burst any bubble you might have about my grandmama, but that story is an ancient Irish legend about the Claddagh ring. A man named Richard Joyce from Galway—the Claddagh village where she lived—was on a merchant ship headed to the West Indies in the 1600s. He was captured by Algerian privateers and sold into slavery to a Turkish goldsmith who trained him for over fifteen years. All during that time his lover believed in his faithfulness and waited for his return.”
I stood up and began to pace the room. “Maeve didn’t say this man was kidnapped . . . she said he was taken by the garda.”
Caitlin nodded. “Yes—she gets her stories confused now.”
“Okay—did he return to her? He said he’d find her no matter what. . . .” At least I could discover if that part were true.
“Yes. When William the Third ascended the throne, he freed all the slaves in Algeria. The goldsmith valued Richard, since by then he had become an expert designer, so he offered Richard money and his firstborn daughter in marriage. But Richard returned to Claddagh, to his true love. There he designed and made the Claddagh ring—for her.”
“Oh . . . and this is a legend?” I stopped in front of Caitlin’s chair, my voice broke.
“It depends on who you talk to. Some believe it is true, others don’t. Richard Joyce is known to have made the first Claddagh ring, but whether the story is true? Who knows? It doesn’t really matter—the point is that it is Grandmama’s favorite. She’s told it over and over to us until I have it memorized. We all wear the ring; we all know the story and what the ring stands for: love, loyalty, and friendship.”
I stared out the tinted nursing home window. “Wow. I thought she was telling a story about her life. She didn’t change his name. She said his name was Richard.”
“Richard Joyce. Grandmama is a bard—a storyteller in Ireland. She loves to tell stories. She believes they guide and define our lives.”
“But she changed the names and even some of the places.”
“Galway Bay?”
“No, she didn’t change that, but here’s the weirdest part—she asked me to find him.”
“Find him?” Caitlin Morgan twisted her Claddagh ring again. “She must be even more confused than usual.”
“Or maybe she wanted me to find . . .” I stopped, reached for my own engagement ring and held the top of the diamond with my thumb and forefinger.
“Find what?”
“Nothing,” I said, waving my hand. “She did tell me he was taken into an Industrial School—some kind of horrible foster home in Ireland.”
“Oh . . . I get it. Well, that makes me even sadder . . . she’s mixing up her stories. Grandmama was a huge advocate in the reformation of Industrial Schools, where she believed children were neglected. She was instrumental in exposing the maltreatment and horrible facilities. She is very well known in Ireland for her devotion to this cause. She just got her two stories mixed up. Bloody hell, she’s ninety-six years old. Of course she got her stories mixed up. She calls me by my cousin’s name sometimes.”
I sighed. “Well, it was a pleasure to hear the story anyway.” I turned to walk away, slinging my purse farther up on my shoulder. I lifted my chin. “It was nice to meet you.” My feet were leaden, my heart as well.
“You too.”
I walked away, my soul opening in the wrong places—the sad places where Mama’s absence throbbed, where hurt and disillusionment lived. Maeve’s story was just a legend—her own concoction of truth and myth, fiction and nonfiction.
I left Verandah House and walked down the block toward my car, then changed my mind and my direction and ended at the community dock on Bay Street. I sat and took my shoes off, let my feet dangle above the water. When high tide rolled in, I’d be able to just touch the surface of the water. Low tide. High tide. They rolled in and out twice a day, a continuous movement of the earth’s oceans. If only my memories were as reliable. If I told the story of Jack Sullivan, of his leaving, would I, more than thirteen years later, now confuse the truth in the telling? Would I mix the facts up like Maeve had?
Well, maybe Maeve knew exactly what she was doing—maybe only the myths were worth recounting. A true story: Jack Sullivan. Now there was a very true story.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Some of those days with Jack