off, always with a condom, and she lets me chant, “Rory, Rory, Rory.”
Most times, though, we share dinner and watch whatever is on the telly and I drive her back home before it gets too dark.
Today Kiki shoulders past me, into my living room, seeming to feel right at home. Unlike me, the living room is in a good condition. The rest of the house is pretty tidy, too.
She sits at the table, and I follow her with two glasses of water. I have no particular reaction to the news she delivers. I’m not happy, nor am I sad. I had a feeling it was going to happen. I’ve used condoms every other time we had sex—despite her protests—but apparently, I have super sperm, at least where the O’Connell girls are concerned.
Now, I’m just waiting to hear from Kath if she’s going to keep it or not. My chest feels tight, but I don’t want to assume.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, sliding the glass her way.
She takes a small sip, her eyes clinging to my face, trying to read me.
Why can’t I love her? Why can’t I love the girl who’d never leave me? The girl who’d die for me?
“Good. A bit nauseous, but good. Thanks for asking.”
“When’d you find out?”
“This afternoon. I went in to buy the test after school. Called Heather and Maeve to come with. You know Maeve is dating Sean now? I think they make a cute couple. Heather is fit.”
&nb
sp; “So they know about the pregnancy,” I say, keeping my temper in check. And here I was under the impression that baby daddies are the first to learn of the news.
“Yeah. Hope it’s okay. I didn’t want to take the test alone, and I knew you were busking and didn’t want to bother you or freak you out for no reason. It could have been negative.”
“Are you going to keep it?” I ask, flat out.
Her face morphs from happy to shocked, her eyebrows dropping.
“What kind of question is that? Of course, I’m going to keep it. I’m bloody Catholic, Mal.”
I nod.
“I think it’s more a question of what are you going to do.” She sits back, folding her arms over her chest.
“I’m going to take care of it, of course,” I say, feeling my eyebrows jumping up in surprise. Was there even a question?
Kathleen huffs. Wrong answer, I guess. I try again.
“Both of you. I’m going to take care of both of you—financially and otherwise. It’s not going to be just you. I’ll find a real job. And I’ll have it half the time if you let me.”
“It’s not it.”
“Of course, it’s not.” I blink. Jesus. What more does she want?
“It’s a boy,” she says smugly, grinning now. “A little fella, Mal. I can practically feel it. Women know those things.”
I try to smile, but it feels weird on my face. Right. A boy. I reach across the table and take her hand in mine, stroking her inner wrist with my thumb.
“I mean it. You’re not alone. You won’t have to drop out of uni or anything. I’ll take care of him all the time, give him everything I have.”
She looks away. Sniffs.
“What?” I press.
She needs more, but I can’t figure out what more consists of. Suddenly, I want to give her whatever it is that she wants. Even if it kills me. Maybe I could start by not mumbling her sister’s name when I feck her from behind.
Probably, arsehole. Probably.
“I called your ma,” she says softly.
She’s not crying, though, which makes me wonder if it’s an act. I let go of her hand and sit back.
“You did?”
“I told her. I had to. I had to get her blessing, Mal. Plus, she’s been so down since what happened with Bridget.” Kath looks up and smiles, tears in her eyes.
Perhaps it’s not an act after all. Maybe Rory turned me into a jaded bastard.
“She is so happy to get a grandson, Mal. So is Bridget. Perhaps Dad is up there making things right for us. It’s like kismet. Like it was meant to be.”
Kismet.
I told Rory we should leave it to fate, and guess what? Fate flipped us the bird, turned Rory against me, and made sure I impregnated Kath. If fate exists, it is working extra hard to make sure Rory and I are never going to be together. Kath is still talking in the background. I’m catching up on her speech.
“…told her I completely understand. Your mam is very adamant we should get married, especially considering how religious I am, but I told her we could wait. I respect your wishes and know that making your mam and girlfriend happy is not a good enough reason to propose.”
Girlfriend?
It feels bizarre to argue the point that Kath and I are not a couple, especially considering she’s carrying my child. But marriage? Really? It’s not that I don’t like Kath; it’s that I like her for all the wrong reasons.
Because she is here and available and familiar and open-legged and reminds me of her half-sister. Those are quite horrible reasons to be with someone, let alone marry her. But now that we carelessly threw a kid into the mix, I know Kathleen is right. My family—Mam, brothers, sister—absolutely expect me to do the right thing by her. Even if I feel horribly tricked and cornered. Even if I can barely remember that night.
But you can certainly remember all the other times you fecked her with a condom, and sober.
“Say something,” Kathleen whispers, gawking at me.
“I…” Don’t want to marry you. “I need to think about it.”
“Okay.”
“But regardless, I will be there for you. For both of you. Always,” I add fiercely.
Of course, I don’t know what I’m saying.
I don’t know where life is going to take me.
And I definitely have no fecking clue how badly I am going to break that promise.
I marry Kathleen eight months into her pregnancy, her round belly looking like the gleaming moon in the shapeless, white dress.
It’s a small, quiet ceremony at Father Doherty’s church—late December, on the heels of Christmas. Kiki radiates happiness and triumph, Mam and Elaine are fawning over her, all my brothers and sister are weeping with pride and joy, and Sean and Daniel are here with Maeve and Heather—reluctant, but present.
During my stag party, which Daniel threw, he laughed and said Mam and Kiki finally wore me down and made me propose. I sipped my drink, smiled, and told him to feck off. But he wasn’t wrong, and that bothered me.
I promise Kathleen forever, she does the same, and we exchange rings. These past few months have been intense. Kathleen didn’t want to know the gender of the baby, but spoke only of that. She moved in with me as soon as Mam came back from Kilkenny with Bridget. I was there when the peanut kicked for the first time, I was there when it started moving in her belly—especially at night, and I was there when we could see the imprint of one of its limbs stretching her stomach.
Kathleen and I turned from sometimes-shagging to always shagging soon after we found out she was pregnant. I stopped calling her Rory, but still couldn’t face her when we were doing it. Thankfully, there were enough positions from which all I could see was her naked back.
After the ceremony, we go back to our house. Kath can’t drink, and I’ve been cutting back on alcohol, too. Mam and Elaine decided to move in together, since they’re friends and since Kathleen and I apparently need our privacy, especially since we’re about to welcome little Glen into the world.
About that name.
Aside from me being surprised and confused by the choice, Glen is a terrible name for anyone under sixty-five years old, and our Glen is expected to hit that mark sixty-six years from now.
We burst into the cottage, and Kath is taking off her big, white dress, groaning as she does. She looks like a cloud in that white thing, but I know better than to say that to her.
“Have you given any more thought to selling your songs?” she asks, removing the bobby pins from her hair one by one and clutching them between her teeth as she speaks.
I shake my head and fall to the sofa with a sigh.
“Mal,” she pleads.
I turn on the telly, crossing my legs. Cash in the Attic.
Bloody hell, Glen. You’re laying it thick, now, aren’t you?
“I don’t understand you at all.” Kiki sulks, removing her bracelets and jewelry with sharp, frustrated movements. “You’re a brilliant writer. We could get good money for them instead of relying on my da’s inheritance, which is already dwindling. We could actually buy real, expensive furniture for Glen’s room, as opposed to the secondhand crap we have now. I just cannot for the life of me fathom why.”
“Because my songs are mine.”
And Rory’s. She inspired them. No part of me wants to show the world what went through my head that day I spent with her, the day she left, and everything after. All the other songs I wrote and got offers for before her are no longer relevant. Rory changed me.
Kath doesn’t know any of this—not the story behind the songs, and not that being asked about them constantly feels a lot like being stabbed in the chest.
“You’re being so unreasonable.” She gales into the bedroom.
It used to be Mam’s bedroom. Now it’s ours. We moved all our furniture in yesterday. Well, I did. Our nightstands, bed, and Kath’s huge mirror that’s tilted so she looks skinnier. (“Don’t judge, okay? Ha-ha.”)
I’ve just closed my eyes to tak
e a few moments to breathe when I hear a shriek from the bedroom. I jump to my feet immediately. My first thought is—the baby.
“What’s going on? Is the baby okay?”
“What in the ever-loving fuck is this?”
I’m temporarily taken aback by the fact that Kathleen has said the word fuck. I wasn’t even sure she was aware of its existence, let alone able to produce it from her good, Catholic lips. Of course, we’ve done the deed countless times, and in less than Christian positions, but…
Wait, what the feck is this?
A napkin. She is holding a napkin. The napkin.
The contract.
I snatch it from her hand and mentally kick my own arse for not putting it elsewhere when I arranged our nightstands by the bed. She must’ve gotten them mixed up and opened it to take out one of her gazillion hand creams, finding this instead.
“It’s nothing.” I shove the thing into the back pocket of my suit pants. Kathleen’s eyes are two big planets, pregnant with misery. She slaps my chest, then covers her mouth, her face twisting in anguish behind her hands.
“You two had a deal?”
“She doesn’t want me,” I say—a spur-of-the-moment reaction and definitely up there among the dumbest things to say to your newly wedded wife, who by the way, is also heavily pregnant.
But in my mind, I know this is the most efficient way to assure her the napkin means nothing.
Which, clearly, is also a massive problem.
The napkin shouldn’t mean anything, but not because Rory buggered off to another continent to shag other people and take pictures of them and write on the back of those pictures how much they suck in bed and in life and in small talk. (I’m paraphrasing here, of course.)
The napkin shouldn’t mean anything because I’m about to have a baby with my childhood friend, turned lover, turned wife.
Yes, arsehole. Wife.
I advance toward my wife. My patient, saint-like partner who groaned and took it when I called her something else again and again and again for months.
“We both moved on. And we are married, in case you failed to notice.”