“I won’t lie and tell you this gets easier,” Thomas says now, squeezing my shoulder.“It’s going to hurt like hell for a long while.It’ll still hurt as time goes on, but you’ll learn to live with it.”
This is one of the first truly meaningful, honest things anyone has said to me today.I’ve heard all kinds of platitudes: “He’s in a better place now” and “take comfort knowing his suffering has ended.”As grateful as I am that Dad is no longer suffering, as one of the people who loved him most, I can’t imagine a better place than here with his family.
I meet Thomas’s eyes.There’s sympathy there, along with a deep ache I’m sure is mirrored in my own eyes.“I’m sure you’ve heard this countless times in the last few days, but you were an amazing friend to him.He loved you a lot.”
Thomas swallows audibly, his eyes going misty.“I loved him a whole lot too.Best mate I ever had.”We stand in silence, with Thomas’s hand still resting heavily on my shoulder, like an anchor tethering us both to this new reality.After a few minutes, he takes a deep breath and straightens to his full height.“Guess I’ll get the speeches going since no one else seems keen to go first.Not that I blame them.”
He leans in and kisses my cheek.“I’ll be here for another few days, and I’ll drop in now and again to check on you and your ma.In the meantime, don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.And you’d better come visit me soon; the bartender at Leary’s has been asking about you again, and I need a rematch on our last game of snooker.”
I watch as he crosses the room to stand beside the poster of Dad.The hum of chatter slowly dies down as Thomas pours himself a shot of whiskey and holds it up toward the picture.He murmurs something in Irish before downing the shot.With a soft hiss, he sets the glass aside, laughing quietly and shaking his head.
More people crowd into the living room, filling the remaining seats, and standing wherever there’s free space.I want to sit with Mum, but Liam and his girlfriend Joss are on one side of her, with Mrs.Teage on the other.Liam catches my eye and points to his seat, indicating that he’ll give it to me, but I shake my head and motion for him to stay.Mum is clutching his hand in one of hers, with her other arm wrapped around Rex, pressing him close to her body.When Liam’s attention shifts away from me, I inch back into the doorway.I tell myself I’m making room for more people, but the real reason is this position will make it easier if I need a quick escape.
Thomas takes a deep breath and releases it slowly through pursed lips.“As some of you know, I’m Thomas Leary, Seamus’s best mate.Although I’m sure most of you know histruebest friend is sitting right there.”He smiles softly as he makes a sweeping gesture toward Mum.A few murmurs of approval go around the room before silence falls again.“I grew up with Seamus back in Ireland...in case you couldn’t guess from the accent.”
I love him for this.He’s trying hard to keep the mood light, which is what my dad wanted.The stiffness in his shoulders tells me it’s difficult to keep up the act.
Thomas clears his throat.He eyes the whiskey, then clasps his hands in front of him as if it takes physical effort to resist the temptation to indulge in an extra shot of liquid courage.“It’s no secret Seamus was loved by everyone he came in contact with.He was always popular in school, known for being kind, smart, funny, and willing to lend a helping hand or a listening ear.We parted ways when he went off to travel the world, and I thought I’d never see him again until one day he walked into my family’s pub back home.We picked up a conversation as if no time had passed at all, and he told me about his lovely new bride, the woman who’d finally convinced him to still those wandering feet of his...”
Thomas keeps speaking, but I’m distracted by low whispers coming from a few feet away.I lean forward to see Mrs.Allan, one of our gossipy neighbours, talking to Mrs.Levy, who owns the deli downtown.I attempt to tune them out and focus on Thomas, who’s now telling one of my favourite stories about the time he and my dad pretended to be tour guides in Cork and made a small fortune off a group of unsuspecting tourists—a story that ended up in one of my dad’s books years later.
“—missed her own grandmother’s funeral, you know,” Mrs.Allan whispers.“I’m surprised she even bothered to come back for Seamus’s.”
Mrs.Levy tuts.“It’s an absolute crime she wasn’t here forbothof her parents these last few months.She always was a flighty one, but this is too much, even for her.”
“I’m sure it won’t be long before she breezes out of town again and leaves poor Mae all on her own,” Mrs.Allan says.“Do you know...”Her voice drops further, and I can picture her beckoning Mrs.Levy closer, her eyes gleaming conspiratorially.“I haven’t seen her shed a single tear since she’s been home.Notone!It’s positively shameful.”
With my heart in my throat, I slip out of the room and all but run for the stairs.Even if this wasn’t Dad’s wake, I wouldn’t waste my breath saying anything to those gossips.There would be no point; they’ve always believed what they wanted to about me, and I can’t see that changing.Lashing out at them would give them more ammunition and another reason to believe their disdain for me is justified.
I’ll never understand why people considered my dad’s desire to travel charming and found him worldly and fascinating, yet they assumedmywanderlust made me believe I was somehow better than them.Most people from Honeywell stay here for life, but from an early age, I knew I wanted to see and experience everything the world has to offer.People called me a dreamer, said I had my head in the clouds and stars in my eyes, as if any of that were a bad thing.I never lost my sense of wonder or stopped believing in magic the way so many of them did, and that, apparently, is an unforgivable sin.
Except to Seamus Murphy.And now he’s gone.
I’m seething by the time I reach the top of the stairs.I can’t believe they’d bring up my grandmother’s funeral today of all days, even if they didn’t realize I could hear them.Several years ago, Mum’s mother died suddenly while I was leading a group on a three-week backpacking trip across Europe.We were spending a week in the middle of nowhere, France, where we had spotty cell reception, no Wifi, and the closest phone was nearly two kilometres away.By the time I got the message that Grandma had died, I’d missed the funeral.
Even though I insisted I could be on the next flight out, Mum told me to finish the trip and come home when I could.When I finally got to Honeywell, we had our own private memorial, and I spent a week holed up with my parents, sharing stories about Grandma, and sorting through her belongings before returning to London.
My parents understood.Theyalwaysunderstood.Never once did they blame me or make me feel bad for being away.They were proud of me and they encouraged me, especially Dad.But according to the people in this town, I deserve the World’s Worst Daughter Award.
My legs carry me automatically to Dad’s office door.I should go back downstairs, but my feet are rooted to the spot.Mum is in such a fog, I doubt she’ll even notice I’m gone.Others likely will, but what they think of me isn’t my concern.I lift my hand as if to knock on the door, then deflate when I realize what I’ve done.Old habits really do die hard.
I turn the knob and step inside.I haven’t been in here since I arrived, and the familiar scent hits me like a punch to the gut.I suck a breath into my tight lungs, then another, but it still feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest.This room has always smelled the same: a combination of lemon furniture polish, old books, Dad’s Irish Spring soap, the musky cologne he wore, and, of course, peppermint.
It takes me at least a minute to work up the courage to turn the light on and walk fully into the room.I stop at the desk, trailing my fingers over the polished wood.Piles of papers and reference books litter the surface, and yellow sticky notes are plastered haphazardly along one side of the computer monitor.‘Organized chaos’ is what Dad called it.He always knew where everything was.
My gaze travels around the overstuffed bookshelves.All thirty-seven of the novels he published take pride of place, front and centre.There’s a small light built into the top of the shelf that can be turned on to shine directly on the books.Mum set it up as a surprise for Dad’s birthday one year.She said she knew he’d think it was ridiculous and hilarious and cheesy—in other words, perfect.She said Dad worked hard and deserved to have a literal spotlight shone on his work.
I round the desk and stand beside the huge leather chair.Dad’s favourite threadbare cardigan is draped over the back.I can picture him sitting here, fingers flying across the keyboard, brows furrowed in concentration.Throughout my childhood, he’d let me sit in here to watch him or do my homework or occasionally write my own stories.He eventually set up a small work station for me with a table and comfortable chair near the window, since he knew I liked to be able to look outside.
I wander around the room, trailing my fingers over the spines of books, and looking at things without really seeing them.After doing a slow loop, I return to the desk and pluck the cardigan from the back of the chair.I swing it around my shoulders as I slide into the chair, inhaling until my lungs are full of Dad’s scent.I wish there were a way to preserve it.To bottle it and keep it forever so that when it begins to fade from my memory, I’d always have it handy.
I scan the framed photos that take up one side of the desk.There are collages on the wall, but Dad kept some of his favourite photos here where he could see them while he worked.There’s one of him and Mum on their wedding day, their smiles big and goofy, eyes bright and shining with love.One of them holding me on the day I was born, with Mum smiling tiredly at the camera while Dad stares down at me with so much love and wonder in his eyes, it pokes sharply at the ache in my chest.One of Dad and Rex in this very room, curled up in the armchair by the window, with Dad reading to Rex.One of Dad and me in front of the cottage in Ireland; Mila took this shot the first time she and I visited Dad together, and it’s one of my favourites.
I pick it up to examine it more closely and notice a smaller frame behind it.It’s a picture of Nathan and me one summer when we were teens.In the shot, I’m on the tire swing in Nathan’s backyard; my head is thrown back, mouth open mid-laugh, and Nathan’s arms are out as if he just pushed me.The look on his face nearly stops my heart.It feels like an eternity since I last saw that love-struck grin on his face.Hell, it feels like an eternity since I’ve seen him aimanyexpression at me other than hurt, irritation, judgement, or indifference.
I set the frame I’m holding back on the desk and pick up the picture of Nathan and me.My fingers have a life of their own as they trace the glass over Nathan’s face.He was one of the first people to arrive today.We barely said more than hello to each other, but I saw him moving through the house, talking to people, taking a shot of whiskey with Thomas and Liam, bringing Mum a plate of food, and then lingering to make sure she ate some of it.He seems as comfortable here as I imagine he is in his own home.
“I asked him once why he kept that picture on his desk.”
