foot as she prattled on. “I’d begun to think you were rude too, Anne Smith. Not coming to see me when I asked so nicely. Are those cakes?” She sniffed the air.
“Yes. And I’ve brought you books too. I distinctly remember you telling me you liked big books best. The ones with lots of chapters.”
Her eyes grew wide and her chin wobbled. “Yes . . . I remember that too. So we’re not going to pretend?”
“If we pretend, then we can’t talk about the old days. I need to talk to someone, Maeve.”
“So do I, lass,” she murmured. “So do I. Come sit down. I’ll make some tea.”
I took off my coat and set out the cakes—one of each kind—and left the rest in the box for Maeve to nibble on later. I stacked the new books near her rocking chair and took a seat at her small table as she returned with the kettle and two cups.
“Eoin insisted you weren’t dead. He said you were just lost in the water. Everyone was worried about him. So Dr. Smith had a stone engraved, and we had a small service for you to give us all some peace and comfort. Father Darby wanted to have your name taken off Declan Gallagher’s headstone, but Thomas insisted it be left alone, and he refused to put a birthdate on the new one. The doctor was stubborn, and he was rich—he gave lots of money to the church—so Father Darby let him have his way.
“Eoin threw a fit when he saw the grave. It didn’t comfort him one whit to have his mother’s name on a marker. Thomas didn’t even stay for the service. He and Eoin went for a long walk, and when they came back, Eoin was still crying, but he wasn’t screaming, poor mite. I don’t know what Doc said to him, but Eoin stopped saying daft things after that.”
I sipped my tea, and Maeve smirked at me over the edge of her cup. “He wasn’t daft though, was he?”
“No.” Thomas wouldn’t have told Eoin everything. But he would have told him enough. He would have told him who I was and that he would see me again.
“I’d forgotten all about Anne Smith. I’d even forgotten about Doc and Eoin. It’s been seventy years since I last saw them. Then you showed up at my door. And I started to remember.”
“What did you remember?”
“Don’t be coy, lass. I’m not twelve years old anymore, and you are not the lady of this house.” She thumped her slippered foot on her carpeted floor. “I remembered you!”
I smiled at her vehemence. It felt good to be remembered.
“Now, I want to know everything. I want to know what happened to you. Then and now. And don’t leave out the kissing scenes,” she barked.
I refilled my cup, took a huge bite of a frosted pink pastry, and I told her everything.
In September, I awoke to news that the Twin Towers had fallen, that my city had been attacked, and I watched the television coverage, clutching my growing belly, sheltering my unborn child, wondering if I’d returned from one vortex only to be plunged into another. My old life, my streets, my skyline, was forever changed, and I was grateful Eoin was no longer alive in Brooklyn to witness it. I was grateful I was no longer there to witness it. My heart was incapable of holding more pain.
Barbara heard the planes—they shook the agency as they passed overhead—before they hit, and called me in a state days later, repeating over and over again how glad she was that I was safe in Ireland. “The world has gone mad, Anne. Mad. It’s upside down, and we are all holding on for dear life.” I knew exactly what she meant, but my world had been spinning for months, and 9/11 just added another layer of impossibility. It distracted Barbara from her worry over me, from my midlife crisis, and I could only retreat further into the corners of Garvagh Glebe, unable to absorb the magnitude of such an event, unable to process any of it. The world was upside down—just like Barbara said—but I’d been falling when it tipped, and I already had my sea legs. I turned off the television, begged my city for forgiveness, and pled with God to keep us all—even me—from losing ourselves. And I continued on.
In October, I ordered a crib, a changing table, and a rocking chair to match the old oak