by Luanne Rice
“We’ll see,” Bernie had said, trying to smile. She was powerfully drawn to the convent, and Honor knew how torn she felt about Tom.
“I can’t imagine what they went through,” Tom said. “Treated like garbage by the English, dying of starvation. The ones who survived, standing on the docks in Cobh, watching their children sail to America—knowing they’d never see them again, families ripped apart forever. Can you imagine how we’d feel, losing our children that way?”
“We don’t have any children,” Bernie said, her eyes filling with tears at the image of those people on the docks.
“We will someday, Bernadette,” Tom said.
Honor had been watching John. She was deeply in love with him, and she knew she’d die if they had kids and anything like that ever happened. She watched the way he traced the wall with his hand, as if he could somehow comfort the people who had gone through so much.
“Fevers, famine,” he said. “The ones who made it here had to have been so strong.”
“And so good at what they did,” Honor said. She was staring at the wall, at a perfectly round stone fit in among the other shapes. How had they done it? John’s stonemason ancestors had been artists in their own way. Perhaps John had gotten his love of natural materials—rocks, branches, water, ice—from them.
“Cormac buried the truth of their journey,” John said. “But we’re going to uncover it.”
“What do you mean?” Honor asked.
“You heard Tom—he asked Bernie to go to Ireland with him. We’ll go someday, too. Think of the land in West Cork—the cliffs, and seacoast. And just north, the Ring of Kerry, the Dingle Peninsula. The Cliffs of Moher, up by Galway…all on the west coast, Honor. Just across the Atlantic, America was calling them. You can paint, and I’ll do something at the edge of the land, right on the cliff, facing America.”
“Sullivan on the brink,” Tom said. “Typical. You going to capture the feeling of exile and loss?”
“The feeling of losing one life so you can gain another,” John said. “It was dangerous, what they did. Why shouldn’t it be for me, too?” Then, putting his arms around Honor, “Promise me you’ll come with me?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” she’d promised, ripples of excitement running through her body.
Now, sitting at the kitchen table, she thought about the moment when she’d changed. Not John—but her. Back then, she had been falling in love with John and his way of seeing adventure in every part of life. She had loved the way he combined his work and emotions, made sense of everything by building sculptures wild enough to contain it all. Because his feelings were so extreme, so was his work.
And Honor had loved it, been thrilled by the risks he was willing to take, until one day. She knew the minute her feelings had changed: the day that Regis came into the world. With their daughter’s birth, Honor had wanted John to stop being so daring. She wanted closeness and safety, not wildness and danger. Children transformed everything, she thought, her gaze blurring as she stared at the Kelly crest on Bernie’s envelope.
Just then she heard a knock at the kitchen door. The sun had dipped behind the trees and chapel, so the yard was in shadow. Peering out, she saw John standing there—she felt a jolt, as if she had conjured him. Beckoning him in, she pushed Bernie’s letter beneath a placemat.
“How are you?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said uncomfortably. “And you?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Are the girls home?”
“No,” she said. “They’re out and about.”
“We have to talk,” he said. His eyes looked bruised, as if he had just gone ten rounds. She stared at him, knowing she’d done very little to make his homecoming happy or easy.
“You’ve been painting,” he said, staring at the streaks of paint on her forearms.
She nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“The other night was nice,” he said, standing by the kitchen table. “Thank you for having me for dinner.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. Things had seemed easygoing by the end of that night, but now he looked tense and upset again, and her time in the studio had left her feeling fragile and on edge.
“Look,” he said. “Seeing you is hard. I won’t lie to you, Honor.”
“I’m sorry…it is for me, too.”
“I know. I don’t want to make this any harder for you than it already is, but Jesus—I have to see the kids. Spending time with you all the other night was so great. It’s all I’ve been able to think about since then.”
Honor looked away. She couldn’t tell him that it had been the same for her. Her stomach churned as she struggled to sit still, trying to listen.
“We have to figure out a way,” he said. “For me to see them regularly. No matter what you think, I know it’s the best thing for them. I don’t think I’m being selfish here—I’m their father, and…”
“I’m not going to fight you on it, John,” she said.
“You’re not?” he asked, surprised. He stopped short, looking at her. She could see that he hadn’t been sleeping. His eyes were sunken, rimmed with shadows. Yet even so, she saw the brightness in them; his heart and his curiosity about life were as alive as ever. And though he was gaunt, he stood as straight and strong as he ever had. She looked at him, holding back the desire to reach for his hand.
“How could I?” she asked. “They love you so much.”
“But I thought…” he said, confused. “I thought you’d made up your mind I’m bad for them—and bad for you.”
“Those are two different things,” she murmured.
“Honor,” he said, reaching his hand halfway across the table, as if wishing she’d hold it. She kept her hands clasped in her lap. “I screwed up so badly. When I think back to what I let happen over in Ireland, I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago,” she said.
“But I’ll be paying for it the rest of my life!” he said, his voice rising. “The worst part is, so will the girls. They have to live with it, people knowing their father went to jail for killing a man. Did you see the way Peter acted?”
Honor nodded, every muscle in her body tensing.
“He’s just a kid, and he looks down on me that way. Imagine what that makes Regis feel like. I can’t stand thinking what it makes you feel like!”
“What he thinks doesn’t matter!” Honor said, exploding. “Who cares what Peter Drake says or thinks? All I care about is what happened to your family. Our family, John!”
“I broke everything,” he said, grabbing her hands. “That day on the cliff. I didn’t protect Regis, I let a maniac into our lives, I turned into a monster myself, and Regis saw. She says she doesn’t remember anything—because what happened was too terrible for her to take in. I know that’s my fault, Honor. That’s the reason you don’t love me anymore—just tell me.”
“It happened before that day,” she cried, pulling her hands away.
“What?”
“You and I,” she said. “You and I broke years before we went to Ireland…”
“Tell me,” he said, looking shocked, as if she’d just thrown ice water on him.
“You don’t even know,” she wept. “You went to Ireland and grieved for your ancestors, all those families torn apart by the famine and immigration. But we were torn apart, too. Everything that ever mattered to me—art, love, you—I thought we’d have it forever.”
“We could have,” he said.
“Don’t you know what it was like for me?” she asked. “I was a dedicated ‘passionate’ artist, too! But once we had the girls, I wanted our family to come first. I loved you so much.”
“But I loved you,” he said, looking bewildered. “Do you think I didn’t?”
“When you had to go to Labrador, to photograph the aurora borealis on the shortest day of the year…and then got snowed in through Christmas, because of a blizzard, and I was home alone with the girls, missing their father. And when you ha
d to go to Churchill, to build a snow cave, an ice house, to get pictures of polar bear families…when your own family was worried about you, terrified you’d get torn limb from limb.”
“Honor…”
“And the trip to Ireland,” she said. “That I’d been looking forward to ever since we found the box, ever since you made me promise to go with you…only I didn’t go with you, John. You went ahead. You crawled through the holds of the famine ships with Greg White—someone you just met on the docks. He had that experience with you, not me.”
“That terrible day,” he said, “I broke everything.”
“You’re not listening!” she said, her voice rising. “It didn’t all hinge on that one day! Ballincastle was just the culmination of what had been going on between us for years.”
“You’re telling me it’s over between us?” he asked.
Her heart pounded in her throat. She looked at him, saw the wildness in his eyes. John’s fierce love had gotten him into so much trouble, and she saw it pouring from him now. She couldn’t answer his question, even after everything, even now. Tearing from the room, she ran into her studio and slammed the door behind her.
She sat at her easel, staring at her painting of Ballincastle; she didn’t move until she heard him leave the house, saw him walking up over the hill toward the beach. Her heart was in her throat. She picked up her brush and went at the canvas, as if she could just paint the truth of their lives.
Or as if she could paint it all away.
Twenty
Regis was nearing the end of her shift at Paradise the next night. She was so tired of serving ice cream; her feet hurt, her face ached from smiling at customers. Most of all, she felt really uneasy about her mother. She’d barely come out of her studio for days. Regis had heard her crying behind the closed door. When she had told Peter, he had listened with disgust, said it was all her father’s fault and that he should just realize he was poison for the Sullivan family, making Regis (a) wish she hadn’t told him and (b) feel like slapping him.
Right now, everything just seemed wrong. Her stomach was in a knot, and she swore that at twenty she was probably the youngest person ever to suffer from ulcers and bunions, but even worse, something was hurting deep inside, behind her rib cage, as if her heart were being pinched. She twisted, trying to adjust the way she was standing, hoping for the pain to go away, but it was as strong as ever. Luckily, it was seven forty-five, and she got off work at eight tonight.
The line moved quickly, with Regis and her coworkers serving families, couples, tourists, beachgoers. A garland of lanterns—brightly colored, illuminating the trees—waved in the breeze. Regis spied Peter and the Hubbard’s Point gang leaning against Matt Donovan’s father’s old Firebird, waiting for her to finish. Kris and Josh were there, Angela and Mick, but no Hayley or Jimmy, and, Regis was most happy to note, no Alicia.
She waved, just before going to fill an order of two hot fudge sundaes, with extra whipped cream on one, no nuts on the other, and Peter lifted his hand in response. He had such a cool way about him, the way he barely smiled, but followed her with his eyes. He had a certain thereness about him—a way of holding back, aloof but present—that she had always cherished and found devastatingly attractive. So why, tonight, did it bother her?
Seeing him across the parking lot with his friends, she almost wished she had to work till eleven. There was no clear reason for this unwelcome feeling to be swirling around; none whatsoever. She was so ready to finish her shift, each minute as it ticked down felt like a hammer blow to her spine. But once she was done, Peter would expect her to jump into the car beside him, and astoundingly, she wasn’t in the mood.
At precisely seven fifty-seven, the sound of a car badly in need of a muffler came into earshot, attracting the attention of everyone. Regis watched Peter’s head turn first, and then his friends checked it out. They snickered, making Regis feel sorry for the poor person caught driving faulty machinery. But as the car came into sight, her heart did a somersault, and she felt like shouting for Peter and his friends to think again.
Brendan and his brightly painted ancient Volvo pulled up right in front. Brendan and Cece jumped out first, followed by Agnes—Brendan held Agnes’s door, shielding her shaved and fractured skull from bumping the frame. Once Peter saw that it was Agnes, he held the others back—but Regis saw that Matt had been about to call something out to Brendan.
“Are we in time?” Cece asked, leaning on the counter with folded arms.
“There’s always time for you,” Regis said.
“You don’t have to wait on us,” Agnes said. “We tried to get here earlier, but we saw these amazing tree swallows flying in figure eights above Joshuatown Cove, and…”
“The main thing is,” Brendan said, “we wanted to pick you up and hang out with you tonight.”
“That was before we saw Peter,” Agnes said, giving Peter a polite smile and wave. “We know we’ll lose out to him….”
“Hmm,” Regis said, whipping open her pad. Maybe they could combine plans and all hang out together. She’d ask Peter in a minute. “What’ll it be?” she asked.
“Regis! It’s the witching hour!” called Angela Morelli, one of the Hubbard’s Point kids standing with Peter, as the chapel bell at Star of the Sea rang eight o’clock, the clear tones drifting across the marsh.
“Just a minute!” Regis called.
“Boooo!” Mick and Angela called, anxious to get going.
Agnes, Cece, and Brendan all ordered chocolate ice cream cones, and Regis made them extra large and handed them across the counter. She hung her apron on the hook and left through the back door, wishing she didn’t smell quite so much like the fryolator. As she hurried around the corner, she caught sight of Brendan with his hand resting tenderly on Agnes’s back. It made her feel happy for Agnes and sad for herself in a way that made no sense.
“Well, I’m glad we got to see you here,” Cece said. “’Cause it looks as if you and Peter already have plans.”
“We do,” Regis said. “Beach movies—why don’t you come with us?”
“At Hubbard’s Point?” Cece asked, sounding so thrilled she nearly dropped her ice cream.
“Yes,” Regis said, smiling, knowing how much her sisters loved going there.
“That would be so fun!” Agnes said.
“Sure,” Brendan agreed.
So Regis nodded and loped over to Peter, slung her arm around his neck, and kissed him.
“Hey, babe,” he said. “Looks like a family reunion.”
“I just asked them to come to the movies with us,” she said.
He gave her a raised eyebrow. “All of them?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said. “What are you talking about?”
“That guy’s weird,” Josh said, staring at Brendan. “I see him around.”
“What a loser car,” Kris said.
“Actually, he’s a great guy,” Regis said. “He took care of my sister in the hospital that first night after she nearly died, which means I’ll love him for life, so don’t call him weird and don’t say he has a loser car again, okay?”
“Ooooh, bitchy!” came the voice from the nether reaches of Matt’s back seat. Regis looked in, saw Alicia all slunk down as if she were sulking.
“I didn’t see you there,” Regis said.
“I’m sure you’re feeling all warm and fuzzy to see me now,” Alicia said.
“Well, I would have been if you hadn’t called me bitchy.”
“So, you’re defending a male nurse,” Alicia said. “That’s what he is, you know. I saw him at the clinic the other day, when I had an evil reaction to my new tattoo…no looking, Peter—it’s somewhere married men aren’t allowed to peek.”
“He’s not married yet, ha-ha!” Josh said.
“What’s wrong with being a male nurse?” Regis asked, latching on to Alicia’s putdown of Brendan as being even viler than the seductive look she’d just flashed at Peter.
“It’s
incredibly gay.”
“What’s wrong with gay?” Regis asked, ignoring the obvious fact that Brendan was in love with Agnes, and even more incredible—and Regis realized this just now, at this instant, gazing over at Agnes and Brendan together—that Agnes was in love with him.
“Never mind gay,” Alicia said. “He’s just totally déclassé. A nurse driving that car—it’s just so off my radar screen.”
“Your radar screen—” Regis started to say, but Peter took her arm, interrupted her.
“Girls, girls, no fighting,” Peter said.
Regis glared at him—why couldn’t he defend her against this awful snob? She had to face the fact that something inside her was acting up—it felt—she couldn’t believe it—as if her love was melting faster than the polar ice caps.
“Look, whatever you want to say about the kid,” Angela said, “who really cares? I just want to get back to the beach for the movie. It’s Pirates of the Caribbean, and if you make me miss Johnny Depp, I won’t be a happy girl. In fact, I’ll be massively devastated and inclined toward self-destruction.”
“Yeah, let’s go,” Josh said.
Regis looked up at Peter, feeling the seconds click by; with every heartbeat, he was missing the chance to defend Brendan, speak up for Regis. What was happening between them, and why did it seem to have started after her father had come home? The pinched feeling around her heart seemed worse than ever. Glancing around, Regis counted up—the car was already full. She stepped away from Peter.
“I’ll ride with my sisters and Brendan,” she said. “Meet you there?”
“Fine, whatever,” Peter said.
Regis nodded; that was just how she felt, too.
Agnes knew that something was wrong; Regis didn’t even have to say, or roll her eyes, or raise her eyebrows. It was just there—in her being, the slant of her shoulders, the air around her. It felt funny to Agnes, to sit in front with a boy while her two sisters sat in the back seat—usually it was Regis up front, with Peter, or one of the boys who had come before him—with Agnes in back with Cece. But Regis climbed in back without a word, and driving down the Shore Road, the whole thing started to feel okay, pretty natural.