“No. I don’t suppose they will.” The flush colored his cheeks again, and it puzzled me. He was the one who brought it up. He finished tying my other boot and set it gently on the floor. He didn’t rise but clasped his hands between his knees and looked at the floor, his head bowed.
“I don’t know what to tell them, Anne,” he said. “I can’t keep you a secret forever. You’ve got to help me. You’ve been dead for five years. It would help if we had an explanation—even if it’s pure fiction.”
“I’ve been in America.”
His eyes shot to mine. “You left your child, a babe, and went to America?” His voice was so flat I could have built a wall on it. I looked away.
“I was unwell. Mad with grief,” I murmured, unable to meet his gaze. I had been in America. And when Eoin died, I was mad with grief.
He was quiet, and from the corner of my eyes, I could see his slightly stooped shoulders, the stillness in the tilt of his head.
“Brigid says I look like I’ve escaped from an asylum. Maybe that’s what we should tell them,” I continued, wincing.
“Jaysus,” Thomas whispered.
“I can play the part,” I said. “I feel crazy. And God knows I’m lost.”
“Why do you have to play a part? Is it true? What’s the truth, Anne? That’s what I want to know. I want to know the truth. You can lie to the rest of them, but please don’t lie to me.”
“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.
“Yes . . . well, so is Anne.” Thomas looked at me and looked away, but his eyebrows quirked, softening his words.
“Is there a jeweler or a pawnbroker in Sligo?” I insisted, not willing to let the matter go, pest or not. Were they even called pawnbrokers in 1921? The hysteria continued to build inside me.
Thomas sighed, and we bounced down the deeply rutted road. “I have three patients to see. None of the stops will take me long, but I will drop you and Eoin—stay close to your mother, Eoin, and help her—on lower Knox Street. There’s a pawnbroker next to the Royal Bank. Daniel Kelly. He’ll be fair with you. When you’re done, walk up to Lyons department store. You should be able to get everything you need there.”
Eoin was bouncing on the seat between us, obviously thrilled at the mention of the department store.
“I will meet you there when I’m finished,” Thomas promised.
We crossed the River Garavogue on Hyde Bridge—a bridge I’d walked across less than two weeks before—and I gaped in wonder. The countryside had not changed, but the times certainly had. The streets, unpaved and free of the traffic and congestion of 2001, seemed much larger and the buildings much newer. The Yeats Memorial Museum sat on the corner, but it wasn’t a museum any longer. The words Royal Bank were written in bold across the side. A few cars and a delivery van rumbled along the street, most of them black, all of them antique, but horse-pulled carts were just as common. The bulk of the traffic was pedestrian, the clothing smart, the steps brisk. Something about the apparel—the formality of suits and ties, vests and pocket watches, dresses and heels, and hats and long coats—gave everything a decorum that contributed to my sense of the surreal. It was a movie set, and we were actors on a stage.
“Anne?” Thomas prodded gently. I tore my eyes away from the storefronts, from the wide footpaths and lampposts, from the old cars and the wagons, from the people who were all . . . long . . . dead.
We were parked in front of a small establishment just two doors down from the stately Royal Bank. Three golden balls were suspended from an ornate wrought-iron pole, and “Kelly & Co.” was written across the glass in a baroque font no one used anymore. Eoin squirmed impatiently beside me, anxious to get out of the car. I reached for the door handle, my palms damp, my breath shallow.
“You said he’d be fair. But I have no idea what that might be, Thomas,” I blurted, stalling.