What the Wind Knows(3)

“Who is this?” I asked, staring down at the woman who gazed fiercely back at me.

“That is your great-grandmother, Anne Finnegan Gallagher.”

“Your mother?” I asked.

“Yes,” he breathed.

“I look like her,” I said, delighted. The clothes she wore and the style of her hair made her an exotic, foreign creature, but the face looking up at me from decades past could have been my own.

“Yes. You do. Very much,” Eoin said.

“She’s a little intense,” I observed.

“Smiling wasn’t the thing to do in those days.”

“Ever?”

“No,” he chortled, “not ever. Just not in pictures. We tried very hard to look more dignified than we were. Everyone wanted to be a revolutionary.”

“And is that my great-grandfather?” I pointed at the man standing next to Anne in the next picture.

“Yes. My father, Declan Gallagher.”

Declan Gallagher’s youth and vitality were preserved in the yellowed print. I liked him immediately and felt a surprising pang in my chest. Declan Gallagher was gone, and I would never know him.

Eoin handed me another picture, a photo of his mother, his father, and a man I didn’t recognize.

“Who’s he?” The stranger was dressed like Declan, formally, in a three-piece suit, a fitted vest peeking out from behind his lapels. His hands were in his pockets, and his hair was slicked back in careful waves and was short on the sides and longer on top. Brown or black, I couldn’t tell. His brow was furrowed slightly, as if he wasn’t comfortable having his picture taken.

“That is Dr. Thomas Smith, my father’s best friend. I loved him almost as much as I love you. He was like a father to me.” Eoin’s voice was soft, and his eyes fluttered closed again.

“He was?” My voice rose in surprise. Eoin had never talked about this man. “Why haven’t you shown me these pictures, Eoin? I’ve never seen any of them before.”

“There are more,” Eoin murmured, ignoring my question, as if it required too much energy to explain.

I moved on to the next picture in the pile.

It was a picture of Eoin as a young boy, his eyes wide, his face freckled, and his hair slicked down. He wore short pants and long socks, a vest, and a little suit coat. He had a cap in his hands. A woman stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders, her mouth grim. She might have been handsome, but she looked too suspicious to smile.

“Who’s she?”

“My grandmother, Brigid Gallagher. My father’s mother. I called her Nana.”

“How old were you here?”

“Six. Nana was very unhappy with me that day. I didn’t want to take a picture without the rest of my family. But she insisted on a picture with just the two of us.”

“And this one?” I picked up the next photo. “Tell me about this one. That’s your mother—her hair is longer here—and the doctor, right?” My heart fluttered in my chest as I stared at it. Thomas Smith was looking down at the woman beside him, as if at the last moment he’d been unable to resist. Her gaze was cast down as well, a secret smile on her lips. They weren’t touching, but they were very aware of each other. And there was no one else in the picture with them. The picture was oddly candid for the time period.

“Was Thomas Smith . . . in love with Anne?” I stammered, strangely breathless.

“Yes . . . and no,” Eoin said softly, and I looked up at him with a scowl.

“What kind of answer is that?” I asked.

“A truthful one.”

“But she was married to your father. And didn’t you say he was Declan’s best friend?”

“Yes.” Eoin sighed.

“Oh wow. There’s a story there,” I crowed.

“Yes. There is,” Eoin whispered. He closed his eyes, his mouth quivering. “A wonderful story. I can’t look at you without remembering.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” I asked. “Remembering is good.”

“Remembering is good,” he agreed, but the words came out with a grimace, and he clutched at the covers.

“When was the last time you took a pain pill?” I asked, my voice sharp. I dropped the pictures and rushed to the pills stacked on his bathroom counter. I shook one out with anxious hands and filled a glass of water, then lifted Eoin’s head to help him drink it down. I’d wanted him to be in a hospital, surrounded by people who could take care of him. He’d wanted to be home with me. He’d spent his life in hospitals, caring for the sick and dying. When he was diagnosed with cancer six months ago, he’d calmly announced he would not be receiving treatment. His only concession to my tearful ranting and cajoling was that he would manage his pain.

“You need to go back, Annie lass,” he said a while later, the pill making his voice dreamlike and soft.

“Where?” I asked, heavyhearted.

“To Ireland.”

“Go back? Eoin, I’ve never been. Remember?”

“I need to go back too. Will you take me?” he slurred.

“I’ve been wanting to go to Ireland with you all my life,” I whispered. “You know that. When should we go?”

“When I die, you’ll take me back.”