Pretend She's Here(35)

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, feeling disingenuous because I already knew. Loss shimmered between us. I wanted to spill everything to him, missing my family, my best friend—Lizzie—dying. But I stopped myself: I was Lizzie now. “What was your mother’s name?” I asked.

“Sinead,” he said.

My heart leapt. “Irish?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “As Irish as they come. Grew up in a house ten miles from any town in County Kerry. My dad comes from Dublin. Urban boy and country girl. He played rock on Grafton Street; she worked on her family’s farm and played traditional music in the west. They met at a music festival in Dingle—his band was headlining, and she was selling honey at the fairground. They got married a month later. He loved her so much, he never went back to Dublin. He gave up the city, and they had me.”

“How did they wind up in Maine?” I asked.

“Long story,” he said, “but she inherited this house from a distant aunt. My dad figured the States were a good place to hit the big time with his music, and she thought …” He paused. “There’d be better medical care for me here than the rural place they lived. She knew she could keep bees anywhere.”

“Medical care?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“What’s your full name?” I asked, feeling so soothed by the Irish family connection, and before I thought about it, the rest of my reckless question spilled out. “Confirmation name and all?”

He laughed. “Patrick O’Casey Anthony Donoghue. O’Casey was my mother’s maiden name, so Casey’s what they always called me.”

“My brother is named Patrick,” I blurted out, then clapped my hand over my mouth.

“A brother?” he asked. “I thought it was just you and Chloe.”

“I’m kidding,” I said, blushing with panic. “Anthony’s your confirmation name?”

“Yeah. For the saint who restores sight to the blind. I took it to make my mother happy; she never stopped hoping I’d be able to see better someday. She made sure I had the best doctors, but her real faith was in St. Anthony. When things got rough here—financially, I mean—she wanted us to move back to her hometown.”

“You said Kerry?” I asked.

“Yes, she lived near Slea Head, this really remote and rugged area. Cliffs over the sea. Her grandmother tended the clocháns—these small ancient stone huts built in the shape of beehives.”

“Like those?” I asked, pointing across his yard.

“Yes,” he said. “Only big enough for the hermit monks who lived there, probably starting in the twelfth century. And shaped differently. The traditional way in Ireland was to use skeps, curved like parabolas. But that style,” he said, pointing, “is more modern, makes honey collection easier.”

We stood up and walked over, looked at the ten-inch square boxes.

“That’s where the frames go? Where the bees build their honeycombs?” I asked.

“You know about how that works?” he asked, a touch of curiosity in his voice.

“From my old school,” I said. “We had an apiary there.”

“Cool,” he said. “Bees were a big part of our family’s life, both in Kerry and here. My mom’s family made a living tending the hives, selling the honey. My mother learned when she was a girl. My dad’s band had one big hit, but after that, well, music is a very competitive business, and the money stopped coming in. My mom supported us with the honey.”

I thought of how much that sounded like love to me. Mrs. Porter had said Casey had had a bad mother; then again, she’d said the same thing about my mother, too.

“Did she have a stand here at the house?” I asked.

“Yes,” Casey said. “I’d help her collect the honey after school, take turns running the shop with her.”

“You have one of those beekeeping suits?” I asked. Mr. Vibbert was our school beekeeper, and I pictured him in the white jumpsuit that reminded me of an astronaut, with elbow-length leather gloves and a broad-brimmed hat with a veil.

“I did,” Casey said. “But I haven’t worn it in a long time. The bees went away. She died in September of last year, and they left just before winter.”

Those words hung in the air. I pictured the bees flying out of the hive in a swarm, a thousand workers leaving with their queen. Perhaps scouts had flown ahead, to find a new location, perhaps a hollow tree, to start their new settlement.

“St. Anthony must have heard her prayers after all,” I said, hearing the sadness in his voice. “To allow you to see well enough to work in the hives, not get stung.”

“I guess he did.” Casey paused. “I have some vision,” he added. “From what I understand from friends, it’s kind of like seeing shadows. No colors. Some shapes—enough so I don’t walk into a tree.” He paused again, and smiled. His teeth were crooked, a fact that tugged my heart a little more. “I don’t think I can miss what I have never seen,” he went on. “I see fine. Missing my mother, that’s different. She was real. She was the best.”

I thought about that. I’d tamped down my feelings so hard, but hearing his words made me feel like a geyser, about to boil over with missing everyone I loved.