The Souls of Drowned People

Chapter Three

The inevitable happened before I even had time to consider how I was going to pick the fatty chunks of beef out of the stew my mother set in front of me.

            I wasn’t surprised. Cillian warned me that it would happen, as he always did. And it always happened.

            Whenever Cillian came to stay with us, his grandmother always showed up for dinner at least two of the nights he was with us. She lived half an hour away from us, but we were ignored for the most part. All she and my mother had in common was that they were Irish woman who hated living on the water, and all she and I had in common was that we both loved Cillian. Or at least I did, and his grandmother pretended to; she hugged him stiffly when she saw him, told him he needed a haircut, and then made him hold her arm as she hobbled over to the couch.

            It was better than what I received from her. When I answered the door, she looked me over coldly. She smiled like she knew something I didn’t, something she was never going to tell me. She brought up Ireland too much, in a hinting, taunting fashion, that drove me mad with curiosity and my mother mad with anger.

            And just as Cillian warned, I had barely pushed my chair underneath our kitchen table when she patted my arm with her too soft old lady hands and said, “Would you like to say the blessing, Moira?”

            Cillian, sitting across from me, stuck the tip of his tongue out at me, slipping it back inside his mouth before anyone else could see. Cillian loved having dinner with us and his grandmother— it meant he didn’t have to do anything.

            I shifted in my chair. “Right. Of course.”

            We ducked our heads, folded our hands. I glanced desperately at Cillian for help.

            May the road rise up to meet you, he mouthed.

            “May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind always be at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face . . .”

            When I was finished with the blessing, but before anyone could say something else, I quickly added, “And bless the soul of my father and the others who have drowned.”

            I was never good at these kinds of things. I fumbled over words, said the wrongs things. But no error had ever been met with this kind of silence.

            Cillian quickly crossed himself, and his grandmother and my mother did the same. Their fingers moved instinctively up and down, and I wondered if it meant anything to them anymore, or if it was like the kisses Cillian placed on my forehead. Only tradition, meaning nothing.

            I got to work at pushing the soggy meat into the corners of my bowl, unable to look at anyone except Cillian. I heard my mother clench and unclench her teeth.

            “Tell us about Ballycotton, Cillian,” his grandmother said. “I do miss that village sometimes.”

            “It’s still the same. Lots of rain this summer. That same fishy smell down in the harbor. This has been a nice summer, though. We’ve had enough tourists start coming through that Ma’s started having all sorts of wild ideas about opening a bed and breakfast. If I come home and there’s some family staying in my room, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

            “And the family? How’s Bridget?’

            “Bright and beautiful, as always. I’ve been to seven different choir concerts for her this spring, and she’s had solo parts in all of them.”