by Cecy Robson
It’s true, even if I don’t get to have her the way that I want.
“Seamus,” she says, her voice breaking.
Allie buries her face in my shoulder. I want to take the words back, so the next tear doesn’t fall and the one after that doesn’t follow. But these tears are the kind of tears that tell me she’s listening to what needs to be heard.
“I only ever wanted to do the right thing, to be a good daughter, sister, and friend. Somewhere along the line, everything changed. Instead of being appreciated, I became less than I was, even though all I ever tried to do was help.”
“I know, baby,” I tell her. “But all they did was help themselves to you.”
What I say isn’t pretty. It’s not gentle or even remotely kind. But she needs to hear it and it needs to come from me. Her staff. They’re good people. They help Allie and work hard. Even though she’s a great boss, she’s still in charge. None of them would ever tell her what she needs to hear the way I’m saying it.
She places her hand on my chest. I cover it with my palm, wondering if she can feel how hard my heart beats for her.
“I’m never going to come out of this looking good,” Allie whispers. “I’m not the favorite, and I’ve let my role as the passive and obedient daughter go too far.”
“That’s probably true.” Her eyes are wet with tears, casting them with a shimmer of sadness. I hate how she’s feeling, but if you ask me, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful woman.
Allie has the kind of face that’s hard to forget, and a body you want to stare at longer than is considered polite. But I don’t want to focus on the exterior the world can see. I want to focus on the interior, the part not enough people take the time to know.
I see it. Allie is everything, strong and sweet, loving and so full of life. If her family could see her, really see her, they’d treat her like the perfect daughter Valentina pretends to be.
“You’re not making me feel better about this,” she says quietly.
“Does this mean you’re going to do it?” I ask. “Demand respect from your family and give Andres and Valentina the ‘fuck yous” they deserve?”
“I want to. I’m just not certain I can get away with it.”
“You probably won’t,” I say, not wanting to lie to her. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t need to be said.”
She stills when I wipe the tear on her cheek that’s lingered too long. “You’d never allow yourself to be treated this way,” she says.
“You’re right,” I agree. “I wouldn’t.”
She sits up slightly. “And your family would never treat you this way. But if they did, would you say what you had to and risk losing them forever?”
I don’t move. Those bad memories Allie has of her family, the ones she tries to bury? I have a few I’ve shoveled dirt on myself.
Allie’s slender fingers sweep across my jawline. “Hey,” she says. “Are you okay?”
I clasp her hand gently, keeping her from stroking my skin. It’s not that I don’t appreciate her kindness. It’s that right now, I don’t think I deserve it.
She draws her hand away. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“It’s not you,” I begin. I’m not sure what I look like, but it can’t be good.
“Sweetie, what is it?” she asks.
My emotions take over, causing my frown to deepen. “Can I tell you something? Something I never told anyone?”
Allie angles her body against the pillows so her face rests a few inches from mine. Worry and fear etch her brow, as well as impending sadness. “You can tell me anything.” She pauses. “As long as it doesn’t hurt you to say it.”
“I can’t promise you that,” I say, remembering and feeling everything that happened that day. “But I still want to tell you. Will you let me?”
She curls her fingers around my hand. “I’ll let you do anything.”
My chest tightens, making it hard to breathe. I know what she means, but maybe I need her to mean more. I lose my train of thought, wanting to kiss her and feel close to her. But then I remember this moment isn’t about us. It’s about her and what she needs to understand.
“Like everyone else from the old neighborhood, I guess you know my father died in his mistress’s bed.”
Allie barely blinks. Yeah. She knew. “Well, there are couple things you probably don’t know. Like how the rest of us knew, including our Ma.”
Allie watches me carefully, waiting for me to continue. She doesn’t have to wait long. “We’d hear Ma crying at night over the man she loved enough to have seven children with. The same man who didn’t love her back. One day, I had enough of my father’s bullshit and showed up at his lady friend’s door.”
Allie falls perfectly still, except for her trembling voice. “Were you looking to speak to her?”
I laugh without meaning it. Nothing in my childhood has ever screamed Disney special. “If you think I went to her house to cry and beg her not to break up our happy family, you’re wrong.”
“That’s not what I was thinking,” Allie says softly.
The gentleness in her tone softens mine, but not by much. “Yeah, well, yeah.”
I need a moment. Maybe more than that. Allie gives it to me, her hand sweeping over mine her only movement. “I was twelve. Finnie was just born. His birth, like, did something to me. Wren was only about eighteen months older. Still a baby herself. And there was our papa, spending his afternoons with someone who wasn’t our ma.”
My thoughts travel back to our small kitchen, to the hardwood floors where Ma had given birth to Finnie. Except for the day Finnie was born, those floors were always clean enough to eat on ‘cause Ma believed a good home consisted of clean floors.
“Ma would take Finnie to work with her,” I tell Allie. “She made some kind of sling from an old sheet, so she could feed Finnie and keep him against her skin.”
I don’t realize how quietly I’m speaking until I see how closely Allie is listening. “The only time Finnie ever left her was when he needed changing or when it was time to put him to bed for the night. That was a good thing. She needed him more than I think he needed her.”
“Why?” she asks carefully.
I want to smile, because of all the good Ma’s closeness to Finnie brought. But I can’t, because of why she needed that closeness. “Finnie was a reminder that she had a lot to live for. Even though her life was falling apart.”
I take a few slow breaths when I realize how fast I’m breathing. “I don’t think Ma closed the dry-cleaning business for more than a couple of days. She came home from the hospital with Finnie strapped to her chest and left for work the next day. She’d come home the same way, tired and hungry, even though she never once complained.”
Allie smiles, her voice full of compassion. I suddenly stop speaking. “Your mother is an amazing woman,” she says.
“She is,” I agree. “She’s had to be.”
I turn Allie’s hand around so I’m the one holding her. As if I’m some kind of boat, she becomes my anchor, giving me stability so I can say what comes next. “It was all so fucked up,” I say, unable to keep my anger from my tone.
“I’m twelve,” I repeat. “Angus is fourteen. Declan is thirteen, but a little guy back then. I remember being taller than him and people thinking I was older. Anyway, there we are, making dinner, washing the floors so they stay clean like Ma deserves, and raising Curran, Killian, Wren, and even Finnie when Ma finally collapses from exhaustion in her favorite chair.”
“Seamus,” Allie says.
It’s one of the worst ways she could have said my name, too full of everything I’m feeling and a reminder of how hard my life was then. I didn’t realize how much of us went into those years that passed. I do now, and Christ does it kick me in the gut.
I swipe at my face. “It was our normal way of living, I suppose. Curran, Killian, and Wren didn’t
seem to notice all the other mothers carting their kids to the park, or walking down the street with them. They just noticed us, holding their hands and giving them Irish soda bread dipped in peanut butter for a snack when they got hungry. But we noticed. Me, Angus, and Declan, we saw enough for all of them.”
I scoot up in bed, taking Allie with me. She’s gone this far with me. I’m not letting her go now, or shutting my trap, even though there’s a part of me that wants to.
“Angus never said anything to us. But I remember how mad he’d get when Papa would show up after work to freshen up before heading to his girlfriend’s place. Declan always kept a poker face. I don’t think he cared even then what people thought of him. I think that’s why he could approach Papa when the rest of us didn’t dare to. He’d ask Papa for a few dollars, just to have something in our pockets in case the little ones wanted ice cream. Three dollars here, ten there, sometimes even twenty if we were running really low on food. He—”
Son of a bitch. This is harder than I ever would have guessed.
“Declan never asked for much,” I say, biting out the words. “He knew what would happen if he did.”
Again, it’s like I have to stop speaking.
The breath she takes to gather her courage is as quiet as a whisper, but not so silent I don’t hear it. “What would happen if Declan asked for too much money?” she asks.
“Funny you should say that,” I reply, revving myself up for the so-called climax of the story. “This is the part where things get interesting and where you come in.”
“Me?” she questions.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, knowing I’m at the point of no return. “Papa was in a rush that day. He just finished a long stretch of shifts at the post office. Whatever Calla—that was her name—had promised him after work must’ve been good. He ran upstairs, not bothering to say hello to us, and showered. He comes back down wearing his best white T-shirt Ma ironed for him and smelling like too many splashes of Old Spice. Declan steps in front of Papa before he could run out the door. ‘Wren needs girl clothes. She can’t keep wearing our old stuff,’ he told Papa.”
Allie looks scared and maybe she should be. That same fear pokes at me, making me want to give up and stop. But that’s not fair to her and I don’t think it’s fair to me, either. “Angus saw the strike coming before I did, and maybe Declan, too. There was Declan, all four feet of him, his chin lifted in defiance.”
Allie covers her mouth with her hand. “He hit little Declan?”
I shake my head, my eyes burning. “No. He hit big, fat, stupid Angus. Did you know that’s what most of the kids in our neighborhood called him? They didn’t know Angus was tougher than hell. Know how he got that way? Because as many smacks Papa tried to give us, he never touched us when Angus was around.”
Allie’s nose reddens and her tears falls in a silence that encases us like a mother’s womb.
“As big as Angus was, even then, he went flying into a wall and almost took Curran with him. He managed to catch himself before he landed on Curran. If Papa felt bad, it was only for a moment. Then it’s like he remembered where he had to be and took off.”
I rub my face harder than I intend. “I don’t think Papa shut the door. I shut it for him. Locked it, too. I tried to shove furniture against it so I could keep him out and protect us.”
“Oh, my God.”
Why does she have to sound so sweet, especially when my voice is as rough as it is? “I was scared, Allie. I would have held that door closed with my body if that’s what it took.”
Her slender arms wrap around me, her shoulders quivering as she releases her grief for me and my family. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “We were used to Papa’s temper. No one ever cried. Usually no one did much of anything. But we did then. Curran and Killian started crying first. Then Declan. They sat around Angus who was sitting on the floor, his blank expression looking toward our living room. Wren hovered over him, patting his back. I don’t think she fully understood what happened, but she seemed to know it happened because her brothers were trying to help her. She didn’t cry. I don’t think she ever did when it came to Papa. She hated him from the start, and was smart enough to know he wasn’t worth her tears.”
“I’m sorry,” Allie says. “Had I known . . .” She sighs. “I would have been there for you, so you didn’t feel so alone.”
Alone is exactly how I felt. Allie nailed it without me having to tell her. “I should have been there with the rest of my siblings, gathered around Angus and showing a united front. But I couldn’t.”
“Why, love?”
Damn, she’s killing me. “Like you said, I was all alone. Alone because I wasn’t who stepped in front of Declan to take that hit, because I wasn’t the one who dared approach our father, and because I didn’t do shit to protect our mother.”
“You were only twelve,” Allie reminds me.
“And Angus was only fourteen and taking blows for us he never should’ve had to,” I point out.
I don’t consider myself a bitter bastard, but I sound like one. “It would be one of the worst days of my life if there wasn’t more to it,” I admit. “I couldn’t take it anymore. All that cleaning and cooking and care we were giving just for my father to treat us like we were nothing but little snots keeping him from getting what he needed. It wasn’t right.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Allie agrees. The understanding in her voice is something wild. She’s not judging my father. She’s supporting me. I don’t know anyone who could do that without sounding judgmental. But she manages just fine.
“Want to hear the funny part?” I ask. “Okay. Maybe it’s not so funny. But in Papa’s eyes, he was a provider. He gave us a house, gave us life, so, it’s like he had a free pass to do whatever he wanted. But we wanted more. We wanted a father who came to our stupid school pageants. Who’d yell at the ref for making a bad call at one of our games. Someone who’d teach us to throw a ball or ride a bike. But we never got it.”
“But it didn’t keep you from wanting it,” Allie adds.
The warmth in her gaze hits me like a soft mist, brushing against me so I know it’s there and somehow solidifying and shielding me.
Except nothing can protect me from those memories.
“No,” I agree. “But there’s more. I wanted him to want to be there and for him to see us as more than seven little burdens he was obliged to feed. I wanted him to stop treating us like shit. Damn it, Allie, I wanted it all. For poor Ma to stop scraping and saving just to take us to that one ballgame a year. The one where we knew better than to ask for more than a soda and some popcorn, knowing how long she had to work just to give us that much. I wanted Papa to sit next to our Ma—who didn’t miss one pageant or game, who’d show up after working herself to the bone with a baby attached to her hip, so she could cheer us to victory or hug us when we’d lost.”
Allie . . . smiles and that smile hits me hard. “I used to volunteer at the concession stand when you played baseball, Seamus. I remember watching your mother cheer you on. But where you saw a woman burdened with the world, alone, and tired from a long day’s work, I saw a mother so in love with her children, she was happy and proud to watch them play.”
The lump that I was beating down hardens. But instead of the sour taste of fury, all I sense is the peace Allie offers me. “Thank you,” I say. “I needed to hear that.”
My focus drops to our hands. Allie is so little compared to me, but the strength contained in her small body is fierce, giving me what I need to continue the story.
“That day that my father hit Angus was the last straw for me. I waited until I was sure Angus could get up before shoving the furniture I had pushed against the door aside. Declan asked me where I was going. I didn’t answer, but I think he knew. He was always smart like that.”
The silence that surrounded us when I first began my story becomes something more. Like all the ghosts from my past have appeared, deadening the a
ir and making it hard to breathe.
“I knew where Calla lived. We all did. A few times as kids we threatened to mess up her house. Spray paint ‘slut’ across her door. We thought of mean things. Angry things that reflected the rage we collectively built. But when it came down to it, we weren’t mean kids. We were just kids who hurt for each other and for our mother.”
Allie clutches my hand as if afraid what will happen to me if she lets go. “Calla was a bitch for knowingly banging a married man with seven kids,” I say. “But even though we never said it, our father was a bigger bitch. He’s the one who went back on his vows, lying to our mother, even though he knew she no longer believed his lies.”
Allie pushes up to better see me and I suppose to better protect me against what comes. I’m not so sure she’s going to be enough.
“I stormed to Calla’s house, all ninety pounds of me ready to throw down. When I finally reached her front door, I could barely knock I was shaking so hard. My father answered the door without a shirt on. I could have been a neighbor, another lover, even a priest. He didn’t care. He was going to do what he wanted.”
“Was he expecting you?” Allie asks tenderly, her fingers cupping the fists my hands have become.
I think I might laugh when I remember the look on my father’s face, but any genuine humor I feel is smothered by the darkness of that day. “I was the last person he expected to see.”
Allie hitches her breath. She knows what’s coming and that it doesn’t end well for me. She thinks I get hurt. That I bleed. That I cry.
She’s right on all counts.
“You’re a whore,” I told my father. “You hurt Angus when he tried to protect Declan. All because Declan asked you for clothes for our little sister.” I rub my eyes. “Believe it or not, I rehearsed everything I was going to tell him on the walk over. But when I saw him standing there shirtless, everything I planned didn’t come out the way I intended.”
Allie sits up, scanning my features as if trying to figure out the rest of the story so she can spare me from telling it. But I have to say it. I have to slice the wrists of my soul and finish bleeding out. Maybe she knows that. She sure as hell doesn’t try to stop me.