‘Did you get some sleep?’
I think about telling her Sketch was here. I want to tell her how wonderful it was to dance with him, and how special it made me feel. I want to explain how my heart nearly burst out of my chest with happiness when he asked me to be his wife. But I can’t. I can’t tell her any of it. It would break her heart to know she’s the reason for my refusal, and she’d almost certainly insist I change my mind.
‘How was the dance?’ I ask, steering the conversation back to her.
‘Oh, Annie, it was wonderful. It reminded me of when I was a girl of your age. Carefree, as young girls should be.’
Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I’m a young girl, but I don’t ever remember being carefree.
‘Do you know the dances haven’t changed much since I was a girl? I was a little rusty at first, but it didn’t take me long to remember the steps.’ My mother shuffles her feet on the spot. ‘I’ll have blisters all over tomorrow. But oh, Annie, it was worth it. So worth it.’
My mother lets go of the door and steps into my room, dancing and swaying on the spot as she hums a tune I don’t recognise. I’ve never seen her so light on her feet or so euphoric. It’s wonderful.
‘I’m so happy you had a nice time, Ma,’ I say. ‘So happy.’
My mother stops dancing and tiptoes across my room and stands beside me. She wraps her arms around me and squeezes me tight.
‘You know,’ she whispers. ‘I resent your father for a lot. And deservedly so. But do you know what the dance tonight made me realise?’
‘What?’
‘That if I had my life to live over again, I’d still marry him.’
My face scrunches with disapproval. ‘Why?’ I snort, angry with her silly words. ‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘Because he gave me you.’
I soften instantly and hug my mother back tight.
‘I’m so sorry you didn’t get to come to the dance, Annie,’ my mother says, ‘But I’m glad the dance came to you.’
I shake my head. Sketch must have told her he was coming to see me.
‘Come. Sit,’ she says as she untangles her arms from around me and flops onto the edge of my bed, dangling her legs back and forth like an excited teenager.
‘I had my doubts at first. I admit,’ Ma says as I sit beside her. ‘But Sketch Talbot is nothing like your father, Annie. Some men are good men, I can see that now. And Sketch is one of the good ones.’
I smile. It’s wonderful to hear my mother finally praise someone of the opposite sex, especially Sketch.
‘So tell me everything,’ my mother chirps. ‘Was it romantic? Did he get down on one knee? Oh, I bet he did.’
My mother is practically bubbling over with excitement.
‘Ma,’ I whisper, trying to be as firm as I can without raising my voice. ‘I can’t marry Sketch.’
A sudden, heavy silence engulfs the room. My mother clears her throat with a gentle cough and drops her head. She doesn’t voice her disappointment. But she doesn’t have to. My mother always says far more without words than with them.
‘I’m sorry, Ma,’ I say. And it’s true. I am sorry. So sorry that I had to break Sketch’s heart. And mine. And possibly my mother’s too.
‘You have nothing to apologise for,’ she says after a long, painful silence. ‘It’s your decision, Annie.’
I choke back tears.
‘I just hope you’re making your decision for the right reasons,’ Ma whispers, her eyes burning into mine like hot coals.
‘I am.’ I swallow.
‘Good. That’s good, Annie.’ My mother stands up. ‘I’ll let you get some sleep.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Good night.’
‘Good night, Annie.’ My mother closes my bedroom door behind her.
Darkness and silence hang stagnant in the air. I flop onto my belly and cry into my pillow.
Thirty – Nine
‘Annie. Annie, wake up.’
I open my sleepy eyes and find my mother standing over my bed. My room is bright so I know it’s morning, but I’m as tired as if I’ve only slept for seconds. My eyes weigh heavy and close.
‘Annie, quick. Come on. Wake up.’ My mother shakes my shoulder. ‘Wake up.’
‘I’m up. I’m up,’ I stutter, rubbing my eyes as I sit upright.
‘Good. You’re dressed,’ Ma says.
I run my hands over my dress that I didn’t take off last night. It’s surprisingly uncreased.
‘I’ll change before I start my chores,’ I explain, thinking of the list of things I have to do today.
‘No chores today, Annie,’ my mother says, smiling so wildly I can see parts of her gums. ‘Your dress is beautiful. Just like you. Come on now, quickly. We don’t have much time.’
‘Much time for what?’ I drag a groggy hand around my face.
‘You’ll see soon. But we must hurry. We need to leave the house before your father wakes.’
‘What time is it?’ I stand and glance out the curtain I forgot to close last night after I climbed back in the window.
‘Early. It’s very early,’ Ma explains. ‘But we have a busy day ahead. We need an early start.’
My sleepy eyes focus out the window and explore the garden. Wind doesn’t shake the trees as birds perch on their branches and sing. Early morning sunshine casts the garden in hues of gold and honey. The world outside my window is as inviting as one of Sketch’s paintings.
My mother opens my hand and places a comb in my palm.
‘For your hair,’ she says.
I drag the prongs through my straight hair, untangling some stubborn, matted parts at the back.
My mother takes the cloth she has draped over her shoulder and bends down to polish my shoes. She tuts and shakes her head as she drags the cloth over the jagged holes.
‘What’s going on?’ I finally ask, dragging my feet off the edge of the bed.
I wince as my bare soles come in contact with the cold ground, and it makes me want to clamber back into bed and get more sleep.
My mother stands up and stuffs the cloth into the large pocket on her pleated skirt and hurries over to the chair that I left by my bedroom door last night. ‘You’ll need these,’ she says, picking something up and turning back around to face me.
She stretches her arms out and offers me flowers. Four yellow, long stemmed daffodils are tied together with some grey twine that I recognise from the food parcels I bring from Talbot’s farm.
‘A bouquet?’ I question as I reach out and take the flowers I know she has snipped from our garden.
‘I picked them fresh just a few minutes ago. Aren’t they pretty?’ She sighs.
I hold the daffodils close to me. The contrast of their bright yellow petals against my sky blue dress is beautiful.
‘They’re lovely,’ I say. ‘But I still don’t understand’
‘You will,’ my mother promises. ‘Now, slip on your shoes.’
I do as I’m told, my knees shaking with nervous anticipation.
‘And your coat too,’ Ma points. ‘Bring your coat. You might need it.’
I look out the window again. The sky is cloudless, and the sun is shining enthusiastically, especially considering it’s so early. It’s going to be a beautiful day. I’m not sure where we’re going or why I need a coat, but I’m almost too nervous to ask.
‘Where’s Pa?’ I say; my mother’s heightening haste makes me nervous, and my mind races to the worst.
What if he woke during the night and attacked her? Maybe she struck him with the fire poker. Is that why we’re running? Has something terrible happened?
I shake my head and fetch my coat from the end of the bed. I prepare myself to run.
‘I’m ready.’ I shake.
‘Let me look at you?’ Ma says, teary eyed, and I really begin to fear the worst.
I hear distance in her voice. Something I’m not used to. And I worry she’s preparing to leave me.
My mother cr
anes her neck, and her eyes flick towards the wonky bookshelf over my bed.
‘Do you want to bring your books, Annie?’ Ma says. ‘I know how much you love them.’
I glance at the pair of old, leather bound hardbacks on the shelf. One is completely dog-eared, and the other is missing its back cover. But it doesn’t matter. I adore the stories inside nonetheless.
‘I don’t need to bring them,’ I say. ‘I know them word for word by heart.’
‘You’ve read them so often.’ Ma smiles. ‘I suppose you must.’
‘We aren’t coming back, are we?’ I say with a sense of poignancy that defies all the terrible beatings I have taken in this house.
‘No, Annie. We’re not coming back.’
I press my lips firmly together. I hide my fear of the unknown as best I can, but my hands tremble and I know my mother notices
‘It will be okay, Annie,’ Ma encourages. ‘Now quickly. Please.’
Ma and I hurry out my bedroom door. We glide down the corridor both taking the same care not to disturb the floor and have it creak under our feet. Loud, satisfied snores blast from the fireside chair where Pa sleeps as if he hasn’t a care in the world. He’s still curled up in the same position he was in last night, and I know he hasn’t stirred. He hasn’t laid a finger on Ma, and better still, she hasn’t retaliated and given him any reason to be angry. And I understand even less why we are running away. Why now, after all these years?
Ma and I open the front door, and without saying a word to each other, we both take one last look around the house I grew up in. I remember the good as well as the bad. A growing sense of melancholy knocks in my stomach, and I slowly realise that in spite of all things, I will miss this place on some level. We close the door and hurry down the front steps, picking up speed as we race down the driveway. Neither of us look back. And when I see Sketch’s car waiting just outside the gate, everything suddenly makes sense.
Forty
‘Traffic is bananas,’ my father says, his hands gripping the steering wheel of his car so tightly his knuckles are a pinkish purple. ‘We’re not going to get to this damn garden for at least another twenty minutes.’
I glance out the window as I sit in the back seat of my father’s Mercedes. Traffic is bumper to bumper in front of us as far as my eyes can see. ‘It’s an orchard,’ I mumble under my breath.
‘It’s bloody madness, that’s what it is,’ my father bites back, hearing me.
‘It’s rush hour,’ my mother interjects, ‘and everyone is on their way home from work. We just have to sit it out.’
‘Well, then all these country arseholes are going the wrong way,’ Dad grumbles. ‘Someone should tell them home is the other direction.’
‘Not everyone is from Dublin, George,’ my mother reminds my father. ‘Plenty of people live here in Galway too, you know.’
My father was born and raised in Dublin, and he often forgets that places outside his favourite city exist.
My mother ignores my father’s ranting and pulls on her seat belt gently. She slackens it enough to turn almost completely around in the front seat. ‘We’ll be there soon, Mom,’ she says, smiling at Nana.
‘Thank you,’ Nana mumbles, her head resting on my shoulder. ‘Thank you all.’
I pull my eyes away from staring out the window, and I look around at the mix of people in the car. My father is driving, muttering swear words every so often at the drivers in front of him. My mother is in the front passenger’s seat. She’s fidgeting restlessly and twisting around every couple of minutes to check on my grandmother. Nana is sandwiched between Marcy and me as we huddle in the back seat of my father’s midlife crisis sports car, which definitely wasn’t designed to accommodate three adults across the back seat. Nana has her slender fingers knitted between mine, clutching me, telling me not to let go. I’m horrendously uncomfortable pressed too close to the car door and sitting with my legs apart to allow room for Nana’s oxygen cylinder to rest on the ground between my feet, but I don’t dare move and disturb my grandmother’s head resting on my shoulder.
Traffic crawls forward. The tension in the car is palpable because we’ve barely gained a couple of meters in as many minutes. Everyone is overly aware of the time ticking by as we sit drowning in a sea of cars.
‘Are they still behind us?’ I whisper across Nana to Marcy.
Marcy turns and glances out the back window. She smiles and waves. ‘Yup. They’re right behind us.’
Nate and Ben are following in Nate’s car, and since neither of them knows exactly where the orchard is, I’m worried we might lose them. It came as a shock to us all, but mostly me, that we would have to escort Nana to the orchard ourselves. The health services couldn’t assist in something so unorthodox, the hospital explained. I close my eyes and think about the journey that has led us here. I want to reminisce about childhood memories, but my mind seems to get stuck replaying the conversation that we had just before we left the hospital.
‘The ambulance isn’t a taxi,’ Marcy explained as we packed up Nana’s stuff. ‘Unfortunately, they can only offer a shuttle service between the hospital and the hospice. Any detours or stopovers would be outside protocol. I can pull a lot of strings, but unfortunately, breaking protocol isn’t one of them. The paramedics could get in serious trouble. I’m sorry.’
‘I understand,’ my mother said, with heavy sadness dragging her voice lower and more raspy than usual.
At first, I was worried that my mother would change her mind. I thought she would say it was too dangerous and we were taking too great a risk. And if she had raised those concerns, I wouldn’t have argued because my gut was telling me all those things too. But my heart was telling me something else entirely. Thankfully, my mother’s heart was on the same page as mine. ‘George can drive,’ my mother said confidently.
‘Okay, great.’ Marcy smiled. ‘I’ll let the ambulance service know you won’t be needing them after all.’
‘You’ll come with us, Marcy, won’t you?’ I asked, anxiously.
‘Of course,’ Marcy replied without hesitation. ‘I’ll be right there the whole time.’
Marcy was as good as her word. She was with us when we helped Nana from her comfortable hospital bed into the wheelchair. She was there when we struggled to lift Nana into the back seat of my father’s car without hurting her, and she’s here now, holding Nana’s other hand as if she’s become part of our family. And it hurts my heart to know that when we lose Nana, we’ll lose Marcy too.
Blue lights flash behind us, and I’m startled by the sudden blast of a siren as an ambulance races up the hard shoulder, whipping past all the traffic. A police car follows quickly behind and then another ambulance.
‘Maybe there has been an accident,’ my father says. ‘That must be what’s going on with the traffic. Google it there, Blair. See if anything’s on the news about an accident in Galway City.’
My mother runs her finger up and down her phone screen. ‘There’s nothing on the news about any accident.’ She shakes her head. ‘Oh wait, hang on. There’s something on Twitter. Oh, Jesus.’ She softens, ‘There is a crash. A bad one, by the sounds of things. A truck and two cars collided on the docks. Hashtag pray for them,’ she reads aloud. ‘It says the tailbacks are miles long on both sides of the city.’
‘Oh, God,’ I say, ‘How awful. I hope no one is hurt badly.’
A third ambulance darts past us, and everyone in the car falls pensive and silent. Everyone is lost in their own thoughts. I think about the people in the accident and how afraid they must be, and that’s if they survive. And if they don’t, I wonder how their families will cope. Human mortality is cruel, I decide. I think about how we’ve had time to prepare for Nana’s passing. I’ve had time to process that the baby inside my belly isn’t well. Those poor people had no warning. When those drivers set out on their journey, their loved ones had no idea that they may never see them again. My free hand instinctively finds its way to my tummy as I feel the slig
ht flutter inside me that hints that my baby is moving. And for now, we still have time. I realise that perhaps my energy would be better spent being grateful for the time we do have rather than being angry about the time that’s soon to be snatched away from us. I fail miserably in my attempts to be positive, and my heart aches and tears trickle down my flushed checks as I squeeze Nana’s hand so tight I have to remind myself that she’s frail and that I need to take care not to hurt her.
Nana’s fingers wriggle as she slowly takes her hand away from mine. She points out the window with a trembling finger.
‘I think she wants us to follow the ambulance,’ I say.
‘We can’t go up there and pass all these cars,’ Dad says, frustrated. ‘The cops will pull us over.’
‘There’s a shortcut,’ Nana rasps barely able to draw her breath.
I try to direct my gaze off the tip of Nana’s finger. I don’t see any turns off the main road.
‘Up ahead?’ I ask.
Nana’s eyes close, and her shaking hand flops onto her lap. Her mouth falls open as she breathes out a long, wheezy breath. I drag my hand away from my belly and stroke the back of her bony hand with mine. She’s exhausted. Even if there is a shortcut nearby, I’m not sure Nana could stay conscious long enough to direct us. Her face is growing paler and her limbs a little heavier. I’m terrified that we’re running out of time. Damn this traffic.
‘I know that shortcut,’ my mother says with childlike enthusiasm. ‘I mean, I think I do. I haven’t been down that way in years, not since they built the main road, but I think I remember the way.’
‘Anything has to be better than sitting in this traffic,’ I say. ‘Dad?’
‘C’mon, George,’ Mom says. ‘Let’s go.’
My father turns the wheel, revs the engine, and veers onto the hard shoulder. Heads turn as agitated drivers stare out their windows as we zip past them. Some even honk their horns in protest. And every time a noisy beep echoes through the car, Nana’s lips curl into the smile of a rebel.
‘Here it is.’ My mother taps a long nail against her window. ‘The shortcut. Just here. After this tree. Slow down, George. Don’t shoot past it.’
When It Rains: The bittersweet romance you won't want to miss Page 27