CHAPTER 19
Waterville doesn’t have a hospital, which Kieran is absolutely sure his dad knew when he banished Siobhan from Dublin to Southwest Ireland.
Clive and I make a brief stop at the Secret Book and Record Store so I can change back into the clothes I was wearing earlier. The dress stays behind, along with my moment with Kieran, but the memories remain.
In the fading light, we drive from Waterville to Tralee, a larger city with a hospital an hour and a half north. Kieran and Siobhan left Paudie’s Pub immediately in Kieran’s truck. In an instant, the dutiful, caring, worried brother was back and ready to help his sister.
Clive and I trail a few minutes behind in Clive’s sensible sedan that contrasts with his outward appearance. We ride in silence.
“He was scared,” I finally say. Fear is not an emotion I’ve seen Kieran wear much. I saw it when he pulled me from the water at Inch Beach. But tonight . . . he was petrified. “She said she’s only thirty-two weeks. It’s too soon.”
“It’s going to be fine.”
But the longer we sit quietly, green pastures passing, the road narrow and windy, the less confident I become.
I place my hand on Clive’s. “You’re right. She’ll be OK.”
He glances at me. “I know she’ll be OK. She always is. But the little one . . . Sometimes what we thought we’d never want becomes the only thing we desperately need.”
I keep my hand interlaced with Clive’s the rest of the drive. We say nothing else.
Houses are packed side by side, one right after the other, as we drive into Tralee. There are fast-food chains, large department stores, hotels, hostels, and bed and breakfasts. The streets are lined with cars. I roll down the window, but the calming sound of the ocean is long gone. The air smells like cement and gasoline. Beyond the seclusion of Waterville, I don’t know if I feel exposed or invisible.
The hospital is lit up. Clive and I insisted on coming, but now that I’m miles away from the comfort of the cottage and the ocean, standing here in a cold parking lot, the ominous building looming over me, I wonder if it was such a good idea. I can’t seem to move my feet, as if I’m frozen in place.
“Blood pressure is ninety over sixty. Pulse is weak but there. I can’t believe she’s alive.”
There’s pain pinching behind my eyes. My hands go numb.
“Whatever happens, I’m not going to let you die.”
“You can’t promise that. You can’t promise anything.”
My bones ache with the memory of a fading voice. My head pounds.
“I’ll make it my dying wish. You will survive this.”
Who said that? Why can’t I see a face? Does it even matter now? I’m no longer worried about remembering. Instead, I’m terrified that remembering will make all of this disappear. It’s my future I’m desperate to keep now.
“Jane . . .”
My hands are sweaty when I press them to my cheeks. I force my eyes open. Clive stands in front of me with his arm outstretched, his palm open.
“Come on, love. I’ll buy you a tea. It’s going to be a long night.”
Clive wraps his arm around my shoulder, guiding me toward the entrance. He doesn’t know my history in Limerick. Doesn’t know how I cringe at the thought of being locked in a hospital room, or that I ran away from a place just like this.
I will my body forward, because it’s Siobhan who’s breaking right now. A rush of cool air hits us as the automatic doors open. The clinical smell of alcohol overwhelms me, turning my stomach. But there’s no stopping.
While Kieran is allowed to stay with his sister, Clive and I are restricted to the waiting room. Uncomfortable chairs are our beds tonight. A muted TV sits in the corner.
“Do you mind if I turn this off?” I don’t wait for an answer. I’m not sure if Clive would notice anything on the TV, me, or anyone else.
Tea and biscuits keep us sane.
“They’re not sugar cookies, but my options were limited,” Clive says, returning from the cafeteria.
We share the food. I lean my head on Clive’s shoulder, letting the tea warm my body. It works, but only partially. My fingers and toes are cold.
“I’m glad you came to our small town this summer, Jane,” Clive says. His black eyeliner is smudged.
“Me, too.”
“You don’t talk much about home. Do you miss it?”
“The truth?”
Clive gives me an encouraging look.
“It doesn’t feel like home anymore.”
“Can I make a confession now?” Clive focuses on his almost-empty cup. His hair has fallen and hangs long over his forehead. “The store isn’t doing well. I thought people would embrace it in Waterville. But like with so many things, I’m a bit ahead of my time.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “But I can’t bear the thought of Siobhan losing the baby and the store. She needs us both. And in truth . . . I need her. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t fantasize about us raising that baby together.”
“Really?”
“It would be the best-dressed kid in all of Ireland, with a fine taste in music.”
“That sounds like a great ending to this story,” I say.
Clive laughs. “Too bad we live in reality.”
I nuzzle into his side. “We’ll figure something out.”
“How can you be so positive?”
“You know how stories go,” I say. “There’s always a point where everything seems lost, but trust me . . .” My foot carries a tattoo from my past, but the pressure I felt to hide it is gone. That past no longer belongs to me. “It’s never the end. Even when you think your life is over, a new story line appears.”
Clive leans back in his seat. We yawn in unison. The doors to the restricted area haven’t opened in hours. I fear the longer we sit here, the worse the news will be.
“I don’t care about the store. It can be replaced,” Clive whispers. “But her . . . I love her in a weird way.”
I snuggle in closer. “You and I both know being conventional is overrated.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?” I ask.
“Why do you say that?”
The smell of hot dogs, fried food, and beer. Yelling echoes in the background. I’m in a stadium. It’s not a concrete image, more of a knowing—I’ve spent a lot of time in this place.
“Your shirt’s a dead giveaway.”
“What’s wrong with my shirt? My cousin gave it to me.” A man speaks to me, his face unclear.
“Your cousin must hate you.”
“Why is that?”
“‘Cleveland Browns Undefeated 1996–1998,’” I say, reading the shirt that any Clevelander would consider a horrible joke. “That’s when the Browns moved to Baltimore. My father still resents the move to this day. All good Clevelanders do. I wasn’t even alive when it happened, and I hate Baltimore. You’re going to get your ass kicked if you go into the Dawg Pound wearing that.”
“Bloody hell,” he says with a laugh, light and warm, like his voice. I lean into the memory, searching his face, haloed with blond hair. “I knew it couldn’t be that easy. Dares never are.”
I wake up, startled, my neck sore from craning it awkwardly in the chair. The waiting room is lit by early morning light. The voice in my dream mixes with the voices of the man behind the reception desk and the doctor talking on his cell phone in the hallway.
Yesterday replays vividly in my mind, and any attention I was paying to the dream turns toward reality. Clive sits across from me, awake, fixated on something over my shoulder.
“Any news?” I say in a raspy voice.
Clive gives me a puzzled expression. “News?”
“About Siobhan.”
“No.” Clive turns off the TV. “Couldn’t sleep. Been watching episodes of Shortland Street on mute for hours.”
“What time is it?” I stretch my arms.
“Nearly six in the morning.”
My birthday is officially over. And I can remember it: Kieran dancing with me, his hand grasping at my dress, the heat between us alive. We were so close in that moment. But until we know what’s happened with Siobhan, I have to push it away.
Clive comes to sit down next to me, his face creased with fatigue, looking older than I’ve ever seen him. His Mohawk hangs to his ears. The black eyeliner accentuates the bags under his eyes.
He grabs my hands unexpectedly, an intensity in his eyes. “Jane . . . ,” he says. “I need to ask—”
But the elevator dings, and Kieran walks out. Clive and I stand as he approaches, his shoulders sagging.
“How is she?” Clive says.
Kieran runs a hand through his hair. “She’s fine.”
“And the baby? How’s the baby?”
Kieran exhales slowly. “She’s fine, too.”
Clive’s face lights up. “It’s a girl?”
“A very tiny girl.”
Clive grabs me in a hug, and we spin. “I’ve always wanted a girl!” He puts me down. “Can I see her? Can I see the baby? What’s her name? I’ve always liked the name Elizabeth for a girl, after Elizabeth Bennett, of course. Or Elinor. Just not Lydia. She’s a disaster.”
“No name yet. The baby is in the NICU. No visitors right now.”
“Then can I see Von?” Clive asks.
Kieran shakes his head. He turns to me and says, “First, she’d like to see you.”
Kieran and I enter the elevator. He presses the button for the third floor and steps back next to me. I can’t move. As the doors close, the air is still, suspended, waiting to see what happens next. We haven’t spoken a word since we almost kissed at Paudie’s Pub, but what to say now?
There’s too much to say. Too much to admit. If I do, I could lose Kieran. To confess to a life that doesn’t exist, a life I’m starting to think I don’t want, only to lose this one . . . ? I can’t do it. I won’t.
My hand subtly stretches at my side, reaching for Kieran’s. We both watch the doors, my fingers aching to connect with his. But the elevator reaches the third floor, the doors open, and Kieran steps out.
He leads me down the hallway toward Siobhan’s room. I touch his arm.
“Kieran . . .” But where to begin? I set off to find Clementine, and instead I found him. If I could carry his burden today, I would. “Do you think they serve Jell-O here?”
A vague smirk pulls on Kieran’s tired face.
“That day feels like a lifetime ago,” I say. “And that person I was . . . I don’t feel like her anymore.”
Kieran turns, continues down the hallway, and calls back to me. “This way, Bunny.”
Siobhan’s room is cozier than mine was, but just as white. She sits propped up in bed, wearing a hospital gown, a beige blanket pulled up to her waist. With her bright pink hair and her tattoos exposed, she is the most colorful thing in the room.
A machine keeping track of her pulse is next to the bed, but muted.
“I’ll just go find some tea,” Kieran says.
Siobhan nods. “I won’t forget my promise.”
When Kieran is gone, I ask, “Promise?”
Siobhan shakes her head. “I have a track record for destructive behavior. He’s just worried I’ll repeat old patterns.”
I laugh and fidget with my hands, willing myself not to bite my nails. Siobhan has never wanted me around. I don’t know why that’s changed now. So I wait.
“Do you want to know why I have so many tattoos?” she asks.
Tread lightly. “Only if you want to tell me.”
“To piss off my dad.” She indicates the colorful sleeve tattoo down her right arm. Imbedded in the colors is a flock of black birds. “I started this one in secondary school. I found out he was sleeping with the headmistress at my school. He’d come into town to sleep with her and never once visit me. Bloody bastard.” She points to the tattoo on her left forearm that says, “We’re all mad here.” “It’s from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. I came home with poor marks in school, and he said I’d never amount to anything, just like my crazy mum.”
“That’s awful.”
Siobhan rolls her eyes. “You don’t know the half of it. Kieran bungee jumps to feel better. I get tattoos.” She shows me an empty spot on her right forearm. “I’ve been saving this spot for the baby. When my dad hears I’m keeping her, he’ll be done with me, and I won’t need to get any more.” She radiates a calm I haven’t seen before.
“Can I do anything? Get you anything?”
Siobhan shakes her head, her eyes focused on the object in her hand—the blue sea glass I gave her rolls around on her fingertips. “Each piece reminds me that sometimes in a world of beige sand, the ocean tosses out a colorful piece of glass.” She squeezes her hand into a fist. “I owe you an apology.”
Taken aback, I counter, “For what? I think Clive has tortured you with enough Celine Dion. We’re even.”
Siobhan looks at me now, like she’s not going to let this go, her demeanor serious, her hand clutching the sea glass. “You were right. I’m selfish. I don’t appreciate people the way I should.”
If I could take back my dreadful words, I would. “Siobhan—”
“I really wanted to hate you. But you’re different than I expected. Don’t get me wrong, your style is utterly boring. Your knack for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time is a real problem. But you’re kind . . . funny.” She gathers a breath. “I know I don’t deserve it, but I need your help.”
“Anything,” I say.
Her voice carries the tone of disbelief. “You’re going to let me off that easily?”
“I told you I want to help, and I mean it.”
Siobhan keeps her eyes glued to mine. “Kieran blames himself for my mistakes. He’s paying penance with his life. I need you to make him realize he doesn’t need to do that.”
I back away. “I’m not sure he’ll listen to me.”
“He will. You have a gift.”
I laugh. “For making sugar cookies?”
“For making people fall in love with you.” Siobhan says the words in such a serious tone, I freeze. “You were trouble from the beginning, I knew that. I just forgot how much Kieran likes getting into trouble. You could be the reason he changes his whole life.”
“But how?”
“You weaseled your way into our lives. I’m sure you’ll figure something out, Yank.” The look of genuine connection on Siobhan’s face, a bond between us, erases all the nasty comments, all the discomfort between us. And when they’re gone, what’s left is a hint of real friendship.
“Thank you,” I say sincerely.
Siobhan sweeps her hand. “Don’t get too excited. We’re not going to start dyeing each other’s hair or talking about our periods. Now get out and let me sleep.”