Isn’t that wonderful?”
I sank into the kitchen chair. “No. No, it can’t be.”
He rubbed my shoulders. “I know the two of them had trouble before, but sure, didn’t they have a bonny little lad? The next one will be fine too, love, don’t worry.”
I couldn’t stop the tears. And the sobs. And the moans. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t be.
Paul was alarmed and his face wore the look. “Where are your tablets, Mary?”
“I don’t need my tablets,” I choked out. “I’m fine.”
His voice was stern now. “Don’t make me call the doctor and embarrass you. You’re taking those tablets.”
I pointed to the press in the kitchen. He carefully meted out the proper dosage and handed them to me along with a glass of water. And because he knew me so well, he checked under my tongue to make sure I’d swallowed them.
* * * *
The next morning there were no kisses, no declarations of undying love from Paul as he left for Dublin. Seeing me lose control, even a little bit, must have brought all the black days of doctors and tablets and tears back for him. I knew he loved me still. I also knew a part of him was happy to be returning to Rathfarnham without me.
My head still foggy from the tablets, I made myself a strong cup of tea, my mother’s tea.
After two cups, I dressed in jeans and walking shoes. No red robe or sheer sheath or any show of deference from me this time.
I strode from my house to the cave, with no tingles of fear or anticipation. Only cold, hard anger tinged with more than a little dash of hatred.
He was not in front of the cave. I stretched out my arms and opened my mind to Him but couldn’t sense Him anywhere. So I did what He and my mother always warned me not to do. I walked into the cave alone.
The cave smelled of must and damp, of Him. I continued in, along a narrow path lit by a dull red light emanating from the back.
I heard not voices exactly, but more like high pitched chattering sounds. I covered my ears because soon that unearthly sound echoed in my skull. And the pain it caused was almost unbearable.
But I continued on, chanting under my breath the protective prayer my mother had taught me, and that helped a little. I could do this. I could do anything for my Bobby.
A black cloud arose and blocked the dull light from the back of the cave. The fetid smell of wet earth and decay overwhelmed me and stole my breath. I sank to my knees. The cloud swirled faster and faster as the smell continued to assault me. It became denser and after a few minutes assumed the shape of a man.
He dug his fingers into me as He lifted me from the ground. His face was Slanaitheoir’s, but His skin was black and had the consistency of mud.
He opened His mouth but all that came out was a high pitched chattering that seemed to melt my brain. He dragged me to the mouth of the cave. Slowly His skin lightened and became white and smooth.
“Do you know what could have happened if one of the others found you?” He asked, His voice still unnaturally high. “With the mood they’re in, they would have torn you to shreds.”
He was silent then, waiting for my apology. For me to grovel. I said nothing.
“Why are you here?” He boomed. “I didn’t summon you.”
In some deep recess of my mind, I knew I should be afraid. That I should bow my head to Him. But the sight of my son’s broken body emboldened me. “Caroline’s pregnant,” I snapped.
“How exactly did that happen?”
His lips curled in a smile. “The usual way, I imagine.”
I grabbed His arm. The heat from His unnatural flesh burned my fingers. “I have served you, faithfully, for years. Do not treat me like a fool. My request did not include a second child.”
He pulled away from me and sneered, “Not your request, perhaps.”
“If not mine, then whose?”
He laughed, low, mockingly. Like a woman possessed, I took off my shoe and threw it at him. The shoe bounced off His chest.
“Careful, my love, you don’t want me to start throwing things at you.” He sat on a large rock near the mouth of the cave. “There weren’t too many with the blood in the new world. One pretty girl in Boston. I considered her first, but my blood was too diluted within her. Caroline, plain Caroline, was the only alternative. I wasn’t happy about it but, what’s that saying again?
Oh yes, beggars can’t be choosers. But she surprised me, she did. Who knew that behind that bland face burned such heat, such passion. She has pleased me well.”
“She doesn’t even know you exist.”
“She may not know what I am but she’s well aware of my existence.” He leered at me now, emerald eyes full of malice. Full of passion.
“This violates the Agreement. All requests must come from me.”
“It was a follow-on request. You opened the door, my love.”
“That’s not how this works!”
His gaze burned into me. “I’ve been dancing this dance with you Devlins for years now.
Yes, my dear, this is how it works. Otherwise, how else would our dear Caroline’s belly be swelling with your new granddaughter?”
“No! Not a girl!”
“Oh yes, my love. A pretty baby girl with your black hair and green eyes. Or should I say, my black hair and green eyes?”
“And what payment? What will you demand?”
“I haven’t decided.”
Smoke enveloped me then. I felt myself falling, falling from a great height. I fell to the ground, feeling my bones shatter on the pavement below.
“No,” I moaned. “Not my son.”
Slanaitheoir tore the jeans from my body. With His hands, he spread my legs wide, which seemed like they had been shattered into a million pieces. He entered me and I felt like I was being ripped asunder.
“I think I’ll take part of my payment now, my love,” He said.
Chapter 11
Caroline
As I spooned scrambled eggs into Aidan’s mouth, I tried not to gag over the smell. At six months I should be well past the morning sickness stage, but this pregnancy was different than my first one. I was nauseous all the time. I told Bobby I felt like I was seasick but couldn’t get off the boat. My skin was blotchy, my hair lank. Marcie said I must be having a girl, since girls steal their mother’s beauty. All of my newfound beauty was gone, and if anything, I was plainer than before.
But Bobby, my dear sweet Bobby, didn’t mind. He didn’t even seem to notice. He was as affectionate, physically and otherwise, as ever. One look at our little bean on the first sonogram, and he was hooked and all previous concerns and reservations fell away.
Bobby kissed my cheek. “Morning, sweetheart.”
“Oh my God, Bobby Connelly! What are you wearing?”
“What? Too much?”
Bobby, who thought pinstriped suits were too racy, was wearing a light pink shirt and pink striped tie with his conservative gray suit.
I laughed. “I guess we know what result you’re hoping for today.”
“I want another beautiful woman in the house, so shoot me. You’re not upset that I won’t be there, are you, Caro?”
“No, no. I know how important this meeting is to you. Don’t worry. I’ll bring home lots of pictures.”
“All right.” He kissed the top of Aidan’s head. “I’ve gotta run. Call me when you’re out of the doctor’s.”
Aidan started to choke on his eggs. Without looking up at Bobby, I said “Uh huh.”
I cleaned Aidan up, dropped him off at Marcie’s and walked the three blocks to the doctor’s office. Unlike Bobby, I didn’t care what we had. I only wanted the next three months to be over with, so I could hold a healthy baby in my arms. And so I could stop throwing up.
Quarter past eight, I had the first appointment of the day. My paper gown was no protection from the air conditioning’s arctic blast. I shivered even more when the technician spread the cold jelly over my swollen belly.
I tried to l
ook at the monitor but all I could see were gray blobs. I waited patiently, willing my body not to shake, as the technician pressed the hard plastic around my stomach.
Finally she stopped.
“So?” I asked.
“Everything looks good.” She scooped the jelly off my stomach with a scratchy paper towel. “The doctor should call you later with the complete report.”
“And, could you tell what I’m having?”
“Oh, yes, your little one gave me a clear shot. It’s a girl.”
Tears sprang to my eyes. A girl! I adored my Aidan, but a girl to shop with, to take to dancing class. A daughter to be my friend for the rest of my life. To fill the hole left by my own mother’s desertion.
A girl. Bobby would be so happy. He’d gotten his wish.
The smile still on my face, I dressed and entered the waiting room. The other women in the waiting room were facing the TV, none of them making a sound.
A plane was wedged into the side of a building. Plumes of smoke billowed from the flames.
“What happened?” I asked.
One hollowed-eyed woman tore herself from the screen. “A plane hit the World Trade Center.”
My hands flew to my mouth. I stood there, transfixed, staring at the screen as another plane flew into the side of the other tower.
There were no cabs to be found on Park Avenue. I sprinted the few blocks to my apartment. Bobby had said he had a meeting. Maybe his meeting was outside his office. Maybe it wasn’t in his new office on the 95th floor of Tower One.
I turned on the TV and called Bobby’s cell for what seemed to be the twentieth time. No answer.
I called his office. I tried his secretary’s number. I sent him frantic emails. Nothing. No response. I stared at the TV, the sound turned down, unable to hear the commentary that conveyed no information. I stared at the TV as the people jumped, as I prayed that the man in a business suit with the dark hair falling from the fiery open window was not my Bobby, could not be my Bobby. But somewhere in my head as I stared at the falling man, some voice, horribly taunting yet oddly familiar, said, “Say goodbye to him, Caroline.”
As the figure fell, I thought I saw a flash of pink at his collar. But no, how could that be?
As if in slow motion, the small figure continued his descent, and I swore I heard the sound of mocking laughter echo through the empty apartment.
* * * *
I went through the motions of hanging up the “Have you seen this man?” signs throughout the city. I filled out paperwork. But even that first day, I knew. He would not be walking into our apartment, covered with dust. He would not come back to me.
The next few weeks were a fog of paperwork, phone calls, a hastily organized memorial service comprised mostly of my family and friends. Bobby’s family didn’t come, couldn’t I suppose, and since Bobby had only lived here a few years, most of his friends had been work friends and perished with him in that tower. That accursed tower.
People admired me for my strength. I was not the wailing, hysterical widow. I kept it together. But only because I feared if I allowed my grief out, it would consume me and harm the baby girl I carried. Each day as I fed Aidan, did laundry, made the beds, I promised myself, once she was out of my belly and safe, then I would allow myself to lose it. To fully mourn my beautiful Bobby.
My brother and sister-in-law who lived in Brooklyn took Aidan when I felt the first signs of contractions, and later, I took a cab by myself to Lenox Hill Hospital. No one came with me.
My mother was in Florida and, while once again she’d done her duty and attended Bobby’s memorial service, her blank eyes and cold embrace were no comfort. I hadn’t spoken to her more than twice since. I didn’t ask her to come with me into the delivery room and she didn’t offer.
Others did. My friend Marcie, my old friend Tina, my brothers’ wives. But I couldn’t bear it, to have them in there, pitying me. I wanted to be alone, alone in my joy at meeting my new daughter, alone in my grief. I was a widow now. I needed to get used to being alone.
The first two hours dragged by, as the nurses silently checked my vitals and made me comfortable. There were no jokes, no chitchat as there had been during Aidan’s delivery. The word must have gone out. I was one of those. A pregnant 9-11 widow.
Tears spilled down my face as I closed my eyes during a rough contraction. Coming here alone was a mistake. I reached out my hand to grip the bed’s railing, and instead, another hand gripped mine. I opened my eyes, expecting to see yet another kind, faceless nurse. It was Mary.
Her green eyes glowed as she smiled at me, her hand firm in mine. As I shuddered from the contraction, she was there.
Sweat poured from my brow. Mary placed a cool towel on my forehead. “You’re doing great, love,” she said in her soft lilting voice. “Now let’s have a baby.”
Hours later, after little Katherine was cleaned up and wrapped in a blanket, I smiled into her unseeing green eyes and stroked her head of black hair. She was the image of her grandmother. I offered her to Mary, but Mary shook her head and erupted into tears.
They were not tears of happiness.
Chapter 12
Caroline
“Bobby Connelly,” I said. “I swear, you’re part billy-goat.”
He turned and smiled at me, eyes glittering in the forest’s dim light. He offered his hand.
“Come on, Caro. I have something wonderful to show you.”
He brought me to the ledge overlooking the valley, with the roaring Feale River below.
The sun shone through clouds. He put his hand on my waist and I leaned into him. Bobby nuzzled my ear. “I want to spend my life showing you beautiful things.”
I spun around to kiss him but instead of Bobby it was Him. My dream man. His eyes glittered in the sun. His lips were blood red. He took my face in His hands and kissed me, His lips soft and gentle.
His strange accented voice was smooth, seductive as He whispered into my ear, “Come home, my love. Come home.”
Two AM I turned on the light, admitting defeat once again. Although my legs ached from chasing Kathy in the park, I knew there was no point trying to go back to sleep. I had only recently stopped taking the Ambien the doctors so easily prescribed. Along with the Wellbutin and the Valium. Last month I cleaned out my medicine cabinet and threw all the pills away. It had been close to two years already. It was time to stop sleepwalking through my life.
One result was that I started dreaming again. Vivid, strange dreams. Of Bobby. And of Him.
I walked to my closet and put on Bobby’s old robe, one of the few articles of his clothing I’d kept. I looked for my slippers but the bottom of the closet was a jumble of shoes, toys, bags. I found one slipper and dug through the mess looking for the other. It was wedged under Bobby’s briefcase.
For weeks after 9-11, I’d waited for the call. The call saying “we’ve found your husband’s body.” But it never came and as months wore on I prayed for anything, even a small part of his body, to be siphoned from the rubble. Something to bury, some spot where we could house whatever remained of my beautiful Bobby. Somewhere to bring the children on Father’s Day.
While my new sorority sisters, the other 9-11 widows, received the calls, the gruesome news of an arm, a leg, a bone shard being found even, my phone remained silent. Until last spring when I’d gotten the call. They hadn’t found my Bobby, but his briefcase.
I’d never opened it. In my fog of antidepressants and tranquilizers I felt neither pain nor joy at receiving this last piece of Bobby. Still in its plastic bag, I’d thrown it unceremoniously into the chaos of my closet floor.
Now, as the sleepless hours lay before me, I wanted to see it. Touch it. See if it retained any smell of my husband.
I shoved my feet into the slippers and walked into the kitchen. I made myself a cup of tea and treated myself to some of Aidan’s Oreos.
After swallowing the last of the tea, I ripped open the plastic bag. The briefcase, once black, was now gr
ay with ingrained dust, toxins, I supposed. It was torn on one side, but otherwise intact. The clasp opened easily and inside was a business card holder, a copy of a client presentation, pens and a datebook.
As I flipped the pages of the datebook, I saw notations for client meetings, the occasional dentist appointment. And nothing else. Well, what had I been expecting? Declarations of love for his wife in his date planner?
My eyes brimmed as I flipped through April, May. Pitch at Merrill, lunch to follow.
Nothing personal in these pages reflecting the Bobby I knew. This could be anyone’s briefcase.
July and August were more of the same. And then I got to September. Blood roared in my ears as I reached that accursed day. I scanned the page and saw more notes. A lunch appointment in midtown. If only. If only he’d had a midtown breakfast rather than a lunch. But I couldn’t play the “if only” game. Not anymore.
I went to close the planner but then noticed a glint of gold, wedged in the binding. A ring.
The gold was dull, as it had always been. The carvings of intertwined branches were delicate.
Unlike his wedding ring which was properly sized, this ring which had belonged to his grandfather and his father before him, had never fit. It was impossible to size because of the design. It was loose, but Bobby wouldn’t leave the house without it. He’d been forever twirling it around. Taking it off, putting it on. I guess for some reason he’d left it in his date planner.
I placed the ring in the middle of my right palm and squeezed it tight in a fist. The kitchen was silent, aside from the whir of the refrigerator. I closed my eyes and prayed for some sign from Bobby. A few of my fellow 9-11 widows claimed their husbands had made contact with them. A candle had blown, a light flickered. I wasn’t sure whether these things were the result of overactive imaginations or grief, but I envied the other widows nonetheless. I’d received nothing from Bobby. No last phone call, no communication from the beyond. Nothing aside from this strange ring.
“Please, Bobby. If you’re out there. Give me a sign. Show me that you’re still there. I’m lost, sweetheart, I’m lost without you. I know I should be strong for our children, but you know I’m not. I’ve never been strong.”
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