Through the window I could see the milky pink dawn and I hadn’t yet had a moment of sleep. I spent the night reliving what had passed between us, which bore no likeness to anything I’d ever seen on a page or screen. No throwing back of heads or gnashing of teeth. No daring skills had been put into play. Just two girls locked in older women’s bodies fumbling about in the dark without a map. Glorious, nonetheless. When we’d finally unwound from each other, I lay on my back, weak and spent, so free it felt like flying.
Now Annie was sleeping soundly beside me. I reached out and held a clump of her black curls in my hand and wondered what she’d think of it all once the light of the sun shone on us both. I wondered if she would see it as I did, a sort of primitive ritual that served a deeply evolved purpose. How, if only for a few hours, she’d taken my grief and I hers, and somewhere in the tangle of hands and feet and everything in between, it all got cancelled out. I also wondered if I’d gambled with the larger purpose—that she’d wake to repulsion and shame, deem it a last-minute act of madness and mercy, then be relieved to be rid of me.
She stirred beside me and I quietly left the bed in search of my overdue pills. When I came back, she stretched like a lazy cat and smiled, and I exhaled the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
“Frances, I’d say we’ve crossed the Rubicon. Crossed it and burned every bridge behind us.”
She held out her hand and I held it loosely in mine. I tried to speak and failed.
She raised her other hand and rested it against my cheek. “You don’t need to say anything. Just breathe. Just sit and breathe, okay? And I’ll go rustle up some food.”
I sat and breathed for a while, then joined Annie outside, where she’d laid out the breakfast. She wolfed down a mound of fluffy scrambled eggs, tossed her fork against her plate, and laughed to herself.
“I’m telling you, I can’t get the vision of Donny Doyle dripping in whisky out of my head. For the rest of my days, whenever I’m feeling low, I’ll think of that and smile. God knows he had it coming.”
“He hasn’t aged well. I’d say you were lucky to have dodged that bullet.”
“I dodged nothing. That arsehole was never in the running. Can’t hold down a job. His looks are long gone, and still he’s out grabbing on to any woman in his way. All balls and no brains. I suppose he’s more to be pitied than blamed.” She swigged her tea and reached for the cigarettes. “Jesus, look at me, smoking like a tilt. Once you’re gone, I’m going to have to quit this mess all over again.” Her face fell. “Oh, Frances, I’m sorry. Oh my God. Just smack me. I didn’t mean it the way—”
“It’s nothing,” I said. And I meant it. It was nothing. Not so much what she said, but death itself. Nothing but a uniquely dependable thing in this life that inexplicably blindsided us every time. And the closer I came to joining all those who’d gone before me, the more I knew how completely mundane it was. I would’ve liked to talk to her of such things, but what use was deathbed philosophy to a woman whose child had been smashed to bits? I waved away her concern. “Please don’t worry about saying stuff like that.”
“I didn’t mean to come off so insensitive, especially after last night.”
My skin began to sear. Oh, Annie, Annie, please let us return to the far more comfortable matter of my death. I had no idea of how to carry on after such intimacy. Was one expected to chat casually about goosebumps and nipples held gently between teeth, about fleshy wet recesses and the slipping in of fingers and tongues? Was it rude to speak of it, or ruder still to say nothing at all? My head began to spin, and I settled on politesse and gratitude.
“Yes, last night. I wanted to thank you for such a lovely time,” I said.
“Listen to you. So formal. I can’t say I’ve ever had anyone thank me for sex before. At any rate, you’re welcome. It was lovely, wasn’t it?”
“You’ve no regrets, then?”
“My dear Frances,” she said, “I’ve had many a morning after filled with regret, but trust me, this is not one of them.”
I picked at my breakfast and kept my eyes on my plate. “Tell me something, and be honest. Did you do those things with me out of pity?”
She took a sip of tea and lowered her cup to the table. “Yeah, I think I did.”
Getting the answer I knew was coming did nothing to lessen the sting of it. Still, I smiled. “Well, don’t put any gloss on it now. Give it to me straight.”
She smiled back. “It sounds bad, but it’s not. I’m the one who started it, and yes, I did so because I felt sorry for you. But thinking on it now, I also felt sorry for me.” Her expression took a turn toward wistful, and she finished her tea before speaking again. “I don’t believe I’ve ever once shared my body with someone who loved me. I mean really loved me. Not Anthony or any other fool I’ve rolled around with. And I guess I just wanted to see what that felt like. But now you tell me something—this thing you have for me, is it new or has it always been there?”
“What do you mean?”
“This love for me.”
I looked at her face and every moment I ever spent with her spooled out in my mind. I thought of the years with her, the years without her, how she’d always been with me in some form or another. “Of course I love you. I always have.”
“No, I mean exactly how long have you been in love with me?”
The tea in my cup rippled from the trembling of my hand. The squid leaned in, impatiently tapping a tentacle. I closed my eyes. “I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t.”
I don’t know what I expected—astonishment, anger, disgust—but when I opened my eyes, I got none of it. If anything, she looked flattered and hugely satisfied with herself.
“You’re not even remotely surprised, are you?”
“Why should I be? Half the men in this town are crazy about me, and now I’m wondering if half the women might be dreaming of a night in my bed. I first twigged it the other day, when you said something about not fighting your nature. Then I thought back to how the minute I told you Anthony was talking about marriage, that was it—you were gone. Then last night at the pub. You defending my honour like a lover. Pieces of the great puzzle snapping together all over the place. Anyway, I love you too, Frances. Maybe not in quite the same way, but love all the same. And pity or no, I wanted to do what we did last night, and I bloody well enjoyed myself. I’ve been lonely and miserable for years, and today I feel reborn. I really do.”
She leaned back in her chair and raised her face to the sun. “It was so different from what I’ve had with men. Softer, slower. None of the grunting and jackhammering they’re so fond of. And how is it that they all seem to have no idea whatsoever how to touch a breast? Odds are you’d find at least one who didn’t go in for the grab and twist.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Not if you’re sleeping with women, I suppose.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that either.”
She snapped upright. “Surely there’ve been other women before me?”
I shook my head. “Don’t make fun now.”
“No, no, I would never. I just can’t imagine a whole life without it. I suppose the good news is that makes me the best you’ve ever had.”
Angela walked through the patio door with Stevie in her arms. “What are you two laughing about?”
“You’re just in time,” Annie said. “We’re talking about sex.”
“Mother, please.”
“Frances, as you can see, my daughter is quite the prude. Never mind that she’s holding the by-product of sex in her arms.”
“I’m not a prude. I just wonder how good a topic it is for the breakfast table.”
Annie shook her head. “Here, pass me my grandson before he gets infected by your Victorian ways.” She rested Stevie flat on her thighs and rocked him back and forth.
“How are you, Frances?” Angela said.
“Not bad, thanks.”
“Not bad!” Annie said. “You should have seen her down at the Seahorse last night. Didn’t she toss a drink right in Donny Doyle’s face. Him standing there soaked with a maraschino cherry stuck to his head.”
“Annie,” I said, “don’t be telling Angela that.”
“I won’t be the only one telling her. You’ve been away in the city too long, Frances. Everyone in town will know about that by lunchtime. I bet she’s heard that story twice already today.”
“Only once,” Angela said. “Grocery store.”
“Ha, what did I tell you?” Annie laughed and made goofy faces at Stevie.
“Well,” I sniffed, “he deserved it. Grabbing at your mother.”
“I’m sure my mother probably had something to do with that.”
“Easy, Angela,” I said. “Your mother was just minding her own business.”
“Don’t pay any attention to her. She just likes to get a rise out of me, which she will fail miserably at today. Isn’t that right, Stevie?” She held the baby above her head and made kissing sounds at him.
“Mom, don’t hold him high like that. He’ll spit up.”
Annie handed Stevie back to her daughter and gave me a weary glance. “Angela, what can I do for you today?”
“I was hoping you’d watch him for a couple of hours. I’m going to get my hair and nails done.”
“Off you go. I’ll try not to corrupt him in your absence.”
Angela turned and left without so much as a word of thanks, and I thought maybe she needed a drink thrown at her as well. That poor youngster having to grow up with the likes of Angela, and poor Annie having to love her. If she were mine, I doubted the ability to summon my heart toward her. Then again, who was I to have any say on the skills required for mothering.
THAT NIGHT, I HAD a dream about my daughter, a teenage version of her. We were sitting together in the Sisters of Mercy Home. She made me a grilled cheese sandwich, then cartwheeled out of the kitchen. I woke in the middle of the night whispering her name, then stiffened into another seizure. It came and went faster than the others but left me with a searing headache that eclipsed the ones before it. I had to call out for Annie to bring me my pills.
She slept beside me once again, and as the pain began to recede, I could feel the squid gathering strength, stretching and growing in length and girth, its suckers clamping down on the pulpy ridges of my brain. No longer a whispering cartoon character in cute costumes but a growling monster bred for destruction. I squeezed my eyes shut, put my hands over my ears, and pressed my lips together just to keep it from bursting into the room. My chest grew tight and the little air I drew in felt dry and dusty. I got up and stumbled around looking for clothes, then made my way down the hall and out the back door into the cool, windless night. I stood under the black sky, the uncountable stars, the sliver of yellow moon, then limped around the grass in my bare feet, damp blades poking up between my toes. I spied my cigarettes on the table but had no appetite for them. I went back into the house and squinted at the clock on the kitchen wall. Quarter to twelve. My arms and legs were rubbery, and I sat on one of the wooden chairs wondering what to do with myself. I was freezing one minute and burning up the next. My skin itched and stung as if I’d been baking in the sun. Water. I needed water. I walked to the front door, pushed my feet into my sneakers, and stepped outside. I started walking, using the edge of the pavement to guide me along through the dark night. I don’t know how much time passed before a car pulled up alongside me. I heard the whirr of the window going down.
“Now where might you be headed this time of night?”
The taxi driver. Name begins with a C. He was leaning across the seat and smiling at me through the passenger window.
“The water.”
“Hop in. I’ll run you down. It’s as black as tar out here.” He pushed the door open.
“I don’t have money.”
“No odds. It’s only five minutes down the road.”
I hesitated for a moment, then got in beside him. The car smelled like beer and men’s cologne.
“Frances, right? Annie Rideout’s friend. Don’t mind the stench. I’m just after dropping off the young fellas from the tavern. What a state they were in. They’ll have fine heads on ’em come morning. Anyway, what’s down at that water that you need to go this time of night?”
I shrugged and turned toward the window.
“Not the talkative sort, I see. All right, nothing wrong with that. Me, I talk too much—at least that’s what my missus says. Of course, you want to hear her once she gets going. Talk the paint off a house, that one.” He laughed. “Still, she’s a good woman. She’d have to be to put up with the likes of me now, wouldn’t she?”
The car moved at what seemed to be light speed, and my stomach lurched. I lowered the window and gulped down the night air. He stopped the car as close to the water as he could. I thanked him and closed the door. He backed the car up and pointed the headlights toward the path as he said he would, and I stumbled slowly, pitching and weaving on the rocks toward the sound of the waves. Once I reached the water’s edge, I saw a flickering of orange light, a bonfire down the beach. I stood and listened. The surf against the stones and the sound of my own heavy breaths. The distant voices of the kids around the fire. Three hard barks of a dog. Then it came, muffled at first and then increasing in clarity and intensity—my father’s bow across the strings, drawn-out notes scaling upwards, the low humming of my mother’s voice. I closed my eyes, letting myself yield to their lure, then stepped out of my shoes, pulled off my clothes, and walked slowly into the waves. The shock of the water numbed my burning skin. I walked forward until the water flowed above my head, the cold soothing away the ache. I floated down and then I heard her calling my name. I surfaced, shivering and sputtering. “Frances,” she called, her voice strong and clear. I spun my head around, scanning the darkness for her face. “Frances, I’m here.”
Suddenly I was facing a blinding white light, a flurry of movement and splashing in the water. Over and over she called my name. Then she was wrapped around me, pulling me toward her. I clung to my life for a few desperate seconds, kicked and flailed against her, then gave over. I was done.
I was in a moving car again, covered with something heavy, something that scratched and scraped against the skin on my shoulders. I felt a warm weight against my left side. Annie Malone speaking.
“Now, Cyril, not a word of this to anyone. I hear so much as a whisper of it and I’m sharpening my scissors to hack off anything that dangles from your body. Do you hear me?”
“Not a peep, Annie. Swear to God,” the man in the front seat said.
She opened the car door. “Come on, Frances. In we go. Take my hand.”
She led me into a yellow house, tossed a pile of clothes on the floor, and then pulled the scratchy thing off me and threw that on the floor as well. A blanket. It was an old grey camp blanket. I looked down and saw that I was naked except for my shoes. Curious, that. Not like me to be out and about without clothes on. Annie walked me straight to a blue-and-white bathroom and pushed me into a hot shower. She sprayed me down with a nozzle, dried me off, put a nightgown on me, and helped me into a warm bed. Then she handed me two white pills and a glass of water.
“Here, take these.”
I swallowed the pills. “Annie, did you hear it?”
“Did I hear what?”
“My father playing and my mother singing. They were in the water.”
She walked to the other side of the bed, lay down beside me, and placed her hand across my forehead. “Shush. Quiet yourself. Go to sleep now. You’re all right.”
“I just wanted to see the water one more time.”
“It will still be there tomorrow. Go to sleep.”
“Thank you, Annie.”
She was panting softly and slowly as she looked up to the ceiling. “You’re welcome. Now close your eyes.”