screen; I picked up the book and flipped through the pages. My breath paused as my eyes skimmed to a list of the dead on the ships of Cleggan Bay. Richard O’Leary—born 1908, died 1927.
There he was listed: a real man with a real story. He was among the presumed dead fishermen who had gone out that terrible night in October, 1927.
I checked out the book, drove home and dropped into a chair in the study to read about the wives that had held their holy medals while praying, crying out for their loves ones, “Oh God who walked the waters once, bring them safely home.” Maeve’s true love had died the night she had decided not to run hard after him, not to leave her life for him.
My tears came with the knowledge and the sorrow: her story and sadness were true.
I don’t know how long I sat curled in that chair, how long I mourned for Maeve, for Richard. It was Deirdre’s face I finally saw when I looked up. She stood in the doorway with Bill.
“Kara.” She ran toward me. “Are you okay? Is Daddy . . . is everything . . .”
I wiped at my face and stood. “I’m fine . . . really.” I tried to smile. “I was just reading an old book. . . .” I glanced at Bill, at Deirdre. “What are you two doing tonight?”
Deirdre smiled, but her face was pale, drained. “We came to . . . well...”
“Thank you,” Bill said, and stepped forward.
“For what, William Garner Barrett the Fourth?”
He laughed, slapped his leg. “For—”
Deirdre interrupted, “For helping me to—go to him, try and work this out, because I truly do love him, adore him.”
“I helped?”
She nodded. “You did.” She touched Bill’s arm. “Can I talk to her for a minute?” He nodded and walked toward the kitchen. “I mean it, Kara. I want to thank you. It will be a long, long road we have to get down—but I refuse to shut myself off from one more piece of life.”
“What made you decide to go to him . . . to try?”
“Your story about the turtles. . . .” Her voice choked and she turned away. “Your story.”
When I returned to the hospital in the morning, the hush surrounding Maeve’s room was ominous. I knocked on the door; Seamus opened it and came into the hall.
“She’s resting now,” he said, and wiped at his red face. “It has been a very long night.”
“Can I just see her for one minute? That’s all I need,” I said, “one minute.”
He squinted at me. “It’s important?” His hair stuck up at odd angles; his wrinkled shirt was buttoned one button off.
“Very,” I said.
He opened the door, escorted me in. The room was empty of other family members. “Where is everyone?” I asked.
“They all went home to shower, shave . . . I’ll leave you alone, but it can only be for a few minutes. She must rest.”
I nodded. “I know.”
Seamus closed the door behind him, and I sat next to Maeve. I leaned close to her face. “Maeve, it’s me, Kara.”
“Hmmm,” she said, but didn’t open her eyes.
“I found him.” My words caught in a withheld sob.
She opened her eyes and stared at me with the clarity of a younger woman. “You found him?”
“Yes, Maeve. He is real.”
“Of course he is. Did you ever believe otherwise?”
“Yes, I believed otherwise. I did. I loved the story and the sweetness of it, but I didn’t believe. . . . I do now.”
“You must not need proof to believe.”
“I know that now; I know. I should have believed all along—and deep down I did, I was just afraid to believe.”
“Don’t be. . . .”
“I am telling you, Maeve, because on the day I met you, you asked me to find him. I will never be able to thank you adequately for all you’ve given to me, for all you’ve taught me, but I can grant you that wish to know what happened to him.”
“And?”
“He died the same night you lay on the dock waiting for your husband, the night you vowed not to run after him, not to abandon your life for him. He was on one of the fishing boats out of Connemara; he died in the Cleggan Bay Disaster. You didn’t know this? You never saw the list?”
“No, I never tried to find him and I never . . . knew all those who died that terrible night.” She sighed. “He died; I