Chapter Three
I should have known.
If my grandfather simply delaying the release of his book made news, it should have been obvious that his death would cause a firestorm. It's funny, you never really take into consideration how deeply something will affect you until there's an army of photographers standing outside your door.
Randy does his best to push them away as we step outside into the craziness. Flashbulbs blind me as reporters ask unanswered questions. As if to take my silence as an invitation rather than a rebuttal, they begin inquiring the rest of the family. Randy, my mom, even poor Terry, who seems scared and more than a little confused about the whole thing, try to duck and dodge their rude, intrusive queries.
I scoop Terry up before she bursts into tears and my mom, seeing the growing impatience on Randy's face, pulls him toward the car. Voices shout from behind me and Terry buries her face into my shoulder.
"Bell, how are you feeling?"
"Do you feel guilty that you weren't with him at the end?"
"Do you have any words of comfort for your grandfather's fans?"
"What?" I ask, turning around, my face scrunched up accusingly. "Comforting words?" The whole idea of me comforting strangers over a loss in my family is unfathomable. My mother grabs me and pulls me into the car before I can say anything else. Closing the door, Randy speeds us off, huffing incessantly while photographers take pictures of our taillights.
"Sons of bitches." Randy mutters as we drive away.
"Randy!" My mother says, motioning back to Terry, though all that can be seen of her is a shock of black hair pressed against my chest.
"I'm sorry Katie. They just make me so mad. Do you know what one of those idiots did last night? They handed me a pamphlet on heart disease."
"Well that's insensitive.” I interject. "Not that I expected anything else."
"It's insulting is what it is.” he continues. "He actually tried to pass it off as concern, like he was afraid Liam's heart condition might be hereditary."
"Did you punch him?" I ask, knowing that that sort of thing wouldn't be out of the question for Randy.
"I showed him my I.D. badge from the hospital."
"Even better," I smirk.
It hurts in a way, to see my mother's hand interlocked with Randy's, though I suppose that would be true about anyone who wasn't my father. It's not his fault. He's a good guy deep down and he somehow managed to pull my mother out of the darkest place I've ever seen her. After my father died, I thought I'd lost her too. She was so quiet, so distant and untouchable. Somehow, this boorish overweight man with a lumberjack beard and a Ph.D. changed that. He also gave me a sister, so I guess I should be grateful. Still, there's this part of me that wonders what my life would have looked like if dad was still here. I can't let go of it. It's not fair, but I guess it doesn't have to be.
I lose myself in the scenery on the way to the airport, imagining myself in the cars passing by. Up above me, I catch sight of a dark bird, maybe a crow or a sparrow. It's keeping pace with our car, a fact which I dismiss for the first ten miles. It weaves in and out in the open sky as though it's dodging some unseen force. By the time we reach the airport, I'm obsessed with it, watching it, wondering where it's headed, admiring the long red stripe that crosses its’ chest.
More camera-men snap me from these thoughts as we head toward the plane. Reporters cover every inch of the airport parking lot, but luckily for us, the airline has something we do not at home; top notch security. They whisk us away and manhandle the press in a way that makes me fight to hold in a smile. We're pushed to the front of the line for check-in and rushed through security in an effort to restore sanity to the place. There has never been a time when I have been happy about the fame my grandfather placed upon me, but I have to admit, this doesn't suck.
The plane ride is smooth and simple. Terry sits with me while Mom and Randy sit together closer to the front. We pass the time playing twenty questions and I pretend that I don't already know all her answers are cartoon characters. Ironically, it is these moments, childish and unadorned, that best allow me to settle down. I lean my head back, trying to let the subtle vibrations of flight lull me to sleep.
I almost completely forgot about the events of the last few days, strange attacker included, when we touch down on the Emerald Isle. I expect a throng of photographers to meet us on the tarmac, but instead we find a quiet, near empty airport. The day is tinted gray. Thick clouds obscure the sun and give the breeze coming off the water a chill. I sigh a little and take in the smell of the saltwater, letting it bring back memories I didn't know I carried.
They say scent is the strongest sense tied to memory and right now I believe them. The grass here, the water, even the air, they all seem so different from home, more natural somehow. It's almost as if the breeze runs tickling fingers through your lungs, cooling and moist. I forgot how much I loved that feeling until now.
We rent a car, a stubby red thing with the steering wheel on the passenger side. Randy asks if he can have an Americanized version, and is told that's not possible. He grimaces and grabs the keys. Mom has Terry in the front seat with her, stroking her hair, as we drive down the almost familiar stone-wall lined roads toward the country house my mother grew up in. This gives me time to explore the moving scenery. The greenery, while more brilliant than anything in the states, is less vibrant than in my memory and I wonder if everything about this place will be like that.
I notice my mother for an instant. The look on her face says what she's thinking. She hadn't spoken to her father in eight years, not since my own father died. He never met her daughter. She's thinking about the last time she spoke with him, the anger, the bitterness, and the words that she probably didn't mean but would now never be able to take back. In that moment, I don't see my mother. She was just a woman who has lost two men she loves without having the chance to tell either one of them how much they mean to her. I want to reach out to her, but I see Terry's arms around her neck and realize she has her crutch. Instead, I content myself to look through the window.
In the sky, I see it again, the sparrow. No, it's definitely a crow. But there's no way this is the same bird. Even though it dodges and ducks through the air like the last one. But that was an ocean away. I close my eyes tight when I see the red marking across its’ chest and assure myself that I'm seeing things.
Instead I focus on the endless hills surrounding me. The clover covered ground stretches into the sky, meeting the clouds directly. Images such as these are among the few things I remember of this land.
My foggy memories begin to clear. I know these roads. They move from pavement to stone, and then to dirt, the path unveils itself to me. I go back to the eight year old boy I was the last time I was here when the old house appears before me. It’s large for a country home, made of age-old stone that's worn on every side. Vines encase the walls, licking it like green flames. I can hear myself asking my grandfather why he never cut them down, telling him I knew how to mow grass and cut weeds, and that I could clean them.
His response to my questions was always the same. "We never take any part of Ireland away from this house, the vines protect us, and those are clover leaves, just try and find them in any other land. You just can't do it boy, they are special, just like you."
Leaves and clovers spring out from the stone like eyes and ears, listening to us, watching us and protecting us. I know it's just a child's tale, but I allow myself to find comfort in it now.
A large chimney pokes out from the center of the triangular roof, spilling smoke like dingy pillows. The hills leading to the cottage are well kept. They roll like waves, spanning out at least fifteen acres on either side. My mother swallows hard as we stop in front of the house. Terry is asleep, but my mother rouses her awake. She rubs her eyes, which light up when she sees the house.
"Wow! Its' like a castle," she proclaims.
"Just like old times," mom mutters. The occupants of the house meet us
on the driveway before we even exit the car. I open the door and the smell of food envelopes me. Cabbage, potatoes, and sausage intermingle and wet my appetite. An army of fair skinned redheads stand in attention to greet us. Redheads are rare in the States and to see so many people who look like me in one place is a bit surreal. I think I recognize a few of them. The taller boy; that must be Cameron. I remember hunting fireflies with him when we were kids. And that middle aged woman,; she's got to be Aunt Abigail. She has my mother's features, her bone structure.
I smile a little and wait for my mother to lead the way. The crowd parts a little to allow an old woman through. Is it possible this is my grandmother? She's older obviously, but I didn't expect her to show it quite so much. Her once dark hair is now frosted completely white and her proud stature hunches over. I wonder what my grandfather looked like before his death, I wonder if he still had that childish twinkle in his eye and that bounce in his step.
"Is that mi Bell?" she asks, already knowing the answer. I embrace her carefully, as though she were glass. "It's good to see ye, mi boy," she says. Her accent is much thicker than I remember. "Look at ye. A grown man, ye are."
Its obvious time has changed both of us, she however, is free to express how surprised she is with it, Feeling it might be rude for me to return the sentiment, I just smile and allow her fragile arms to envelope me.
"And who’s this?" She asks, leaning down to Terry, though bent as much as she is, there wasn't much leaning necessary.
"I'm Terry," she replies, still clutching our mother's hand.
"Well that's a good strong name isn't it?" grandma replies.
She looks to my mother. There's so much to talk about between the two. Randy, also realizing this, gives me a nudge on the back and we continue into the group. Surrounded by family now, shaking hands and introducing myself, I wonder why it is I've never felt more out of place than with the people I'm supposed to belong to.
There are so many people here. Most I don't remember. Some of the faces are vaguely familiar though, like we share some sort of foggy connection. As I make my way toward the house, there is one that stops me in my tracks. Her face is not foggy, it is not that of a stranger. I know this girl. I know her sandy hair. I know her angular features. I know her eyes, the color of sea foam. Standing before me, thousands of miles from the spot of our last meeting, is the girl from alleyway, the girl from the mist.