“And the forensic evidence?” he asks. But before my lawyer can respond, the judge tires. He closes his folder of forms. “We’re not here to debate old cases. The issue at hand is whether Mrs. Lynch is a danger to her fellow citizens, or likely to reoffend.”
“I’m not,” I say. “I’m no danger to anyone.”
He considers me. I wonder what it is that he sees standing before him. Eventually he sighs. “Despite what your very assured representation insists, a jury of your peers judged you guilty. But I have here a letter of support from your mother-in-law, Mrs. Penny Lynch. She states that she’s willing to accommodate you for the period of your parole, and I’m sure I don’t need to express how much of an endorsement this is, given the circumstances. So for this reason alone I’m going to grant your parole. But bear in mind, Mrs. Lynch, that this country has no tolerance for broken paroles and even the slightest misstep will carry with it the weight of your full sentence, and additional time. So I strongly advise you to pay careful attention to the rules laid down by your parole officer.”
With that it’s finished, I’m free. I feel like giving him the finger and telling him of my plan to skip straight out of this fucking country, this country that has caused me nothing but grief. Instead I thank him politely and hug Mara, and then I’m on my way.
Niall’s mother is waiting for me outside the prison. I feel a bit like I’m in a movie, the way she’s leaning on her car. Except that she’s not the type of woman who leans on cars—that would be far too casual a stance for someone of her stature—so then why. I am wary as I approach her. I see it instantly: the toughness has gone out of her edges. The car might be the only thing keeping her upright.
“Hello, Franny,” she says.
“Hi, Penny.”
There is a long silence. It’s sunny for a change, and almost too glaring for us to properly make each other out.
“Why did you do this?” I ask her.
She rounds the car to the driver’s side. “It’s not for you. It’s for my son.”
“Can you take me to him?”
Penny nods once.
I get in the car.
27
Sterna Paradisaea, SOUTH ATLANTIC OCEAN MATING SEASON
Ennis finds me sleeping among the letters, exhausted from throwing up for most of the night. He is much wearier than I am, though—he’s been steering us over waves all night, performing miracles. It feels calm now, so he must have laid anchor.
I move over so he can slump onto the hard mattress. It’s claustrophobic down here with its low ceiling and narrow walls, but it’s nice to have him beside me.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Think we’re about a day or so out. Go take a look.”
“You did so well last night. I’m very lucky to have met you, Ennis Malone.”
He smiles without opening his eyes. “I’m just looking for the Golden Catch, kid. What are you doing out here?”
I don’t answer.
Ennis opens one eye a crack and squints at the letters I’m sprawled atop. “I wonder if your husband knows how deeply you long for him.”
My heart flounders. If he doesn’t know, then that is my fault and mine alone.
“That’s the longing of a parting,” Ennis observes.
“Experience?”
He smiles a little. “Yes.”
I have never hated you more.
“With your wife…” I say, not sure what I’m asking but needing something.
“It was sweet for a long time,” he answers. “Simple.”
“So then why?”
Ennis rolls onto his back and looks at the ceiling. “Her name’s Saoirse,” he says. “Thirty-six when she got diagnosed with Huntington’s.”
Ennis looks at me and something in him reaches out to comfort the shock I feel, the sadness, and I’m aware of the generosity of this.
“It was a wasting thing. She deteriorated quickly, and decided I must leave her.”
“Why?”
“Because in her mind we existed somewhere sacred and she couldn’t let that be ruined. She didn’t want me to see her … lessen. It was about dignity, I think. About allowing the thing we had to remain intact. She wanted me to go back to the sea, so at least one of us could live.”
“And you left?”
“Not for a long time.” I watch him struggle, not wanting to speak. He shakes his head. “I didn’t want to go. I fought it. But I had to, I think. It was the only thing she wanted from me. I couldn’t fix her and I didn’t have anything else to give her … She didn’t trust me with the children, to be constant for them, she thought it best that I was free and they went to her parents.”
“Did she…?”
“She’s still alive.”
I breathe out slowly, unbalanced. “I don’t understand.”
Ennis stands up. It feels aggressive in its suddenness. “She begged me. Begged me to leave.”
It’s unbearable, abruptly. The heart of me is cleaved in two. “What are you doing here, Ennis?” I demand. “You left your dying wife and your children to come on some fucking fool’s errand!”
He looks away. “They’re better off without me, those kids. A madman for a father.”
“Bullshit. You have to go back,” I say. “You have to go back to your family. You don’t understand how important it is to be with her when she dies, to be holding her. And when she goes, your children will need you.”
“Franny—”
I walk from the cabin. Trying to keep out what has begun to creep back in.
Moths dancing in the headlights.
To the helm and then the stern and oh. There are icebergs floating around me, and a crystal sea of blue glass, and an infinite sky of snow. How is it that such beauty still exists? How could it have survived our destruction?
I have never tasted air as clean as this.
Still:
A bag of football uniforms in my hands.
Bare feet in the snow.
The scent of blood in my nose.
GALWAY, IRELAND FOUR YEARS AGO
It’s predictable that I would make this decision tonight, after spending the afternoon at a child’s second birthday party. I’ve watched my husband play with the kids all evening, watched him clean smears of cake off their mouths, watched him kiss them good night as their parents took them off to bed at sundown and the adults’ party began. Niall’s old colleague, Shannon from NUI, has put on the do for her toddler, which is more like what I’d imagine post-Oscars parties are like, with champagne fountains and floating lights and black-tie formal wear. I have no idea where her money comes from, because an academic’s salary is definitely not this lush. Maybe it’s family money, like Niall’s. Either way, the waste of it all feels gross.
Now that the children are gone I feel tired, and I think Niall does, too, for we find ourselves sitting out back despite the freezing weather, passing between us a bottle of Dom we pinched from the kitchen. Shannon would be horrified if she caught us drinking it without flutes.
“Remember our first Christmas?” he asks.
I smile. “In the cottage.”
“You said you wanted to buy it and live there.”