with my story, dear, tell me a little bit more about yourself, your mum and da and, of course, your Jack.”
“My mama left us when I was nine years old. Jack left when I was fourteen. That’s really all there is to it. So . . .”
“That’s never all there is to it. You poor dear—your mum left the family?”
I shook my head. “No, she died. . . .” I turned away with the sting of withheld tears behind my eyes; I would not cry in front of a stranger.
“Oh . . . but there is a difference, no?”
“Not in this case, there isn’t. So, tell me about what brought you here to South Carolina.”
“Ah, so you don’t want to talk about you.”
“I don’t.” I fiddled with the side of her bedcover, spread the fringe in an even pattern across the sheet.
“Well, then. Where was I in my story?” She gazed upward. “When his hooker—”
“His hooker?” I took a sharp breath and suppressed a laugh, held my palm over my mouth.
She glanced at me. “A hooker, my dear, is a sailboat in our Galway Bay. It is a sailboat so distinct there is no other like it in the world. It has three brown sails, and is bowed like a water creature flying over the sea. This boat has carried and nourished our Claddagh village for hundreds of years, bringing in the herring and cod.” She pointed to the oil painting on the wall.
“I see,” I said, glancing at the sailboats moored to a foreign dock.
“Trawlers have replaced these boats—but Richard fished with nets from his hooker even when they were telling us we needed to use trawlers, that we would be lost to the modern world.”
I pointed to the painting. “Is that Galway Bay?”
She smiled. “Ah, yes, it is.” Maeve stared off at the ceiling and continued. “When his brown sails flew back to the bay, I was filled, not emptied. There was nothing more I could do, but it overflowed my heart, spilled into my soul for all of my life. The simple sight . . .”
I took a deep breath. “What?” Her story had wound around to so many places, I was uncertain where we were in this timeline of leaving and returning, of lost and found. Her eyes came back to mine from the far-off place she’d gone. “There are certain people, certain events that will fill you up, and others that will drain you. And whatever is in your life is taking life from you. I can see it.”
Her words caused an ache, like an old bruise, to rise in the middle of my belly—the ache for Mama. Her words were something a mama, my mama, would have said. A warm swelling rose to the base of my throat. I placed my hand there, tried to swallow.
“I’ve upset you,” Maeve said in her singsong way.
“No.” I shook my head. “I’m tired.”
“That is what I’m trying to say to you—no need for that.” She glanced around the room as if she expected someone else. Then she leaned forward and patted her hair. “Did you find him?”
“Find who?” I asked.
“Jack,” she said.
“Of course not. I’m not looking for him.”
“I looked for him everywhere I could—for months, then years I waited.”
“Tell me.” I felt I was on the edge of a new day, a new discovery.
“My parents, they didn’t like him at all. He lived across the lane, you understand?”
I nodded.
Then Maeve slipped into the place of story, the place where she must have lived and understood back then.
“Spruce trees hang low and cast shadows between us. Long whispers of leaves and wind carry our words back and forth. The houses are lime-washed, and the roads are mud in some places, cobblestone in others. When it rains, the houses are splattered with mud, making Claddagh appear as though we don’t take care of our clachans built in jagged rows. But we are neat, clean, and we love our land. From my home at the edge of the sea I look up to St. Mary’s on the Hill and down the path to the bay and Nimmo’s pier. I think how strange this is—how we worship God and nature at the same time.”
She stopped, her mouth open.
I touched her hand. “It sounds like a beautiful place.” And I meant it; I wanted to go see this magical village.
“You have never seen nor will you ever see anything more beautiful than the simple, exquisite Claddagh village. Rocks are strewn at