EILEEN

 APRIL 30, 1968

On my last morning in my little attic garret, I wake with the sun shining softly on my face through the window. The same window that gave away my secret some months ago. It doesn't feel like the morning of my wedding, and my brain is spinning. It isn't what I’d dreamt of. In truth, I'd never gotten far dreaming about what my wedding would be like—I had been too focused on my dream of college and career as a writer. Marriage and children were in the mix somewhere, but a long way off in the future.

Yet here I find myself, as April turns to May, twelve hours away from my wedding—a wedding planned in a whirlwind without any input from me, thanks to my final exams. I expect it will entail going down to the rectory office in a Sunday skirt and blouse, Father Fallon will say some words, and we’ll sign our license and the parish registry. Given that I'm barely graduating high school and pregnant, I can't ask for or expect more. I got myself into this predicament, and I will handle it like an adult. That includes no pouting about a white dress, bridesmaids, or a party.

My parents couldn't even be bothered to drag themselves away from whatever Caribbean island they’re vacationing on. They just gave their permission, directing my grandfather to act as a proxy as necessary. The only thing my mother seemed to care about was the Drazen family's social standing, although the fact that they were California people did not necessarily sit well with her. I wasn't even worth the time it would take to lecture me on my lack of responsibility, let alone some tinny words of comfort on a trans-Atlantic phone line or, God forbid, standing with me when I take vows and leave the McInerney family to become a Drazen. It all boils down to the fact that Cecily McInerney has decided that she's not old enough to be a grandmother, therefore she is going to ignore me and the whole situation. She's certainly not concerned with the issue of whether I'm ready to be a mother. She’s made it abundantly clear to me that it's not her problem.

Leaving the soft, well-worn cocoon I made of my grandmother's quilt as I tossed and turned the night away feels final. I'm shedding my old life and family today. Whether I emerge a butterfly or not remains to be seen. I force my eyes open, memorizing the feel of the satiny wood floor as I put down one foot then the other. What will our house in California be like? Will it be all cool tile floors or plush wall-to-wall carpeting? I don't expect it will be like our house in Boston—Aubusson carpets and centuries-old oak polished to a soft shine by generations of servants. Declan doesn't seem that fussy and old school.

The gurgle of my stomach and the unique blend of nausea and dizziness that is morning sickness reminds me of the reason for this evening's festivities. Cradling my mostly flat belly, the Claddagh on my left hand reminds me that we are both loved. The nausea subsides and I shuffle across the floor to dig through the pile of clothing that remains unpacked, hoping my riding clothes and boots are there. I can't leave Ireland without saying goodbye to Sidhe, the spring, and the land. I don't know when or if I will be back. I pad over to the sink to splash my face before I toss on my clothes, a task that has gotten more difficult by the day—my jeans are getting a little tight.

Everything is changing. My body. My home. My priorities. My dreams. I feel as though I'm giving up dreams I never even had a chance to have, like the perfect wedding. I guess if it had mattered that much to me, I would've given it a bit more thought, like most girls my age. Too late to cry over spilt milk.

Clomping down the stairs in my riding boots, I stop short at the kitchen. The scent of bacon and eggs brings back my morning sickness with a vengeance. I take a breath and will my stomach to calm. Surprisingly, it cooperates. I wasn't expecting Bridey to be here today. I had hoped she wouldn't be. I just can't face her with my shame.

"Sweetheart, sit down, you look a little green. Please have some tea and water biscuits. They'll calm your stomach.”

"Don't try to talk me out of it. I'm going—"

"You're going for a ride today. You're pregnant, not breakable. Despite what all these men around here think, we're not made of glass. Especially when bringing new life into the world. Time out and about in the air will do you good. I know it always did for me."

"When you were pregnant with—" I still feel awkward discussing Brendan with his mother—even after everything that's happened. "Were you sick every day?"

"Brendan made me so sick that some days I couldn't even get out of bed. I'll tell you this though, he was worth every second of morning sickness. And the little one you’re carrying will be too. Mark my words. I’ll let you in on my other secret. Candied ginger. The merchant sailors swear by it for seasickness." She presses a handful into my palm, pats the chair seat, and pours some tea into the almost translucent china cups my grandmother had loved so.

"Bridey, how do you be married? I don't know how to be a married woman. I want to do this right. I want to be a good wife, a good mother, and I just don't know how." I rest my head in my hands, tears brimming in my eyes.

Bridey's hand on my back is warm and comforting as she tries to will away my doubts through her fingers. "Eileen, you have the most important thing—you have a good heart. You may not have spent all of your days here, but your grandmother made sure that you grew up into a smart, kind, loving, responsible woman. I see her in you today."

"I feel like I can barely take care of myself most days, and I'm going to be responsible for another life in a few months. I've already messed up royally. I was foolish enough…" My shame and embarrassment almost choke me. I'm supposed to be smarter than this.

“You keep forgetting you're not doing this on your own. Are you having doubts about Declan, sweetheart?" She grabs my hand, willing me to look at her. "Because if you are, your grandfather will stop this charade in a second and come up with a different plan for you and the babe. I know that as sure as I'm drawing breath."

"I don't doubt that he loves me one bit. I just question whether I can love him the way he deserves to be loved. I can’t even think straight around him. My head is always in the clouds when he's around. He's dazzling. I just don't know if I'm good enough. After all, I could barely work my way through the social hierarchy of Cathedral school. Now I have to navigate Los Angeles society and make my husband proud of me. I just don't know if I can do it." I finally burst into tears. The worst part of pregnancy isn't the morning sickness. It is the way my emotions bounce around like a ping-pong ball in a tornado.

Bridey holds me and lets me cry. The tears leave as quickly as they came, in part because of the motherly comfort of Bridey's arms. Will I be able to offer that to my own child? I've had so little in my own life. All I know is that I have to try my best.

"It's a beautiful day. Go out and enjoy it, but be back by four. You'll need the time to get ready."

"It won't take me long to clean up and change into my traveling suit," I protest.

"Just trust me. You'll need the time." With that, she shoos me out the door.

I ride for hours, the warm spring breeze ruffling my hair, smelling of the green, new life and the rich, loamy soil. Bridey had sent along a saddlebag with snacks. She knows me better than I know myself, predicting I'd end up at the spring. I lounge on my favorite flat rock, soaking up the sun like a barn cat, dangling my toes in the still-cold water. The candied ginger worked its magic, and I'm able to enjoy the fresh bread and fruit Bridey had packed. I am careful to leave a snack for the fae.

My hunger satisfied, I drowse in the sun, hovering in that place between wakefulness and sleep. My dreams feature a fearless, copper-haired little boy as beautiful as Apollo, challenging me at every turn and helping me discover bravery I’d never thought I had. In my dreams, I'm womanly and knowing and strong enough to take on anything.

Startled out of my dream thanks to a splash, I fight against opening my eyes, fearing that I'd have to face Brendan one last time before the wedding. I'm embarrassed by my predicament and my fickle, girlish behavior toward him, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't still upset about the way he threw me over.

Thankfully, it's only an otter frolicking in the spring. And just in time. I need to get back. I'm not going to disobey Bridey's directive. She's been more of a mother to me these last months than my mother has the last five years. I'm not about to treat her disrespectfully now.

Sidhe and I take the long way home, but my horse refuses to break out of a fast trot, so no fence jumping for me. Everybody seems to know what's best for me, including my horse. Sigh.

I linger in the stable, cooing in Sidhe's ear, pouring out all my secrets and doubts, leaning into her strong, muscular neck and reveling in the comfort of her horsy smell. Finally, I gather myself together to face the inevitable. It's time to become Eileen Drazen.

I take the stairs two at a time, straight up to the bathroom, where I strip off my riding clothes and slip into the shower, trying not to let my thoughts wander. Hot water streams down my back, painful and soothing all at once. Afterward, I wrap myself in towels that smell of sunshine and spring, making a turban for my damp hair. Hopefully Bridey can put it in a French twist. The last thing I want is to look school-girlish on my wedding day.

Bridey's already waiting for me in my room. But my suit isn't. Laid out on the bed is a delicate, cream-colored confection of lace and ribbon and flowers. Alongside it, hanging from the drapery rod, is a gossamer sheer veil trimmed in hand-crocheted lace and at least eight feet long.

"It's your great-grandmother's. That should take care of your old and borrowed. Part of this will take care of the blue and new." She pulls a package from behind her back and hands it to me. Inside is a silvery-blue crystal rosary and a blank journal with a tooled leather cover monogrammed "EMD." "The rosary is for when you need to have a private chat with God. The journal is so you always hold onto the dreams and gifts God gave you. Marriage should never mean surrendering yourself. Understand?" She searches my eyes to make sure that I do. “Now, let's take Declan's breath away."

Her scent of wildflowers envelopes me as she brings me close. I hug her as if my life depends on it. I wish you could have been my mother.

Bridey slips the nude under-dress over my head and we—well, she—gets to work on my hair. My request for a French twist is immediately vetoed.

"It's your wedding. Your grandmother will haunt me if you show up at the altar looking like you're heading to a horse show. Trust me. What I have in mind is perfect."

So I do.