by Gemma Whelan
“I’m sorry love.” She stopped. “But he passed away this morning. Very sudden like. We’re all in shock. Lord have mercy.”
The moment froze. An explosion in her heart. Fiona could picture Nell perfectly now, in her navy-blue apron with the tiny white and yellow flowers and minuscule green leaves, one of the wraparound kind that ties up with multiple strings at the back. The receiver slipped down on to Fiona’s shoulder and pressed into the flesh above her breastbone. She could hear Nell’s voice, muffled, as if it were struggling through a long, narrow tunnel.
“Fiona, Fiona . . . are you still there? Fiona, pet?” Fiona dragged the phone from her aching chest, slid on to a high stool by the counter and bolstered up the receiver with her shoulder. She focused on the image of Nellie’s flowery apron.
“Yes, Nellie, I’m here. Dad? Our Da? Maybe I . . . ”
“I know, I know. It’s hard to wrap your mind around it.”
“But . . . he wasn’t sick or anything. If I’d known he . . . Does Declan know?”
“None of us knew, love. It was his heart, God help us!”
And Fiona felt an answering beat in her own breaking heart. It was his heart that killed him—just like Mam. Dead hearts. She heard Nell’s voice reverberate, repeating “his heart, God help us!” in what sounded like a ghostly whisper.
“I came over this afternoon, as I usually do of a Monday, to clean and straighten up the house a bit . . . and . . . Yes. I rang your brother just a few minutes ago. I tried the two of yous earlier but couldn’t get a line, and then I was rushing around, here and there, sorting things out. He’s going to see what he can manage out of—California, is it he’s at?”
“Los Angeles.”
“Right you be. We’re giving him a good wake, child. Plenty of fiddlers—he’d have wanted that. It’s all set for this Thursday evening, and then we’ll have the removal on Friday and the funeral on Saturday.”
Fiona’s chest heaved. “Nellie, you’re great. You must have been on the phone for hours. It should have been myself and Declan . . . ”
“It’s the least I could do, love. Your father was good to me always. Lord have mercy on his soul. And your Uncle Frank helped when he could. He’s in bits himself, poor man.”
Fiona’s heart convulsed at the mention of her uncle, at the thought of him touching her dead father. His brother.
“I’ll get the first flight out that I can manage. Thanks, Nellie, for everything.” She heard her own quavering voice echoing back, and it blended with the high pitched scream of the kettle, which hissed and whistled for attention.
The next two days were a confusion of phone calls and tickets and arrangements as Fiona scrambled to get a seat on a flight to Dublin. She played Billie Holiday and cried. She attempted to write but her concentration was shattered, and she finally had to ask her literary agent Pam to get an extension on the review. Pam was sweet and concerned as always. Fiona contacted Mrs. Frawley, the supervisor for her office cleaning job, and arranged to get a substitute for the next few nights. She knew Declan was bound to call but she dreaded hearing from him. One of them should have called the other in the intervening days, but Fiona knew Declan was as reluctant as she was to talk. They were going to have to deal with each other, though—there was the house, the land and a myriad of other details.
Fiona pulled the old brown suitcase out from the back of the press—the closet. Closet was one of those words, like faucet, that even after ten years sounded so American to her. She found herself constantly doing little translations in her head. The Irish words were coming back to her now that the trip was imminent. The press was where you hung your clothes and also where you put the food in the kitchen. Same word for closet and cupboard. And she liked taps better than faucet. Faucet sounded so formal. The old case was well past its prime—it was the same one she had used to go to boarding school in 1967 when she was twelve years old. She opened it up and saw her name written in black felt pen on the inside of the lid—Fiona Clarke, Cregora 21378. It brought back a rush of memories, of parting, severing ties, leaving home, tears held back. There were torn strips where the veneer had scraped off, and the handle was coming loose. Past its prime is right! But it would have to do—it had gotten her over and back across the Atlantic a few times now.
She let the phone ring twice and then turned down the volume on Piaf’s “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien” before picking up. She and her brother exchanged the barest of greetings, yet Fiona was surprised at how emotional she felt on hearing his voice. It brought the reality of their father’s death home to her in a profound way. She and Declan were the last of their immediate family—Orla, Mam, and now Dad, all gone.
“I have to be back by Monday,” she heard him say, “so hopefully Mr. Stanley can come out to the house Saturday evening and read the will for us.”
Fiona froze as the old suspicions came rushing back. Mr. Stanley was their father’s lawyer.
“You’ve talked with him?” She tried to keep the distrust out of her voice.
“No, just to Uncle Frank—he’s arranging it for us.”
Fiona pushed back her mounting fear and rage. “What has Uncle Frank to do with it? He shouldn’t have anything to do with the will.”
“Well, he is the executor. He’s Dad’s brother, after all. And it should be fairly straightforward. I’m sure we’ll sort it all out.”
“What’s there to sort out?” she asked. “It’s the house and the land. We’ll sell it and divide it fifty-fifty.”
There was silence on the other end. “I’m not sure I want to sell it. Some of the land maybe—but I’m fairly sure I’d like to hold on to the house.”
Fiona was gob-smacked. She had never known her brother to have any particular affinity for the family home or the land. He was a successful psychologist, had a good job at a Los Angeles hospital, was happily married and had a young daughter. “What on earth would you want to keep it for, Declan? Why would you ever want to go back to Cregora?”
“I might want to visit, have it as a holiday home, take Julie and the kids in the summers. Julie is expecting again.”
“That’s great. Congratulations! Is she coming for the funeral?”
“No, she hasn’t been too well the first month or so. Look, about the house . . . we’ll talk in person about it.”
Fiona wandered over to the window and glanced out. “Right. Okay. I hadn’t even thought about . . .” Her voice broke. “He was only sixty-four, Declan.”
The phone was silent for several beats on the other end. Piaf crooned mournfully in the background. Then Declan spoke, echoing her thought. “Bad hearts.”
She nodded in silent agreement.
EYE OF THE STORM
Excerpt from a novel by Fiona Clarke
Something died inside of me when Aoife died. For a full year afterwards, I lay awake in bed every night, stony-faced and dry-eyed, thinking about where she might be, full of the certainty and the finality of death. An eternity without her. But something also died inside of Mam and Dad. Mam seemed to be frozen—closed down, and closed in. Many is the time I came upon her, sobbing, as she looked out of an upstairs window, thinking she was alone in the house. And other times I would see her gazing at a photo of Aoife, mesmerized. Like she could conjure her back to life by the sheer act of staring.
I was convinced that Mam didn’t want or love me anymore. When I got sick, she fussed too much over me, as if you could die from a few sniffles or a stomach flu. And the rest of the time she kept her distance, like she didn’t want to be too close, or she thought I was bad luck. No one said a word, but I knew they all blamed me for not taking better care of Aoife. And it seemed to increase the old favoritism of Conor, as if he were more cherished now. Did I remind Mam too much of Aoife just because I was a girl? Could she never forgive me? Did girls die more easily?
And then there was Dad. He just got quieter when he was at home and seemed to lose a lot of the old fun. And he stopped playing the violin, forever. He would listen
to music on his old record player, 45’s and sometimes 98’s. He’d sit alone in the parlor, not doing anything else at all, just listening. He often left the door ajar so the music would float up and around the house. But at those times when I heard Heifitz or Bach or Stephane Grappelli (I would get to know the music later), it never soothed my soul the way Dad’s violin playing had. An inescapable loneliness hung about the recorded music. It had absorbed the sadness of my father’s listening.
Sometimes Dad would let me ride with him on the tractor. I stood next to him, anchored by the huge rim of the wheel, holding on to the back of the saucer-like seat as we traveled in stony silence around the field. I could see the pores on his face, the spiky disheveled eyebrows, the redness of the toughened skin from constant exposure to the elements and the strain of hard work in the lines around his eyes. On the turns I leaned in to the roughness of his gray work clothes, and breathed in the comforting smell of clay and sweet sweat. I could also intuit the sad rhythm of his suspiration, and knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was thinking of the daughter he had lost, not the flesh and blood girl beside him.
Aoife’s name was rarely mentioned in the house outside of prayer, and when it was, it was as if she was a little saint. I started to resent her, and to hate myself for that ugly emotion. While she was alive, Aoife had always been the favorite, and she was the one I adored, too. Now that she was dead, she was still the favorite—I didn’t merit attention. Every night the four of us—Mam, Dad, Conor, and I—got down on our knees after supper and said the rosary.
“Thou, O Lord, wilt open my lips.”
“And my tongue shall announce thy praise.”
“Incline onto my aid, O Lord.”
“O Lord, make haste to help us.”
After the five mysteries, Dad would pray for “our dearly departed,” and Mam always added “for our little angel.” A big photo of her now hung in the kitchen next to The Sacred Heart of Jesus and The Blessed Virgin Mary, so that from the moment of her death it was implanted in my psyche that this was the kind of company she was keeping. According to my parents, she was an innocent who had died without the stain of sin on her soul, so she was seated at the feet of Our Lord and Our Lady in Heaven. This omnipresent triad became, for me, the Blessed Trinity. The Golden Child was now part of a new Holy Family—our Aoife had been canonized.
CHAPTER TWO
WAKING
“One must still have chaos in one,
to give birth to a dancing star.”
NIETZSCHE
The west coast of Ireland was spreading itself out below in its green morning splendor. It presented an endless array of fields of different shapes and sizes, dotted with white specks of sheep in the first light of dawn. The Shannon Estuary, where the eponymous river which wound its way through the center of Ireland flowed into the Atlantic Ocean, appeared peaceful on this early June morning, and Fiona tried to simulate the calm in her own heart. She had slept fitfully and awoke feeling anxious. She dreaded seeing her father laid out. She dreaded seeing Uncle Frank and her brother Declan. She feared the memories. As the plane descended, she could make out the details of the stone walls which separated the fields and were a feature of the west of Ireland. Then the plane made contact with the earth and the entire complement of passengers broke out in spontaneous clapping. Fiona thought it a peculiarly Irish custom, applauding the pilot for landing the plane safely. Wasn’t he supposed to do that? Wasn’t it his job? Maybe it was the Irish outlook, the pessimism, and the surprise when things went well.
After fueling in Shannon, the plane set off at eight o’clock for the last leg of the journey to Dublin. Now the entire panoply of green hues was laid out below, and it was not an exaggeration to count forty shades. Fiona could make out fields and farmyards, towns and villages, cars snaking along the roads, the endless miles of railway tracks. This was her country, her homeland, and now a lump arose in her throat at the thought of leaving it forever. With her father dead, she would have no reason to come back. The plane swept over her county, Westmeath in the Irish Midlands, then over Dublin, out over the Irish Sea to turn around and head back in to Dublin airport. She fought back the tears and contradictory emotions as the plane touched down.
At the Dublin station, she boarded the train for Mullingar, several miles from her family’s home. She sat back and did her best to relax into the soft seats as the train chugged along and the countryside flashed by, passing fields with contented grazing cows, serene horses and back gardens with washing hung out to dry. The passenger opposite read The Irish Independent and she caught a glimpse of an article heading, “IRA claims responsibility for London bombing.” The endless Troubles. An attendant in his navy uniform and peaked cap came by with his cart of tea, biscuits and sandwiches. Fiona got a strong, sweet, tea and savored her first cup of the local brew. She braced herself for the scene ahead. Hopefully she could face Frank, get through the pleasantries, and act, as always, as if he had not stolen her childhood. Spend as little time as possible with Declan, honor her father and pay her respects. They would deal with the will, act professionally and leave the details to the lawyer. How bad could it be? The tea did not disappoint—tea made in Ireland always tasted different to her, and she inhaled some courage and comfort. Maybe it was the water. Or that it tasted of home.
Fiona stood, suitcase in hand, and stared up at the middle window of the stately red brick house. The lace curtains fluttered in the early afternoon breeze, and her heart missed a beat when she thought of her father, laid out up there, dead. Part of her wanted to turn right back around and leave. Glued to the spot, she saw the corner of the kitchen curtains drawn back. In an instant Nellie was at the door, and Fiona fell into her arms.
Fiona buried her face in Nellie’s shoulder. As soon as she felt the solid arms around her, she melted into tears. Nellie let her cry all she wanted and then ushered her gently into the softly lit kitchen where Fiona sank into a chair. Nellie put the kettle on for tea. Through her tears, Fiona followed Nellie’s slow, sure progress around the kitchen, getting out the cups and saucers and spoons, pouring the milk into a jug, filling the sugar bowl, checking the bread in the oven. All against the background of soft, murmured conversation. Daily rituals, unhurried and comforting. Rituals Fiona’s mother had performed in this kitchen all through her childhood and which, for Fiona, possessed a simple, unspoken richness. Nellie hadn’t changed at all in the two years since Fiona was last home. Her fine hair had been snow white for years now, and she had it tied in a neat bun at the back of her head. She wore her trademark wrap-around apron. This one was bottle green with burgundy flowers and brown leaves, and it had patches of white flour dust on the skirt. The sweet smell of fresh baked bread began to waft from the oven.
Sustained by the strong, sweet tea, Fiona kept a firm grip on her old brown suitcase and slowly climbed the wooden staircase which had seemed endless to her as a child, but diminished in length every time she mounted it since. She wanted to delay the moment. She let her hand trail along the sleek smoothness of the banister. The clean, strong, smell of furniture polish caressed her nostrils as she counted seven, eight, nine, and there it was, the creak of the floorboard on the second last step. This creak had taken on a terrifying significance when she had started to listen in dread for her uncle’s ascent. Ten steps to the first landing, now she counted them for herself to try and allay her fear of seeing her father’s body. Turn right around and one, two, three, four steps up to the top landing, where the window looked out across the fields, a reprieve, then left through the door to the long landing and her parents’ room on the left. All the floors were carpeted now in a downy teal that replaced the checkered linoleum of her childhood.
The door to her father’s room stood ajar. A figure got up off her knees, blessed herself, and, as she left, muttered something softly to Fiona like, “Sorry for your trouble.” Fiona wasn’t sure she knew her, probably one of her father’s many friends and acquaintances who were keeping vigil over the corpse.
A corpse was not to be left alone at any time. Someone was supposed to stay to keep the spirit company until it was ready to leave the body—and that could be a long while after official death, so the saying went. Fiona’s heart leaped when she thought of the old belief, that she might now be the keeper of her father’s spirit. The neighbor moved so fast—a flash of gray—that Fiona didn’t have a chance to see her properly or respond. Gone, like a will-o’-the-wisp.
Fiona’s senses were assailed as she moved towards the doorway of the darkened room. A faint trace of frankincense filled her nostrils, lingering from the final sacred church rite of Extreme Unction. Dozens of white votive candles flickered and cast yellow shadows on the blue fleck wallpaper, lending an air of unreality to the scene. The full-length blue and gold curtains, sewn by Fiona’s mother, were drawn tight so as not to let in any early afternoon light. Fiona braced herself as she forced her eyes to look. On the bedside table was a small statue of Jesus of the Sacred Heart, and a tiny St. Bridgit’s cross. Her Dad had a great devotion to the Irish saint—allegedly the first (and only) female bishop of Ireland. His worn, leather-bound prayer book was there, too, and corners of holy-pictures and memorial cards of the dead stuck out from its pages. Fiona could picture her father reading his prayers, remembering all the friends and relatives, his wife and child included, who had gone before him, as he fingered his rosary beads and moved his lips in silent supplication. Although she herself no longer practiced the religion of her childhood, she envied her father the belief and the solace rituals provided him.
Through the smell of the sacramental incense, Fiona detected a faint aroma of Molton, the tobacco her father smoked in an occasional pipe. She had a memory flash of herself as a little girl, curled up in the warmth of his lap, as he read her the story of the Irish hero, Fionn mac Cumhaill, and the Salmon of Knowledge. Whoever ate the famous salmon, the story went, would gain all the knowledge in the world. Fionn did not catch the salmon himself but was given the task of cooking the fish and a stern warning not to taste it. While cooking, he burned his thumb, instinctively put it in his mouth for relief and was imbued with boundless wisdom. He became a brave and fearless warrior. Her Dad also told Fiona that her name was the female equivalent of Fionn, and that Fionn and Fiona both meant fair, or bright.