“I’ve been meaning to come up and say hello.” He clears his throat, mustering an embarrassed smile.
He looks even more ancient than he did eight years ago. Weaker, too. Tragedy has a way of painting your face in a different shade. You can always spot people who are grieving before they open their mouths.
“I’m sure you have.” I smile patiently, knowing there’s no point in confronting him.
“I wanted to give you time to settle. How have you been?”
“Oh, you know.” I wrap the bag handle around my fist. “This nice lady over here was in the middle of telling me a story, weren’t you, Ms…”
I turn around and watch her watch him with pure terror in her eyes.
What the hell is going on?
“Patel,” she says. “Divya Patel. Actually, I…I…” She looks at me, smiling apologetically. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I mixed you up with someone else. It’s all a bit of a blur. A lot happened when I first came to Tolka.”
I look between them. Unbelievable. He just silenced her without more than a look.
Father Doherty knows something I don’t. Divya, too.
“Please.” I drop the polite charade, turning back to her. “I deserve to know how I got my scar.”
She looks between me and Father Doherty. There’s a scream lodged in my throat. She’s asking him for permission. He has no right. She shakes her head and grabs the bottle of wine he’s handing her.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice is quiet.
I storm out of the store, ignoring the sting in my eyes. I drive around for a while, trying to piece together everything, see if Mom ever mentioned anything about being in Tolka. But if she had, I would certainly remember. She never talked about Tolka. When it’s late lunchtime, I finally decide to come back to the cottage. But instead of eating, I dump the bag with the food onto the counter and call her.
“Rory!” She picks up on the first ring. “Gosh, I knew you’d call at four in the morning. I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Text messages don’t cut it, young lady. What about your mom? You knew I had those injections two days ago.”
“It’s Botox, not bone marrow. This, too, shall pass,” I bite flatly. After six months or so, depending on where you got it.
“You’re too sarcastic for your own good, Daughter.”
“No such thing, Mother.”
“How’s Ireland? How’s your wretched half-sister?”
Dead, I want to scream. I’m in the Twilight Zone, and I’m not talking glittery vampires. Since breaking the news about Kathleen would only make her ask a trillion more questions I’m not prepared to answer, I keep this piece of information to myself.
Instead, I say, “Have you ever been to Tolka, Mom?”
“Hmm, what?”
“You heard me.”
“Where is this coming from?”
“It’s a simple question. Its origin is of no importance. Have you or have you not visited Tolka?”
“Your father used to live there for a hot minute, you know.” I hear her flicking the lighter and inhaling the first drag of a cigarette. “When your half-sister was younger.”
Of course. Of course, she would never call Kathleen by her name. Of course, she’s hostile toward Dad, even when he moved closer to his kid and tried to be a decent father.
“You’re not answering my question.”
I want to punch a wall. I think I just might. But I’m afraid a trip to the hospital will result in more revelations. Maybe they’ll run some tests and find out I’m half-leprechaun. Who knows?
“No,” she says finally. “No, I haven’t. Are you sleeping with that infuriating Irishman yet? You’ve always had a weakness for the ones who are irreparable.”
“He doesn’t need repairing.”
“He is broken.”
“Everyone is broken. Some show it more than others.”
I made the mistake of telling Mom how I felt about Mal when I came back from Ireland—the first and last time I opened up to her about a boy. She threw a fit, especially after she found the rolled-up sanitary pads in my bathroom trashcan and asked how come my period was so early. Then I had to tell her about the morning-after pill I took, and she flipped and dragged me by the arm to get tested for STDs.
I’ve never felt more like an idiotic child than I did then, and I haven’t shared much with her about anything since.
“I have a boyfriend, so, obviously, no. I haven’t slept with him, nor am I planning on it.”
“You never know. You and I, we’re made of the same self-destructive material.