The Dazzling Truth

by Helen Cullen

  273 blue stars.

  92 black circles.

  2001:

  219 blue stars.

  146 black circles.

  2002:

  248 blue stars.

  117 black circles.

  2003:

  288 blue stars.

  77 black circles.

  2004:

  189 blue stars.

  176 black circles.

  Blue stars for the days she felt well; black circles for the days of crow.

  She opened her diary for the current year and slowly turned the pages, counting the stars and circles for each week and jotting them down on a sheet of Sive’s graph paper.

  257 days had passed. 180 were black circles.

  Folding the sheet inside her journal, Maeve tidied the suitcase and its contents back under the bed.

  Downstairs, she shrugged on Murtagh’s duffel coat, pulled the hood over her head and breathed in the smell of him. Just like the sea, but better.

  As she followed her well-worn path to the lighthouse, she paused at the foot of the castle when a perfect white stone, oval like an egg, caught her eye, and she slipped it into her pocket.

  * * *

  In the Eyre Square Hotel, Murtagh eased his damp shoes off, glanced around the room to check he was still alone and warmed his socks in front of the open fire. With one eye on the doorway for the waiter with his whiskey, he nestled further into his armchair, surprised by how relaxed he felt, relieved that the anxiety that had gripped him at the fountain seemed to have loosened its hold. And then, from his breast pocket, a shrill tone startled him. How he hated that noise, and how mobile phones had invaded all pleasant moments such as this. With irritation he squinted at the unknown number that floated on the screen. He pressed the button to release its message and sighed. Fionn had missed his train; he wouldn’t be able to make it after all.

  The waiter presented his drink on a sterling-silver tray, but the aroma of lemons and alcohol seemed unpleasant to him now, tinged as it was with the disappointment he could taste in his mouth.

  Instead of drinking it, he left behind enough euros to cover the bill and left.

  It had started to rain again, and the sky turned thunderous as he rushed to catch the earlier ferry. The crossing was turbulent, the wind seeking vengeance on the boat for some unknown hurt, and Murtagh’s stomach rolled with the waves in uncharacteristic upset. When he finally reached home, he was relieved to find Maeve waiting, and a spicy soup steaming on the range. She placed her cool hand on his hot forehead and worried he might have a fever. “Probably for the best he couldn’t come,” she said. “The last ferry mightn’t sail.”

  Murtagh nodded in agreement, but when Maeve comforted him, it brought him little comfort.

  * * *

  That evening she drew a perfect blue star by the day’s date but knew in her heart that she would never have enough stars now to outweigh the black circles. And that she would not—could not—allow herself to break her own promise; for her to remain here as a wife, a mother, a friend, she must give them more days of blue stars than black circles.

  There weren’t enough blue stars left in the skies.

  And so, she must now begin to make them all ready.

  To help them to understand that truths believed universal are not always personal truths—and that when you allow yourself to understand this, you may find unexpected peace.

  To allow herself to become strong enough to set them free.

  Inis Óg: Christmas Eve 2005

  MAEVE KNEELED ON the red Persian rug in front of the fireplace and warmed her hands. The pattern of the weave made impressions on her skin as she watched the flames lick the darkness.

  She heard Murtagh’s tread on the landing upstairs, the creaky floorboard, the whirr of the bathroom fan for a moment. Closing her eyes, she imagined him blinking in half-sleep as he shuffled in his slippers, striped pajamas creased, hair tousled.

  She whispered his name.

  Once.

  A second time, louder, and then clasped her hand over her mouth, swallowing hard.

  Listening to his retreat, her heart pounded until the bedroom door clicked closed. She turned to sit on the floor with her back against his leather armchair, cool through the delicate silk of her beloved peacock-blue dressing gown.

  Around her were the scattered remnants of the gold ribbon and silver wrapping paper that she had used for the presents. She plucked a piece of adhesive tape from the rug, rolled it into a ball between her finger and thumb and tossed it into the coal bucket.

  The gifts under the tree were perfect.

  A Crosley vinyl record player in a deep-purple suitcase for Sive.

  The Letters of John Keats in hardback for Mossy.

  An oxblood slim leather jacket for Dillon that Jeremy had hunted down in Soho on her behalf.

  A fleur-de-lis silver and turquoise nurse’s watch fob for Nollaig.

  But she had no present for Murtagh this year.

  All she would leave him was the letter.

  * * *

  Maeve tidied the living room, remembered to return the scissors to their correct place in the sideboard drawer for perhaps the very first time.

  From behind the sofa, she pulled out a London Underground tote bag Sive had bought in Camden Market. It contained the midnight-blue velvet dress she’d worn at Murtagh’s last birthday party, black woolen tights, underwear, the yellow torch from under the stairs. It struck her that someone would eventually have the job of removing these clothes from her body and, wondering if they would judge her for wearing mismatching underwear, rummaged in the laundry basket for a different set.

  She dressed in darkness.

  Stood before the mirror in the hallway brushing her hair, pulling the sides back with two slim tortoiseshell combs, smoothing a little concealer on the dark circles under her eyes.

  She slipped her arms into her coat, her feet into Doc Marten boots, and pulled the laces tight.

  With every crinkle of fabric or brush against the furniture, she froze, ear cocked toward the stairs for sound of movement.

  She was so close now.

  To be interrupted would destroy her.

  Maeve paused in the hallway, turned off the light and stepped through the front door, closing it softly.

  Outside, she stood and rested her head against the brass knocker.

  In her mind she walked through the bedrooms of the house, kissing each child on the forehead, Murtagh on both cheeks, as she had done every night before.

  She wondered if they would remember what her last words to each had been.

  Worried what else they would remember, or choose to forget.

  Dreaded the thought of them missing her, scared that they would not.

  Hoped that they would understand, felt sick to know how impossible that might be.

  * * *

  Maeve walked to the boathouse without looking right or left at her neighbors’ houses, her eyes following the narrow beam of yellow light from her torch as it traced a line down the lane before her.

  With her right hand, she clutched a heavy silver key inside the pocket of her coat; fingered the kangaroo key ring attached to it.

  In her left, Murtagh’s letter.

  Both palms burned.

  She tried not to think about the cold, how much colder it would get, as the wind flapped her skirt around her legs.

  The walk seemed so much shorter than it had ever seemed before, and all too soon she was standing before the currach inside the shed.

  The boat was heavier than she remembered, and a layer o
f perspiration had settled on her skin by the time she dragged it to the shore, flinching as its heavy iron chain clanged against the wood.

  She dabbed her face with the cuff of her sleeve and rested for a moment on the boat’s edge.

  The stones were waiting in a neat pile beside the boathouse door. She had been collecting them for three weeks now; building a little mound of those she found that were white, smooth, pure.

  Inside the boathouse, she pierced the letter for Murtagh, sealed in a white parchment envelope, on a rusty nail that protruded from the back of the door.

  She kissed her fingertips and touched it as she pulled the string to quench the light and shoved the door closed behind her.

  One by one she filled her pockets with the stones and staggered back to the currach under their weight.

  She rowed the boat as far out into the ocean as she could before the waves became too strong.

  Maeve lay for a moment on her back, watching the stars above her, waiting for her mind to change.

  The boat was damp, and she felt the chill seeping into her bones.

  The mist in the air made her cough.

  Without looking back at the island, resisting the lure of its lights calling her home, she sat up in the currach tentatively, balancing carefully to avoid it capsizing.

  She wound the chain tight around her left foot, arranged it so it did not chafe her skin and stood up.

  The currach rocked and she lowered her center of gravity.

  When it had grown still, she stood tall once again.

  She held her arms out wide, shook her hair free behind her and stepped into the sea.

  In the moment that the cold crashed into her body, she saw the truth behind her eyes.

  There was no regret.

  Only love.

  Three:

  As the Crow Flies

  Inis Óg: January 2006

  MURTAGH SAT ON the gravel at the foot of Maeve’s lighthouse, his legs stretched out wide before him to form a perfect triangle.

  At night the black that descended on the island was smothering; all his senses were heightened.

  Red Christmas tinsel fluttered from the glass encasement of the beacon light in his peripheral vision.

  The new bald patch at the crown of his curls rested against the dirty white paint; the damp placed a cold kiss on his scalp.

  A smell of rubber burning in the distance smarted his eyes.

  An inch of exposed leg below the hem of his gray tweed trousers bristled against the contrary wind that skated in off the Atlantic.

  With just the protection of Birkenstock sandals, his feet were soaked, the toes of his mismatched socks turned black.

  Murtagh squeezed them against the worn leather soles.

  Squeeze and release.

  Squeeze and release.

  His shoulders collapsed inward and fingers clawed at the dirt as if he were trying to catch hold of the earth.

  He howled but emitted no sound as his shoulders shook.

  Holding his dirty hands to his face, he smelled the moist soil on his fingers.

  It made him retch to think of her lying in the ground.

  Convinced himself that this was all a cruel trick; a test of his faith; that she would appear on the doorstop once again, drinking milk straight from the bottle.

  To catch sight of her toothbrush waiting on the bathroom shelf, the bristles brand-new, was a blow.

  Her dirty clothes in the laundry basket.

  An unopened letter addressed to her from her mother.

  His grief was bigger than the island, bigger than Ireland, bigger than the whole blue-and-green Earth; how could it fit inside his chest?

  How could his heart keep stubbornly beating on against his will?

  When its reason for beating was gone.

  Why must he now be trapped in the too quiet house, with the too quiet children that he couldn’t look at, couldn’t touch.

  He wished he could take her place in the ground, seawater filling his lungs.

  His grief was louder in his ears than the waves.

  Louder than a million voices insisting time would heal.

  Louder than every thought of survival his tired brain attempted: eat, sleep, remember to speak to the children.

  But not as loud as her voice.

  Her voice telling him to go on.

  The whisper deep inside him that understood why she did it.

  The hot, blinding light of grief seared in his mind, illuminating the shadows of his thoughts, exposing the streets of his mind that he sometimes joyrode through, sometimes crawled.

  He turned a corner and bang! A truth was revealed to him.

  A song played from the record player and became a revelation.

  It seemed his heart was more mysterious than he had ever thought possible.

  It was a relief. And a torment.

  The interrogation light of his grief never dimmed; he walked the island feeling more overexposed than ever before.

  Hated himself for understanding.

  For not having prevented the thing he most feared.

  All anger he felt was directed inward.

  Never at his darkling.

  His broken pot.

  His Queen.

  He scrambled up off the dirt, turning his ankle as he stood.

  He limped toward home, loving the twinge that traveled up his left leg when he put weight on it.

  When he reached the cottage, he opened the door and listened inside the darkness.

  For all of those years he had left the porch light on whenever Maeve went walking, always a beacon to guide her home along the lane. Since she was gone, he hated the sight of that glowing yellow bulb.

  The washing machine churned.

  The children were silent.

  At the kitchen sink, he washed the dirt from his hands, noticed the skin was broken in the fleshiest part of his palm.

  And then he defrosted a fillet of halibut for tomorrow and spritzed Maeve’s cacti, which stubbornly still sat on the windowsill.

  He went on.

  * * *

  One morning, after several months had passed, it struck Murtagh that the howling inside his heart had stopped. Now he held his breath, waiting for some onslaught of feeling to hit him, but it refused to come. Every day he braced for impact, but felt nothing; his mind snowing softly as he lived inside its permanent chill. Come back to me, Maeve.

  At his mother’s funeral he had realized that all funerals from now on would be Maeve’s once again; all coffins hers, all black mourning clothes forever worn in her honor. The persistence of her memory intruded upon all moments of his life. The assault of her absence endlessly new; his mind wouldn’t release the image of her drenched on the beach. Every day it seemed to tighten its grip, bullying out all other memories, haunting his dreams at night, blinding him by day. It was hard to look at the children; to speak of her as they wanted to; as if all his words were buried with her. Life now was an exhausting game of cat and mouse, with the grief lingering always on the periphery, waiting to strike if for a moment he stopped hiding behind the ironing of school uniforms, vacuuming and the mindless administrative tasks that he now luxuriated in.

  Murtagh sat at his pottery station, in spotlessly clean overalls, as the wheel whirred in halting circles before him. He accelerated and decreased the speed with his left foot, gazing out of the window, a lump of clay left untouched. Without much enthusiasm, he had opened Makes of Moone that morning at dawn, as he somehow always managed to do, ignoring how the shelves had gradually emptied as tourists and islanders bought his last remaining porcelain ceramics and the deep-blue, hand-built sculptures he was famous for. He made little new work. Who would photograph his pieces for him now Maeve was gone? Who would curate the window displays and christen the pots with names tha
t captured their essence in her stead?

  Murtagh lifted a perfect sphere of clay from the wheel and unceremoniously dumped it into the bucket by his feet. It made a satisfying thwack. On the few occasions he tried to pot, the results looked disfigured to him, and the glazes always came out black. Was his gift now lost at sea?

  Sales reps from Brown Thomas in Dublin and Selfridges in London called to inquire about new collections. At first, he promised them, soon. Later, he stopped answering the telephone.

  Nollaig updated the website she had built for him to say the shop was currently closed.

  She told him that folks kept emailing asking for special orders, but he didn’t want to know.

  Murtagh knew eventually the time would come when he must find a way of working once again. When he could bear a little sunlight on his face once more.

  But not yet.

  His mind was too full of worries about the remaining Moones to care how his actions affected department stores. In the six slow months since they had buried their mother, Murtagh had watched each of his offspring wear her absence, and the circumstances that caused it, differently.

  Mossy, Son Day, retreated further into the shyest part of himself, wearing away the soles of his heavy boots walking for miles in all weather. Pilgrimages of mourning. Retracing Maeve’s steps over the myriad craggy rocks of the island, regularly stopping to pick up small white pebbles that caught the light of his eye, working them between his fingers, before tossing them out to sea. He came home from university every weekend and hid in corners of the house that his long limbs defied physics to squeeze into. Escaped into one book after another. Mumbled poems aloud as he read—Patrick Kavanagh, Seamus Heaney, Emily Dickinson—and thumbed his mother’s already overthumbed volumes of Virginia Woolf with a reverence bordering on obsession. Would he find the answers he was looking for in those pages?

  In contrast, Son Night’s emotions were violently on display for anyone who came in contact with him. Barely six weeks after the funeral, Dillon had withdrawn all of his student grant from the bank, dropped out of his arts course at NUI Maynooth, bought a dilapidated Suzuki motorcycle and caught the ferry to France. He survived on the odd jobs he picked up while racing around Europe, and though Murtagh couldn’t imagine how this was possible, he was afraid to ask any questions; occasionally he overheard stories shared by Mossy involving hay barns, girls’ hostels and living-room floors, but he didn’t pry. He had learned, through great trial and error, that there was no mode of delivery that could present a question to Dillon in peace. Everything was an accusation, a reprimand or an insult. His mother had always known how to stroke the particularly wayward fur of Dillon, growing as it did in all directions, but Murtagh always caused him to bristle. Instead of bringing them closer together, Maeve’s death seemed to snap any threads that still connected them. If it wasn’t for the gentle persuasions of Mossy, he doubted Dillon would ever come home at all.