Rose at the top, calling down, ‘Are you coming? Where are you?’
Ma calling back, ‘Almost there, sweetheart. Go in to Nan.’
It startles me to gain this new memory of my Ma. I wonder how many others I have stashed away that I could retrieve. It scares and excites me.
I’m puffed by the time I climb the six floors of the tenement building. I squat on the fire escape by Nan’s window and peer inside. The window is wide open. The woman has no fear of burglars obviously. I like that. She’s got to be seventy and she’s fearless.
The apartment is smaller than I remember. Past the sitting room is a kitchen nook, beyond that, Nan’s bedroom, but the door is shut. I see the foldout couch Ma, Rose and I shared. The brass birdcage on a stand is empty. The clock on the mantle ticks loudly; tuk, tuk, tuk.
I climb inside and almost cough with the heaviness of the air. Maybe she’s not brave, maybe it’s just stuffy in here, even though it’s autumn. I hate to think how hot it would be in midsummer. I take off my coat, draping it over the back of a chair. I’m not sure what to do now. I can’t wake an old lady in the middle of the night but it seems wrong just to curl up on her couch and fall asleep.
But I’m tired so I sit on the couch, fingering the familiar crocheted blanket, the worn velveteen fabric of the couch beneath. I recall the lamp on the side table: two Wedgewood ceramic figures dancing together, the lampshade covering them like an umbrella. ‘Don’t touch,’ Nan would warn me. I don’t know why, it sure is an ugly thing.
I take off my shoes and find the thick shag pile under my toes evokes strong memories too. As does Nan’s old upright pianola on the far side of the room. I set my phone to wake me at 6:30, so I can be up before Nan, then I curl up to get some sleep. Before she has a chance to kick me out.
A whistling kettle wakes me. I squint into the morning light and see a tiny old woman in a purple kimono and gold slippers, her silver hair twisted into an elegant chignon. She moves silently to shut off the kettle then sets two fine bone china cups onto two waiting saucers. Two.
I glance at the clock on the mantle. 6:32. What happened to my phone?
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Cac! There it is! I fumble to turn it off but it’s fallen between the cushions of the couch. Finally, I switch it off and turn back to look at my Nan, who continues with her job unflustered.
‘You’re just going to lie there while I wet the tea, Alanna?’
I freeze. Is she talking to me? Who is Alanna? Then it comes back to me. It’s some old Irish saying.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ she asks.
Tentatively, I reply, ‘You know I’m here, Nan?’
‘Course I do, silly. You left your coat on the chair and your shoes by the couch,’ she says. ‘And call me Muirgheal, not Nan—that stupid Australian name makes me sound like an old goat.’
I laugh. This is my Nan: no nonsense, practical. There will be no teary, emotional reunion. This is where I get my brusque nature from. It makes me happier than any crying and hugging ever could.
‘Do you need some help?’
‘The milk, Alanna,’ she says, pouring the tea. ‘Sugar too if you want it.’
‘Nah. Just milk is good,’ I say, finding a carton in the fridge.
Muirgheal sets the tea cups down carefully on the coasters on the dining table, then sits, straightening the lace tablecloth with her palms.
‘You put the heart crossway in me, turning up like you did.’
‘Sorry.’ I sit beside her, marvelling at how beautifully she’s put together, especially for 6:30 in the morning. ‘I would have called but I didn’t have your number.’
‘Not to worry.’ She takes a sip of her tea, then places it back on the saucer. ‘Does your da know you’re visiting?’
‘Rose does.’
I watch a flicker of pain register on her face. ‘How is Rose?’
There is so much to say, so much has happened, I don’t know where to start. Instead I say, ‘Do you mind me being here? I thought maybe I could stay a few days?’
‘A few days! I haven’t seen you in fourteen years!’ She holds out her hand, looking for mine. ‘Can you stay longer?’
I take her hand. It’s all crinkly and warm, exactly right. I’m so relieved she wants me here. ‘I’d like that.’
She gives me a satisfied smile. ‘That’s that, then.’
She squeezes my hand then releases it. We both sip from our china cups and I wonder how I can broach the subject of my invisibility. It’s too soon, right? I can’t just launch into an inquisition about black magic.
‘What happened to your bird?’ I ask instead.
‘He died. Long time ago now. I keep meaning to get another but somehow …’ She doesn’t finish her thought. Which always reminds me of Tom. Stupid Tom.
‘And your soup? Stone soup?’
Muirgheal laughs. ‘You remember that, do you?’
‘I thought you were a witch.’
Muirgheal narrows her eyes. ‘Perhaps I am, my darling.’ We both chuckle and Muirgheal picks up the pot to refill my cup.
‘Speaking of magic …’
‘You want your tale?’ Muirgheal grins and I don’t have the heart to correct her. ‘You were always demanding it from your Ma and me when you were a babe.’
‘I remember.’
‘All right then.’ She settles back in her seat. ‘It begins in Ireland, as all true magic tales do. I was sixteen at the time and madly in love with a dashing young chap called—’
‘Derry Nial McDonagh,’ we say together, making Muirgheal chuckle.
‘But Derry was a tinker,’ Muirgheal continues, ‘and promised to his cousin, Branna. He didn’t love her of course. He loved me. Adored me. So much so he wanted us to be wed. But his clan wouldn’t have it.’
‘Tinkers marry tinkers,’ I say.
‘Tinkers marry tinkers.’ Muirgheal nods. ‘I knew nothing of the sort, naturally. I was a naïve girl, sure that love would conquer all. So when I met an old gypsy woman on the shore one blustery afternoon, and she saw I was with child, I was surprised that she warned me away from Derry—and very hurt—but I believed her when she said she wanted to bless my child …’
Nan breaks off.
I take a sip of tea as I wait for her to go on. I wait for her to tell me how the gypsy laid her ringed fingers on Nan’s swollen belly to cast her enchantment, to tell me she named my mother Aibhlinn, on the spot, because it meant ‘wished-for child’. I’m expecting her to romanticise setting off on her own to live in New York with her invisible baby, after she lost Derry and her parents rejected her—but she doesn’t.
She crumbles. She covers her face with her palms. ‘I was a fool.’
I scramble to comfort her. ‘No! Nan. Muirgheal. You couldn’t have known!’
‘I should have gone to Derry, though. Made him fix things.’
‘You think Derry … could fix things?’
I can feel the burden she’s been carrying, probably since the day my Ma was born. But she takes a breath, sits up and presses her hair back in place. ‘Can you get that box down for me, Alanna?’
I retrieve the battered old shoebox she’s nodding to and place it on the table between us. Her fingers tap the cardboard lid gently. ‘I was hoping I’d get a chance to show you this.’
I inhale nervously. ‘Is it about the curse?’
‘No, my love. It was your Ma’s.’
I remove the lid; inside are photographs, papers, trinkets. I pick up a photo of a much younger Muirgheal giving a toddler—Rose, I think—a bath.
I glance up at Muirgheal. Her lips are tight, she’s holding in her emotions. I take a moment to squeeze her hand before I look back to the pile of photos. They feel like the most precious thing I’ve ever held. Turning them slowly, I study them, one by one: pictures of Muirgheal (so young), of Rose (so tiny), of Dad (so smiley). So different to today.
‘Your Ma loved taking pictures,’ Muirgheal says. ‘She was determined you’
d be in them too.’
She points to the one I’m holding. It is a strange picture; Rose is sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bowl in front of her. She’s holding a piece of cutlery out in front of her but you can’t tell if it’s a spoon or fork because the end of the implement is not there. It’s invisible. ‘She’s feeding you.’
It makes me want to cry. ‘Rose always looked after me?’
‘It was her nature,’ Muirgheal tells me. ‘She was more attentive to you than your Ma was most of the time. She was always bossing your Ma around, telling her you needed a nap, or getting cross when your Ma cut a story short because she was bored of reading.’
‘Ma got bored of reading?’ I find it shocking. Horrifying.
‘She never had the patience for books. It was Rose who read to you. Every morning. Every night.’
I shouldn’t be surprised. Rose has always put me first.
‘But your Ma adored you.’ Muirgheal picks up a stack of carefully folded papers. She opens them up and spreads them out on the table. On each page, hand-drawn in marker, is a doll shape. Each one slightly bigger than the next with dates written below. ‘Aibhlinn didn’t want you to miss out on baby photos. She traced around you once a month.’
‘This is me?’ I hold one up, astounded that I was ever so small. Astounded to have this record of me.
‘At four months, yes,’ Muirgheal says, bending to read the date.
‘I look like a blob.’ We both laugh. I pick up a photograph of Dad and Rose sitting together on the couch. Rose hovers a few inches above the couch. Sitting on Ma’s invisible lap? My dad has one arm extended to his right. Around Ma’s invisible shoulders? While Dad’s other hand is wrapped around something sitting on his lap. Invisible baby me?
‘A family photo,’ I say in wonder.
‘I took that with your Ma’s camera.’
I love this photo. It’s not just that it’s the four of us together. Somehow it symbolises hope for me, for my future.
‘They look happy.’ I correct myself. ‘We look happy.’ There is no way I can imagine not being happy sitting there with my Ma, Dad and Rose.
‘You were happy. But it was a struggle, Olive, don’t doubt that.’
I don’t doubt it but the look on my father’s face tells me so much more. He’s told me before that it was all worth it, but here, I see it. Here, I believe it.
If given the opportunity, he’d choose the same fate.
It reminds me of what Ani said that first day—love will make you content to be you. Visible or not. Doesn’t matter. For a fraction of a second I wonder if this quest to be visible matters. Does it really change who I am if people can see me?
Muirgheal is sifting through the box, looking for something. Finally, she holds up a small black-and-white photograph that’s yellowing around the edges. It’s of a boy who is maybe eighteen years old. He’s sitting on a horse, wearing a beat-up chequered cap and this smile you wouldn’t believe.
I take it from her, chuckling. ‘Who is this cheeky chops?’
‘That’s your grandfather.’
I gasp. ‘Derry Nial McDonagh?’
I can’t take my eyes from him. I’m looking at my grandfather!
He’s a handsome guy. I can see why Muirgheal fell for him. That smile and those eyes, there’s a devil dancing in there for sure.
‘Would you like it?’ Muirgheal asks softly.
Strangely, I find myself wanting it very much, but I say, ‘No. I couldn’t.’
‘Please.’ Muirgheal closes my fingers around it. ‘I know why you’re here, my love. I know you want answers, but I don’t have anything for you. I’m as ignorant as I was at sixteen. This photo is all I’ve got to give you.’
My throat closes over. I don’t know what to say, I’m so disappointed. I can’t believe I’ve come all this way for nothing. ‘You don’t know anything else? Anything that could help me break this curse?’
Muirgheal hangs her head. ‘I’m sorry.’
I finger the photograph I’m holding. ‘But Derry. He might be able to … fix things? Do you know where he lives?’
‘Tinkers are travelling men …’
‘So he could be anywhere in Ireland?’ I don’t mean to snap but I’m frustrated.
‘Not just Ireland,’ Muirgheal says. ‘Anywhere in Scotland, England, Wales … maybe even France. Derry’s clan liked to move.’
‘Brilliant.’ I roll my eyes. ‘That should keep me busy for the next ten years.’
I sigh deeply. I shouldn’t have let myself hope. What did I expect Muirgheal was going to say? What? You don’t want to be invisible? Why didn’t you say? I’ve got this magic pill you can take …
‘The gypsy who cursed me would have died years ago,’ says Muirgheal. ‘Even if you found Derry, he wouldn’t be able to convince her to undo it.’
I tuck the photo into my pocket. ‘I suppose so.’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’ Muirgheal’s eyes are glassy. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.’
I can’t let her carry this anguish. She’s already lost so much. ‘Don’t be silly. You’re helping by having me stay.’
She looks hopefully in my direction. ‘You’ll still stay then?’
‘Of course!’
‘Wonderful. That’s wonderful.’
A buzz comes from the door. ‘That’ll be Gene,’ Muirgheal says, getting up and straightening her kimono. I watch her press the buzzer, feeling an affection I didn’t think would come so naturally. Dad has said Nan ruined things for our family—but I’ve seen no evidence of this in Ma’s photos or in Muirgheal’s behaviour. Could he really just be jealous?
‘That you, Gene?’
‘Yes, my lovely.’
Lovely?
‘Come on up.’ Muirgheal checks herself in a small silver mirror by the door.
‘Who’s Gene?’ I ask, watching her.
‘A friend.’
By the way she’s preening herself it seems like he’s more than a friend. So this is why she looks so good at 6:30 in the morning.
It’s a few minutes before there is a rap on the door. Muirgheal makes him wait a beat, then opens it. A sweet old gentleman stands there, wearing a hat, suit coat and tie, holding a bunch of fresh flowers in one hand and two yappie little dogs on leashes in his other.
He passes Muirgheal the flowers. ‘Care for a stroll this morning, Muirgheal? It’s a beautiful day.’
‘Not today, Gene. But thank you for the flowers.’ She takes them and smells them. ‘Geraniums. Lovely.’
It’s only then I notice how many vases of flowers there already are in the apartment. There is serious courtship going on here.
‘Not as lovely as you.’
‘Gene,’ she scolds him softly.
He grins at her. ‘I’ll be walking the girls, then.’
‘Maybe tomorrow,’ she tells him.
He lifts his hat. ‘Until tomorrow.’
Muirgheal is smiling when she shuts the door and turns back to me.
‘How old are you?’ I demand.
‘Seventy-three,’ she replies. ‘What of it?’
‘You’re being wooed!’ I accuse her. ‘You’re seventy-three and you’re being wooed.’
She grins at me, a mischievous glint in her eye. They’re pale blue, like mine. ‘Jealous, are we?’
‘Yes!’ I say. And we both laugh.
‘Finish your tea then bathe,’ she says as she arranges the flowers in a vase. ‘We’ll need to go out and do the messages, if you’re to stay.’
And with her bossing me around like that, even though she knows nothing more about the curse, it feels right to be here. She’s my grandmother—I want to get to know her.
CHAPTER
16
For the next few weeks, I discover New York. I see the sights, go out to shows, jazz bars, the slickest clubs the mega-stars frequent. I write and take notes. I’m thinking of working again. I’m sure my connections in Sydney will be interested in a few behind-th
e-scenes travel articles. I take photos too, and some of them I text to Dillon.
He texts back from Hong Kong photos of mad karaoke singers, a guy getting his hair cut on the pavement, the neon lights from the top of a double-decker tram. It feels like we’re travelling together, we’re just on opposite sides of the world.
But the best thing about being in New York is getting to know Muirgheal. She’s a right old dame, eccentric in the most excellent ways. She doesn’t care what people think of her, she does exactly what she wants. Requesting better tables at cafes, telling mothers to shut their bratty kids up, asking the attendants at the subway station to clear space for her (and me) on busy trains.
‘It’s brilliant getting old, Olive,’ she tells me. ‘You get away with so much more.’
Muirgheal takes me shopping, insisting we pay for everything. She’s like Rose in that way. But she’s not like Rose in the clothes she chooses. She’s a fervent fashionista. She has an incredible hat collection.
‘You’re young, you can get away with this,’ she’ll say, bustling outrageous outfits into the change rooms with me.
‘But I’m invisible,’ I hissed at her the first time.
‘So what?’ she told me. ‘You wear nice things for yourself, not other people.’
I wanted to scream ‘yippee’ from the rooftop. It’s so refreshing to be with someone who doesn’t care that I’m invisible.
Out on the street, she carries a walking stick, holding it sideways so we can walk side by side. People glare at her for taking up the pavement but she ignores them, talking to me the whole time. ‘Folks have known I’m mad for years,’ she declares. ‘We’re keeping New York interesting, you and I.’
We visit the laundromat where she hangs out with her friends on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. She tells them her invisible granddaughter is here visiting.
‘Wonderful,’ they say. ‘It’s been so long since poor Aibhlinn left us.’
And they seem earnest. Honestly!
‘This must have been a good place to grow up,’ I say one day after we leave her friends at the laundromat. ‘Ma must have felt almost normal.’
‘That’s why I wanted you to stay, Olive. But your da wouldn’t listen.’
The Implausible Story of Olive Far Far Away Page 10