Rain and Revelation

by Therese Pautz

  My legs are tightening and the last thing I want to do is run up the rocky, uneven path, but I try to sound enthusiastic as I say, “Sure. Why not?”

  This year I haven’t walked, let alone run, the 762 meter mountain named after St. Patrick. I’m hoping he’s not planning to go to the top, but I don’t tell him this.

  We reach the base and start the steady climb. Ryan, leading the way, runs like a gazelle. His feet look like they are floating over the embedded stones. With his jaw set, he looks up. I’m a different story. Clumsy and slow, I look down, watching where my feet land.

  Fat raindrops splat my face. I pull up my windbreaker’s hood and try to cover some of my face. I yell to Ryan, “What’s the plan?”

  “How about to that next point and then turn around?” The incline has become steeper and rockier. “That okay with you?”

  “Yeah.” I zip my jacket and plow forward. My legs burn.

  Glancing behind at Clew Bay, I see a grey sheet shrouding the smattering of islands normally visible from this height. The wind slaps my face. Ryan has turned around. He’s at my side with his eyes squinted. We turn back and run downhill, side by side, into the wind. Thunder claps. Sheets of rain pelt our faces. The wind, once at our backs, now restrains us from the front like an invisible hand.

  I can barely see in front of me. Ryan speeds up and leads the way. We are single file going down the steep path.

  I try to keep up. My feet propel me forward. I try to slow down. The rocks are slippery. I try to avoid them. The wind blinds me. I put my head down, looking only where each foot lands.

  We are nearly at the base. I look up through the rain. Almost there. I can see the road. A car blurs by.

  Suddenly, my foot slides off a large rock. My ankle twists. Then snaps. I try catching myself, but can’t. Rolling down the rocks, I almost plow Ryan over. My head strikes rocks. Blood seeps down my face and into my mouth. My screams echo in my head. I land, unable to move.

  Ryan comes to my side. Leaning down, he looks at my ankle. Writhing, I can’t speak. His face tells me what I already know. It’s broken.

  Ryan digs out his phone from his zippered pocket, turns so the wind is at his back. I hear him tell someone to bring his car to the base of Croagh Patrick. Then he stuffs the phone back and says, “We’ve got to get to the road.” He slides his arm under me and lifts me up. I cry out.

  The wind is now a full gale. Rain cuts across my face. I lean into Ryan’s chest. He holds me closer as he navigates down the mountain.

  By the time we make it to the road, Mr. Walters is there with Ryan’s car.

  Ryan opens the rear door and slides me into the leather seat. I try not to scream in pain, but can’t help it. I watch the wipers beat furiously as the rain pounds the windshield. Tears cascade down my wind-chafed cheeks all the way to the hospital in Castlebar.

  Chapter Eleven

  Surgery is the only option, the doctor finally tells me after a long wait in the emergency room. When I wake up the next day, I am alone.

  Outside my darkened room, carts rattle down the hall and unfamiliar voices pass by. My nurse’s name is scrawled across a whiteboard on the wall next to the mounted television. I have no idea who she is. Or where she is. On a narrow, moveable table sits an insulated pitcher and a glass. Next to it is a tray with a covered plate, orange juice secured in plastic wrap, and a pot of tea. It’s just out of my reach.

  My immobilized foot throbs. I try to sit, but pain shoots up my leg. I sink back onto the flat pillow. I shiver and pull the thin blanket up over my faded hospital gown.

  Ryan walks through the door. He’s carrying a stuffed bear and a bouquet of yellow tulips.

  “You’re awake.” He puts the flowers down on the table near the head of the bed and hands me the bear. “To keep you company.” He smiles, waiting for me to say something. He’s wearing jeans and a mock turtleneck under his waterproof jacket.

  “Thanks.” I force a smile and take his gift store bear. I let it fall at my side. My head feels cloudy, and I want to close my eyes.

  “I feel terrible about what happened,” he says. “I should have gotten us down the mountain sooner.”

  I shrug. It’s difficult swallowing. I lick my sandpaper lips. Ryan picks up the plastic glass and pours water into it. He unwraps a straw and sticks it in. “Drink this.” He holds the glass to my mouth. The water is lukewarm. Some trickles out of the corner of my mouth. Even my arm, bruised and hooked to an IV, feels like someone else’s. I can barely move it as I wipe the water from my mouth. A gauze bandage covers my forehead where I hit my head on the rocks. My palms are red and scraped.

  Ryan paces with a worried look on his face. “It seemed so perfect.” I can tell he’s mulling over each part of the run, wondering when he missed the clue to go back.

  “Does Da know?”

  He shakes his head. “Willie’s trying to reach him. Apparently he’s still in Dublin.”

  “Why?” I close my eyes and try to think. “I need to call him. Or Fiona.” It dawns on me that I didn’t bring my phone running. I try sitting up. “My phone’s at home.”

  “We can get it when you’re discharged.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Depends on what the surgeon says.”

  As if on cue, a portly man with a shiny head strides into the room. “Good morning. I’m Dr. O’Toole.” Lifting the blanket, he looks at my ankle. “It looks good. Well, maybe not to you, but I do fine work.” He laughs, amused with himself, and comes to the head of the bed. I don’t smile. His face fades to a frown. “Nasty break. There are pins in it to hold it in place.”

  “When can I go home?”

  “Today. You can lie there with your foot elevated as well as you can here. You’ll need crutches.”

  Ryan comes closer. “I have some she can use.”

  “And someone there with you.”

  “There will be,” Ryan says.

  “Excellent.” Dr. O’Toole flips through papers. “The nurse will come and explain what you need to know in terms of proper care when you’re home, medications, and follow-up instructions.” He pats my arm like someone acknowledging a loyal dog, and then excuses himself when I say I don’t have any questions.

  I feel numb, like I’m floating in a dream. I close my eyes. I imagine myself outside, free to go where my feet take me, over the squishy bog, the uneven pastures, and the gravel road. I imagine the wind and misty air on my face.

  The familiar cigar scent wakes me. Mr. Walters is sitting in the chair next to Ryan with his arms crossed over his protruding stomach. He’s not wearing a hat. His sparse grey hair is combed over to the side. They are whispering with serious faces.

  Ryan spies my open eyes and says, “We were wondering if you were going to sleep the day away. The nurse has been waiting for you to wake up.”

  I clear my throat. “Sorry.”

  Mr. Walters hoists himself up and comes over. “Nothing to be sorry about, my dear.” He rests his thick fingers on the metal bedrail, arches his eyebrows and says, “You poor thing.”

  I say, “Can I go home now?” Ryan exchanges a look with Mr. Walters. I look to each of them. “What?”

  “Your father is going to be in Dublin a little longer,” Mr. Walters says. “Paddy told me he’s dealing with matters pertaining to your mother.”

  I try to sit up, but am able only to lean back on my elbows. “What happened? Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine.” Mr. Walters pats my shoulder. I can smell his Old Spice aftershave. “Paddy tells me your mother wanted to see Seamus, but she’s not coming home. Not yet.”

  “When will he be back?” My voice sounds croaky and desperate.

  Mr. Walters sighs. “Who knows? They have things to work out.” He pushes aside a long strand of my hair that has slipped across my face.

  Ryan steps forward. “The plan is that you will go to Willie’s. Just until your da gets home. I’ll get the crutches and stay the night to make sure you’re okay with the med
s and the swelling.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “There is no other option,” Mr. Walters says. “Paddy’s steps are unmanageable. And your grandparents are on holiday. You can’t stay alone.”

  “Fiona could come over.” I look to Ryan, but he just shrugs and looks at his uncle.

  Mr. Walters laughs. “Really, my dear. We could never leave you alone with her. Who knows what state she’d be in by morning, or who she’d bring with her? During the last few days, two strange men have been at her side.”

  “I want to go home.” My voice sounds small.

  “Just one night,” Ryan says. “Your da might be home by tomorrow.”

  If there’s a choice, I don’t see it.

  After I am finally discharged, Ryan drives me to Mr. Walters’s house. The sky is darkening, and the pain medication is wearing off. My foot, now wrapped, burns. An empty, hollow feeling in my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten much besides saltines, but the thought of food gags me.

  Mr. Walters greets us at the door, “Come in. Come in.” He spreads his arms wide and steps aside so we can get by.

  The pads of the crutches dig into my armpits. I try putting my weight on my scuffed hands, rather than the pits, to hold myself up—just as the nurse showed me—but it proves more difficult than I thought. With much effort, I hobble a few steps. Then I need to stop and catch my breath. No one says anything. They just watch, avoiding my eyes. They wait until I make it inside.

  There’s a fire in the hearth and the smell of fried potatoes and lamb. Johnny jumps on me. I teeter slightly. Mr. Walters yells at him to get down and go to his bed, which he does.

  “Dinner isn’t quite ready,” Mr. Walters says. “Make yourself at home and comfortable until then.” He goes into the kitchen and stirs something on the stove.

  Ryan stays right behind me and lightly touches my back, steadying me. “It’s high time you get that ankle up. The spare room is the first door on the right.” He points to the hallway off the living room.

  With each step forward, I grimace. I’m careful not to touch down my foot, but searing pain in my ankle shoots up my leg. It feels like nothing I’ve experienced. Burning. An electrical surging. Pulsating fire. I don’t know how much longer I can hold back the tears.

  Ryan helps me onto the bed. He puts two pillows under my ankle and tosses an afghan over my legs. I lean back. My breath, high in my chest, comes out in soundless bursts. Ryan brings over another pillow and tucks it under my head. It smells musty. I sneeze, jolting my body. I gasp at the excruciating pain.

  “Let’s get you some pain meds.” Ryan sits down beside me on the bed and pulls out the prescription we’d picked up. He unscrews the child-resistant cap and hands me two pills and a water bottle that he takes from his backpack.

  I take a sip. The pills catch in my throat. I drink more water and hand the bottle back to him. “Thanks,” I say, collapsing onto the pillows.

  A small lamp on the nightstand casts a glow in the sparse room. Only one wall has something on it: a crucifix. Heavy drapes cover the small window on the far wall. Ryan touches my forehead with his cool hand. Then, his slender fingers comb my hair away from my face. I close my eyes. I can’t help it. Then I reopen them. He doesn’t stop. Softly, he starts humming. It’s a familiar tune that I can’t place. The pain ebbs. My body sinks into the soft mattress. My eyes flutter. I try to keep them open, but they are heavy. My breath rises from my belly and escapes from my half opened mouth as he strokes my hair and hums.

  I pretend I’m in my own bed and that it’s my mother’s hand stroking my hair. I let my lids close and drift into dreamless sleep.

  Pain wakes me. The light remains on, but there’s no sound in the other room. My pills are on the table along with a note from Ryan: “You needed the sleep so we didn’t wake you for dinner. Holler when you wake up and I can help.” He wrote out the schedule for the medication and left his running watch next to a full glass of water. It’s three o’clock in the morning, past the time to take the pills.

  After taking the medicine, I lie back and stare at the walls and wish I were in my own bed.

  I replay everything that has happened in the last weeks. I’m here with people that I don’t know, and I can’t even get up to use the bathroom by myself.

  Time passes. I keep looking through the slit in the drapes for a sign that the sun is coming up.

  I cry soundless tears.

  Looking around, I don’t see any tissue. I reach over and open the drawer of the nightstand to see if there are any in there. There are none. In the drawer are several black, hard-covered books and a large manila envelope fastened with a string. It feels like it has papers in it. I pull out a couple of the books. School yearbooks. I wipe my tears with my shirt.

  I flip through the pages of one. My yearbook was similar except for the hairstyles. There are no inscriptions, like mine has. I don’t recognize anyone. I grab another and peruse the pages.

  Finally, light is filtering through the closed drapes, but there’s no noise in the other room. I grab another book and try to get comfortable.

  As I’m skimming the pages, a picture catches my attention. I turn the page back and stare. It’s Ma. Rather than looking at the camera directly, she’s looking off to the side. Ma’s hair is parted in the middle and falls straight to her shoulders.

  There are pictures of Da and Paddy in their rugby uniforms. In all the pictures, they are smiling with arms linked or slung around each other and their mates.

  There is a picture of the theater group. Ma’s sitting on the couch with the others. Seated next to her is Mr. Walters on one side and a girl on the other. Mr. Walters’s arm lies across the top of the couch directly behind Ma’s head. His body is shifted toward Ma, rather than toward the arm of the couch, like he’s leaning in to talk to her or get her to smile. He’s wearing heavy black glasses and has hair the color of copper and a bushy mustache.

  In another picture, Ma is leaning over a table while Mr. Walters appears to be talking to a group of students on the opposite end of the table. It’s the group working on the school newspaper. Everyone is laughing, including Mr. Walters. Everyone but Ma.

  I close the book and put it back. I’m cold, but I can’t get myself under the covers, so I pull the afghan up to my chin. Not only did I not know Ma sang, I never knew she was in theater or worked on the newspaper. Her eyes seemed sad even then. Yet it looked like she had friends.

  Where are those friends now?

  Other questions plague me. How did she and Da, an unlikely couple, get together? Why did he have an affair? Who did he have an affair with? How did I not see it? Why did Ma need to see Da now? Why didn’t she want to see me? What am I going to do without her?

  There’s movement in the other room. Then Ryan peeks in.

  “You’re up. Grand.” Ryan grabs the crutches leaning against the wall. “Let’s get you something to eat and out of this room. It’s a lovely day out.” He is dressed in running clothes. Perspiration drips down his temples and flushed face.

  He helps me to the bathroom and waits outside. It’s not easy getting my pants down as I balance on the sink and hold my throbbing foot up. It takes me a long time to figure out how to do it. When I finally finish, he’s there to open the door and to help me to the kitchen.

  Each step takes an eternity.

  Light streams in through the window above the kitchen sink, piled with dishes. The drapes in the living room are parted halfway. A pillow tops a chair next to one at the table that Ryan pulls out for me. He helps lift my foot up and offers me tea. I cringe, but mutter, “Thanks.”

  Mr. Walters smiles warmly. “I’ll have some food for you in a minute.” The table is set with china and cloth napkins. “I’m warming up the lamb from last night. Not the usual breakfast, but a specialty of mine that you won’t want to miss.”

  When Mr. Walters places the food on the table, the aroma of lamb, garlic and onions tickles my nose. My stomach growls. I start devour
ing the meal. Mr. Walters and Ryan watch me while they eat scones and drink their tea. The lamb, soaked in heavy gravy, goes down easily. Some gravy drips from my mouth and I catch it with my napkin. It’s rich and savory. The buttery biscuits sop up what my fork misses.

  It’s the first home-cooked meal I’ve had in a month.

  Mr. Walters watches me. As I’m nearly finished, he says, “You can stay here as long as you like.” He’s fiddling with the button on his sweater. “It’s just Johnny I’ve got to tend. There’s plenty of room.”

  Touched, I smile. “Thanks, sir. But I want to go home.”

  “Seamus can’t take care of you.” Mr. Walters tosses down his napkin and folds his arms.

  “He can try,” I say. “Besides, I need to ask him things.”

  “Like what?” Mr. Walters peers over his thick glasses at me.

  Ryan shoots a look that Mr. Walters doesn’t catch. “Maybe that’s between them, Willie.”

  “It’s okay.” I shift on the hard wooden chair. It moves slightly, scraping the floor. Taking a deep breath, I say, “I need to know about him and Ma. I found her journal right before the run. He was having an affair with some woman. Now Ma wants to see him. I need to know what will happen to them—to our family now.”

  Mr. Walters shakes his head and scowls. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s not,” I insist. “She wanted to end her life on her fortieth birthday because she couldn’t live with his lies.”

  Mr. Walters is now leaning on the table. It wobbles on the warped, cracked linoleum. “She said that—or wrote that?”

  “Not exactly, but it just makes sense now.”

  “What makes sense is your da would rather be at the pub than at home with his wife.” Mr. Walters stomps out his cigar. “There’s no other woman. Even if there was, Annie never loved him.”

  My lip trembles “How can you say that?”

  “Because.” He looks down at his stained fingernails and says softly, “I know.”