by Allison Parr
During those middle school years, I found solace in an exquisitely illustrated book of Celtic myths in my dad’s home office. Someone had given it to him as a present, due to our last name being Sullivan, though we weren’t any more Irish than any other eighth generation American.
I loved that book. I especially loved the pictures of the Tuatha Dé Danann, depicted as tall, beautiful people with streaming hair that reminded me of my own. I fixated on them, and the myths, and by the time I reached high school I related almost every project I worked on back to ancient Ireland. At fourteen, I wrote a detailed analysis of The Tain, a Celtic epic set in the first century of the Common Era. I wanted to prove that one of the central figures, Queen Medb, was an actual ruler. I was obsessed with proving that the mythological Tuatha Dé Danann and Fir Bolg were actually based off real people.
In the last years of high school, that settled into a more academic interest in the original people of Ireland, who were mentioned in several of the classical Greek sources. The explorer Pytheas of Massalia visited in the fourth century BCE, and Ptolemy wrote a general geography in around 150 CE. Ptolemy called the island as a whole “Ivernia,” and noted that the name was the same as that of a people who lived in the extreme southwest, who may once have been the first inhabitants of the land. He located a city in their territory named Ivernis.
Which I decided to find.
It wasn’t that easy, of course. Archaeology didn’t happen as quickly as it looked in two-hour NOVA specials or made-for-TV movies. Archaeologists didn’t just show up on a plot of land armed with shovels and machetes and have at it. Instead, we had to broker deals with landowners and governments and partner universities.
And by “we,” I really mean grad students.
It had taken me three months to get Mr. Patrick O’Connor to give permission for me to excavate his property, Kilkarten Farm, which I had identified as the most likely place for Ivernis. A study had tested the earth there seven years ago and found it used to be saline water. Since I knew from old maps that Ivernis had been located on a bay, it seemed probable that the inlet had silted up, thus covering and hopefully preserving the harbor.
Patrick O’Connor had agreed to the dig after a fair amount of grumbling and haggling over price, but his nephew was being even more elusive. I spent late into the night and most of the next day trying to get in touch with O’Connor through various methods: fan email, the team itself, his agent.
But I didn’t get any answer until three days later when I was on the commuter rail up to Westchester for my weekly dinner with my parents. I’d refreshed my email on my cell for the millionth time, and I almost didn’t believe it when a response from O’Connor’s agent popped up. I came very close to yelping for joy on public transit, but managed to keep it to grinning wildly and swinging my foot. I’d be meeting with O’Connor tomorrow.
And thank God for that bit of good news, because I needed to get through dinner with my parents. I didn’t expect them to be happy that I’d received the grant for Ivernis, but I sort of expected them to be proud of me. That’s what parents did, right? Showed pride when their children achieved success.
I walked the several long blocks from the station to my parents’ house. They’d upgraded after I left for college, and while the new house was undoubtedly nicer, it seemed too large for only two people.
I cut across the immaculate lawn to the back door instead of using the imposing front entrance. I pushed open the unlocked door. “Hello!”
Unlike the house I’d grown up in, everything about this one was oversized—big kitchen, high ceilings, large leather couches across from a massive television. Several shots from my mom’s modeling days used to hang in the old house, but now only large, posed family portraits decorated the wall.
I hugged my parents and we unpacked the take-out Dad has just picked up. Things went downhill almost immediately.
Mom stirred her fork and took small, mincing bites. “This isn’t very good.”
My father stopped cutting into the fillet, his clenched hands stalled at ninety degrees. “We didn’t have to order it.”
“You said you wanted Thai.”
“We could have gone to Lemon Grass.”
“But you’re tired of their menu.”
I leaned into their line of vision, swooping the menu off the table. I flashed a smile to the right, then the left, forcing eye contact on both my parents. “Let’s make a note on the menu, and then we’ll know not to order from it next time.”
Dad finished cutting off a small corner and popped it in his mouth, then spoke around the mouthful. “I don’t dislike it.” He leaned backward in his seat.
As though pulled by a taunt string, Mom leaned forward. “But do you like it?”
He shrugged.
I put the menu down. “I have good news! I got my grant for Ireland. Isn’t that exciting?”
My parents didn’t often agree with each other, but now they looked aghast.
“I don’t understand why you can’t stay here.” Mom reached out and ran her fingers through my thick blond hair, which I’d left loose as a concession to her. “You just got back.”
I frowned. “I told you. I went to Ecuador for a specific class, but since I want to write my thesis on Ivernis, I need to spend the summer in Ireland. I can probably even spend most of the year there, since I’ve finished off all my coursework.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want to do? You’re so pretty, Natalya.” Mom’s famous gray eyes mourned. “I thought maybe we could spend some time this summer seeing if there were any photo shoots you were interested in.”
I looked from her to my father, and both appeared unhappy. “Oh.” My voice came out smaller than I’d intended. “You didn’t expect me to get the grant.”
“It was very competitive—” Mom said hastily.
“We didn’t want you to get it,” Dad said bluntly. “How long are you going to do this, Natalie?”
I slowly straightened. “How long am I going to do what?”
He waved his fork through the air; Mom tracked it, her gaze pinned to the speck of translucent onion ready to slide off. “It was fine when you were in undergrad, but you can’t seriously expect to spend your life chasing after adventure. You have to settle down.”
I had to press down on my frustration, because I didn’t want to get into a fight with Dad. Peace was fragile enough in my parents’ house without me adding to the unbalance. “Dad, I’ve been in my program for the past three years. What did you think I was going to do?”
He finally put his fork down. “You said you were going to be a professor.”
I nodded slowly. “Yes, and I still probably will, but this is my fieldwork. I have to do it to get my doctorate.”
He shifted. “But you don’t have to do it with that idiot—”
My fork clattered against the table. “Professor Anderson’s not an idiot.”
“No? He hasn’t found anything in half a dozen years. I read up on him. He’s essentially the laughingstock of the academic community.”
“Well, you’re not part of that community, so I don’t see why you—”
A thunderous expression crossed his face. “We have supported you in whatever you want to do, but enough is enough. What am I supposed to tell people when they ask where you are? Say that you’re off chasing leprechauns? What was wrong with Ecuador, for Christ’s sake? If you have to stay in this ridiculous profession, can’t you at least be realistic? If you align yourself with Jeremy Anderson, no one is ever going to take you seriously.”
My nails bit into my palm and my mouth tensed. “Dad, I got a grant from an independent non-profit. And the whole reason I received it was because of all the research I did, which shows there is a very, very good chance that the harbor of Ivernis is buried somewhere on Kilkarten. So, no, I don’t think I�
��m being ridiculous or following insubstantial rainbows. I’m doing my work, and I expect results. Results that I intend to present to the American Academy of Archaeology in September.”
Mom tilted her head. “The what?”
I must have told them about the conference at least three times, but I made myself explain again without snapping, though my gut twisted unpleasantly. “It’s the conference Jeremy and I are presenting at in the fall. It’s one of the annual archaeology conferences? We were really lucky to get a space to talk about our fieldwork—usually people just present papers or workshops.”
Dad grunted. “And what if you don’t find anything? Then what are you going to talk about?”
“Dad. I’m pretty sure we’ll be okay.”
“Are you? You know what I learned when I was researching Professor Anderson? That whenever people write about him, they also write about a Dr. Henry Ceile.”
My shoulders slumped. Great.
Like Jeremy, Dr. Ceile studied pre-historic Ireland, but he was of the opinion that focusing on Greek and Roman ancient sources was ridiculous and useless. He also had a personal bone to pick with Jeremy, since Jeremy had received funding to look for Ivernis that had originally gone to Ceile’s research. I tried to avoid calling the relationship between Jeremy and Ceile a feud—but it was kind of a feud.
Dad pointed his fork at me again. “This Ceile says that Anderson is crazy. Do you want to be caught up in the middle of this?”
“Yes, Dad, I do.”
“That’s not how I raised you.”
“Please,” I snapped, and then bit down on my tongue so none of the other words flew out. You barely raised me at all. You barely came home from the office for long enough to pat me on the head before disappearing into your study.
He raised his brows. “What was that, young lady?”
I shook my head and dug into my Pad Thai.
Silence descended and stretched.
Then Mom sniffed. “I went to Ireland once.”
“You went to Scotland,” Dad corrected.
“I went to Ireland too.”
Dad cut her a dismissive sneer. I felt it scrape across my spine and tried not to wince. “When?”
“When I was eighteen. They flew me out for a weekend shoot.”
“And you’re positive it wasn’t Scotland?”
Forks scraped against plates. I desperately searched for something to say.
Please, I thought. Get me out of here. Get me to Ireland.
* * *
Cam looked up from her email when I walked into our apartment. “Your undergrad friend emailed me back. She’s going to sublet for the summer.”
“Great.” I flopped down on the couch.
“Whoa.” Cam’s head snapped up. “You’re wearing pearls. And a cardigan. Dinner with the Sullivans?”
“Yes, and it was just darling.” I unhooked the line of freshwater mussel irritants and slung it across the room into my shoebox of jewelry. “I can’t get to Ireland soon enough.”
“Any news on the football front?”
“Yes! I got an email on the way up to my parents’. I’m going to meet with Mike O’Connor tomorrow.”
“Oh, good.” She paused, and then said in her attempting-to-be-delicate voice: “Have you thought what you’re going to do if he says no?”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what if doesn’t give you permission to dig?”
I waved a hand. “Come on, he’s a first-string Leopard. He doesn’t need a little non-functional farm in Ireland.”
“Yeah, probably. Though, you know, it wouldn’t be awful if you stayed here this summer. I mean, if you stayed in one place for longer than six months, you could probably even date.”
I laughed. “I’m way too busy to date anything other than my carbon.”
“You’ve already made that joke,” Cam said, a little more acerbically than I thought warranted. “What about that guy in your program that you got lunch with yesterday? How was that?”
I shrugged. “It was fine. It was lunch. I had a strawberry gazpacho soup. Pretty exciting.”
“Oh my God.” Cam stepped over the back of the couch and dropping down on it. “Nothing happened.”
“What was I supposed to do?” I pushed my shoulders back defensively. “I smiled. We talked.”
“See, this is why you don’t have a boyfriend. You were probably all chummy when you should have been, you know, cute.”
“Hey.” I waved a hand down the length of my body. “What about this isn’t cute?”
Cam shook her head. “I just don’t even know what I’m going to do with you.”
“It’s not my fault. It’s not like I’m friend zoning everyone, they’re friend zoning me.”
“Well, you’re helping them right along.” She leaned forward, bracing her hands against her thighs. “Okay. Here’s the plan. We’ll call it Operation Irish Boyfriend. You find an Irish boyfriend.”
“Great! What’s the plan?”
“That’s it. Go and find a boyfriend.”
“Hey, I’m finding a connection between ancient Rome and Ireland. I need a more detailed plan than that. I expect it in my inbox by Thursday.”
She mimed tossing a pillow at me. “It won’t be that hard.”
“Whatever, I don’t need to. The carbon, you know. It’ll be keeping me busy.”
“Oh my God. Stop.”
I dropped onto the opposite side of the couch from her. “What? I’m sorry I prioritize my work.”
“You don’t prioritize work, you completely ignore your emotional health. It’s like you’re a little emotionless bot trained by Madame Sullivan to react to all situations with grace and poise and the best angle to be photographed, but without any legit feelings.”
“I’m sorry, when did you switch from engineering to psychology?”
“Only someone who doesn’t understand simple human behavior would interpret this as legit psychology. This is common knowledge. Besides—wait.” Cam sat up with a fervor that made me very, very wary. “I have an idea.”
“Nope.” My pendulous earrings swung out as I shook my head. “I’m not doing it.”
“No, I swear, this is a good one.” Cam gathered her hair upward and then let it cascade down. If I had been less afraid, I might have commented that this made Cam look like a mad scientist, but instead I just waited. Last time Cam had spoken in that tone, we’d ended up doing past-life regression, and the stupid regresser kept saying I was a medieval serf while Cam got to be a pirate queen. “What have you been complaining about for a solid week?”
That sounded like a trick question. “The theft of my harbor?”
Apparently I’d answered correctly, because Cam bounced up and down. “Exactly! Exactly. Who stole your harbor?”
“I thought leading questions were bad.”
“For lawyers, not best friends. So?”
I gave in. “Michael O’Connor.”
“Who you’re seeing tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah, though did I tell you they wouldn’t even give me a real time?” I swung my legs over the couch arm, and dropped my head into Cam’s lap. “Just sometime between three and six. I’m terrified that if I’m five minutes late they’ll say I missed my chance.”
“Okay, that’s not the point.” Cam waved a hand dismissively. “The point is that Mike O’Connor is a highly attractive individual.”
I flushed. “Then why don’t you go out with him.”
“Aha!” Cam stabbed a finger at me. “See! There. You implied you wanted to date him.”
I pushed back my shoulders defensively. “I did not. I just know how your mind works. It was a preemptive strike.”
“Come on, this is brilliant. You hav
e a perfectly legitimate reason to talk to him.”
“Yeah, it’s a business meeting.”
“Right, he’ll sign the papers and then you’ll never see him again. So it’s not like you can get embarrassed if it goes badly, because then you don’t have to see him. But if it goes well, then you get to date a Leopard player.”
“Do I get a gold star too?”
Cam narrowed her eyes. “Only if you’re lucky. Which, coincidentally,” she said, examining her nails and obviously compressing a smile, “will only be if you get lucky.”
I swatted at her nose.
“Think what a perfect story it would be for your grandkids! And you can totally pull it off. Seeing how the only generous thing Tamara ever did was give you her looks—”
I peeled open an eyelid. “Really, Cam?”
“I mean, if I had the height and eyes of a Russian supermodel—”
“And the breadth and chin of a mutty lawyer—”
“—I would use them to my advantage. Instead, I get guys with Asian fetishes. I think we know who the winner is here.”
“Ugh.”
“I’m just saying,” Cam said. “Wear something pretty.”
Chapter Two
When I was little, my father used to take me to the Leopards’ Stadium. We’d ride the commuter train in from Westchester, and he’d buy me popcorn if I asked, but I’d always known we weren’t at the games for a father-daughter bonding experience. We were really going in so Dad could meet up with my half-brothers.
I loved them. Peter, with his staunch sense of right and wrong; Quinn, who rarely spoke but made me sock-puppets and always complimented my mangled drawings of boats; and even Evan, who scowled and pulled my hair and blamed me for every item he broke. Evan, at only three years older, was actually my favorite, and I spent hours trying to get him to play with me. But sometimes when I saw the way our father smiled at them, my stomach knotted up and my throat hurt.
And everything hurt after the boys moved out of the city and my father no longer mentioned going to games.