by Amy Harmon
“I think it would be best if you let Eoin be. He doesn’t remember you, and you’ll only upset him with your forgetfulness,” she demanded, tossing the order over her shoulder.
“I can’t do that.” I spoke before I realized the words were even on my tongue.
She spun to look at me, her mouth tight, her hands pressed to the apron she wore. “Ya can. And ya will,” she insisted, so cold and adamant I almost backed down.
“I won’t, Brigid,” I said quietly. “I am going to spend as much time with him as I can. Don’t attempt to keep him away. Don’t do it. I know you love him. But I’m here now. Please don’t try to keep us apart.”
Her face became granite, her eyes glacial, her lips clamped so tight no softness remained.
“You have loved him so well. He is so beautiful, Brigid. Thank you for all you have done. I will never be able to express the depth of my gratitude,” I said, and supplication quivered in my voice. But she turned, seemingly unmoved, and swished from the room.
Her anger was a physical thing, her hurt and resentment as present and real as the wound in my side. I would have to keep reminding myself that her anger, though directed at me, was not my burden.
I padded down the hallway to the bathroom, washed my face, and brushed my teeth and hair before returning to my room and the chest that awaited. I rifled through the contents, eager to be free of the nightgown and to clothe myself and leave the room I’d languished in for ten days.
I stepped into a long dark skirt and tried to fasten it. The waistband was too small, or I was still too swollen. I stepped out of the garment and searched the chest for underthings. The panties I’d been wearing when Thomas pulled me out of the lake were damp from the scrubbing I’d given them the day before in the bathroom sink. The rest of my clothes were folded neatly on the upper shelf of the small wardrobe, the bullet holes expertly mended. I’d considered donning them even before today but knew the oddness of that attire would inspire more scrutiny and encourage questions better left tucked away. I unearthed a thigh-length jacket with a thick band around the waist, a wide collar, and three big buttons marching down the front. A matching ankle-length skirt of the drabbest brown I’d ever seen was beneath it. I found a brown silk hat adorned with a wilted brown ribbon inside a tattered hatbox and guessed the items had all been worn together.
A pair of low-heeled boots, worn in the toes and soles, were wedged beneath the hatbox. I managed to stuff my feet into them, pleased that they fit well enough that I wouldn’t be going barefoot. However, bending to lace them was out of the question. I stepped out of the boots and continued exploring.
I pulled out a contraption that could only be a corset; the boning and ties and hanging buckles had me shuddering in horror and fascination. I slipped it around my midsection, where it sat, gaping like a wide bracelet, its ends not quite touching. At the top it widened slightly, providing a ledge for my breasts to rest on, the crumpled clump of ribbon sitting like a rosebud between them.
The corset hung lower in the front and back and rose slightly on the sides, freeing my hips for movement. Clearly the jangling straps in front and back were designed to attach to long stockings. But what did women wear beneath? The juxtaposition of wearing something as old-fashioned and confining as a corset and simultaneously being naked where it counted most was hilarious to me, and I giggled while trying to force the two silk-covered sides together. Most women in Ireland did not have personal maids—I was convinced of that. So how in the world did they fasten the damned things? I succeeded in connecting the top two hooks beneath my breasts before, breathless and aching, I abandoned the contraption. Corsets and gunshot wounds to the abdomen, however minor, did not mix. I turned back to the chest in hopes of finding something I could actually wear.
A white blouse—wide-collared and long-sleeved, horribly wrinkled, and slightly yellowed in places—fit well enough. The sleeves were a hair too short, but the overall style was forgiving and voluminous, and the three-quarter-length sleeve looked almost deliberate. The brown jacket and skirt fit, but the wool smelled of damp places and mothballs, and the thought of wearing the garment for any length of time was distasteful. I looked like Mary Poppins’s dowdy sister and wondered why the first Anne Gallagher had picked a color that wouldn’t have looked any better on her, considering I was her doppelganger.
I took off the suit and blouse and went on to the next thing.
A white sheath, the neckline square and unadorned except for some bits of lace at the hem and down the center, looked promising. Another piece, embroidered with the same lace, was clearly designed to be worn over the sheath. It had slim elbow-length sleeves and sides that hung open to reveal the dress beneath. A thick sash was banded around the two garments, and I pulled the sheath over my head, donned the thin overdress, and tied the sash loosely around my waist, the bow in back. It needed to be pressed and hung almost to my ankles, but it fit. I stared at my image in the long oval mirror and realized with a start that it was the dress my great-grandmother had worn in the picture with Declan and Thomas. In the photograph, my great-grandmother had worn a round-brimmed white hat wreathed in flowers. The dress was too pretty for everyday wear, but I was relieved to have something I could call my own. I pulled my hair off my face and tried to knot it at my nape.
A soft knock at the door had me abandoning my hair and curling my bare toes nervously against the wood floors.
“Come in,” I called, kicking the corset across the floor. It slid under the bed, a buckle peeping out accusingly.
“You found your things, then,” Thomas said, his mouth soft and his eyes sad.
It felt like yet another lie to admit to a previous ownership, so I drew attention to the wrinkles in the linen. “It needs to be pressed.”
“Yes . . . well, it’s been in that chest a long time,” he said.
I nodded and smoothed it self-consciously.
“Is there anything else in there you can wear?” he asked, his voice pained.
“A few things,” I hedged. I would need to sell my ring and the diamond studs in my ears. I couldn’t get by with the contents of the chest. Thomas clearly agreed.
“You’ll need more than the dress you were married in. You could wear it to Mass, I suppose,” he mused.
“Married in?” I said, too surprised to guard my tongue. I touched my head, thinking of the hat Anne had worn in the picture. It hadn’t looked like a wedding photo.
“You don’t remember that either?” His voice rose in disbelief, and the softness of fond memories left his eyes when I answered him with a shake of my head. “It was a good day, Anne. You and Declan were so happy.”
“I didn’t see a . . . veil . . . in the chest,” I said inanely.
“You wore Brigid’s veil. You didn’t like it very much. It was beautiful, a little out of fashion, but you and Brigid . . .” Thomas shrugged as if the poor relationship was old news.
Mystery solved. I breathed deeply and tried to meet Thomas’s gaze.
“I’ll change into the wool suit,” I murmured, looking away, desperate to change the subject.
“I don’t know why Brigid saved that. Ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. But you’re right. That dress won’t do.”
“Brigid says I need to cut my hair,” I said. “But I’d rather not. I just need some pins or ties, and I’ll make it look presentable. I could also use a little help tying my boots.”
“Turn around,” Thomas ordered.
I did as he asked, unsure but obedient. I gasped when he took my hair in his hands and began braiding, weaving the strands around each other until he had a long plait. I was so surprised, I remained perfectly still, welcoming the feel of his hands in my hair once more. He tied off the braid and looped the end and then looped it again, piercing the whole thing several times with what felt like hairpins.
“Done!” he exclaimed.
I felt the coiled knot at the base of my skull and turned around. “You are full of surprises, Thomas Smith. You carry hai
rpins in your pockets?”
His cheeks pinked the slightest bit, a blush so faint I would have missed it if I hadn’t been standing so close and looking so intently.
“Brigid told me to give them to you.” He cleared his throat. “My mother always had long hair. I watched her wind it up a thousand times. After her stroke, she couldn’t do it. Sometimes I would do it for her. I didn’t do a bang-up job. But if you wear that ugly hat with that hideous suit, no one will be looking at your hair.”
I laughed, and his eyes fell to my smile.
“Sit down,” he commanded, pointing to the bed. I obeyed again, and he grabbed the boots.
“No stockings in there?” He tossed his head toward the chest.
I shook my head.
“Well, we’ll fix that as soon as we can. But for now, boots.” He sank down on his haunches and I pushed my foot into the upheld shoe. He made short work of the hooks and eyes, my foot resting against his chest.
“I can’t help you with that,” he murmured, his eyes on the corset that was all too visible from his angle.
“I won’t be wearing it any time soon. I’m too sore, and no one will be able to tell anyway.”
“No. I don’t suppose they will.” The flush colored his cheeks again, and it puzzled me. He was the one who brought it up. He finished tying my other boot and set it gently on the floor. He didn’t rise but clasped his hands between his knees and looked at the floor, his head bowed.
“I don’t know what to tell them, Anne,” he said. “I can’t keep you a secret forever. You’ve got to help me. You’ve been dead for five years. It would help if we had an explanation—even if it’s pure fiction.”
“I’ve been in America.”
His eyes shot to mine. “You left your child, a babe, and went to America?” His voice was so flat I could have built a wall on it. I looked away.
“I was unwell. Mad with grief,” I murmured, unable to meet his gaze. I had been in America. And when Eoin died, I was mad with grief.
He was quiet, and from the corner of my eyes, I could see his slightly stooped shoulders, the stillness in the tilt of his head.
“Brigid says I look like I’ve escaped from an asylum. Maybe that’s what we should tell them,” I continued, wincing.
“Jaysus,” Thomas whispered.
“I can play the part,” I said. “I feel crazy. And God knows I’m lost.”
“Why do you have to play a part? Is it true? What’s the truth, Anne? That’s what I want to know. I want to know the truth. You can lie to the rest of them, but please don’t lie to me.”
“I’m trying so hard not to,” I mumbled.
“What does that mean?” He rose from his haunches and stood, looking down at me.
“The truth will be impossible for you to believe. You won’t believe it. And you will think I’m lying. I would give you the truth if I thought it would help. But it won’t, Thomas.”
He stepped back as if I’d slapped him. “You said you didn’t know,” he hissed.
“I don’t know what occurred after the Rising. I don’t know how I got here. I don’t understand what is happening to me.”
“So tell me what you do know.”
“I will promise you this. If silence is a lie, I’m guilty. But the things I’ve told you, the things I’ve said to you so far, are true. And if I can’t tell you the truth, I won’t say anything at all.”
Thomas shook his head, anger and bewilderment on his face. Then he turned and walked from my room without another word, and I was left to wonder yet again when my predicament would end, when it would all be over, when my life would right itself. I was stronger now, well enough to slip away to the lough. Soon, I would walk out into the water and sink beneath the surface, willing myself home and leaving Eoin and Thomas behind. Soon, but not yet.
“Will they recognize me?” I asked, raising my voice to be heard over the wind and the rumble of the motor. Thomas sat behind the wheel of a car straight out of The Great Gatsby, driving us to Sligo. Eoin was perched between us, neatly dressed in a little vest and jacket, his bony knees sticking out between the hem of his long shorts and the tops of his tall dark socks. He wore the same type of peaked hat he’d worn all his life, the thin brim pulled low over his blue eyes. The car had an open top—a hazard in rainy Ireland—but the sky was clear, the breeze gentle, and the trip pleasant. I had not been outside since the day on the lake, and my eyes were glued to the familiar landscape. The population in Ireland had not grown in a hundred years, leaving the scenery mostly unchanged generation after generation.
“Are you worried someone might recognize you?” Thomas answered, his tone quizzical.
“I am,” I admitted, meeting his eyes briefly.
“You aren’t from Sligo. Few will know you. And those who do . . .” He shrugged, not finishing his sentence, his eyes shifting away from me in contemplation. Thomas Smith didn’t bite his lip or wrinkle his brow when he stewed. His face was perfectly still, as though he thought so deeply, no echoes crossed his face or marred his features. It was odd, really, that in a matter of days, I’d come to recognize his posture, the way he stooped with his head slightly bowed and his features quiet. Had Eoin learned his ways? Was that why I knew Thomas Smith so well? Had Eoin absorbed the habits of the man who had stepped into his life and raised the boy Declan had left fatherless? I recognized little similarities—the wide stance, the downcast eyes, the outward calm, and the unruffled ruminations. The resemblances made me long for my grandfather.
Without thinking, I reached for Eoin’s hand. His blue eyes shot to mine, and his hand tightened and trembled. Then he smiled, a toothy revelation that eased one longing and gave rise to another.
“I’m a little afraid to go shopping,” I whispered near his ear. “If you hold my hand, it will help me be brave.”
“Nana loves the shops. Don’t you?”
I did. Usually. But the fear in my belly, magnified by the thought of corsets with hanging straps, strange clothes, and my complete dependence on Thomas grew, as Sligo appeared in the distance. I looked around me in wonder, trying to find the cathedral to orient myself. My chest began to burn.
“I have earrings . . . and a ring. I think both would sell for a good price,” I blurted and then thought better of my statement. I really knew nothing about the ring. I pushed the thought from my head and tried again.
“I have some jewelry. I’d like to sell it so that I have some money of my own. Could you help me with that, Thomas?”
“Don’t worry your head about money,” Thomas clipped, eyes forward.
A country doctor paid in chickens and piglets or bags of potatoes couldn’t be completely unconcerned with money, and the worry coiled deeper.
“I want money of my own,” I insisted. “I’ll need to find employment too.” Employment. Dear God. I’d never had a job. I’d been writing stories from the moment I could form a sentence. And writing wasn’t a job. Not for me.
“You can assist me,” Thomas said, his jaw still tight, eyes on the road.
“I’m not a nurse!” Was I? Was she?
“No. But you’re capable of following directions and giving me a spare set of hands every now and again. That’s all I need.”
“I want money of my own, Thomas. I will buy my own clothes.”
“Nana says you should call Thomas Dr. Smith,” Eoin said, inserting himself into the conversation. “And she says he should call you Mrs. Gallagher.”
We were silent. I had no idea what to say.
“But your nana is Mrs. Gallagher too. That would be confusing, wouldn’t it?” Thomas replied. “Plus, Anne was my friend before she was Mrs. Gallagher. Do you call your friend Miriam Miss McHugh?”
Eoin covered his mouth, but a snort of laughter gurgled out. “Miriam isn’t a miss! She’s a pest,” he crowed.
“Yes . . . well, so is Anne.” Thomas looked at me and looked away, but his eyebrows quirked, softening his words.
“Is there a jeweler or a pawnbrok
er in Sligo?” I insisted, not willing to let the matter go, pest or not. Were they even called pawnbrokers in 1921? The hysteria continued to build inside me.
Thomas sighed, and we bounced down the deeply rutted road. “I have three patients to see. None of the stops will take me long, but I will drop you and Eoin—stay close to your mother, Eoin, and help her—on lower Knox Street. There’s a pawnbroker next to the Royal Bank. Daniel Kelly. He’ll be fair with you. When you’re done, walk up to Lyons department store. You should be able to get everything you need there.”
Eoin was bouncing on the seat between us, obviously thrilled at the mention of the department store.
“I will meet you there when I’m finished,” Thomas promised.
We crossed the River Garavogue on Hyde Bridge—a bridge I’d walked across less than two weeks before—and I gaped in wonder. The countryside had not changed, but the times certainly had. The streets, unpaved and free of the traffic and congestion of 2001, seemed much larger and the buildings much newer. The Yeats Memorial Museum sat on the corner, but it wasn’t a museum any longer. The words Royal Bank were written in bold across the side. A few cars and a delivery van rumbled along the street, most of them black, all of them antique, but horse-pulled carts were just as common. The bulk of the traffic was pedestrian, the clothing smart, the steps brisk. Something about the apparel—the formality of suits and ties, vests and pocket watches, dresses and heels, and hats and long coats—gave everything a decorum that contributed to my sense of the surreal. It was a movie set, and we were actors on a stage.
“Anne?” Thomas prodded gently. I tore my eyes away from the storefronts, from the wide footpaths and lampposts, from the old cars and the wagons, from the people who were all . . . long . . . dead.
We were parked in front of a small establishment just two doors down from the stately Royal Bank. Three golden balls were suspended from an ornate wrought-iron pole, and “Kelly & Co.” was written across the glass in a baroque font no one used anymore. Eoin squirmed impatiently beside me, anxious to get out of the car. I reached for the door handle, my palms damp, my breath shallow.