Rain and Revelation

by Therese Pautz

  Da reaches out to touch my hand, but I yank it back and say, “You’re not even my father?”

  His chest heaves and tears fall as he collapses his head into his chafed hands. “I dunno. You’ve always been my Eliza baby.” I’ve never seen Da cry. At least not when he’s sober.

  Paddy says, “’Tis true.” He tries to pat my shoulder, but I jerk it away.

  My gut feels like someone kicked me.

  There’s a single knock and the door swings open. Fiona bursts through with Jake and Hunter, her new best friends—the Americans on holiday—trailing. “Hello, darling. We’ve brought the fun to you since you can’t go out with that gammy leg.” She flips her hair back, thrusts her chest out, and holds up a bottle of Jameson. As she struts to the couch, she winks at Jake and motions for him to follow, which he does. Hunter hangs back with a bag of crisps tucked under his arm.

  Da wipes his eyes and hoists himself up. “I’ll not get in your way.” He pulls out his own bottle of whiskey, holds it up, and says as he walks out the door, “To your fun.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cold barges in with a gale force as Da leaves with Paddy. Shuddering, I lift my leg down and make room for Fiona on the couch. She plops next to me and sets the bottle of Jameson in the center of the coffee table. No doubt she took it from Paddy’s while he was here with Da. She flashes Hunter a wide smile. “Oh, bloody hell, I forgot the glasses. Be a love, Hunter, and get them from the kitchen.” Hunter goes searching for glasses. Jake sidles up next to Fiona, who is sandwiched between us. I shift closer to the arm of the couch.

  As Hunter returns with the glasses, Fiona prattles on about how testy Maeve was the other day when she saw her at the chemist. “A real pain in me hole,” Fiona says. Jake kisses her rosy cheek and she giggles. Hunter looks bored. His eyes land on the pictures on the fireplace mantel. There’s one of Fiona and me in our princess outfits and another one taken on the last day of school. As long as I can remember, we dreamed of the places, imagined and real, that we’d go.

  At some point we stopped talking of going away. We stopped talking about our dreams.

  Fiona hands me a full glass of whiskey, which I take. It burns my nose and turns my stomach. I set it down. Jake offers Fiona a cigarette and lights it for her. Sucking it with her brightly painted lips, she inhales, closes her shimmering eyes and then exhales. Jake tries catching the lofting smoke into his mouth. Fiona lets out a high-pitched squeal.

  After locking lips with Jake, Fiona untangles herself. “Oh my God. Darling, I almost forgot to tell you. The most dreadful thing happened.” Fiona sweeps her short fringe aside and drains her glass. Jake refills it, nearly to the top. “We went to Galway the other day. You know the store we love? The one with the great shoes. Get this…” Fiona pauses and waits for everyone to look at her. Then, with dramatic flair, she says, “The damn store has closed and now it’s a Starbucks.”

  Fiona tosses her hands up, forgetting she’s holding the glass. “Oh, shite. Look what I’ve done.”

  “I’m looking, baby.” Jake’s hand grazes Fiona’s shirt. “And I like what I see.”

  They melt into each other laughing. Hunter gets up, goes to the kitchen, and returns with a hand towel. “Here,” he says, tossing the towel at Fiona, who makes no attempt to catch it. Instead, she reaches for the bottle of Jameson.

  I lurch forward and snatch the bottle before she does.

  Fiona stares at me, her heavily-lined almond eyes wide. “Do you want more, too?”

  “I do want more,” I growl.

  “Then take some and pass it here,” says Fiona, challenging me.

  Mute and breathing shallow, I clutch the bottle.

  Fiona pouts. She reaches for the bottle. I bury it further under my arm. Squinting her eyes, she says, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  My heart beats fast. I feel weighed down, as if sand gathered from the beaches along Clew Bay was bagged and heaped on my chest, crushing my breath. I can’t escape. My insides feel like a pressure cooker, churning and boiling. Ready to erupt. I fling the bottle. It crashes at Fiona’s feet. Shards of glass skitter to the corners of the room and amber fluid splashes all over the warped, wooden floor.

  Fiona screeches, “Holy, shite. You’ve gone mental. What the—”

  Glaring at Fiona, I shout, “Get out!” No one moves. Scooting to the edge of the couch, I grab my crutches. “Now.” Swiping at the bits of glass with the rubber tip of my crutches, I get my bearing and stand. Everyone stares at me, but no one says anything. Glass is scattered everywhere. No one offers to clean it up. No one offers to help me.

  Instead, Fiona shrinks into the couch like a dog that’s been kicked. Jake wraps his spindly arms around her. I wait, thinking Fiona will know what to do, but she turns away and buries her head in Jake’s shoulder.

  I’ve never yelled at Fiona. Not even when we were children and she cut the hair off all my dolls. Not even when she took my car without asking and left it at the side of the road outside a pub in Westport when she got a lift home from someone else. Not even when I found out the person she left with—and then slept with—was Mikey. Even with all that, Fiona was the one who helped me to escape the silence of my home.

  A sour taste rises from deep inside and settles in my mouth. Gripping the pads on the crutches, I thump down the hall to my room. Even as I make my way down the narrow, dark hall, I think Fiona might come after me and ask what’s wrong.

  I collapse onto my bed and smash the pillow over my face, overtaken by sobs. I want to scream, for them to go away and leave me alone. Yet I hold out hope that Fiona will unlock from the stranger’s arms and come into my room. I wait to feel her arm soft on my heaving back.

  Finally, I lift my head and listen carefully. The wind has died down. There are low voices, but no words I can make out. Then there are footsteps crunching broken glass, and the door slams shut.

  I’m alone again. A stranger in a place that once felt like home.

  Chapter Seventeen

  My bedroom is dark when Da comes home. First I hear him shuffle down the hall and stop at my closed door. One light knock. Then the door creaks open. Soft footsteps come toward me. I smell the cigar smoke on his jacket and whiskey on his breath as he leans over the bed. My eyes remain shut, my body still. It feels like forever that he’s standing there. Finally he turns, walks away, and closes my door. His scent lingers for a while, then evaporates.

  When I wake up, Da is gone. Hobbling out of my room, I look down the narrow hall and notice Da’s bedroom door is open and his bed, normally unmade, is stripped. When I get to the main room, I expect to clean up the broken glass and Jameson, but it’s already done. Da’s jacket is gone along with his tackle box.

  On the kitchen table is a scone from the bakery. My favorite. Next to it, scribbled on a piece of paper, Da wrote, “I’m sorry.”

  I toss the paper and eat the scone.

  Two months pass. The only person I’ve talked to is Maeve. Sometimes Granda checks in, but then he calls Maeve for the full update. Mostly, I stay inside, trying to build strength in my ankle and avoid Da. Fiona and I text, but have nothing to say. Nothing is the same.

  Today, after weeks of grey skies and relentless rain, the sun shines bright. A warm breeze brushes my cheek as I stand outside the cottage, leaning on my crutches. The sunlight stings my eyes, which have grown accustomed to the dark cottage. I close my eyes and inhale deeply the sweet air. Warmth floods my face. I imagine my ankle strong and my legs carrying me over the beaten path overlooking Clew Bay and the Bunowen River, over each embedded rock and around each bend. I feel each breath rising from deep in my chest and escaping through my open mouth.

  “Hey there.” A voice I don’t recognize startles me, and I almost topple over.

  Opening my eyes, I see Hunter. He’s not wearing a jacket, just a faded t-shirt, jeans and hiking boots.

  I muster a smile, and he strides over. His hair, cropped short when I first met him months ago, is longer now
and the stubble that had shadowed his face is a well-trimmed beard.

  He leans against my car and points at my leg. “Moving better?”

  I stand up straighter to demonstrate that I don’t have to lean on the crutches for support. “Almost good as new.”

  “I’ll be damned.” His eyes, the color of shadowed hillsides, are either laughing at me or pleased at the progress. I can’t tell.

  We chat about how nice the weather finally is. He agrees that there’s no finer place than Ireland in the spring. He tells me that’s why he extended his time here. I don’t ask about Fiona, and he doesn’t volunteer anything.

  I hear squeaking and, from the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Walters pedaling his three-wheeled bicycle down the road with Johnny perched in the wire basket on the back. A cigar dangles from his mouth. Despite the warm May day, he’s wearing a wool coat and tweed hat. He doesn’t turn or look in my direction.

  Hunter asks if I want to walk down to the beach.

  I grimace. “That might be interesting. It’ll take forever. What with the crutches.”

  “I’m not in any hurry,” he says.

  “You may be sorry you said that,” I tell him. My calloused hands grip the handles of the crutches and I start down the uneven road. Hunter’s boots crunch on the gravel.

  Soon the road ends and a narrow path to the sandy beach begins. Large rocks border the beach. Hunter offers his arm and I lean on him as I lower myself to sit on one of the larger rocks. Wiping my brow, I look out at the calm water under the cloudless sky. Hunter sits beside me. With his well-shaped sideburns accentuating his high cheekbones, he looks like someone you’d see in a truck commercial.

  “That’s the most activity I’ve seen since I got here.” Hunter points at the kayakers alongside the swimmers hugging the rugged shoreline. Another group of people watch from shore.

  “They’re training for the triathlon coming up.” My gut feels hollow recalling my own unused wetsuit hanging in the closet. I squint and look for Ryan. Would he be part of this group or training on his own?

  Hunter’s square jaw juts forward, and he shakes his head. “Seems stupid.”

  “What?”

  “A triathlon. Why put yourself through that?”

  “It’s something to do.” My breath is still rapid and my leg throbs from the walk. “To push yourself.”

  “Plenty of ways to push yourself other than swimming in frigid water that you could drown in.”

  “That’s the challenge,” I say.

  “I’d rather feel the ground under my feet.” He leans back on his muscular arms and stares at the cadre of people in the water.

  The soft breeze off the water carries the blended scent of fish and blooming vegetation. Boats angle in the distance. I turn to Hunter, who is staring straight ahead like he’s trying to count the hundreds of small islands speckling Clew Bay, and say, “Where are you from again?”

  “Montana.” His voice is low and deep.

  “Never known anyone from there, Do you miss it?”

  Hunter reaches down and pulls out a clump of grass and turns it over in his hands until the dirt falls off. “Some parts I miss.” He tosses the grass aside. “Other parts I don’t.”

  He shifts and now his leg touches mine. He doesn’t seem to notice. I don’t move.

  Several swimmers emerge from the water and begin unzipping their wetsuits. Propped against the rock wall close to the water are bicycles. The second leg. Today they are doing bricks, the back-to-back training to build stamina for the race. It was in the training program Ryan sent to me. I watch them transition from the water to the bicycles. Some wobble, trying to get their land legs. A few topple over trying to get out of their rubber armor. Hoots of encouragement and laughter rise from the support crew. I don’t recognize anyone.

  “You miss that?” Hunter’s voice rings with either sarcasm or disbelief.

  I nod. “It was going to be my first triathlon. It just would’ve been nice to see if I could do it.”

  “I guess.” Hunter’s voice lingers on the breeze.

  I recognize Ryan running toward us along the path. He’s gripping the handlebars as he runs alongside his bike. He’s getting ready to mount at the road. Shorts cover his lean thighs like a second skin. He focuses straight ahead, eyes narrowed with intensity beneath the visor of his racing helmet.

  I sink back on the rock, trying to merge with Hunter’s shadow. Looking away, I imagine myself invisible, like a child playing peek-a-boo. I hold my breath.

  He’s nearly past when he stops and turns to look at me. Breathlessly, he says, “Eliza?”

  My breath escapes as I sit forward. Forcing a smile, I try to stifle the thumping in my chest. “Hallo, Ryan.”

  His face contorts as he says, “You never returned my calls or emails.”

  A tight band constricts in my chest. I look down, avoiding his penetrating eyes. “Yeah, well…Sorry. I’ve been busy.”

  Ryan looks straight at Hunter. He looks like he might say something when one of his friends shouts at him to hurry up. He grips his bike and mutters, “Right.” Then he quickens his pace to catch up with his mates .

  Many days I started to call him or respond to his emails or text messages, but then I’d wonder what he and Alex were doing at that moment. Enjoying a nice meal together? Snuggling on the couch watching a movie and sipping a French wine? I wondered why in the hell he’d bother calling. Except maybe he still felt guilty about the fall and break.

  When I can’t see Ryan any longer, I hoist myself up, turn to Hunter, and say, “Want to get out of here? Go somewhere?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The message on the home phone stops me cold. It’s Ma. She called while I was at the beach and said she’d try back, although she didn’t say when. Her voice is familiar, but distant.

  I collapse on the couch and grip the phone to my chest. My heart is beating fast. Ma’s words echo in my head, “Wanted to catch you and say hallo.” It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what’s different in her voice. It is almost perky and light, like she’s leaving a message for a stranger.

  “You okay?” Hunter sits beside me. I just nod and stare at the cold stone fireplace. The stack of peat next to it is gone. “You sure? You look pale all of a sudden.”

  “It was Ma.”

  He rests his hand on my shoulder. “She okay?”

  “It’s the first time she’s called since…” Tears feel close to the surface, but I blink them back. I turn my face toward the hall leading to the bathroom.

  “Fiona told us about your mom. I’m sorry.” Hunter says.

  I turn the phone over in my hands. I want to listen to Ma’s message again, just to hear her voice. It suddenly dawns on me that Ma usually calls my cell phone, which is always with me. But, it never rang while I was at the beach. Had she really wanted to talk to Da and not me?

  Hunter says, “Anyone ever tell you that you talk with your eyes?”

  His voice startles me. I scrunch my face. “No.”

  Hunter is looking at me intently. “You do. Horses do, too. You learn to look in their eyes and watch their body movements. It’s easy to miss if you’re not paying attention. Not like dogs. They yip and do as they’re told. Well, most of them. No, horses have a mind of their own and don’t care what people think. The problem is that they’re unpredictable. Until you learn to read them.”

  I cross my arms and arch my brows. “So, you think you can read me?”

  He says, “I’m working on it.”

  Outside the American students are walking back to their cottages, laughing and talking loudly. The sun filters through the streaked windows. My eyes focus on the dust suspended in the air, caught in the light. I release a deep breath. “I was beginning to think Ma would never call.”

  “Maybe she needed time.”

  “I don’t know how to help her.”

  “Why do you think you need to help her?”

  “Somebody has to.”

  “They are. At t
hat hospital.”

  “They’re not family.”

  “Maybe that’s better.”

  “I should be there with her. Not here.” Looking out the window, I say, “This isn’t my home anymore.”

  Hunter runs his hand over the faded fabric of the couch and, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, he says, “Running away doesn’t help.”

  “What do you know about running away?”

  Hunter sits forward. “Maybe I thought leaving Montana would help.”

  “Help what?”

  “Forget. Figure out what I want.” He looks at the palms of his calloused hands. “But at some point I have to go home and deal with it.”

  “What?”

  “My girlfriend. Or she was. We were high school sweethearts and planned to get married after I finished college. Then her friend called me at school and told me that she had an abortion and wasn’t even going to tell me.” His face reddens and he clenches his fists for a moment and then rubs his hands together.

  “Jaysus.” I turn to face him directly. His deep set eyes look sad. “What’d she say when you talked to her?”

  “I didn’t. Told my folks that I needed to get away and then talked Jake into coming with me to Ireland.”

  “Why Ireland, of all places?”

  “My mother’s family came from Ireland a long time ago. It seemed as good a place as any. I wanted to get as far away from her as I could.”

  Reaching over, I touch his muscular arm. “Maybe your girlfriend felt she couldn’t talk to you. I mean, it would be hard.”

  Even though Hunter doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t acknowledge that I’ve moved closer. He mutters, “Not with someone you’re supposed to spend your life with.”

  “Well, if I really didn’t want to have a baby, but I knew the father would want me to, then I probably wouldn’t tell him either.”