Migrations(74)

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.”

“I still do.”

“Don’t you think we’d go barking, just the two of us out there on our own?”

“No,” I say, and he smiles like I answered right.

“Would you like to go home?” Niall asks. “Only interesting humans at this party have been put forcibly to bed.”

What I’d like is to have another child, I almost say, but catch myself. “Yeah. Probably. Before Shan brings out the cocaine and goes insane.”

“Don’t think she’s doing it anymore,” Niall says after a swig. “Not since having the wee one.”

“Oh, right.” Of course not. “She’s in fine form, anyway. Offending everyone and their dogs.”

“Ben told me he has nightmares about her swallowing him whole.”

We laugh because it’s too easy to picture: Shannon’s husband Ben seems utterly terrified of her. Then I notice what Niall’s doing and my mouth falls open. “Are you lighting a cigarette?”

Niall grins and nods.

“Why?”

“’Cause it’s cold.”

“What’s temperature got to do with anything?”

“Nothing. Except that it’s the reason.”

I look at him in the golden light of the outdoor heater.

“I’m tired of fighting,” he says, then takes a long drag. “Nothing seems to make any difference.”

I exhale. “Don’t do that, darling. Don’t give up.”

There is a lot, right now, for him to be sad about. He’s decided to leave MER because his heart is broken and he can’t stand it anymore—I know he achieved not half of what he wanted to. Our savings have run out, which means we both have to take paid jobs. And we saw his mother earlier today, who was cold enough to me to rival the snow-covered backyard we sit within. I’m used to it after so many years, but Niall loathes her endless condescension and her refusal to admit she was wrong when she said our marriage wouldn’t last a year. I don’t know why it means so much to him to be right, but it does. Plus. There’s Iris. We never stop being sad about her.

“Smoke if you must,” I say. “But don’t give up, and don’t expect a kiss from me.”

He smirks. “I’ll give that an hour.”

My eyebrows arch.

A gust of cold wind blows in and through me, taking the heater’s flame with it. It’s darker and colder, suddenly. I reach for Niall’s hand and hold it, taken by some unease, some foreboding.

“All right, darlin’?” he murmurs as he stubs out his cigarette and then rises to deal with the heater. I hold on to him, though, staying him, and he sinks back onto the chair to grip my hand. “Franny?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head. “Just … stay a moment.”

So he does, and we sit still and quiet until it passes through me, unknowable and unshakable.