by Gemma Whelan
“They’re great, the two of them—like a comedy duo!”
Sean laughed. “They’re not the worst. They have their blind spots for sure—but I do have them to thank for giving a new kid on the block a chance to direct.”
Fiona glanced over at him as she pulled in to let two other cyclists pass. She and Sean paused to take a breather. “But you’re not that new, are you?” she asked.
“I’ve done a lot of shorter work,” Sean answered, “some TV and a low, low budget feature. But this is different. This is my first shot with a half decent budget.”
“So why do you need me on the project? I think I’m more of a hindrance than a help.” Fiona laughed.
“But you have a take on these characters . . . ” Sean started to say.
“That you don’t agree with!” Fiona topped him.
“But that’s it,” he jumped in. “You have a different spin on this story, which is obviously very close to you.”
There was a deadening silence. “What do you mean, close to me?”
Sean faltered just a little. “Well,” he paused, “the situation is really similar to your background—brought up on the farm, you said you went to boarding school, so I just assumed that some portion . . . ” he broke off.
“Well, don’t assume!” She remounted her bicycle and sped off.
Sean hesitated, got back on his own bike, started to try to catch up with her, obviously thought better of it and let her ride on.
Fiona kept her advantage for a while, aware of Sean holding back but following not too far behind. She felt the pull to the personal and resisted it. At the same time she felt bad for shouting at Sean—he was only trying to do his job after all, get some clarity on her story. She slowed down and let him catch up so they were riding abreast again. She looked sideways at him, his freckles seemed darker and his cheeks brighter.
“I don’t have any great insights, you know,” she ventured as a sort of peace offering.
“But I like your work,” he insisted. “Your short stories and articles as well as your novel. And you’ve done well,” he continued. “You’re published, have an agent.”
“I just got lucky with Pam,” she said quietly.
“But you’ve got well reviewed, and . . . ”
Fiona cut in. “It’s all a fluke, is what it is,” she said, no trace of self pity in her voice. Then, almost under her breath, “One of these days they’ll find out.”
“Find out what?” he asked.
She paused before completing her thought. “That I’m a fraud.” It was barely audible. Sean had no idea how to follow this up and decided wisely not to even try right at this moment. They continued to ride along the beach in silence as the noontime sun achieved its zenith.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DOWN THE RABBIT-HOLE
“In another moment down went Alice after it,
never once considering how in the world she
was to get out again.”
LEWIS CARROLL—Alice in Wonderland
“Mum, does ‘novelist’ have a small ‘n’ or a capital ‘n?’ ”
Julie smiled. “Small ‘n,’ sweetheart,’ and then she whispered to Fiona. “She’s writing her school essay about ‘My Aunt, the novelist’!”
Fiona was pleased and unexpectedly shy. She really liked Una, and the child seemed to take to her as well. “I’m impressed she’s able to write so well. She’s seven . . . so finishing up second grade?” she asked Julie, as she moved in and out of the kitchen area where Declan was helping clean up.
Julie laughed and tousled her daughter’s hair. “She’s a clever one all right. Yes—she’s going into third grade in the fall.”
“Mo . . . . . . m!” Una squealed. “I’m trying to write! There!” and she put the final period to her assignment. “Now I just need a photo of Fiona.” She had her camera in her hand. “Ready? Say cheese!” and she snapped off a photo. “I don’t think I moved my hand. I think that’s a good photo. You’re pretty!” Then Una turned her dancing blue eyes up to Fiona. “Can you read me a story tonight, Fiona?”
Before Fiona could answer Declan butted in. “Una, Fiona is tired from working hard all day . . . ”
“You promised!” Una cut him off. “You said next time, and that was last time!”
Julie intervened. “Do you want to, Fiona?”
“Yes, I’d love to,” Fiona said, and Una started to jump up and down with excitement.
“Mom, what can we read, what can we read?”
“What about Alice in Wonderland?” Fiona ventured. “I read that when I was about your age.”
“I’m not sure we have it . . . ” Julie began, and Fiona said she had a copy in her bag.
Declan walked into the room, and there was a distinct chill in his voice.
“You mean you just happen to have a copy of Alice in Wonderland lying around in your purse?”
“I brought it with me, because of the script,” Fiona explained. “It’s the one I got from Aunt Rita when I was about seven or eight.”
Una was getting all excited now. “What’s it about?” she asked. “Does it have pictures?”
“It’s about a girl who goes on great adventures,” Fiona told her. “And it has lots of pictures.”
Julie helped Una put away her homework. “Fiona, if you want to finish drying the pots, I’ll take Una up and get her ready for bed.”
Una hopped up. “I’ll call you when I’m ready for the story!” she announced to Fiona and started up the stairs two at a time with Julie following.
Fiona was very conscious of Declan’s silence as they worked side by side in the kitchen, she drying and putting away the pots, he loading the dishwasher.
“I’m not going to kidnap her, you know!”
Declan slowly and methodically loaded the wine glasses on the top rung of the dishwasher. Then he spoke quietly and evenly as if trying to stay calm. “I remember you reading Alice in Wonderland to Orla. You were always holed up with her.” He didn’t manage to keep a note of resentment out of his voice.
“And what’s that got to do with Una?” Fiona asked. “Orla is an entirely different case, as you well know. She was sick, she needed to be taken care of . . . ”
“But not to be possessed,” Declan blurted, “not to be idolized.”
“She needed to be watched and loved,” Fiona retorted, “to be kept well.”
Declan all but banged shut the door to the dishwasher. “She wasn’t a thing, Fiona. She was a little girl . . . ”
“She wasn’t just a little girl, any little girl.” Fiona restrained herself from smashing the pot down on the counter top. “She was beautiful and delicate and perfect. Even Mam always said she was an angel, a little angel.”
“That’s because you were a child.” Declan said a trifle gentler. “And Mam believed it, too. She thought she must have been meant to go to heaven. But Orla was still just a little girl, an ordinary . . . ”
“There was nothing ordinary about Orla, and you know it!” Fiona was almost shouting now and close to tears. She suspended the pan in midair. “She was extraordinary in every way. She was gorgeous, she shone at everything she did. She was my little sister and . . . ”
“You seem to forget that she was my little sister, too,” Declan replied, his voice edgy as he wiped the wooden salad bowl, “just like you were before Orla came along!”
Fiona stared at him, unable to speak for a second. “Oh God!” she finally blurted out. “You’re jealous!” And with that thought she lost all desire to cry. She was amazed and astounded—it had never occurred to her that Declan cared enough to be jealous of anyone. Then she had a memory flash of the magical Christmas morning when Orla had appeared, miraculously, and Fiona had been drawn to her as if by magnetic force. She had a vague memory of a boy, her brother, in the background, trying to entice her away, trying to get her back to playing and presents, back to their life before. It gave her a grudging respect for him that he cared enough, seemingly about both her an
d Orla, to experience jealousy at the loss of their company. It might help to explain why he acted like such a jackass most of the time when they were children.
Just then they heard the tinkling innocent voice of Una from upstairs. “Fiona, Fiona. I’m ready!”
It broke the spell. Declan placed the bowl in the cabinet, and Fiona slipped the last pot into the cupboard.
Una’s bedroom was small and cozy, the wallpaper covered in Minnie Mouse cartoons, the pine shelves packed with books and toys. A small pink tape-player stood on one of the shelves. The bed had a fat pink comforter and fluffy pillows with clown pattern pillow-slips. Una was sunk into the pillows, eyes wide open, listening to Fiona who sat on the edge of the bed, reading aloud from Alice in Wonderland. She had gotten past the first few pages, and Una was rapt as Alice followed the pink rabbit down the rabbit hole.
“In another moment, down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.”
When Fiona paused in her reading, Una piped up. “Do you have this book a really long time?”
Fiona showed her the inscription, and Una read it aloud, trying to make out the words.
“Chri . . . Christmas 1962, Love to Fiona, From A . . . Auntie Rita and Un . . . Uncle Frank. Who were they? Did you like them? Did they live near you or far away like you do from me?”
Fiona paused. “Yes and yes. They were my only aunt and uncle, and I liked them a lot. They lived a short way from us. Uncle Frank was a baker in the village near where I grew up, near where Grandma Anna and Grandpa James lived.”
“You’re lucky to have them near you. I don’t have any relatives near me. You’re my only aunt, and you live far away.”
“True. But I’m here for a good long visit now, aren’t I? We’ll have fun while I’m here.”
“Are they dead, too, your aunt and uncle?”
Fiona considered lying, but realized Una would probably meet Frank if they came to Ireland at the end of the summer as planned in order to finalize the will.
“Our Uncle Frank is still alive.”
Una looked at the inscription once more. “It’s really old, this book! Can you read me more?”
Fiona laughed. “Sure! Ready?”
Una nodded and settled happily into her pillows.
“The rabbit hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well.”
When Fiona came back downstairs after Una had fallen asleep, Declan had retired to his study, and Julie sat in the living room reading the Los Angeles Times.
“Wine, Fiona?”
“Sure. Is Declan joining us?”
“He’s behind on some of his work. He’s got a foster care case tomorrow so has to finish up his prep.” Julie seemed apologetic.
Fiona nodded. She had a moment of despair about ever connecting with her brother. Maybe there was too much water under the bridge for them ever to manage to reach a rapprochement.
“He may join us in a while.” Julie added.
“Does he work much at night, at home?”
“Not usually. He mostly manages to take care of everything during work hours—but with an especially difficult case he’s sometimes under the wire. I think this one is either a foster care or adoption case; the mother was or is a heroin addict.”
“So, she’s in danger of losing her child?”
“Her son has already been taken away, temporarily, more than once. This is her last chance, I think.”
“And Declan is working with her?”
“Yes. He doesn’t discuss details, of course. But, he puts a lot into his clients.”
“I’m sure he’s really good.”
Fiona thought that Julie seemed embarrassed.
“Julie. It’s okay, really. Declan and I have never been the best of friends.”
She seemed disturbed. “He doesn’t talk about it, you know. His past. Hardly at all. Strange for a psychologist, I suppose. I know about Orla of course. And he told me about you, your birth. But later stuff he doesn’t mention.”
Fiona nodded.
“And he seems to avoid all things Irish.”
At this Fiona laughed. “Well, maybe he and I do have some things in common then!”
Julie looked puzzled. “But why? I have to say I didn’t mind so much; I’m not that hugely into family trees and my family isn’t terribly ‘familial!’ But we never ran headlong away from our roots—and I guess for Una’s sake, I’m starting to feel that she’s missing out.”
“Have you asked Declan about it?”
“When we first met he talked about Boston. He did a residency there. He seemed to be put off by all of the Irish.”
Fiona couldn’t stop herself from laughing. “Julie, I’m sorry. It seems really rude, and silly, to avoid your own people. I don’t think it’s an insult to Irish people as much as a reflection on our family—and maybe the Ireland that Declan and I left around 1980.”
“The economy wasn’t very good then, was it?”
“No. But I know I left to get away, try and make a clean start. And like Declan in Boston, I ended up meeting all the Irish in New York! For some people that’s exactly what they wanted, and needed. For me? I needed to be anonymous.”
“So how did you manage, then? Did you consciously cut yourself off?”
Fiona took a sip of wine and swept Julie back to her first summer in New York.
“I got my first job as a hotel receptionist and cashier at the Waldorf Astoria. I’d been in New York for several months but hadn’t found my feet yet, wasn’t really sure what I was doing.”
“Where were you living?” Julie asked.
“I’d found a room in a house in the Bronx, sharing with a bunch of people: two Italian-Americans, Mario and Isabella, an Irish-American woman named . . . Imelda, I think, and an Irish fellow Jack, from Galway, who had been in the country about two years. Jack and his girlfriend Mary were coming to a shindig at the Waldorf this night—it was a big Irish dinner dance, and he had joked with me about coming up stairs for a dance during my break. I had no notion at all of going to an Irish dance!”
Julie laughed. “So this was 1980?”
Fiona nodded. “Yes. It was the year of the Hunger Strikers. Not sure if you remember that? Some of the I.R.A. were conducting a hunger strike in the high-security prison Long Kesh to get political prisoner status.”
“They were considered criminals, right?” Julie asked. Fiona nodded.
“I had an Irish-American uncle in New York,” Julie recalled. “My aunt married him; he was very militant. I think he collected money for the I.R.A.”
“A lot of the funding comes from the Irish-Americans in the States. My two Irish house mates were very pro-Nationalist. Brits Out! Down with the colonizers! Of course, we were all taught in school that the proper thing to want, the ideal, was a united Ireland.”
“And what do people want?”
“It’s gotten very complicated. There’s a whole population in the North that consider themselves British and want to stay with England. How do you reconcile that with a united Ireland? And in the south, there are many mixed opinions. My Dad called the Protestants ‘planters.’ Well, their ancestors were planters. They were given the land four hundred years ago. These people’s families have been there longer than the U.S. has been in existence.”
“And there are extremists on both sides.”
“Yeah. So that night I was handling this reservation. An American man, mid-forties, gray suit, heavy glasses, I remember him very clearly. It was early evening, about eight, and he seemed to be a little drunk. I still remember his name—Jonathan Fredericks. I was entering his credit card details in the computer—these were clunky pieces of equipment, but cutting edge at the time, CRTs—this man, he was staring at my name plate and suddenly started accusing me of supporting ‘murderers’. For a minute, I wasn’t s
ure he was talking to me. So I just said, ‘Excuse me?’
‘You heard me, your compatriots. Murder innocents and then try to get people to feel sorry for them.’
I couldn’t let that go. ‘Are you calling all Irish people murderers?’ my gall was rising.
“He told me his nineteen-year-old nephew from England was stationed in the North. First tour of duty, and shot dead in cold blood by the I.R.A. I didn’t want to get into an argument with a drunken guest, but I wasn’t going to stand there and be insulted either, so I answered him back. Something along the lines of the Irish having helped build his country alongside the other immigrants like the Chinese.
“I bet he didn’t like that!” Julie laughed.
“No! Said they didn’t need terrorists and gombeen men! I was making a supreme effort at self-control, and noticed that the other receptionist had slipped away, most likely to get the manager. But Mr. Fredericks launched into a big tirade against Paddies, which eventually led up to Bobby Sands.”
“He was the leader of the hunger-strikers?”
“Yes. He was a huge hero. Our guest started accusing him of being a fake, a bastard at home, beating his wife. At that point, I’d had enough. I walked resolutely to the end of the counter, raised the hatch, marched around to face him and gave him MY big speech about his having no clue as to the complexities of the historical situation that had led to this moment, when young men felt compelled to starve themselves to death for an ideal. I said it was tragic that so many, his nephew included, had died for this cause, but bloodshed and brutality had led to more bloodshed and brutality, and the situation would never end if met only with the kind of ignorance and bigotry he was displaying here tonight.”
“Wow! How did he respond?”
“Well, the manager appeared midway through my speech and signaled to the bellhop to get his luggage. I think Mr. Fredericks was so drunk he was stunned and couldn’t even contrive a rebuttal. He gave me a dirty look, mumbled something under his breath and disappeared.”
“Wow. That took guts, Fiona.” Julie was impressed.