What the Wind Knows(32)

“I’m trying so hard not to,” I mumbled.

“What does that mean?” He rose from his haunches and stood, looking down at me.

“The truth will be impossible for you to believe. You won’t believe it. And you will think I’m lying. I would give you the truth if I thought it would help. But it won’t, Thomas.”

He stepped back as if I’d slapped him. “You said you didn’t know,” he hissed.

“I don’t know what occurred after the Rising. I don’t know how I got here. I don’t understand what is happening to me.”

“So tell me what you do know.”

“I will promise you this. If silence is a lie, I’m guilty. But the things I’ve told you, the things I’ve said to you so far, are true. And if I can’t tell you the truth, I won’t say anything at all.”

Thomas shook his head, anger and bewilderment on his face. Then he turned and walked from my room without another word, and I was left to wonder yet again when my predicament would end, when it would all be over, when my life would right itself. I was stronger now, well enough to slip away to the lough. Soon, I would walk out into the water and sink beneath the surface, willing myself home and leaving Eoin and Thomas behind. Soon, but not yet.



“Will they recognize me?” I asked, raising my voice to be heard over the wind and the rumble of the motor. Thomas sat behind the wheel of a car straight out of The Great Gatsby, driving us to Sligo. Eoin was perched between us, neatly dressed in a little vest and jacket, his bony knees sticking out between the hem of his long shorts and the tops of his tall dark socks. He wore the same type of peaked hat he’d worn all his life, the thin brim pulled low over his blue eyes. The car had an open top—a hazard in rainy Ireland—but the sky was clear, the breeze gentle, and the trip pleasant. I had not been outside since the day on the lake, and my eyes were glued to the familiar landscape. The population in Ireland had not grown in a hundred years, leaving the scenery mostly unchanged generation after generation.

“Are you worried someone might recognize you?” Thomas answered, his tone quizzical.

“I am,” I admitted, meeting his eyes briefly.

“You aren’t from Sligo. Few will know you. And those who do . . .” He shrugged, not finishing his sentence, his eyes shifting away from me in contemplation. Thomas Smith didn’t bite his lip or wrinkle his brow when he stewed. His face was perfectly still, as though he thought so deeply, no echoes crossed his face or marred his features. It was odd, really, that in a matter of days, I’d come to recognize his posture, the way he stooped with his head slightly bowed and his features quiet. Had Eoin learned his ways? Was that why I knew Thomas Smith so well? Had Eoin absorbed the habits of the man who had stepped into his life and raised the boy Declan had left fatherless? I recognized little similarities—the wide stance, the downcast eyes, the outward calm, and the unruffled ruminations. The resemblances made me long for my grandfather.

Without thinking, I reached for Eoin’s hand. His blue eyes shot to mine, and his hand tightened and trembled. Then he smiled, a toothy revelation that eased one longing and gave rise to another.

“I’m a little afraid to go shopping,” I whispered near his ear. “If you hold my hand, it will help me be brave.”

“Nana loves the shops. Don’t you?”

I did. Usually. But the fear in my belly, magnified by the thought of corsets with hanging straps, strange clothes, and my complete dependence on Thomas grew, as Sligo appeared in the distance. I looked around me in wonder, trying to find the cathedral to orient myself. My chest began to burn.

“I have earrings . . . and a ring. I think both would sell for a good price,” I blurted and then thought better of my statement. I really knew nothing about the ring. I pushed the thought from my head and tried again.

“I have some jewelry. I’d like to sell it so that I have some money of my own. Could you help me with that, Thomas?”

“Don’t worry your head about money,” Thomas clipped, eyes forward.

A country doctor paid in chickens and piglets or bags of potatoes couldn’t be completely unconcerned with money, and the worry coiled deeper.

“I want money of my own,” I insisted. “I’ll need to find employment too.” Employment. Dear God. I’d never had a job. I’d been writing stories from the moment I could form a sentence. And writing wasn’t a job. Not for me.

“You can assist me,” Thomas said, his jaw still tight, eyes on the road.

“I’m not a nurse!” Was I? Was she?

“No. But you’re capable of following directions and giving me a spare set of hands every now and again. That’s all I need.”

“I want money of my own, Thomas. I will buy my own clothes.”

“Nana says you should call Thomas Dr. Smith,” Eoin said, inserting himself into the conversation. “And she says he should call you Mrs. Gallagher.”

We were silent. I had no idea what to say.

“But your nana is Mrs. Gallagher too. That would be confusing, wouldn’t it?” Thomas replied. “Plus, Anne was my friend before she was Mrs. Gallagher. Do you call your friend Miriam Miss McHugh?”

Eoin covered his mouth, but a snort of laughter gurgled out. “Miriam isn’t a miss! She’s a pest,” he crowed.