The Lace Makers of Glenmara - By Heather Barbieri Page 0,69
He’d hold her close. He’d be sorry. He didn’t mean it. She knew that. It was only his temper. He’d always had a temper, especially when he’d been at the drink. He had a passionate nature; it came with the territory.
“I was going to surprise you.” She tried to charm him. “I was going to wear them for you.”
“A likely story.” His face was expressionless, but behind the mask he seethed, his right hand balled into a fist, the other crushing the lace.
“We’ve each been taking a turn.” If she could only explain—
“Whores, every last one of you.” His voice pitched lower still, the violence in him building.
“It’s not like that. If you’d only listen—”
He didn’t, wouldn’t. He wasn’t a man easily persuaded of anything once his mind was made up. “Do you think I’m fecking stupid? Do you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He threw the lace across the room and was on her in seconds. She couldn’t twist away. He held her firm. He could catch rabbits with his bare hands, her too. He squeezed her arms, skin oozing between his fingers like dough, rising, pale. Neither of them spoke. They were locked in a wordless place, filled with grunts and whimpers, feet sliding and scuffling on the floor. She mustn’t fight him. She’d tried that once with near-disastrous results. All she had to do was survive the next few moments. She went limp, focused on her breath, in, out, in, out, thinking it would be over soon, but it went on longer than usual, on and on and on. She glimpsed the children as he dragged her past the window—back and forth she and Cillian went in their little dance—heard their laughter, their joy, out in the world, out there, as she finally hit the wall and crumpled to the floor, a heap of skin and bone.
“Get up.” His shadow engulfed her. “Get up.”
She couldn’t move, arms and legs splayed as Sinead’s rag doll, angles all wrong.
He stood over her, panting, shoulders squared, hands ready, bouncing lightly on his feet, still keyed up, and yet awareness began to dawn in those few seconds, the fear in his eyes growing at the realization of what he’d done. He turned and smashed his fist into the door frame, cracking the wood as he lumbered out of the house. She heard the car start, tear down out of the drive, wondered where he was going, if he was coming back.
He left her there against the wall for someone to find, later, as the lace lay tangled and dinner burned on the stove.
Her sister. Her baby sister.
Aileen could see it already: The swollen face. Misshapen lips. Broken arm. And worse, worse.
She knew this was coming. She knew.
A hundred little bruises scattered over the years, and now this.
Sorcha had called her on the phone, no sound at first, just breathing. Then: “Mam’s not moving. She won’t open her eyes.”
“What’s wrong?”
“He did it, Aunt Ailey. It was him. Da. I saw him through the window. I should have done something—”
“Is he still there?”
“I don’t think so. I’m scared. She won’t move. I think she might be dead. Is she dead? Is she—?”
“No. No, she isn’t.” She can’t be. She can’t. “I’ll be right over. I won’t let him hurt you—”
She’d nearly crashed the car, she drove so fast down the lane she’d traveled countless times before, tears streaming down her face, half blinding her. The minutes, the minutes, each one counted, each one passed—Couldn’t the car go faster? She stomped on the accelerator, sped around a corner, up on two tires, then slammed back down, fishtailing, straight again, mud splattering the driver’s window, puddles everywhere. She hit the steering wheel, bruising her palms, screaming. You bastard. If she’s dead, I’ll kill you. I swear to God I’ll kill you.
Scenes flashed like jumbled snapshots, loose and torn, flying before her eyes, what had been, what was, what would be: the sun on the road where she’d walked Moira to school every day, practicing the Gaelic words for colors, so she wouldn’t forget, would win the prize: fionn, dubh, dearg, corcair, gorm, glas; the buttercups Moira ate as a little girl, thinking they’d make her hair yellow; the night she’d burst through the door, telling them she was getting married, her face flushed, hair wild; there was no stopping Moira in those days, when she had a will of her own, such a strong will in some ways, such insecurity in others.