Hannie Rising Excerpt 5

Kate Kelliher, nee Enright, was angry. She’d been angry for a long time. It felt like years. She’d narrowed down the root of her misery to her marriage. Ever since she’d been mindless enough to marry Dermot Kelliher and set up housekeeping in the tiny apartment over the hardware store his family had owned for generations, happiness had eluded her. The flat was no place to raise a child, not to mention two adults who were constantly banging into each other every time someone wanted a cup of tea or a snack from the cupboard. The washroom was so cramped there was no need for a lock on the door. All she had to do was sit on the toilet in the natural position. One knee, the left one, and the corresponding forearm would be involuntarily pressed up against the door so tightly there was no possibility of anyone surprising her in the act.

She hadn’t intended for her life to end up this way. Kate had been to America on an exchange during her third year at university. She’d easily acclimated to automatic transmission, garbage disposals, French toast with maple syrup and mixers that guaranteed water would pour from the tap at the perfect temperature. She wanted frost-free refrigerators and ice makers and coffee shops that opened for breakfast on Sunday mornings and restaurants that weren’t pubs. She wanted perpetual hot water without having to remember to flip a switch thirty minutes ahead of when she needed it, and heat that turned on and off according to a preset temperature.

She wanted to live in a world that wasn’t obsessed by trash, where to store it and where to dispose of it, in the brown, green or white recycler, in the paper and package dumpster, in the compost pile in the garden or, God forbid, surreptitiously into one of the bins opposite a grocery store, strip mall or take-away express.

She wanted to never see another clothesline with flapping drawers and baby nappies. She wanted ranch dressing for her salads, Splenda for her coffee and tall, sweet, sweating glasses of lemon-flavored iced tea on an outdoor patio with a thermometer that read eighty degrees. She wanted checkers in supermarkets to bag her groceries instead of watching with their arms folded while she juggled plastic bags, a coin purse and a baby pram. She wanted plastic bags at no charge when she forgot hers in the car. She wanted to pay three dollars, not six euro for a pastry and a cup of coffee and she wanted to sit in an outdoor café to eat and drink them. She wanted to wake up without thinking about the weather, engage in conversations that had nothing to do with weather and shop for food without taking an umbrella.

America was perfect. So what if no one could brew a decent cup of tea or that the doors in the bathroom stalls only came down as far as a woman’s knees which really wasn’t very nice at all. So what if white woman never pushed their own babies in their prams or cleaned their own houses? These were small things, hardly significant at all. She wanted it back, the life she left, the entire package.

Most of all, Kate wanted Ritchie O’Shea to divorce his American wife, come back to Ireland and shock all the gossips by walking down Castle Street with his arm around her waist. Actually, if she were completely truthful with herself, and she nearly always was, it wasn’t Ritchie she wanted. She’d given up on Ritchie long ago, but she did want someone very like him. She wanted all the spiteful women who remembered that she’d been jilted to fall off Fenit Pier in the middle of a very cold rain. She wanted them to know that once upon a time she had a career, not a job, that their deliberate references to her marrying up were rude and boring and that, in another lifetime, she could have bought and sold every one of them ten times over if she’d cared enough.

God, how she missed Mickey. Twin tears collected in the corners of her eyes. Hurriedly, she brushed them away. How dare he up and die like that when she desperately needed him, before anything was settled? Nan was no help. She was dotty as a loon and getting worse every day. Liam was only concerned about himself and the latest Miss Ireland he could talk the drawers off of. That left Mom.

Normally, Kate wouldn’t have minded asking her mother for anything. Johannah Enright had always been a soft touch. But there were some things her mother steadfastly refused to consider, and one of them was the breaking of a sacrament, particularly the marriage sacrament.

Baby John

Four weeks ago, Jennifer had a baby boy. Months of nervously awaiting the results of every heart monitor, every fetal size measurement, every glucose test, every pelvic examination were over in 12 hours of miraculously easy labor and delivery. John Hogan Readey IV made his appearance at 7:55 in the evening, all 7 pounds 11 ounces and 20.5 inches of him, a healthy beautiful baby with all his parts intact and working properly.

Delivering a baby in 2013 bears no resemblance to giving birth 40 years ago. The birthing rooms today look like large hotel suites with the exception of all the monitors attached to the mother. Parents, siblings, the husband, of course, and an occasional friend or two walk around freely or sit in comfortable chairs making casual conversation and sharing memories while the laboring mother decides when the contractions merit an epidural. Today’s epidural need not be given at the last moment. Modern medicine has come up with an incredible invention, a pain reliever that does not block contractions allowing the mother to relax, even sleep, through what was once such an uncomfortable experience that I waited six years between children.

Delivery, in Jennifer’s case, was not nearly as dramatic as in the movies. All went smoothly and quickly. Baby John, eyes wide open, was vigorously rubbed into color, his Vitamin K shot administered with only a mild protest, his sugars tested, eyes doused with antibiotics, a beanie pulled over his head and a blanket swaddled tightly around his little limbs. Dad held him first, then mom.

Still only minutes old, my tiny grandson was placed in my

arms. All at once, my universe shifted. For thirty years there were two people on this planet for whom I would step in front of a runaway truck. Now, as of September 16^th, 2013, there are three. As Melanie Wilkes in GONE WITH THE WIND said, “Everyone loves babies, Captain Butler. Babies are life renewing itself.”

Hannie Rising Excerpt 4

         

            “This part is difficult for me,” said Peter, scratching the side of his neck and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the calling card of a man in discomfort. “No matter how often I do this, it doesn’t get easier. You’re right about one thing. There’s no point in mincing words.” He drew a deep breath and released it. “You’re dead, Mickey Enright, and if you’re to end up in a place that’s satisfactory to you and to me, there’s work to be done. I’ll help you, of course, but most of the labor must be yours.”

            Mickey laughed. This Peter, whoever he was, had swallowed one too many. “Listen lad. I know what ails you. I’ve been there more times than I care to remember. Why don’t you sleep it off and we can talk later.”

            “Dying.” Peter paused. “Such a harsh word, dying. I don’t like the sound of it. I suppose we could use passed away although that isn’t really accurate either. We don’t actually pass away. There’s no away about it. Rather, we move on. Passed on is a better phrase, although it could mean a number of things besides leaving one life to start a new one.” He looked at Mickey. “That’s all there is to it. It’s your time to leave your life as you know it and begin again.”

            Mickey’s head was in a muddle. The man was nattering on about passing and dying and starting again. It was outrageous, of course, but there was a small bit Mickey couldn’t get out of his head, the part about the nurses he knew and the doctor who lived on his side of town. It was very close to the scene he’d witnessed, too close to be mere coincidence. He decided to test the messenger. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

             Peter looked affronted. “Bearing false witness isn’t possible for me.”

 “You’ve made a mistake with me,” Mickey repeated. “It isn’t my time at all.”

            “My good man,” Peter protested. “Mistakes aren’t made here.”

            “Mistakes are made everywhere,” countered Mickey. “You sound like an Englishman. Are you English?”

            “Certainly not.  England didn’t exist when I came into my position. I’m an original follower, an apostle, and we don’t make mistakes.”

            “I’d like to speak to a higher authority.”

            Peter stared at him. “I can’t remember orienting anyone quite like you before. There is only one Higher Authority and if you’d done more speaking with Him when you were alive, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

            “Am I prohibited from seeing Him?”

            “You haven’t reached the place where you are able to see Him, although that will come. You may speak with Him, however. Anyone may speak with Him, although the answers you receive may not be the ones you hope for.”

            Mickey folded his arms against his chest. “I want to see Him.”

            Peter glared disapprovingly. “You Irish have been falsely credited. You are an impatient and rude people.”

“Sorry?”

“You heard me. You have your tea breaks, your pastries and custards and your lovely way of turning a phrase. You’ve a reputation for politeness. But underneath it all, there’s your wit which can be cruel, your vague and twisting replies to direct questions, your unending, merciless, destructive penchant for ugly gossip and, of course, your superior, unquestioning belief that you are the chosen race. You are an arrogant population as well. You have a lovely country, but loveliness isn’t unique. You forget the grandeur of the Rockies, the chiseled beauty of the Grand Canyon, the blue glaciers of Alaska. Your tiny scrap of patchwork green, forever surrounded by clouds and inundated by constant, miserable, bone-chilling rain is not what God intended as His model for heaven.”

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Alone Time

It’s 10:00 am and I have the whole day to myself. I’ve been to the pool for a swim, Skyped with my husband in Ireland, showered, read the Sunday Times from cover to cover and savored two cups of Blue Mountain coffee. Heaven, as I see it.

I don’t have much time alone. This is my precious summer vacation, my respite from classes of 35 middle schoolers. I like them. I really do. But not every day. Still, no one consulted with me about the hours of the school calendar. Two weeks to go before my time is managed more than most working people. A classroom teacher is on every minute of contact time. Even her bathroom and water breaks are regulated.

Normally, in the summer, I’m in Ireland with my husband for 8 weeks while he plays the saxophone throughout County Kerry. This year, as many of you know, my daughter is expecting her first child. It hasn’t been an easy pregnancy. Jennifer has health issues which, happily, have resolved themselves. For me, it meant flying home a month early, cooking, cleaning, shopping and chauffeuring. Healthy little John Hogan Readey is expected momentarily. The anticipation is making it difficult to sleep. All of which makes me appreciate a Sunday on my own.

I don’t want to be alone permanently. I’ve done that, too, and it’s beyond lonely. The idea is to have an occasional day where nothing is pre-arranged and no one is expecting you, where the house is quiet and the energy low, where a great book awaits, (currently I’m reading Maggie O’Farrell) and, hopefully, the writing muse is stirred.

Tomorrow, the phone will ring. Jennifer will need a ride to her doctor’s appointment. Michael, home from Chicago, will want to “hang out,” dental appointments will be made and a long overdue air conditioning maintenance scheduled. Today, however, is still ahead and still my own.

Slain Abhaile

Jeanette

The Ireland Novels

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Hannie Rising, excerpt 3

It still amazed her how much she missed him. When he was alive there had been times when she’d longed to be alone, when she’d envisioned the luxurious comfort of sleeping in the middle of the bed, of washing only her own clothes, of listening to music she preferred and eating only salad and a boiled egg for tea. She never voiced those sentiments, of course, not even to Maura. But she’d wished for them. Sometimes, in her Catholic background of tangled guilt, she wondered if she’d wished too hard, if God had punished her by giving her what she thought she wanted and then realized, too late, that she didn’t want it at all, that she would give anything to wash Mickey’s clothes and cook his meals and hear his voice at the other end of her mobile.

It was a silly idea, of course. Johannah wasn’t pious enough, nor egocentric enough, to believe that God was overly concerned with the wishes of a middle-aged woman from Kerry. Mickey’s heart attack was the result of blocked arteries, a family predisposition, the doctor called it, plaque lining the arteries preventing blood flow to the heart. Smoking and drinking hadn’t helped. Neither had the vanillas he regularly consumed. Sick arteries weren’t always evident. Who would have thought Mickey Enright with his flat stomach, smooth skin and head full of brown hair was at risk for a heart attack? But he was and now he was gone and she was alone.