by L.J. Shen
I clasp her arms, draw her close.
She pushes me away. “Get rid of it,” she barks.
I let out a dark chuckle. “What?”
“You’re not deaf, Mal. Get rid of the bloody thing. It shouldn’t be in the house in the first place. I cannot believe you.”
She cannot believe me?
Can I believe her? After she fecked me when I was half-dead and a quarter functioning? Making me take her virginity, and coming back to ride my cock, always begging me not to wear a condom?
Calling Mam, manipulating her and Bridget to pressure me into this marriage, convincing Mam and Elaine to move in together?
But I’m not dumb enough to start a massive fight on our wedding day.
I smile instead. “It’s just a silly memory. I’ll tuck it in a photo album. You’ll never see it again, and we can move on with our lives.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Again with this word.
“Kiki…”
“Mal,” she mimics my voice. “I’m so sick and tired of people giving you slack because of some bloody, magical hold you have on them. You’re stalling.”
“I’m not stalling. I’m simply rejecting your request.”
“You’re a cunt, is what you are.”
“All right, then,” I say.
Can’t really dispute that. I certainly feel like one right now. But she is not the little saint she makes herself out to be, either.
She advances toward me and slaps my face.
I can feel my skin burning, my cheekbone aching. I clench my jaw. Something tells me I’m being a stubborn son of a bitch, that I should just get rid of the fecking thing. The napkin means nothing. It meant nothing from the moment Rory said goodbye. And even if it didn’t, her letter didn’t leave room for doubt.
Now, let’s play devil’s advocate and say there is doubt, that it’s not over on her end.
Let’s say we meet again, four years from now, because fate has a twisted, sick sense of humor.
Let’s say Rory is no longer a bitch from hell and decides to honor the contract.
Then what? I leave little Glen and Kathleen and my entire family—who will disown me for taking off with the Yank, no doubt—and go live happily ever after with the same girl who aborted my child without consulting me about it?
I stalk toward the kitchen, hearing Kathleen’s bare feet padding behind me. I stop by the bin, take the napkin out of my pocket, and crumple it in my fist, ready to throw it out, along with Rory’s stupid memory.
I clutch it above the open jaw of the bin, squeezing hard, my fist shaking.
Do it already. What is the matter with you?
“Do it!” Kiki yells.
I stare at my fist, the trashcan, the fist again, then lift my eyes to the ceiling, letting out a ragged sigh.
Feck you, Rory.
I withdraw my arm, yanking at my hair with the other one. I can’t do it.
I don’t notice when Kath jams her feet into her shoes, but I snap to attention when the door slams behind her. I take off after her immediately. It’s late, cold, and dark.
Kath slides into my car, revs it up, reverses, and then gallops down the path to Main Street. I chase her by foot, yelling at her to slow down. That only causes her to slam her foot against the gas pedal to get away from me faster.
As I run after my own car, my own wife, my own future, I contemplate stopping. I can see through the rearview mirror she’s in quite a state. She’s shaking and crying so badly, I’d be surprised if she sees anything. Maybe if I leave her alone, she will slow down.
Maybe if you leave her alone, she will finally find proof of what you haven’t said in so many words thus far: that her sister will always be the love of your life, and she’s the consolation prize.
Bile rises in my throat as I speed up. I try calling her, fumbling with my cell as I chase her, but she doesn’t pick up.
Pick up, pick up, pick up.
She’s heading straight to a busy, two-way intersection, and she’s not slowing down. I don’t know if she realizes what she’s doing. She is losing control over the vehicle. My eyes sting, my heart thrashes against my ribcage, and I’m a stupid bastard who is about to pay for his silly fantasy.
Everything happens in slow motion.
Kathleen ignoring the stop sign at the end of the road.
A lorry with a frozen meat slogan blazing straight into her path from her left.
Metal hitting metal.
Big bang.
Silence.
Silence.
So much silence.
The scent wafting in the air makes me choke on my breath. Metallic blood and burned flesh and the end of my life.
I round my smashed car and try to open the driver’s door, but the metal is too hot to touch, and there’s thick smoke everywhere. The lorry driver stumbles out, holding his right leg.
It’s Sean.
God, it’s Sean.
He looks sober—of course, he is, he didn’t drink a drop during the wedding because he had a shift tonight—and in hysterics, running his palm through his buzzed hair, his teeth chattering.
“Oh, Lord.” He runs toward me. “I didn’t see her. She came out of nowhere.”
He’s right. It wasn’t his fault. She did come out of nowhere. But why Sean? Why him? And why am I so irrationally angry right now?
“Is she okay?” he asks dumbly.
“The baby,” I gasp, wrapping my hand in my dress shirt and jerking the door open. The sting of heat scorches my skin through the fabric. “Call an ambulance.”
“She looks dead,” Sean blurts, obviously in shock. “I can’t go to jail. I don’t want to go to jail. Jesus.”
That’s what he is thinking about right now? Going to jail? Kathleen’s life is over. Mine, too. And the baby’s. Please, please don’t let it be the baby.
I have so much to say.
I say nothing.
Sean turns around, looking at me. He is pale as a ghost. “This wouldn’t have happened if she’d dated me. You hurt her, Mal. You did this. It’s all your fault.”
Kathleen is dead.
But the baby is not.
“It was a close call, Mr. Doherty. You are blessed,” the doctors say.
Yeah, I snort. I fecking feel blessed.
I look down at the small, purple thing. Only reason I don’t cry is because someone needs to look in charge.
I’m sorry, little one. So terribly much.
Kathleen was wrong all along.
It isn’t a boy.
It’s a girl, and she looks just like both of us.
All I can think when I look at her is not all the things I gained, or all the things I lost in the past year.
But how all of them are connected to Rory.
How she ruined everything.
And how badly I want to ruin her.
Present
Rory
“May I help you?” the little girl asks from the doorway, her voice honey sweet and soft. She has the most glorious hair. Deep brown, but not quite as dark as her father’s.
Her. Father’s.
See also: My husband.
See also: The man who hid the truth about his daughter from me.
That was one of the first things I asked him when we met in New York again, when he threw his marriage to Kathleen in my face.
“Children?”
“No.”
He didn’t even hesitate. The answer was flat, like the void behind his pretty eyes. But there’s no way this kid is anyone else’s. She is a perfect blend of Kathleen and Mal. Suddenly, I’m hit with the awful, complicated truth. He kept this secret from me, even after he married me. His true family was something he never planned to share. He didn’t trust me enough to tell me he was a father. He thought I’d leave him if I found out, if he ever did care enough about us to want me to stay.
I wouldn’t leave a single father. But I sure as hell would dump a compulsive, dirty liar.
A
ll the times he disappeared. The birthday party. The glitter. The tiny, fake diamond earring tucked between grass blades in the backyard. The rush to head back to Tolka when we were in Greece. All because of his baby girl.
A mixture of anger, frustration, and overwhelming protectiveness toward this kid, who never knew her mother, swirls in my stomach. And guilt. So much guilt, for a reason I cannot pinpoint right now.
I offer her a little wave.
Say something. Anything. You are probably freaking her out.
“Um, hi?”
Not that, you idiot.
“You look like a princess.” She giggles, covering her little mouth.
How old is she? I’m guessing seven at most. Maybe six. Jesus, this cuts it close to the entire napkin ordeal. Is it possible she was conceived that soon after I left?
“That’s because I am.” I plant my fists on my waist.
“You are?” Her eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets.
“Well, kind of. My name is Aurora Belle. I came here because I heard there’s another princess living in this village—a prettier one I must meet. Guess I found her.” A lopsided grin appears on my face.
She chuckles with delight, cupping one of her cheeks to hide her blush. My heart squeezes in my chest. Her smile is dimpled. Neither Mal nor Kathleen had dimples. They were probably given to her by the almighty, to remind her she should smile despite her circumstances.
“You came to the wrong address. I’m no princess; I’m just Tamsin.”
Tamsin.
“Tamsin! Yes! That’s the girl I was looking for.” I produce my planner from my backpack, opening to a random page and nodding vehemently. “Yup. There you are. Princess Tamsin of Tolka. Everybody is talking about you back in our kingdom. They say you are the sweetest, kindest princess in all of Ireland.”
If she could burst glitter right now, she would. She jumps up and down, clapping her hands, and that’s when I realize what she is wearing: cowboy boots, a little leather jacket like her daddy’s, and a pink dress. Her sense of style is all over the place. I like that so much about her. And I hate her dad so much right now for not giving me enough credit to know I could easily love her.
“Would you like to come in?” she asks, taking a step aside.
“Why don’t you call your grandfather and ask him if I can?” I smile nervously, tucking the planner back into my backpack.
“Grandpa-great is not here yet. He comes shortly before teatime, which means in just a bit. Grandma’s here. Would you like me to call her?”
“Oh, that’s not necessary. I’ll come ba…”
“Nana!” Tamsin’s mouth opens to the shape of an egg, producing a shriek that could cause the earth to move. “Na-naaaaa!”
Before I find a good hole in the ground to swallow me into the next dimension, a woman appears at the door. She looks nothing like Mal—not even a little—which makes me suspect the worst. My suspicions turn out to be correct when she opens her mouth.
“Aurora, you said?” She wipes her hands on a paper towel, as if sullied by my presence.
She looks old enough to be my mother—not quite Father Doherty’s age. Ireland is not exactly full of priests who live in sin with women who look like they want to burn me alive, so I’m guessing this is Kathleen’s mother, who lives with Father Doherty and Mal’s mother.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m here to see Father Doherty.”
“Tamsin.” She pats the little girl’s chubby cheek with one hand, her eyes still zeroing in on me. “Go get your room tidy before supper.”
“But I want to stay with Princess Au…”
“Off you go,” she quips, and Tamsin scurries away into a house that looks newly refurbished, extremely spacious, and plush. Nothing like Mal’s modest crib.
The woman throws a warning finger in my face. “I knew you would eventually come back. We don’t have your money. Everything you see here Malachy paid for. Your drunken sod of a father wasn’t half as rich as he made his harem of flings believe.”
Whoa. I can see where Kathleen got her cut-a-bitch streak. Kathleen’s mother could teach mobsters a thing or two about tough talk.
“I’m not here because of Glen. I’m here on a work assignment. You don’t have to believe me, but it’s the truth. And while I’m here, I’d appreciate exchanging a few words with Father Doherty.”
I leave my marriage to Mal out because I still feel like an outsider, a pariah, an interloper in this village. And also because she lost her daughter. Grief is a fiend. It takes over swiftly, then makes you do and say things your normal self would not even think about.
“Whatever the reason you’re here, I’m telling you to leave. My granddaughter was never supposed to meet you. That was the deal we had with Mal. He promised us. It’s bad enough you’re probably warming his bed—”
“Well, I’m not looking for Mal. I’m looking for Father Doherty. Please tell him to meet me at The Boar’s Head in two hours. If you do, I promise I will never bother you and your granddaughter ever again.”
Knowing that the message will be passed, that Kathleen’s mother would never give up a chance to see me gone, I turn on my heel and leave.
Mal
There’s no good way to offhandedly mention to your wife that, by the way, you have a seven-year-old daughter, and oops, her mother was her dead half-sister who absolutely loathed her. Oh, and just for the record, you are ninety-nine percent sure Tamsin (the daughter—see? already getting ahead of myself) was conceived when you were drunk off your arse and raped.
Yet Mam’s surprise visit, paired with the fact that Rory is understandably starting to lose patience with me, plus that little, nagging thing called my conscience, means I’m going to tell her tonight.
I play the inevitable conversation in my head as I park my coughing, five-hundred-year-old car in front of the cottage. The fact that Rory married me and not Shiny Boyfriend without knowing I make seven figures annually only multiplied my love for her to dangerous quantities I’m not sure my heart can contain.
“Hey, darlin’, what do you fancy eating tonight? I’m thinking risotto, wine, and you. Oh, by the way, I have a kid.”
Though, maybe it’s best to warm her up with some good news.
“Hello, Princess. Did you know I’m busking as a hobby and am actually a reluctant millionaire? I have a lot of fun facts in store for you. Here’s another one—I’m a father.”
I push the door open, my hands full of presents for Rory and Tamsin. I got Rory chocolate and vintage CDs of the Irish music she likes, and Tamsin a princess dress and…what the feck?
Rory’s in the living room, stuffing her belongings into her handbag. Her suitcase appears to already be fully packed and standing at the door like an impatient mother, waiting. She has her phone pinned between her shoulder and ear as she struggles to fit her scarf into her purse—she’s always cold when she’s away from me; why can’t she understand that?—and she is growling into the phone.
“I don’t care what vehicle. You can send a freaking donkey, and I’ll ride it out of here.” Pause. “Yes, sir, I know that’s not the business you’re in. My point is, I just need to get the hell away from this place as soon as possible. Please. Honk when you arrive.”
She lets the phone drop to her hand and kills the call. She mumbles something incoherent about calling her mother and punches the screen when I clear my throat.
“Are we going on a honeymoon?” I ask, unloading my hands on the breakfast nook in front of her.
Stay cool. There might be a logical reason for her packing.
She looks up and scowls, like she wasn’t expecting me. Then she takes a step back, as if I’m going to strike her.
“You scared me.” She tugs the scarf out of her purse and throws it over her shoulders, getting ready to leave.
“Right now, I could say the same about you,” I hiss through gritted teeth, doing everything in my power not to launch at her.
I’m not stupid. I knew from the get-go this had
a very low percent chance of ever working out.
Still.
Still.
You fall in love with a girl named after two Disney princesses, and you believe in the unbelievable, because…well, Disney and shit.
She folds her arms over her chest.
Uh-huh. This can only mean pissed-off Rory, and that can only mean run for shelter.
“What’s going on?” I round the nook toward her, but she raises one hand to stop me.
“I ran across someone interesting today.”
“You did?” I play along.
She nods.
I say nothing, because I have a bad feeling, and there’s something clogging my throat, probably the amount of confessions I should have spat out to her a long time ago.
She takes a step toward me. “Someone you know very well. A little girl called Tamsin. Ring a bell?”
My mouth goes dry. What can I say to this? That I refused to talk to her about Tamsin because I didn’t think I’d fall in love with her again? That I hadn’t realized I never fell out of love with her in the first place?
That at first, I was simply protecting my daughter from her and Richards and their urban, heathen lifestyle by sending her off to live with her grandparents while I worked on this project—oh, and also on ruining her life?
That the secret, locked room actually belongs to Tam, and it’s beautiful, and so is she, and the house is normally on point, because I raise her alone, just the two of us? That I was mad that she got near it because I was so protective of Tam, even when she wasn’t physically in the room? That I messed up the house in advance to make her experience crappy, leaving Tamsin’s pristine room untouched.
That by the time I realized she could be mine, it was too late? The lie had grown too big, too threatening, and I was running like a headless chicken between my lover and my daughter?
Does she even want to listen?
“Cute kid, by the way.” Rory shrugs, making a show of looking like she doesn’t care. “Then I was informed by your mother-in-law that I am a monster.”
She is a hurricane, and I’m pushing against the storm when I stride toward her, wanting to explain myself, but she shoves me away and stalks toward the door. I jump in front of her and block her way, plastering my back to the closed door.