CHAPTER 16
We finish painting Shannon Walsh’s house later that week, Kieran braving the ladder in the end. I bake her sugar cookies, and she invites us in for tea. Her house is cozy and slightly cluttered, with wool blankets draped on every seat and old pictures displayed on every open surface. She plods around the house, dodging furniture, but clearly hard of seeing, squinting through thick glasses, leaning into my face.
“To be young and beautiful again.” Shannon shakes her head. “Don’t squander it. Soon you’ll be old and wrinkled like me. It all goes by so fast.”
Kieran is intently examining Shannon’s rickety old kitchen table, seemingly unaware of her comment. “This is a bit wobbly. Can I fix it for you?” he asks.
“Good lad.” She pats him on the cheek. Before we leave that day, Kieran fixes her kitchen table, leaky bathroom sink, and a sticky doorknob, and he changes five light bulbs.
I hug Shannon before we leave, embracing her small round body like a big pillow. Painting her house was a joy and offered me more than she’ll ever know.
As we’re leaving, she says to Kieran, “Michael Flynn’s dishwasher is out. I told him you could fix it. Would you mind?”
“Not at all.”
Shannon winks at me subtly. “It’s probably a two-person job. Why don’t you take your friend? You know how Michael likes a pretty girl.”
Kieran agrees, and I blush at the compliment. But when we climb into his truck and drive away, he’s quiet. He’s been silently contemplative ever since Inch Beach, and it’s verging on maddening. I’d take Siobhan’s yelling over Kieran’s silence any day. But even Siobhan’s temper has diminished lately. I can’t find the courage to apologize for what I said, so we just continue to dodge each other. Even at the Secret Book and Record Store, Siobhan keeps to herself. I’ve noticed Clive watching her carefully.
“Something’s not right,” he said yesterday during tea at the Beachfront Café. “She actually said to a customer, ‘I’m always happy to help.’ Siobhan is never happy to help.”
“What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know.” Clive’s tone was worrisome. “But I’ve been playing Celine Dion all morning, and she hasn’t said a bloody word.”
The truck bounces over the road. Kieran and I sit in silence. I consider bringing up the weather . . . anything to fill the space, but I’m worried that one wrong move will push him further away.
I point out the window at the passing hedgerow. “The red flowers I see everywhere. What are they?”
“Fuchsias,” Kieran says. “People down here call them the tears of God.”
“Why?”
“As Ireland was dying of famine, those flowers were blooming. They survived when so many people didn’t.”
“That’s incredibly sad.”
Without warning, Kieran jerks the wheel, jostling me in my seat, and pulls to the side of the road. He throws the car into park and turns to face me.
“I need to tell you something,” he says adamantly.
His serious appearance and his stiff posture aren’t a good sign. My stomach sinks to my toes as a million possibilities race through my head. This might be when Kieran finally kicks me out of his house. I’ve been here for almost three weeks. I thought my memories would be back by now, but other than the few wisps, I have nothing of Clementine’s life to hold on to. All I have is this. And I can’t lose it.
“Yes?” I say hesitantly.
Kieran is too quiet for too long. Finally he says, “I lied to you.”
“What?”
Kieran runs his hands through his messy hair. “I . . .” He fumbles with his words, his cool exterior cracking. “I promised I’d butt out and let you earn your own money. But it was really my money you’ve been earning.”
“What?”
“I don’t charge people for the work I do. It wouldn’t be right. I don’t need it. But I want to pay you for your work, Bunny. You’ve earned it.”
“I don’t want money,” I say. I didn’t help to get paid. It was an excuse to spend time with him, though I didn’t want to admit that at the start. Kieran looks at me for what feels like the first time in days.
“But what about the whole ‘I’m an independent woman. I want to earn my own’ money?”
“I am an independent woman,” I say, and truly feel it this time. “And I don’t want your money.”
“But you should get out of Waterville and see Dublin.”
“And I’ll get there. Someday.” I square myself forward in the seat. “Now, are we going to fix that dishwasher or what?”
“Are you sure, Bunny? You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes. Now, drive.”
The hint of a grin pulls on Kieran’s face. “Never mess with an independent woman.”
Fixing Michael Flynn’s dishwasher leads to helping Martin Blake clean up his yard, which leads to painting and rehanging Molly Barry’s “Seaside Bed and Breakfast” sign. Kieran and I have a new job every day. He admits to me that part of the reason he helps is to prove that he’s not like his father—that there are people who take and people who give, and his genes won’t determine that, Kieran will. The space between us lessens as the week passes. Kieran laughs more. It’s no longer a question of whether I’ll help him, but who we’re helping next.
I wake up one morning later that week, heavy from sleep after the first night I haven’t been wracked with nightmares. My body feels fully rested. Inside my notebook, I add a tally mark to the long line of them at the top of the page.
It’s been twenty-one days since I woke up and became Jane. I count them one more time just to make sure.
Twenty-one days.
That first day in Waterville feels distant. Lately, I’ve almost stopped searching for my memories. Some days, I’m so involved in my life here that I forget I had a life elsewhere. But then an uncomfortable feeling creeps up on me, like Clementine is hiding but not gone. As if every turn I take might be the one that leads me to her. But I’m no longer sure I want to find her. Three weeks ago, the anticipation of remembering was all I could think about. My happiness was dependent on it. But now . . . I almost fear the memories’ return.
Saying good-bye to Kieran might be the hardest thing I have to do.
The picture I tucked in my notebook three weeks ago is still there—Kieran and his friends at boarding school, laughing and happy. I’ve kept it for him, but I’m starting to understand that it might be best to let some memories go. It’s easier when it’s a single memory like this one, compared to a lifetime of them—that fact keeps me attached to Clementine, even when I’m tempted to let her go completely.
For now, the picture stays where it is. So does my list, which hasn’t grown all week. Slowly, my life has become less about knowing Clementine and more about living as Jane. Now, when I think of my dad and Stephen waiting for me, the desperation to return to them is gone. I’ll be upset when I have to leave Jane’s life, and no matter how this ends, I’ll be hurt. That is the only inevitability in my life right now.
But today has the potential to be different. Today is significant to Clementine’s life and Jane’s. Today is notable.
I get dressed in a pair of Siobhan’s old tight jeans with intentional holes in the thighs and knees, a red-and-black striped T-shirt, and the Converse Stephen gave me. I am sure Siobhan wore these clothes better than I do, but having the added wardrobe options has been nice.
I walk out of my bedroom, notebook in my back pocket, and hear Kieran and Siobhan talking in the kitchen. I stop my approach.
“I need to tell you something,” Siobhan says, her voice lacking the edge it normally does. I hug the wall and eavesdrop on their conversation.
“You’re pregnant,” Kieran says sarcastically.
“You’re such a git.” The bite comes back to Siobhan’s voice for a second.
Kieran’s tone is softer when he says, “What is it, Von? You look tired.”
“It’s a girl, Kieran.”
A palpable silence lingers. I hold my breath, not daring to move.
Siobhan eventually speaks. “Say something.”
Kieran’s voice comes fast. “Does Dad know?”
Siobhan groans, and I hear her shuffle around the kitchen. “Of course not. He said the baby was bad for business, Kieran. Called me a slut and told me to get rid of it, or he’d cut me off forever. And when I didn’t, he banished me here so people in Dublin wouldn’t know. He still thinks I’m going to give it up for adoption, and we can all just go back to our lives like this never happened. But I’m not doing it. I’m not giving her up. I’ve made up my mind.”
“What will you do then?”
“I don’t know,” Siobhan says. “But I’ll figure it out. I don’t need him.”
Another pause. “You could tell—”
“No. They’re not to know. You promised me.”
“But they could help you.”
“No. I’ll find another way. I’m not telling them.”
“Think of what they’ve been through. It’s not right.”
“Not right?” Siobhan bites back. “You’re not in any position to tell me what’s right.”
When silence follows, I bite my nails, holding my breath.
“This is my fault,” Kieran says. “If I would have—”
“Stop it,” Siobhan snaps. “Stop blaming yourself. My problem is ruining your life. I won’t let that happen.”
“You’re not ruining my life, Von. I made my choices.”
“You came down here because I needed you, and I let you do it because I’m selfish,” Siobhan says. “You always come to my rescue. But now you’re the one doing the hiding. And who’s gonna rescue you? You’re avoiding your life, Kieran.”
“I can’t go back to Dublin. Not yet. I can’t face . . . everything.”
“Well, you can’t stay here forever. At some point, we all need to move on. That’s what I’m trying to do. I’m taking control of my life, Kieran. You need to do the same.”
The house goes quiet for a while. I almost think it’s safe to approach the kitchen until I hear Siobhan say, “She was right, you know . . . the Yank.”
“Don’t start,” Kieran says.
“She told me I don’t deserve you. That I only care about my problems.” Siobhan chuckles. “You were right. The Yank’s got spunk, no doubt. She’s relentless.”
“Reckless at times.”
“Kieran . . .” Siobhan’s voice is warm. “She was right. Now it’s my turn to help you. Something I should have done a while ago.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You’re hiding.”
I try to process all that I’m hearing. It’s confirmation of what I’ve thought this whole time, but what Kieran’s hiding from is still a mystery, one he won’t let go of easily.
“A girl,” he says.
“A girl,” Siobhan echoes. “Do you think he would have been happy with a girl?”
I hear Kieran exhale. “I think . . . in the end . . . he would have left no matter if the baby was a boy or a girl. Nothing would have changed that.”
My heart breaks for Siobhan and the baby.
“I’m sorry,” Kieran says.
Siobhan pauses for a long while. “Are you happy, Kieran?”
“Happy?”
“I’m not naïve,” she scoffs. “I have eyes.” My breath hangs on his answer, but I don’t get it. “He would have wanted you to be happy,” she adds. “And to stop hiding from your life.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“You’re the one who’s made it complicated,” she says. “You can set it right.”
I wish I knew who they were talking about. I wish Kieran would just open up and tell me the details of his life. I wish I wasn’t so drowned in lies that I could do the same for him.
“You’re really going to give it all up?” Kieran asks.
“Yes,” Siobhan replies. “Someone with an annoying American accent pointed out that I can’t just think about myself anymore. You could do it, too. You could be happy, Kieran.”
I wait for him to agree with Siobhan. To take control, like he wants to, like I want him to. But instead he says, “I don’t think so.”
“Then you have no one to blame but yourself.”
A few seconds later, the front door slams. I slink back against the wall, letting the conversation sink in.
A few minutes pass before I walk into the kitchen, fake yawning. Kieran is rinsing dishes in the sink. He’s already dressed.
“So what are we fixing today?” I say in a bright tone, but it doesn’t change Kieran’s serious stance.
“It’s Saturday, Bunny.”
“Does that mean we get to do something fun instead? Not that trimming David Cromie’s hedgerow isn’t fun, but . . .” I smile, hoping it’s contagious.
“The last time we had fun, you almost died.”
“I guess the bar is pretty high.” My joke doesn’t work.
Kieran stays focused on the kitchen sink. “As temping as that sounds, I can’t today.”
I sit down at the table and try not to sound disappointed. “You can’t?”
Kieran turns from the sink and says, “There’s a party at Paudie’s Pub for the annual Waterville Links golf tournament. It’s always a raucous madhouse. Loads of rich wankers looking to drink themselves into a stupor. I told Paudie I’d help behind the bar.”
I perk up. “I can help, too.”
“Not today,” Kieran says, turning back to the sink. “Can you manage on your own?”
“Sure.” I nod.
“It’s a day off. Relax.”
“OK,” I say, feeling uneasy.
Kieran dries his hands on a towel. “Just promise me you won’t try anything too fun while I’m gone.”
“I can’t promise anything.” I force my voice to sound positive.
“No,” Kieran says, as if he’s not talking to me now, but more to himself. “We can’t promise anything, can we?”
He leaves, and I sit at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of tea, my notebook open in front of me. I count the dash marks at the top of the page. Twenty-one.
I guess I’ll just have to spend my birthday alone.