The day was brisk, but the channel was emerald and calm. Gisela and Elisabeth wore marled wool sweaters over their dresses, though Fiadh went without. All three took turns on the oars, one to helm, one to rest. Fiadh jumped from the punt, first onto the island, and whooped with success. “Look at us, girls. Look at us shine!” They pulled the boat onto the sand, clasped hands, spun in circles, collapsed onto their backs, a pile of giggles gazing up into sun-streaked clouds. Gisela wondered if they might live there, the three of them, safe from a world outside of their own making.
They climbed white-stained rocks, collected periwinkles of gold and blue in their pockets, watched fluffed robins flit from tree to tree. They called out to seals and sea otters, spied for dolphins. They vowed to write letters, Fiadh promising she would start when they had an address. And maybe they would hate America and return, or maybe Gisela and Elisabeth would want to go to America someday, she offered.
“Oh, America! No thank you,” said Elisabeth. “That would be awful.”
Fiadh’s face drooped.
“She means because of war. Their soldiers and their tanks and guns,” Gisela offered, though she could see from Fiadh’s long face that she wasn’t helping matters.
Elisabeth went to Fiadh, full of apology. “I’m sure the bombs are gone. They all exploded in Germany!”
Fiadh tightened and shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. They did win the war, after all,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact and snippy. She turned to the west, raised her palm to the sun to consider the sky and distant shore. “I’m sorry,” she said, backing down. “I didn’t mean that.”
Gisela admired the stiffness of her back, the way her hair caught the breeze off the Atlantic. She seemed carved from the stone she stood on.
Fiadh’s head whipped around. “It’s out there, you know. America. Waiting to claim my soul, ’tis. Right there.” She pointed. “If you squint, you can see it.”
Gisela followed Fiadh’s gaze. She knew all too well what it looked like to lose a war. What might it look like to win? She nudged Elisabeth, and the two of them went to Fiadh’s side. There, the three girls stood a moment, locked arm in arm, Dunmanus Bay before them, the home shore beyond.
“We should get back,” Fiadh said, finally. “What a shame we’ve run out of time.”
Would it have been better in some way if the wind had done them in, overturned their boat, sent the trio into the chopping waves? Or malice? Denis O’Kane, that sneaky spider, slipping into the cove with a hand drill to poke a hole in the punt? What it was, though, was silliness, bellies full of sunshine and pie. Yes, the wind had picked up along with the heave, making the rowing that much harder. But when Fiadh scooted over to make way for Gisela, whose turn it was at the oars, she noticed old man O’Kane’s boatThe Theresa, Conor at starboard, pulling in a line. Fiadh stood, waved both arms, yelled, “Ho, there!” and danced a bit of a jig to tell him that they’d made it to Carbery Island just fine, thank you very much. Elisabeth stood, too, always so eager to play along. The punt rocked and the girls laughed, but when Gisela dropped the oars for that moment, stood and twisted to see what the fuss was about, her foot caught on the handle of the picnic basket set against the clinker. She stumbled sideways, banged her hip on the gunwale, and cartwheeled into the white-tipped waves.
Seawater filled her eardrums, her skull and lungs. She gulped sea, doused her eyeballs in it. The sleeves of her wool sweater flopped as she batted against the finned waves circling her. Seals and dolphins and minkes, basking sharks and selkies and pirates and oysters. She could hear the click and yawp of all their voices. She clamored for something to grip. Some part of her rose above the water, struggled to survive,called to Elisabeth like she had called to their mother. The other part gave in, said sad prayers to Mutti and Vati.Jetzt bin ich auch tot.
A seahorse galloped toward her, and Gisela imagined lassoing it and riding it to shore. When it neared, it called her name, and Gisela gripped the flowing mane of seaweed on its neck, pulled herself onto its back, pushing it under the waves. It bucked her off, and she mounted again, tightening her knees into its flanks. She took two full breaths, thankful for the seahorse. It was only then that Gisela understood that her rescuer was not mythical but human. Her fingers wound into Fiadh’s hair, pulling back on the strands like reins.
She fell away, back into the dark water, only to feel arms pull her up and toss her onto the deck of a boat. And then the seahorse was next to her, Fiadh, soaked as a mop, blue and gasping as if a fishhook were still in her lip. The lobsterman bent over the bow rail to reel in one more catch. Elisabeth. Dry and white as bleached bone.
It took no time forThe Theresato reach the pier. The O’Kanes helped the girls off the boat, settled them side by side as a crowd gathered. Elisabeth wept between Jem and Denis, who could only stand by and dumbly watch. Gisela folded to the ground cross-legged, expelled from soaked lungs every prayer she’d prayed, expelled thoughts of sinking to the bottom of the sea, of being dragged into an underwater lair where no one grew old. Beside her, Fiadh, hands on her knees, coughed and belched as Conor pounded his fist against her back, his head bent at the same angle as hers. “You’re all right. You’re all right,” he repeated, his tone calling her out like she was mugging for pity. But as Jean and Thomas, Hannie and Hugh sprinted down the dock, Fiadh crumpled next to Gisela like her body had left her clothes.
Jean wailed and pushed Conor aside. Thomas cradled Fiadh in his arms. “My heart! My heart!” he cried, shouting for someone to go to town for the doctor.
Gisela could still feel Fiadh’s shoulders on her palms, though Thomas was halfway up the hill already, his daughter’s limp body inhis arms. A single strand of Fiadh’s hair coiled around her fingers. She stiffened when Hugh tried to lift her, clasping her hands oddly as if she were squashing a bug between them. What had she done?
Somewhere out in the bay, the punt flipped and sank into the darkening sea.
Chapter Five
1960: Mid-Coast Maine
Faye had not been upstairs in the farmhouse since she and William first started going together and he’d given her an awkward tour, leading her up the main staircase, along the banister that looked over the narrow front entryway. It was the house he and his sisters were raised in, those same Boston sisters who had eschewed the lilies. He’d come late in life for his parents, his mother’s pleasant surprise. He’d lived there alone since his mother’s cancer diagnosis and rapid decline to death, followed months later when his father, Thomas’s friend, pined away until his heart gave out in his sleep.
Now, Faye stood alone in front of the mirror in William’s bedroom, the bedroom they would share. She drew her hands down the laced bodice, along her breasts. She pressed her ribs to the bones of her hips that disappeared beneath a swell of satin swirling above her ankles. The dress was exactly as Faye had hoped it would be, exactly how she had described it to Jean, who had insisted on sewing it herself. Simple, feminine, tasteful. Faye’s brown hair was pinned back in a gentle roll. A veiled crown of flowers sat on the dressing table next to her, a gift from Aldo. This was her day, and she felt beautiful. The past—hers and William’s—could be locked away now where it belonged. She startled when a figure appeared in the reflection.
“You look grand,” Jean said wistfully, cocking her head then shaking it, as if she’d surprised herself. “Fiadh. I can almost imagine ...”
Faye flinched, dared to look around. Her mother hadn’t used that name in ages. In the moment, it felt purposeful, pointed. Almost accusatory.
You could hear a pin drop,Faye thought.
Did Jean remember that afternoon long ago in her sewing room, unfolding yards of fabric, the way she held it up to Faye’s face and frowned her disappointment? “Not your color,” she said, as if that were Faye’s fault. “But it will have to do. Slip out of your jumper now, child,” she’d said, gripping her own collar and pantomiming pulling up. “Put this on, and we’ll see where we are.” She handed Faye an old muslin dress pattern off the chair. Faye slipped it over her underthings while Jean fussed at the sewing table.
Faye remembered looking at her reflection, warped in the mirror, an imposter swimming in a shroud, scrawny arms dangling by her side, hands disappeared by the too-long sleeves. When Jean turned, her lips were pursed around a rake of glinting straight pins. Her mouth gaped open, and the pins fell to the floor, tinkling as if they were made of glass.
Not today,Faye thought.I will not give in to a ghost on my wedding day.She pressed her chin up, faced her mother. “It fits me perfectly.”
“You’re ready then? Your father’s waiting in the kitchen.”
