AFTER SEEING off the moving van, I put on my best blazer, picked a handful of wildflowers growing near the shore at Tremore Beach, and made my way to the hostel to see Judie.
I found her sitting alone by the window, reading a book in the sunlight that fell softly on her face. Part of me thought perhaps she was destined to spend the rest of her life here in this peaceful place she’d made for herself. And that made me feel a little guilty for what I was about to do.
Judie smiled when she saw me come through the door.
“My, you’re dressed so nicely, Peter. Who are those flowers for?”
“Why, for you, Miss Gallagher,” I said handing them to her with much ceremony.
“Oh, how kind of you, Mr. Harper,” she said, bringing them to her nose. “Flowers to say goodbye,” she said, a note of melancholy in her voice.
“Well, my dear señorita,” I started to say, a little nervous, “they’re not necessarily a goodbye gift. That’s exactly what I’m here to clear up. I’d like to ask you a question . . . or rather, to ask you again. Someone once said you have to give a good thing a second chance, or a third or a fourth. And an old friend told me these kinds of things require a measure of formality. So . . .”
I came around the counter and bent down on one knee in front of Judie, who smiled and clasped her hands to her chest.
“Judie Gallagher: Mine is an injured heart, a wary heart, but a loving heart nonetheless. And you are the smartest, sweetest, most sensitive person I could ever have hoped to find on this earth. And I would never ask you this unless I was absolutely certain—and I am. I’m in love with you, Judie. I love you, and I want you to come with me. I want us to start something together. You know I can’t stay, I need my kids, to see them grow up and be there for them. And that’s why, even though I know it’s somewhat selfish, I want you to cross the ocean with me. I know I’m asking a lot. I know you’ve found a place in the world where you finally feel at peace and I’m asking you to leave it. But I don’t want to leave without you. I don’t want to leave you behind. You are . . . too important to me.”
Judie’s eyes sparkled. A single tear ran down her cheek to the edge of her lovely lips. She sniffled and grabbed a handkerchief, flowers still clasped in one hand.
“Peter . . .”
“Yes or no, Judie,” I said. “I can take it if it’s a ‘no.’ I’ll always love you. But I just need to know.”
She slid down off the chair to sit on the floor next to me and took my face in her hands. We kissed. A long, sweet kiss with our eyes closed that transported us, that allowed us to dream together, that took us somewhere beyond where we were . . . until we heard the door and Mrs. Douglas found us kneeling behind the counter.
“Everything all right here, kids?”
“Yes,” Judie said, straightening up, and grabbing me by the hand as we both stood up, “everything’s perfect, Mrs. Douglas.
“Listen,” she told her while squeezing my fingers, “do you know anyone who might be interested in running the store? I think I just gave my two weeks’ notice.”
A WEEK LATER, a day before flying to Amsterdam, I was in Dublin with my dad. We’d gone to dinner at the pub and sang rousing, drunken renditions of “The Irish Rover,” and “Molly Malone” after five pints apiece. We were celebrating life, he said. “Life is meant to be celebrated,” he said. Judie would be coming to Holland in a couple of months, after settling all her accounts in Donegal, and Dad was coming, too. He said he wanted to start traveling. And to be close to his loved ones.
After the pub, we stumbled along Christ Church to Thomas Street, where we slipped down an alley and took a piss, father and son, partners in crime. We sang as we ambled down the street, waking up the neighbors. When we got home, I helped him to his room and dumped him in bed, where he fell asleep in his clothes, snoring above the covers. I kissed him on the forehead and tried to not tumble down the stairs as I returned to the living room.
I lay down on the couch and fell fast asleep. My headaches were gone, and the nightmares had started to fade. Early on, a full night’s sleep was a major victory. Now, little by little, it became the norm. That’s what I told Dr. Kauffman a few days back, when I called to cancel my sessions with him. He was happy for me, although he hated saying goodbye to the most interesting case he’d had in a long time. He said he’d like to continue with the hypnosis. To understand where I had gotten that premonition. I told him he should probably forget about it unless he wanted to start publishing papers in pseudoscience psychic journals.
But that night in Dublin, after falling into that happy drunken sleep, it happened again. My eyes opened in the middle of the night. And there, sitting at the dining room table, watching me, was my mother.
This time, there was no trace of her illness. Her skin radiated health. Her hair was lush and thick, just as I remembered it as a child. Her eyes shone, and she smiled.
She gestured to the old upright piano against the wall. She wanted me to play for her one last time, just as I had when I was a boy. I can still hear her humming the pieces I practiced.
I went over and sat down, opened the keyboard, and began to play. A slow, beautiful melody came pouring out of me, one that seemed to always have been there, waiting for me. I played the entire piece, from start to finish.
When I woke up, my mother was gone. But the piece of music was still inside me.
I thanked her, found a sheet of staff paper, and started to write.