“Maybe you were fighting to survive. We do that alone too often.”
Faye stands, examines the photographs in plastic bags, the crucifixes and trinkets. “I wish I had something to leave. But all I have is the photograph. I won’t leave that.”
“You both left so much of yourselves here already. Isn’t that enough?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
1996: West Cork, Ireland
After a restless night in Cork, they rise early and head west. Nola Wren sits in the back seat with Faye, flipping through picture books quietly. Faye drinks her in, thinks about William’s spirit passing right through her, wonders what part of him might cling to her still. The rolling countryside is the green of beard moss, and the day, misty as a ballad. At one point, Maeve misses a turn, and they wind up along the wild Atlantic coast unfurling into a churning sea.
“How much farther?” Faye asks.
Molly spins in her seat, shows Faye the map of where they are, near Skibbereen, and where they’re heading, anXon a finger peninsula jutting into the Atlantic.
They make a turn and follow the Durrus River to where it flows into the bay near a vine-covered granary, long abandoned. The seacoast opens up along Sheep’s Head. Faye shudders at the sight of the choppy water.
“Anything look familiar, Mom?”
How memory plays its tricks! Sponged ground beneath tiny toes, the way a skirt moves when the girl wearing it skips in a meadow, warm bread in open hands, a stone in that same palm, musty hay on a lumpymattress, moonbeams shimmering like schooling fish on a calm bay, the sea smell in a girl’s wet hair.
Faye shakes her head. It’s too hard to describe.
“Let’s pop into a pub and ask for directions,” Molly says. “I don’t see a cemetery on this map. I mean, that’s the first stop, right? Pull over there,” she says, pointing. “I can run in.”
“No,” Faye says. “I should do it.”
“Let’s all go,” Maeve says. “We need to stretch anyway. Maybe they have sandwiches.”
Two empty kegs sit in front of the pub, and the smell of braising meat hits them when they open the dark door. Inside, there are three tables, stools at a short bar, and men raising pints. There are no women, and Faye feels it when they enter. The barman asks if they’re looking for a table. “Actually, we’re hoping for directions,” Faye says.
“Ah, Americans!” the barman says. “I can tell by the accent. Got a keen ear.”
Faye smiles awkwardly. “Yes. We’re looking for the cemetery.”
“Oh, digging around the family tree, are ye? What’s your name?”
Panic sets in. She glances over her shoulder at Maeve and Molly.
“Not meaning to ask you a hard question.”
An old man in a thick sweater and wool cap turns on his barstool to watch the exchange. He cocks his head, and Faye can see that he’s rolling his tongue over what teeth remain. He glowers at her as if he finds Americans in his pub offensive. “Well,” she says. “My name is Faye Sullivan. These are my daughters and granddaughter.”
“Lots of Sullivans here.”
“No.” Faye shakes her head. “No, I’m not looking for Sullivans. I had a different name before. I’m Fiadh Beatty.”I’m ten years old.“I ... I ... grew up near here. My parents were Thomas and Jean. You’re too young to remember them.”
The old man sneers, hands his glass to the barman, who pulls the tap back for him. “No Beattys around here anymore, if that’s who you’relooking for. You lads know of Beattys?” The men at the table shake their heads. “Francis?” The man stares as he sucks foam off his beer. “Say your name was again?” His voice is made of salt and smoke.
“Faye Sullivan. But I was Fiadh Beatty.”
“Dead Beattys from way back. Boys. They’re out there.”
Faye’s voice shakes now. She doesn’t dare bring up German girls who lived here once. “Out there. You mean the cemetery? Can you tell us how to get there?”
The barman flings a towel over his shoulder—two houses out of town, turn by the playground, stay left, a crown of trees, the hedgerow. “Can’t miss it,” he promises.
“You get that?” Maeve whispers to Molly. “I only understood half of what he said.”
