The Parting Glass

No progress had been made.

“It didn’t go well, did it?” Irene asked. “Today, with the bábai.”

“As well as I expected.” Peggy watched Kieran’s eyes droop. He looked as tired as she felt, although he hadn’t yet abandoned his favorite window. “Everything takes time.”

“He has gifts. I’m sure of it. I feel them in his soul when I look at him. What does he see, do you suppose, when he stares out that window?”

“I wish I knew. I wish I could step into his world and see. It would help so much.”

“You know, don’t you, that you can’t manage this on your own?”

Peggy started to protest, but Irene shushed her. “You’re patient and hardworking, but even the best teacher needs help. And it will be good for the boy to have other people interact with him.”

“He’s always had lots of people interacting with him. Too many. My family took charge of him, carried him everywhere, fussed over him. That’s one of the reasons—” Peggy abruptly fell silent.

“I’m guessing now, but could it be you feel a tiny bit guilty about that? That so many others took care of him while you went to school and worked?”

Irene wasn’t psychic. Peggy had led her to that conclusion, she supposed, with other things she’d said. From the beginning Irene had wanted to know everything about her life and that of her sisters. Irene was hungry for family and couldn’t be filled up quickly enough. They had talked nonstop for a week.

“I do feel guilty,” Peggy admitted. “I keep thinking that if I’d just been there all the time, he would have bonded to me. That he would need me in a way he doesn’t seem to now.”

“Isn’t that part of his condition? Not to bond with the people who love him, at least not in the way we want him to?”

Peggy had been surprised and touched to discover all that Irene had taught herself about autism. She had done a concerted search on her beloved Internet and knew just about everything it had to teach about the disorder. “It is part of it, but I worry that I caused it.”

“You and every mother of such a child.”

“He needs lots of time with me now.”

“That he’ll get, no matter what you decide. But won’t he improve quicker if you have a little help and more teaching time? A girl from the village, perhaps? Maybe one who wants to be a teacher herself someday. We could ask Nora for advice.”

“I’ll think about it.” Peggy rose to get her son before he fell asleep on his feet. “I did have a piece of good news this morning.”

“Did you?”

“Finn says he has toys for Kieran. I’m not sure what, exactly, but he says he doesn’t need them anymore.” She lifted Kieran, who immediately began to fuss. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’m not planning a holiday anytime soon.”

Peggy returned after Kieran was in his crib. She’d left him thumping his hand across the bars. He would continue until he fell asleep mid-thump.

“Toys?” Irene said. “That’s remarkable, you know.”

“How and why?” Peggy paused. “And Nora told me this morning that Finn isn’t a doctor anymore. The man’s a real mystery to me.”

“The stories are connected,” Irene said. “Sit a moment.”

Peggy did, although she was aching to get outside for a walk. She and Kieran had taken one earlier, but they hadn’t gotten far. Kieran was afraid of wind, of which there was a great deal on the coast, and she’d had to bring him inside after only a few minutes.

Irene went straight to the heart of the story. “Finn lost his wife and two sons just two years ago. They drowned in a storm. Finn’s sorry that he didn’t. He’s never forgiven himself.”

Peggy was stunned. “That’s too sad to comprehend.”

“Immeasurably so, yes. Luckily his daughter wasn’t with him. Bridie was older than the boys and spending the day with a friend. They found Finn near shore, nearly drowned himself. Afterward he simply gave up.” Irene shrugged. “Lost interest in practicing medicine. In living, as well…”

Peggy was torn between sympathy and concern for Irene. Finn was still Irene’s physician. “But he still sees at least some patients?”

“Oh, he’s kept his office in town, but he claims that’s only because there’s not much commerce in real estate here and no one to sell it to. No, he sees only me, and only because I refuse to see anyone else. I told Finn I’d die in my bed rather than see Dr. Joseph Beck and nearly proved it. He treats me because I was his granny’s best friend, and he doesn’t want to answer to her in the next world. Eveleen could pinch the back of a neck just so.” Irene demonstrated in the air. “It’s nothing to look forward to.”

Peggy was still caught up in Finn’s tragedy. “That explains so much about him. He’s so…” She couldn’t think of a kind word.

“Difficult,” Irene supplied. “Yes, he is that, our Finn. He wasn’t always. He’s never been easy, but in the old days he was a pleasure to know. The pleasure has gone out of it now. Lucky for him the people of Shanmullin remember the old Finn and pray he’ll be back. No one understands pain better than the Irish, although there are many others who are our rivals in that curse.”

“The toys must have belonged to his sons.”

“I suspect so. And it won’t be getting rid of them that will be the problem. No, the problem will come when he has to touch them, put them in new boxes to bring to us, remember…”

“Does having Bridie help, do you think? He must be so grateful she was spared.”

“A difficult man, and a difficult father these days, I’m afraid. He was one of the best until the drownings. But he’s kept his pain locked inside and never shared it with her. She’s a sweet little thing, one of my favorite people in the wide world. You’ll meet her soon, I expect. She visits often.”

“How old is she?”

Irene did the math. “Eleven. And if she doesn’t find her father again soon, she’ll be looking for him in other men soon enough, mark my words.” Irene patted Peggy’s hand. “Nora’s planning to stay until four. It’s windows today, and scrubbing the floors. Why don’t you take a ride into the village? Do you some good. If Kieran wakes up, we’ll be sure he’s happy.”

Peggy doubted her son would wake. Predictability was the way he dealt with his confusing life. The thought of biking into Shanmullin, which so far she’d only seen in passing, was tempting. Irene had told her there were bicycles in a nearby shed. Peggy was sure they were old, and just as sure they were well kept up.

“You’re certain?” she said.

“Oh yes.”

Peggy could feel energy returning. Fresh air and exercise were more likely to restore her than a nap. She hugged Irene. “What can I get for you in the village?”

“Now, I was hoping you’d ask. There’s a list in the kitchen. You run on and have a good time. Turn right on the main road and you’ll be in the village before too long. Just be sure to mark the end of the boreen in your mind so you don’t get lost coming home.”

Freedom. With a smile and a grateful wave, Peggy went to find the list and say goodbye to Nora.

chapter 8

Peggy calculated that she had almost two hours before Kieran woke up. She had another teaching session planned for the afternoon. More holding a spoon, more “Mommy,” and a fierce coloring session with a red crayon. If there was time or patience left, she would begin teaching him to turn the pages in a cardboard picture book. So far he’d shown no interest in the stories that were read to him, but she was hoping that would change.

She found an assortment of bicycles in the shed. One, shiny green with a deep basket, looked newer than the others, and a trial run proved it was in good working order. She started up the lane, turning when she was halfway to wave at the women in the cottage, who were undoubtedly spurring her on.

After a week of gloom the day was breathtakingly lovely, just cool enough to keep her from growing overheated as she struggled up the incline that led to the main road. Wild primroses grew in the ditch, and iris made ready to burst into bloom. Hovering in the distance, she could see the Atlantic, with mist-shrouded Clare Island, and farther beyond, Croagh Patrick, the conical mountain named after the saint who was said to have fasted there. Fuschia in the hedgerow were just beginning to bloom, the scarlet flowers bobbing in the gentle wind, and a magpie roosted on the lichen-encrusted stone walls, watching her with a startling lack of concern.

On the narrow main road the few cars that passed gave her wide berth, which was lucky, because it had been some time since she’d ridden a bicycle. Megan and Casey had taught her, of course, running along beside her at breakneck speed to catch her if she fell. They had always been there to catch her, mothers well before their time, and she missed them already.

She passed Technicolor sheep grazing in fields clumped with rushes. The sheep were splotched with dye to establish ownership and gave the landscape a surprisingly whimsical touch. Farmhouses and vacation cottages dotted the undulating hills, and “famine cottages,” nothing more than roofless, abandoned dry stone houses, were more plentiful than she’d expected. Some farmhouses were old, none thatched like Irene’s, and she gave thanks for the stroke of good fortune that had landed her in such a picturesque setting. By all rights, Tierney Cottage should have fallen to the ground years before—and would have, if Brenna and her second husband hadn’t restored it.