“Come here,” she says, as she pulls a hairbrush out of her bag.
I gawk at her. “Mom, no,” I say, pulling back when she reaches for me. “Are you out of your mind?” I push her hand away.
“Just letme fix your?—”
“No!” My voice rises in fury.
One. Two. Three. Four.
I tap my pocket. It doesn’t help.
Fingertips to thumb.Still doesn’t help.
I turn to Bridget, who immediately reaches for my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. I let out a breath. It helps.
“Here,” I say, handing her the sausage roll. Bridget sighs and leans back against her pillows. She takes a bite of the sausage roll and smiles. “Thanks, Erin. It’s delicious.”
“Of course,” I say.
My mother sighs. “Did you hear about the McCarthys? Something about a bomb?”
I thought it wise not to tell them what happened when I was there. Mam’s eyes are on her phone as she taps her screen with one perfectly manicured nail.
“A bomb?” “, as our family was McCarthy family adjacent.
My mother’s voice is flat as she stares at the phone. “It’s a shame. They’re well-loved in Ballyhock. People are outraged.”
A beat passes. When I don’t respond, she pierces me with another look.
“Oh, for god’s sake, Erin, are you still holding that high school grudge?” she says, rolling her eyes so hard they might stay that way. “Kids play. It’s what they do.”
Why does everyone suddenly love the McCarthys?
“Since when are you friends with the McCarthys?” I ask, giving her a curious look.
She sets the phone down like it’s made of glass. Her face goes a little pale.
She clears her throat. “Since I discovered the McCarthys are friends with Dr. Rosenberg. The one in Glasgow,” she says, quiet now.
I give her a sharp look.
“TheDr. Rosenberg? The one doing… experimental procedures. For people with…” Aplastic anemia.
“Aye.”
Bridget sits up straighter, and my stomach clenches. My mother puts on a detached, impersonal front, but I know how it breaks her heart to see her daughter sick, knowing there’s not a damn thing she can do about it.
No amount of motherly fussing—like brushing our hair, making us sit up straighter, or fixing what was visible so we wouldn’t embarrass her—can fix what’s breaking now.
“Listen…” My voice cracks. “We’ve talked about this. You know he’s booking two years out. And he refuses to take clients now. Even for bribes. Won't even meet with Da?—”
Or take his money or his bribes or anything.
Bridget’s eyes hold mine. She knows what I’m not saying.
We don’t have two years.
Six months, maybe eight if we’re lucky. That’s what the doctors said last week, the ones Mam doesn’t want to know about, as if denying reality will somehow keep Bridget here longer.
