by D. S. Murphy
Then I found the photo albums, and an old instant camera. I’d never seen pictures of my mom when she was this young before. I recognized her jet black hair and dark eyes, laughing and smiling with other kids I didn’t recognize. But there were no punk clothes or spiked collars, or any other signs of teenage angst. The only thing that even hinted at rebellion was a tube of bright red lipstick. Nothing indicated that she wasn’t happy.
Why did she leave?
One photo in particular stood out. There were four kids; a tall blond girl on the far left, a shorter, sandy-haired boy with a serious look, my mother in the middle, and a handsome, dark haired boy next to her on the right. I looked closer and saw he had one arm around her waist. A boyfriend? Maybe Aeden had nothing to do with it. I found some tape in the box and put the photograph up above the desk.
I read a lot of Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys books when I was younger, probably because my mother could pick them up for about a nickel at garage sales. I never considered myself a sleuth or kid detective, at least not since I’d turned eleven and started taking private singing lessons, but I picked up some habits that had stuck. Like making lists. And solving the mystery of my mother’s secret past seemed like something to occupy my time; something which, since I didn’t have any friends here, I would probably have a lot of.
I turned on my laptop and opened a new text file.
TO DO
1. Identify the kids in the photo
2. Ask them to tell me more about my mother and why she left Ireland
I paused for a few moments before adding,
3. Stop being angry at everyone who tries to make me feel better
4. Find the music department and keep practicing
I also opened up the document I used for my diary—a sprawling file of a few hundred thousand words that I’d updated almost daily since I was fourteen. But I wasn’t sure what to write. I realized with a start that my mom probably kept a diary as well, so I ran over and rummaged through the box again. Then I checked all the drawers of the desk, under the bed and mattress, and all the other hiding places afforded by the room. Nothing.
The darkness was creeping in again. I felt the smoky tendrils of fatigue and emptiness reaching for me. Rather than let it engulf me, I forced myself to get up and go outside. It was early afternoon. The buildings glowed a warm yellow, the sky was a pastel blue, and the Cranberries crooned in my ears.
Keep moving. Stay busy.
I jumped on the bike and pushed off down the road, riding wobbly at first. I hadn’t been on a bike in years—in middle and high school it was cooler to walk to school than ride a bike. Portballintrae unfolded before me as I coasted down the road. There were a lot of new developments and orderly rows of cookie-cutter houses, but they weren’t unpleasant to look at. The town was surrounded by green fields full of sheep and cattle, it smelled like grass and livestock.
I couldn’t get over the incredible view of the teal-blue sea, framed by puffy white clouds and dark jagged rocks along the coast. I passed through ‘downtown’—which consisted of one main street of shops and restaurants. It had the quiet elegance of a tourist town in off season. Business must be slow the rest of the year. On the other side of town I stopped to look at a field with some large circular bumps. They looked ancient. Remnants of some druid settlement, I guessed. The orderly lines of houses ended abruptly when I reached the far side of town, and there was a parking lot at the end of Beach Road with a lookout point. I sat for a while at one of three picnic tables, set out in the open, not twenty yards from the water, watching a handful of dark colored birds chase each other across the sky.
Then I took my shoes off and walked down to the beach. The sand squishing beneath my toes and smell of salt water brought a memory rushing back to me. It was one of my earliest memories, my only memory of the ocean, and the worst day of my life—the day I’d almost drowned. I’d never fully forgotten it, but had also never remembered it with much clarity.
My mother always tried to steer us away from the sea, but my father wanted me to experience the unique wildness of the Oregon coast, and took us on a surprise trip when I was five. I remember making a sand castle with a moat around it, and climbing over the rocks with my dad as my mother watched from a blanket nearby, her face hidden by oversized sunglasses. We stuck our fingers in the sea anemones and chased the tiny crabs back into their holes. I was watching the water ebb and flow into the rock formations, gleefully surprised when it burst up suddenly and splashed me with water. But then a larger wave crashed over the rocks and wrapped around me like a giant hand, pulling me into the sea. It happened so fast, my dad didn’t have time to grab me. I went rushing out into the deeper water, the dreadful silence pounding in my ears, my flailing arms cut up by the sharp rocks as I was dragged, terrified, along the bottom.
I remember feeling the undertow: overwhelming and inescapable. It pulled me into the deeper waters, the dark vastness, with a force greater than any I’d ever known. Sometimes I would fight to the surface and get a glimpse of the land slipping farther and farther away. I’d take a quick breath, and scream. I was exhausted from fighting, but just when I was about to give up, my father grabbed my arm and then side-stroked us back to land. He hauled me onto the rocks, and patted my back as I coughed up water.
Through my tears and the salt water I saw my mother running towards us. I held up my little arms to her, seeking comfort. Instead, she slapped me hard across the face. Then she grabbed my shoulders, staring at me with wild eyes and saying, “Never go into the sea again, do you hear me? Never.”
Much later, she apologized and said she was just so terrified when I disappeared, she didn’t know how to react. I tucked the incident away, and we never talked about it again, but the unfairness of that slap was like a piece of sand in a clam shell. Something rough and uncomfortable, something I tried to cover up by making my mother love me more.
Now I felt like I was drowning all over again. I touched my palm to my cheek where she’d slapped me, wondering suddenly if there was more to the story. I tried to think of other incidents that might show my mother had been unstable, but came up blank. Apart from that one time, she’d always been completely in control. Dad’s favorite term of endearment for her was ‘my little ball of yarn.’ As in tightly wound. The sun was setting and I started to feel creeped out, like someone was watching me. I looked around but I was totally alone, which creeped me out even more. So I grabbed the bike and started pedaling back to Aedan’s place.
4
“Go ahead,” Jackie laughed. “You’re not in the U.S. anymore. Underage drinking isn’t a big deal here, at least not for us. And anyway you’ve only got a few more years until you’re eighteen.”
After the beach, I’d cycled home and taken a shower, then pulled on some fresh, albeit travel-wrinkled clothes. I hadn’t thought to bring any formal clothes with me, so I was wearing jeans and a black sweater.
Aedan and I walked down to his friend Liam’s pub (I looked for a sign with the pub’s name, but there wasn’t one; just a little neon light in the window that said ‘pub’). He introduced me to Jackie—the neighbor he’d mentioned. She was also the international school president, a grand title for a group she confessed included only two exchange students and me: a transfer from the USA.
We’d slipped into one of the corner tables. The bar was small but cozy, with gleaming wood counters and dark leather furniture. The wall lamps cast a warm glow over an assortment of framed prints and news clippings, and a splash of green from the glass coasters completed the Irish theme. It smelled like hops and wood polish.
I must have looked unsure as I pondered the menu, so Jackie called over my shoulder for two half pints of Guinness. Jackie was thin and elegant, like my mother, moving with precision and self-control that seemed both wonderful and alien to me.
“So Aedan wanted me to explain our school system to you,” she said. I couldn’t help admiring her gorgeous, curly red hair that bounced when she spoke. She had deep blue ey
es, flawless skin with perfect red circles on her cheeks (which was probably well-applied blush, but could just have easily have been caused by hiking up towards the pub in her black dress and heels).
“First, second and third year is the Junior cycle. After the third year we take a test to get our Junior Certificate—you’ll need to take it at the end of this year. Next year, after you pass, we’ll be together in the Senior Cycle, which is Fifth Year and Sixth Year. Then there’s another big exam, and then we get a Leaving Certificate.”
I nodded, trying to pay attention, but most of it slipped in one ear and out the other. I was having trouble thinking through to the end of the week. Next year seemed as tangible as the Easter Bunny. Plus, I had to strain to understand Jackie through her Irish accent, which was even stronger than Aedan’s.
“You can take the bus with me on Monday,” Jackie continued, “There are about fifteen of us from town, most of the students are from Portrush or Ballymoney. This one is Derry!” she said, as an older boy with broad shoulders set our beers on the table. He was wearing a tasteful plaid button-down, and his sandy-brown hair was combed neatly to one side. He smiled and reached out his hand. I shook his hand and smiled back at him.
“Hi, I’m Clara.”
“‘Course you are, love,” he said with a grin. “And let me say how sorry we all are… about your parents.” Jackie shot him an apprehensive look and then glanced at me. Was it rude to bring up someone’s dead parents after just meeting them? I didn’t know either, so I wasn’t sure how to react.
Jackie reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “If you ever need to talk about anything, you know, I’m here for you. I hope we’ll be great friends.”
“Thanks,” I murmured, taking a moment to look Jackie and Derry in the eye, a gesture I hoped conveyed my sincere appreciation. I took a sip of my drink; it was so bitter I made a face to keep from spitting it out.
“Well, now you can say you’ve tried our national drink,” Derry said, grinning. “Next time, get a hard cider.”
Aedan had been chatting with Liam at the bar, but he came back to the table and put a hand on Derry’s shoulder.
“I know you had a funeral in America for your parents, but in Ireland we do things a little different with a Wake; it’s a kind of glorious send off for the deceased. I’d be a lousy father if I didn’t give Branna a proper one, so I’ve asked some of the guys from town to play some music tonight.”
“It might seem strange to you,” Jackie said, “but the idea is to purge your sorrows with alcohol and exhilaration. Rather than let it stew and fester in solitude and quiet, we let it all out in one night, of singing and dancing, crying and mourning. It can get a little crazy. You can just watch, or join in, or do whatever you’re comfortable with. Just remember we’re not celebrating because we’re happy they’re gone, we’re celebrating because they lived and we loved them.”
Her last words touched a chord and my eyes watered.
As the pub filled with people, I looked around with new appreciation. This had been my mother’s home. She lived here until she was sixteen. Many of the people in this room had been her neighbors or classmates.
“I didn’t realize,” I said, “that my mother still had… people here. Who cared about her.”
My fingers dug into my pocket, touching the photograph I’d found of my mother and her friends. I’d been hoping to ask Jackie and Derry about it, but with Aedan hovering nearby I wasn’t ready to pull it out.
The band finished warming up, and broke into a fast paced Irish jingle. With the music it was too noisy to talk, so instead I just kept an eye out for the faces in the photograph. Some of the couples started dancing, and chairs and tables were pushed back to make more room.
Our table was squeezed into the corner. As the night went on people kept coming up to me, telling me how they knew my mother and sharing anecdotes about her life. They brought food as well, and soon the table was overflowing with baked pies, cookies and casseroles. The older ones, Aedan’s age, had known my grandmother Phyllis as well. Apparently she was quite the beauty. One gentleman, who must have been seventy-five at least, told me that Phyllis used to sing at the pub every Saturday night, and he’d been there in the front row, without fail, for three years to listen to her.
“The most incredible voice I ever heard,” he said. “Could bring a grown man to his knees in tears. It was unearthly, magical. I’ve never heard anything like it since. Young Branna tried as she grew up to fill her mother’s place, and she had a mighty fine voice as well, but nothing could compare to her mother.”
“I didn’t know my mother sang,” I said, though now that I thought about it, I had vague memories of lullabies when I was very little. Suddenly my interest in opera music didn’t seem so random. I knew almost nothing about my grandmother, though my mother had mentioned her name a few times. I made a mental note to find out more about her.
At one point Jackie surprised me by getting up on stage to sing. Later Derry joined her in a duet. Some songs were slow and wailing, others made my feet tap and my heart race. I don’t remember when I started dancing, probably after my second Guinness (the taste had grown on me… it was like bread and chocolate). Then the room was spinning and I was hugging people, and crying—all at the same time, in a blur of warm orange lights and friendly faces and music that touched my soul.
I was a mess, but it felt amazing. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d really let go like this. I always tried to hold my feelings in, but since my parents died, I’d been running out of space. I felt like a shaken soda bottle; full of sweetness inside but too pressurized to let anybody take the cap off. I was always afraid I’d explode, and somebody would get hurt. The alcohol poked holes in my stoic exterior. I’d been shaken, and was now fizzing out all over the place. For the first time in a long time, even before the accident, I felt part of a community. I felt accepted, and loved. Even though everything was totally new and unfamiliar, I felt like I’d come home.
Then I noticed a face in the crowd I recognized. Dark, brooding eyes, under a set of furled black eyebrows with creases between them—staring at me with such malice my breath caught in my chest. We locked eyes, and then I tore the photograph from my pocket, certain he would match up with the laughing figure next to my mother. But when I looked up again he was gone.
I pushed through the crowd, eager to find out more about my mother but also a little afraid. Whoever the man was, he looked like he hated me. What had I ever done to him? Or, better question, what had my mother done? But after checking every corner of the bar, I still couldn’t find him. Had I imagined it?
The bar felt warm and stuffy now, and my skin crawled, so I stepped outside. The air was crisp and chilly. I looked up and down the road but it was quiet and dark. He couldn’t have just vanished. The door opened behind me with a loud creak that made my heart jump.
“Bit of fresh air, eh? Great idea—” Derry cut off as Jackie came up beside me and saw my face.
“What happened?” she asked, grabbing my arm. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“A ghost, I don’t think so. A man…”
I raised the photograph up for them to see.
“What’s this?” Jackie asked, taking the picture from me.
“A photograph of my mom and some of her friends. I found it in her room. I thought one of them could tell me what happened to her, why she left.”
“She never told you? Were you not close?”
Before last week I’d always thought we were.
“This is going to sound a little crazy,” I said, “but she lied about where she was from, and even what her last name was. I never knew she was from Ireland, or that I had a grandfather here, until a week ago. So I’m just trying to… make sense of a confusing situation.”
Jackie looked shocked but took it in stride. “Don’t worry, we’ll help in any way we can, right Derry?” She nudged him. “So you’re looking for the kids in the photograph, and tonight you saw…�
��
“I don’t know for sure. I saw a man, I thought he could be this boy next to my mother. Same features, dark hair and eyes… and he looked at me, right at me. Like he knew me. But then he disappeared.”
“Well if he was here tonight someone will know him,” Derry said, “Small town and all, no secrets here.” Derry stood in the streetlight, and ran his hand through his hair. Suddenly I gasped and grabbed the photograph back from Jackie.
“This one,” I said, pointing at the boy on the left of my mother, “looks just like you.” I handed him the photo.
“That’s my dad, Liam, you met him tonight,” Derry said.
“And you didn’t tell me he was friends with my mom?” I asked, not bothering to hide the accusation. My emotions were still muddled with the alcohol, and for a second it felt like everybody was keeping secrets from me.
Derry held up his hands, defensively, “I didn’t know how close they were—and I didn’t know you were hunting down her friends until a moment ago.”
I leaned against the cool stone wall outside the pub and took a deep breath, trying to slow my racing heart. Suddenly I didn’t like the feeling of alcohol in my stomach. I felt sick and dizzy. I wished I hadn’t left my coat inside.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m just a little shaken up. I don’t know why, but that guy inside, he didn’t look like he’d come to bring an apple pie.”
“We can go back to the pub sometime this week and ask Liam to talk to you.” Jackie decided. “That will be the easiest way to start. I’m sure he can tell you who the other kids in the photograph were, and maybe even what happened with your mum.”
“Sure you could,” Derry said. “Though I’m not sure what he can tell you.”