The Island Child

by Molly Aitken

  ‘That wasn’t the reason you never told me, but I always knew I wasn’t her father.’

  He is far away from me on the other side of the room, his back pressed to the wall, looking right at me.

  ‘I was there that night,’ he says. ‘When it . . . when he did it to you . . . I was so angry for you, and the way people talked about you after.’

  ‘You knew.’

  I open the door again and step outside into the blast of water.

  Brothers

  I loved Adair more than anyone in the world.

  I fed him from my breast even though it hurt and made me bleed. I wanted this closeness for Adair and me. This life and heat that passed between us.

  The nurse who had come the morning after Adair was born kept returning. She was beautiful, with eyes like cut glass. Her name was Rose and for some reason she liked me. When Adair and I were well, he was big and I was big, she would sit on a Sunday on our porch drinking tea with me while I bounced Adair on my lap. She never asked to hold him and I hardly ever offered. She seemed to understand we were tied to each other and breaking us apart caused us great pain.

  Instead she spoke to Joyce, who nattered away, her tongue loosened and sweetened in a way it never was with me.

  ‘Did my husband ask you to be friends with me?’ I asked Rose one Sunday.

  ‘You don’t trust people much, do you, Oona?’

  I laughed. ‘No.’

  Once Rose told me about her family and the terrible Catholic school where the nuns beat her and cut off all her hair. She didn’t cry when she spoke about these trespasses but she spat when she spoke about the nuns. I told her about Father Finnegan striking the island children, but it could never be as bad as being locked up with twenty bitter nuns. Women can be just as violent as men, and those with religion are even more resentful, because religion tells us we are evil and if we believe it we become it.

  * * *

  When I told Pat what Adair’s name meant, he said it fit. He knew. He didn’t try to take Adair away from me the way Joyce had been stolen. He knew Adair and I were one.

  Joyce didn’t understand. She was too like me, but worse, quietly demanding. Always asking to hold Adair. I knew she was afraid, afraid I’d say no. So I let her, I did, watching closely, waiting to see if he cried, but he hardly ever did. She’d peer at him like he was a wild animal I’d found in the forest, brought home and asked her to accept as human.

  Every now and then I left him to sleep in the ironing basket, and sometimes I found Joyce leaning over her brother, her face torn with pain and love. The struggle in her was beautiful to watch as she hung over him, frizzy yellow curls bouncing like a mobile he would reach up to touch. It was like she was trying to link his bloody arrival with the gentle lamb now sleeping in the linen. She didn’t know it wasn’t his fault. He was not the terror she had felt, but the life after the wounds. He was the daylight that heals.

  This time, she straightened, saw me, pinked and ran out the back door, even as I laughed and called after her, a flash of sun on green. I stepped out. We could play hide and seek in the trees, I almost called, but then Adair woke and I was torn away.

  These were the happiest days, the easiest. I rose early and tied Adair to me with a long piece of cloth and went about the house doing my tasks. Later I walked to town and met up with Rose. We drank tea or coffee and she chatted about the people from her past, but I never spoke much about the island. It was finished. It had to be.

  Rose became more distant from me. I’d catch her staring at me, a look of irritation on her lips, but she washed it away as soon as she caught me looking.

  ‘What is it?’ I said. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She exhaled a long stream of smoke towards the trees behind the house.

  ‘You’ve been a wet rag for weeks. What’s bothering you? What’ve I done?’

  ‘Leave it, Oona.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know you’re a new mom, but you never ask about me. You don’t care. That’s what friends do. They care about each other.’

  ‘I do. I ask you all the time.’

  ‘No. You don’t.’

  She flicked her cigarette into the rosemary bush, where it hissed. ‘I’m going.’

  ‘No, don’t.’

  ‘I’ll see you in a few weeks. I’m going for a training course in the city. I won’t be back for a while.’

  ‘You never said.’

  She shrugged. ‘You never asked.’

  She left and the guilt dragged on for days; no, to tell the truth it was only a day. I had Adair to care for.

  * * *

  One May day, I was preparing a chicken salad I’d found the recipe for in a magazine. My Canadian cooking skills had improved over the years. Adair was asleep in the basket. He was beginning to get heavy and I put him down more and more. I was less afraid of him vanishing.

  Pat came in from the shed and I brushed the sawdust out of his hair and he kissed me behind my ear and a hum started in my pelvis. I ran my hands across his chest and up, inside his shirt, and breathed in the smell of new wood.

  The telephone shrilled and broke us apart.

  He groaned, squeezed my hips and went into the hall.

  I whistled and picked up the chicken carcass.

  His voice was a mumble, a note of surprise, but I couldn’t make out the words. I got the mayonnaise from the fridge, levelled a teaspoon of mustard, a splash of vinegar, oil of choice. I rooted in a cupboard for my large bowl.

  ‘Oona,’ Pat called.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s someone on the phone for you.’

  No one ever phoned me. ‘Who?’

  I was in the kitchen, then I was in the hall and Pat passed me the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Oona.’

  I sank to the floor. ‘Enda? Is that you?’

  ‘It’s me.’ There was a tremble in his voice, but it was his voice. Deeper and softer, but still his. ‘How are you?’ he said.

  ‘Enda. I worried you were dead. You never wrote back to me.’

  ‘Don’t cry, Oona. It’s all right. I’m all right. I’m sorry; I only just got it.’

  ‘Where are you, Enda?’

  ‘New York. Can you believe it?’

  ‘No. What are you doing there?’

  ‘Working. I’m in the theatre sometimes. I can do a good New York accent. One day it could be the telly,’ he drawled.

  ‘That’s brilliant, Enda.’

  ‘How are you, Oona?’

  ‘I have another baby. He’s called Adair. You’d love him.’

  ‘I would and I will. I’ve got time off, so I’m coming up to visit you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Next week. Are you free?’

  ‘Of course I’m free.’

  ‘Listen, I’m using up my cents. How do I get to you? And can I bring a friend?’

  I gave him all the instructions, then passed him to Pat to give the instructions better.

  Pat hung up. ‘He ran out of change.’

  I nodded. My hands still shook. I stared at them, but they kept vibrating.

  Enda was alive. Enda was in New York. Enda was visiting next week.

  Pat’s arms wrapped around me and I sank into him.

  ‘Did you hear us?’ I laughed. ‘We were speaking Irish.’

  * * *

  The car pulled up. A slice of red. I’d never noticed Pat’s Ford was like the heart of a flame.

  I stood on the porch with Adair in my arms. The sun was dipping behind the line of trees beyond the road. My heart felt like it was leaping upwards, into the sky.

  The back door of the car opened and a man climbed out of the backseat. He was tall, a cap shielding his face from the shafts of evening light.

  ‘Enda!’ I stepped into the long grass and stopped.

  He lifted his head. ‘No.’ A sunlight-pale face. Aislinn’s lips, nose and eyes.

  The trees seemed entirely still and
I couldn’t breathe. I knew this face better than almost anyone’s.

  ‘Felim?’

  He treaded toward me, quick as a fish through water, and I stepped away and pain splintered in the back of my head; stars burst in my eyes. I’d hit the porch trellis. He hung unmoving before me and roved my body and the house behind, instead of my face. His eyes, brilliant blue, were cold.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Oona,’ he said and climbed onto the porch.

  The breath trapped in my chest rushed out of me.

  Another man jumped out, tall too but with ink-pot black hair and eyes. The branches waved a little in the breeze.

  Enda ran across the grass and, laughing, enclosed Adair and me.

  ‘Is this Adair?’ He touched Adair’s black fluffy head. ‘He’s one of us for sure. Look at the dark eyes on him. A Coughlan baby if ever I saw one.’

  I could only smile and the smile hurt my face, it was so big. I kept looking up at him, drinking him in, storing him up.

  Enda glanced over his shoulder. ‘But will you look who I brought?’

  And I did look, at Pat shaking Felim’s hand and clapping him on the shoulder as they walked up the path, and nothing was right about it. My two worlds colliding.

  Enda left my side and draped his arm over Felim’s shoulders and I saw just how my brother loved him. He had forgotten Liam, or he knew somehow that Felim hadn’t hurt him. I pushed my lips into a smile and held Adair tighter. ‘You better come in.’

  In the hallway Enda announced, ‘This place is fine, Oona.’

  ‘I painted it.’

  ‘Yellow. Bold choice. I love it. Wouldn’t Mam be green if she saw it? You should send her a picture.’

  ‘No. I won’t do that. We’re not in touch.’

  I saw the opinion in his eyes saying I should forgive Mam, but he didn’t say a word. That was different.

  In the kitchen, I put Adair in his washing basket, pulling at strands of thoughts. How long had it been since I’d slept a full night? Six months. I tried to push the thoughts away, but even so I couldn’t look at Felim.

  Enda was down on his hands and knees beside the table. ‘And who’s this?’

  ‘Joyce,’ said a small voice.

  My fingers gripped the sideboard. I felt Felim watching me.

  ‘Happy to meet you.’ Enda stuck his hand under the tablecloth. ‘I’m your uncle, Enda.’

  ‘Enda?’ Joyce said.

  ‘I know. It’s a woman’s name in this country, but where I’m from it’s a name for men . . . and women too sometimes. Depends on what comes into your parents’ heads when they decide to name you.’

  ‘Daddy named me. He named me after Grandma.’

  ‘You see what I mean, Joyce?’ Enda said. ‘You’re lucky your grandma had a good name. What would you’ve done if she was called Kitty?’

  ‘Kitty isn’t a name.’

  ‘It is. Swear to God. It’s a terrible name I heard in New York and many a little girl’s stuck with it now. I’m happy to be called Enda, and what about you, Joyce?’

  Pat put a hand on my shoulder, beaming.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he whispered.

  ‘What?’

  Felim was stood in the doorway, hands twisting his hat, watching my brother, his mouth moving like he wanted to speak.

  ‘You seem tired,’ Pat said.

  ‘I’ll get a bed made,’ I said to Felim. ‘In the sitting room. We only have the one spare room for Enda and I didn’t know you were coming. I mean, you can share.’

  He kept his gaze on the table. Enda had vanished beneath it. ‘Sitting room is fine,’ he said.

  ‘Good.’

  I put the kettle on the stove. Pat sat smiling at me and coaxed Joyce onto his lap. Enda crawled out grinning, his hair stuck on end, and sat next to Felim, who was fascinated by my tablecloth. I’d done the embroidery myself. Meadow flowers.

  ‘Biscuits?’ I grabbed the cups and filled the teapot.

  ‘You’re so like Mam,’ Enda said. ‘You love to host.’

  ‘I’m nothing like her.’

  Pat raised an eyebrow at my brother.

  ‘I’ll not have the two of you in cahoots against me already,’ I said.

  Felim was hovering behind me. I hadn’t seen him move. ‘Can I help you with anything?’

  ‘No, no, sit yourself down.’

  ‘I’d like to help.’

  ‘Put these on the table.’ I handed him a plate of chocolate biscuits. He clutched it and crossed the kitchen slowly. Joyce was chattering away to Enda about school, telling him she liked geography best and that she knew the names of all the countries in the world. Like me, she was prone to exaggeration. Pat blew Joyce’s hair away from his chin. She laughed.

  ‘You’ve not changed a bit, Oona,’ Enda said. ‘You’re watching us quietly from the corner, taking it all in like you always did.’

  ‘Leave me alone and drink your tea.’ I slammed the teapot down in front of them and sank into the chair next to Enda. ‘I’ve missed having someone to argue with. Pat’s no skill for rowing at all.’

  Pat pushed at the corner of his lip. ‘You’ll have to tell me the best way to handle a Coughlan, Enda, or Felim, you must know? You’ve been dealing with them the longest.’

  ‘There’s no right way,’ Enda answered for Felim. ‘Whatever you do is wrong.’

  Enda and Pat laughed. I couldn’t take my eyes off Felim. Aislinn was there in the strong lines of his jaw, the fuller lips but not the mellowing of his skin or the close cut of his hair. He was changed and yet his silence and separateness from us was the same.

  ‘Let’s go outside,’ I blurted. ‘Have our tea in the warm. No, I’ll grab us all a beer? I got some yesterday.’

  ‘She’s been filling the fridge since last week for you,’ Pat said. ‘If you open it, you’ll be crushed by jars of pickles.’

  ‘That’s enough from you,’ I said.

  They traipsed onto the porch laden with cups, Joyce trailing them, already pulled to her uncle. In a hurry I gathered the beers and went out, sitting opposite the three men on our long bench. One was bearded, two shaven.

  ‘It was my time to be leaving the island,’ Enda was saying. I passed them each a beer and cracked open my own. Since Rose had been dropping over I’d started to drink a little with her, nervous and only a sip or two at first, but it was not so strong as whiskey. One can, and I still knew who I was.

  ‘I tried at being a priest,’ Enda said.

  ‘What?’ I cried, dragged back.

  ‘Got as far as Rome and realised it wasn’t for me.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Pat said.

  ‘Aye, I always thought the church was where my heart lay, but I was wrong.’

  Felim was covering his mouth with his hands and examining the garden, the hundreds of trees, uninterested in us.

  ‘What about you, Felim?’ I said. ‘What went on with you and Finnegan?’

  Felim didn’t look back at me, but said, ‘When I was young he convinced me.’

  Enda’s neck pinked slightly. ‘It was Finnegan who separated us. Found out somehow and planted shame, especially in me. Took me a good few years in New York to get over it, and I still don’t think I have fully.’

  ‘Tell us about New York,’ I said.

  ‘Oona and I were there when we first married,’ Pat added.

  ‘Were you?’ Enda said. ‘I know all of nothing about you two.’

  ‘Ah, it’s not interesting,’ I said.

  ‘Nine years ago,’ Pat chimed.

  ‘How old is she?’ Felim nodded at the garden where Joyce was running with a yellow ribbon streaming behind her.

  I swigged beer and the cold of it shivered through me.

  ‘She’s just eight,’ Pat said smoothly, but she was already nine; we’d taken her on a picnic two weeks before to celebrate. For sure it was just a mistake. A slip of the tongue. We were both so used to telling people she was eight.

  ‘So how did you come to be in the US?’ Pat asked Fel
im.

  ‘Enda wrote to me and invited me over.’ He blushed and an inexplicable anger rose in me. ‘I delivered your letter to him in person.’

  I went into the kitchen and lifted Adair from the basket. He sleepily blinked at me and scrunched his face to cry. I shushed him.

  Enda was still talking on the porch and Joyce’s laughter rose above it.

  I balanced myself against the doorframe.

  ‘Let’s go to the lake tomorrow,’ Pat called to me. ‘We have a cabin there we can all stay in. I’ll bring the tent as well. We can cook food on the fire.’

  ‘Sounds like a dream,’ Enda sighed.

  * * *

  Adair cried most of the night, and as it was warm I walked him around the garden so we wouldn’t wake everyone inside.

  His sobbing lodged deep in me. I couldn’t stop remembering and I couldn’t stop feeling afraid. I held Adair tightly and he eventually fell asleep but I continued to pace around my house, wetting my pyjamas with dew. When he eventually wore himself out and fell asleep, I slipped into the hall. From the living room, hushed voices filtered out to me followed by a stifled laugh. I laid Adair down in his crib and crept into Joyce’s room. Her hair was fanned out across the pillow.

  I fell asleep with my head resting by her feet.

  * * *

  We lay on the grass with the sky stretched over us. Enda reached out and took my hand, and for a moment we floated.

  ‘Oona?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I want to tell you something.’

  There were no clouds.

  ‘You can tell me anything.’

  ‘Thanks, littlie.’

  The sky stretching, stretching.

  ‘So, about Felim.’

  ‘You’ve forgiven him for what he did to Liam?’

  He was silent and I thought he’d never answer. I sat up and watched Pat lifting bags out of the trunk. Felim began to put up the poles for the tent he was going to share with Enda. Joyce ran about fetching him pegs.

  ‘I have forgiven Felim. I had to.’

  ‘Why did you have to?’ The words rammed out of me, surprising me with their force.

  ‘I love him.’

  I lay back down and we were both quiet as the clouds drifted away and new ones replaced them. Joyce poked her head into the blue above us.