“I’m not a crone!” Faye says.
Maeve spots a plaque laid in stone around the fountain. “Look,” she says. “‘With gratitude for the help given to German children by the Irish people after World War II.’ Mom!”
A shiver of ghosts clacks up Faye’s spine.
Maeve pages through the travel guide. “It says here the statue was dedicated in 1957. The sculptor was German. One plaque is in English and one in Irish.”
Faye is spellbound by the statue, by memories sparking around her like fireflies. “It was here all along. If your father and I had come to Ireland, we would have seen it together. Proud as he was to be Irish, he was ashamed that Ireland stayed out of the war, ashamed for the way they played the whole the-enemy-of-my-enemy card. He couldn’t understand it after all he’d seen the Germans do. I really felt like he hated the Germans. And I never wanted to be his enemy.”
Molly picks up Nola Wren. “You and Dad were so in love it was ridiculous. There’s no way he would ever have seen you as his enemy. You two made love look like it was supposed to be easy. I resented it, honestly.”
“You resent everything,” Maeve says.
Molly scoffs. “You’re no picnic either. You’re telling me you didn’t worry Mom and Dad would be disappointed in you if they knew you were gay? Give me a break.”
“Give me a break,” Nola Wren says, mimicking Molly’s words, down to the tone.
Molly shrugs. “I don’t know, Mom. Maybe if you’d been honest, it would have been easier on me and Maeve to screw up. If we didn’t think we had to be perfect.”
“I never asked that of you,” Faye says. “Perfection. Never.”
“Maybe you didn’t ask it. But Molly has a point. You two were hard to live up to. You both had such high standards. I didn’t think you ever made mistakes. When Molly and I did something that you thought was wrong, you told us to hide it or pretend it never happened. It was like silencing us proved that the secret we kept really was something to be ashamed of. You were ashamed of your secrets, so you made us ashamed of ours.”
“You know what?” Molly says nodding to the statue of the three women. “Maybe they’re all Mom.” She twirls her fingers in the air, winding imaginary yarn. “She unwound the thread, she measured it out, and she cut it. Fate sealed.”
“That’s a little much,” Maeve says.
Molly purses her lip. “You’re right. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Faye says, disarming the attack. “I’ve put you through a lot.” Faye considers the statue again. Three fates or one? One thread or three? “But, in my defense, I’ve been through a lot too. It’s a miracle Elisabeth and I got out of Germany at all. I do wish I’d given your father the chance to decide about me for himself. You’re right about that.”
Maeve takes Faye’s hand. “Dad loved you. Period. No matter what. He loved us all.”
A throng of schoolgirls enters the park, knee socks and Mary Janes, plaid skirts and blue jackets and beanie hats, their voices joyous and young and hopeful. “You know what? We Sullivan women are survivors,” Molly says, strapping Nola Wren into her stroller. “But I don’t have energy to start crying again right now. Can we get lunch? I’m starving.”
Faye watches her daughters walk down the path, side by side. She places her hand on the cool granite. It could have come from a quarry in the west, like stones she skipped with Fiadh and Elisabeth and those damned O’Kane boys. If Fiadh was cut short in childhood and Fayeis the crone, would that mean Elisabeth was lost between youth and old age? Faye bundles her coat and follows her girls into the bustle of Dublin.
Molly lies awake, picturing everyone who has slept in this room over a hundred—maybe two hundred—years, bodies in this exact bed or the one next to it. Nola Wren curls up beside her, not quite touching but close enough that Molly feels her breath on her arm. In fact, the room is thick with breath, as if even the oxen and horses, the ladies and farmers on the fussy toile wallpaper are breathing too. Laughter and ruckus drift up from pubs below. Her thoughts collide like bodies on a dance floor. She will never sleep. She rolls over carefully.
“Maeve,” she whispers. Her sister faces her, but her eyes remain closed. “Maeve!” More urgently this time. Maeve’s mouth moves. Molly knows she’s perturbed. “I know you’re awake. Open your eyes.”
Maeve’s teeth flash in the streetlight. Her eyes flutter and roll. “What?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Try harder.”
A peal of laughter from the street below pings off the window.
Molly turns the digital clock so Maeve can see the red numbers. “It’s only ten o’clock. Let’s go down and get a beer.”
“No! I’m asleep. I’m in my pajamas. This day has been long enough already.”
“Please. One beer. A pint in Dublin while we’re still pure Irish.”
The pub is packed, but Molly manages to find two stools at the bar.
“You’ve always had it,” Maeve says loudly, leaning in to talk in bar voice. She sips caramel foam off her pint of Guinness.
