bank holidays!” He lifts a crooked finger, and his eyes dance.
“Apart from bank holidays.” I smile, and grab his finger.
“Well”—he takes my hand—“you’re more important than a few pints and a singsong.”
My eyes fill again. “What would I do without you?”
“You’d be just fine, love. Besides . . .”—he looks at me warily—
“you have Conor.”
I let go of his hand and look away. What if I don’t want Conor anymore?
“I tried to call him last night on the hand phone, but there was no answer. But maybe I got the numbers wrong,” he adds quickly.
“There are so many more numbers on the hand phones.”
“Cell phones, Dad,” I say distractedly.
“Ah, yes. The cell phones. He keeps calling when you’re asleep. He’s going to come home as soon as he can get a flight. He’s very worried.”
“That’s nice of him. Then we can get down to the business of spending the next ten years of our married life trying to have 3 6 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
babies.” Back to business. A nice little distraction to give our relationship some sort of meaning.
“Ah now, love . . .”
The first day of the rest of my life, and I’m not sure I want to be here. I know I should be thanking somebody for this, but I really don’t feel like it. Instead, I wish they hadn’t bothered.
C h a p t e r 6
wat c h t h e t h r e e c h i l d r e n playing together on the floor I of the hospital, little fingers and toes, chubby cheeks and plump lips—the faces of their parents clearly etched on theirs. My heart drops into my stomach, and it twists. My eyes fill again, and I have to look away.
“Mind if I have a grape?” Dad chirps. He’s like a little canary swinging in a cage beside me.
“Of course you can. Dad, you should go home now, go get something to eat. You need your energy.”
He picks up a banana. “Potassium.” He smiles and moves his arms rigorously. “I’ll be jogging home tonight.”
“How did you get here?” It suddenly occurs to me that he hasn’t been into the city for years. It all became too fast for him, buildings suddenly sprouting up out of nowhere, roads with traffic going in different directions from before. With great sadness he sold his car, his failing eyesight too much of a danger for him and others on the roads. Seventy-five years old, his wife dead ten years. Now he has a routine of his own around the local area: church every Sunday and Wednesday, Monday Club every Monday (apart from bank hol- 3 8 / C e c e l i a A h e r n idays), butcher on Tuesday, his crosswords, puzzles, and TV shows during the days, his garden all the moments in between.
“Fran from next door drove me in.” He puts the banana down, still laughing to himself about his jogging joke, and pops another grape into his mouth. “Almost had me killed two or three times. Enough to let me know there is a God if ever there was a time I doubted.” He frowns. “I asked for seedless grapes; these aren’t seedless.” Liver-spotted hands put the bunch back on the side cabinet. He takes seeds out of his mouth and looks around for a bin.
“Do you still believe in your God now, Dad?” It comes out crueler than I mean to, but the anger is almost unbearable.
“I do believe, Joyce.” As always, no offense taken. He puts the seeds in his handkerchief and places it back in his pocket. “The Lord acts in mysterious ways, in ways we often can neither explain nor understand, tolerate nor bear. I understand how you can question Him now—we all do at times. When your mother died, I . . .” He trails off and abandons the sentence as always, the furthest he will go toward being disloyal about his God and toward discussing the loss of his wife. “But this time God answered all my prayers. He sat up and heard me calling last night. He said to me”—Dad puts on a broad Cavan accent, the accent he had as a child before moving to Dublin in his teens—“ ‘No problem, Henry. I hear you loud and clear. It’s
“Apart from bank holidays.” I smile, and grab his finger.
“Well”—he takes my hand—“you’re more important than a few pints and a singsong.”
My eyes fill again. “What would I do without you?”
“You’d be just fine, love. Besides . . .”—he looks at me warily—
“you have Conor.”
I let go of his hand and look away. What if I don’t want Conor anymore?
“I tried to call him last night on the hand phone, but there was no answer. But maybe I got the numbers wrong,” he adds quickly.
“There are so many more numbers on the hand phones.”
“Cell phones, Dad,” I say distractedly.
“Ah, yes. The cell phones. He keeps calling when you’re asleep. He’s going to come home as soon as he can get a flight. He’s very worried.”
“That’s nice of him. Then we can get down to the business of spending the next ten years of our married life trying to have 3 6 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
babies.” Back to business. A nice little distraction to give our relationship some sort of meaning.
“Ah now, love . . .”
The first day of the rest of my life, and I’m not sure I want to be here. I know I should be thanking somebody for this, but I really don’t feel like it. Instead, I wish they hadn’t bothered.
C h a p t e r 6
wat c h t h e t h r e e c h i l d r e n playing together on the floor I of the hospital, little fingers and toes, chubby cheeks and plump lips—the faces of their parents clearly etched on theirs. My heart drops into my stomach, and it twists. My eyes fill again, and I have to look away.
“Mind if I have a grape?” Dad chirps. He’s like a little canary swinging in a cage beside me.
“Of course you can. Dad, you should go home now, go get something to eat. You need your energy.”
He picks up a banana. “Potassium.” He smiles and moves his arms rigorously. “I’ll be jogging home tonight.”
“How did you get here?” It suddenly occurs to me that he hasn’t been into the city for years. It all became too fast for him, buildings suddenly sprouting up out of nowhere, roads with traffic going in different directions from before. With great sadness he sold his car, his failing eyesight too much of a danger for him and others on the roads. Seventy-five years old, his wife dead ten years. Now he has a routine of his own around the local area: church every Sunday and Wednesday, Monday Club every Monday (apart from bank hol- 3 8 / C e c e l i a A h e r n idays), butcher on Tuesday, his crosswords, puzzles, and TV shows during the days, his garden all the moments in between.
“Fran from next door drove me in.” He puts the banana down, still laughing to himself about his jogging joke, and pops another grape into his mouth. “Almost had me killed two or three times. Enough to let me know there is a God if ever there was a time I doubted.” He frowns. “I asked for seedless grapes; these aren’t seedless.” Liver-spotted hands put the bunch back on the side cabinet. He takes seeds out of his mouth and looks around for a bin.
“Do you still believe in your God now, Dad?” It comes out crueler than I mean to, but the anger is almost unbearable.
“I do believe, Joyce.” As always, no offense taken. He puts the seeds in his handkerchief and places it back in his pocket. “The Lord acts in mysterious ways, in ways we often can neither explain nor understand, tolerate nor bear. I understand how you can question Him now—we all do at times. When your mother died, I . . .” He trails off and abandons the sentence as always, the furthest he will go toward being disloyal about his God and toward discussing the loss of his wife. “But this time God answered all my prayers. He sat up and heard me calling last night. He said to me”—Dad puts on a broad Cavan accent, the accent he had as a child before moving to Dublin in his teens—“ ‘No problem, Henry. I hear you loud and clear. It’s
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