A CRY FROM THE DEEP (21 page)

Striking out on the religious connection, she decided to use the rest of the morning to explore the area. On a whim, she drove north along the sea. The mystery of Martin O’Donnell was underlined by the dense fog covering the land. It made for eerie driving. After passing what seemed to be the northern edge of the village, she was about to turn back when she spotted a monument. When she got closer, she read that it was Catherine’s Well, a heritage site commemorating the memory of St. Catherine of Alexandria, the patron saint of Killybegs. She smiled to herself, as she could almost hear Lindsey saying, “See, they even have a saint named after you. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
Yeah, it tells me that weird just got weirder
.

Catherine parked her car in the lot nearby and took out her guidebook on Ireland. Finding the section on Killybegs, she read that some monks had sailed along the coast and had run into a vicious storm. Afraid they’d never make it to land, they prayed to St. Catherine and promised her they’d do something in her honor if she saved them. When they reached the shores of what was now Killybegs, they built a well in her name. She also read that Killybegs was a Celtic word, meaning little cells or little churches having to do with this early monastic settlement. She thought it was curious that she’d come upon this shrine. She’d been religious for the early part of her life, but after her divorce, she’d pulled away from God. Now, it appeared she was on His doorstep once more.

She walked up the paved path to the shrine with its short white walls forming a horseshoe-shaped entrance. A few yards in, a glass case enclosed a white figure of St. Catherine with artificial red roses at her feet. Although Catherine didn’t go to church anymore, seeing the sculpture of the saint humbled her into reflection and prayer. The cynic in her said she was hedging her bets by praying, but the little girl in her, who still believed, said otherwise.

The plaque to the left of the well stated the saint was the patron saint of apologists, archivists, barristers, potters, dying people, educators, knife grinders, librarians, maidens, mechanics, millers, nurses, philosophers, preachers, schoolchildren, scribes, spinners, spinsters, stenographers, students, tanners, theologians, and wheelwrights. It was a list that covered nearly everyone. With all those occupations under her wing, Catherine figured this saint had to include scuba divers as well.

She turned right to a path leading to the remains of a four hundred year old church and graveyard. Its entrance bore the sign:

Built by Roger Jones post 1615, used as Burial Grounds for Protestants and Catholics.

Last Parish Internment 1902. Some World War II War Victims buried here.

Considering the ongoing battles between the Irish Protestants and Catholics, it was heartening to see a place in Ireland where they were at peace side by side.

She walked further into the grounds, overgrown with wild plants. Of the graves spanning hundreds of years, there were many that had gone unattended, perhaps forgotten, their markers broken, fallen, or sunken. She strained to see the writing on some of them, but time had erased the names etched on the stones and the ones that remained were largely illegible. To think there was no longer a mark showing the deceased was an invitation to sorrow.

A sudden breeze ruffled her shirt and she turned towards the sea. A young woman in a white gown stood about fifty yards away, by one of the old headstones. Her long auburn hair danced in the air as the wind picked up and rustled the trees overhead. She looked eerily like the woman in her dreams. Catherine was about to call out when a speck of dirt flew into her right eye. By the time she blinked a few times to expel the speck, the woman was nowhere to be seen. Catherine glanced in all directions and then hurried back to the entrance, thinking she might catch the stranger, but whoever had been there had vanished.

Shaken, Catherine turned back to where she’d last seen her standing. The path there was so crooked she had to step around some headstones that had fallen to the ground. Reaching the spot where the young woman had stood, Catherine looked down at a sandstone slab. Some dried mud hid the name on the tablet, and she bent down to brush it away with her hand. Her heart quickened as she read the inscription:

Here Lieth the body of

Elizabeth Mary O’Donnell,

Who departed this life the 3
rd
day of May, 1869, aged 28 years

Also the body of her daughter Hannah O’Donnell

Who departed this life on the 3
rd
day of May, 1869, aged 2 days

Also the body of her husband, Martin Thomas O’Donnell

Who departed this life on August 15 1916, aged 81 years.

Catherine gasped. Martin O’Donnell was a ghost.

TWENTY-THREE

Catherine read the inscription again.
Elizabeth Mary O’Donnell.
Was she the young woman who’d just stood at the gravesite? With the wind picking up, Catherine untied the sweater around her shoulders and put it on. The chill she experienced wasn’t from the cool air; it was from the realization she was being guided by people she didn’t know, people who were already dead, at least one of them for sure. What did they want from her?

She studied her Claddagh ring. Was this ring somehow connected? It was made in 1858. That put the ring in the same ballpark as Martin O’Donnell’s life. His wife, Elizabeth, had died in 1869. If it was hers at the time of her death, she would’ve been married to Martin for eleven years. That is, if he’d bought the band in 1858.

She stared at Martin’s grave marker. She half expected him to show up to explain what was going on, but all she heard was the sound of the wind rustling some leaves. After jotting down the names and dates in her notebook, she tucked it in her bag, pulled her sweater tighter, and walked out of the cemetery.

She told herself to use logic. As she had little to go on, she shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Richard did say the girl in her dreams could be a manifestation of her fears of going underwater again. That was probably why the young woman resembled her and the man was there to rescue the young woman, or maybe he was there to rescue Catherine. A father figure, was that what he was? Her own father had favored her brother and perhaps she’d conjured up the old guy as someone to save her.

But what if Richard was wrong?
How could she have made up a man called Martin O’Donnell? He was real. His marker was right there and he had died before she was born.

~~~

When the mist dissipated by noon, Catherine was called back to the boat. Troubled by her discovery of Martin’s grave, she delayed boarding as long as she could. She kept telling herself there was no such thing as ghosts. But try as she might, she found it hard to give in to her rational side. The evidence to the contrary was too powerful.

With her mind half on Martin and half on diving, Catherine joined the others in the wheelhouse—Hennesey, Olaf, Gabe, Daniel, and the two Cubans. All anxious for a sighting. But as the hours waned and no evidence of a wreck was found, the team grew restless.

When the sun dropped further, and there was still no sign of any anomaly, Catherine wondered how much longer they’d be out. She’d missed talking to Alex the night before, and she didn’t want to go through another day without hearing her voice.

She said to Hennesey, whose eyes were fixed on the computer screen, “Are you planning on calling it quits soon?”

He looked up from his seat and scowled. “You shouldn’t have agreed to come if you wanted to work government hours.”

“Easy,” said Daniel, who was standing nearby.

Catherine put her hand up, indicating she could handle this herself. Glaring at the captain, she said, “Were you always an asshole or are you just acting like one for my benefit?”

“Cute!” Hennesey’s eyes were dark horizontal slits. “You’re quite the prize. I bet your ex couldn’t stand you either.”

Catherine blanched. “Whoever raised you didn’t teach you manners.”

“You’d be better off if you kept your mouth shut,” snarled Hennesey. “You’re a photographer. All I need from you are some goddamn photos.”

She seethed under the attack but before she could retort, Jerry intervened. “Hey, boss, lighten up.” And then, to Catherine, “He gets crabby when he can’t find what he thinks is there.”

Catherine shook her head. “That’s no excuse.”

“You’re right,” said Daniel.

Hennesey clenched his jaw and stared at the screen.

She would’ve liked an apology, but from a man like Hennesey, that would’ve been like asking for the moon. 

Jerry said to Hennesey, “Don’t worry, if she’s there, we’ll find ‘er.”

“Hell, I know we’ll find her, sooner or later. That’s not my fucking problem. My fucking problem is will we find her before the vultures arrive?”

Jerry slyly exchanged glances with Catherine, letting her know she wasn’t alone in her frustration. There was always somebody on a project that was prickly. Unfortunately for all of them, it was their leader.

But Hennesey did have a point. Their daily visit to this spot was bound to attract attention from other divers soon, and not the kind that was positive. So far, they’d been lucky. Maybe the story Hennesey had put out had registered. Maybe locals believed they were a group of recreational divers from the USA. Any boats hovering nearby hadn’t hung around for long. Not seeing anyone in the water, their captains might’ve assumed there wasn’t anything worth pursuing.

Catherine needn’t have worried about getting back in time for her calls. Within the hour, the wind had picked up unexpectedly, making ocean-going treacherous. On their return to Killybegs, most of the crew stayed on deck, making sure everything that was in danger of flying into the rough seas was fastened down. With the rocking of the boat and the conflict on board, Catherine’s stomach had taken a turn. She did all she could to keep from throwing up before they docked.

She was stepping off the boat when Joy came up from below and said, “Hey, one of the guys told me Hennesey took a bite out of you today. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to do with you,” said Catherine, hiking her bag on her shoulder.

Joy came over to the rail. “You feelin’ alright? You look green.”

Catherine frowned. “I don’t usually get seasick.”

“You can blame the stress on my old man.” She half-laughed. “He’s turned my stomach many times.”

Catherine smiled in sympathy. “It’s okay. I was forewarned. He doesn’t like women on board—no disrespect to you—unless they’re cooking and cleaning.” She hesitated, then said, “I think I really pissed him off. He was being a jerk, and I told him whoever brought him up didn’t do a good job. Didn’t teach him any manners.”

“That must’ve gone over big.” Joy stared out at the water. “He had it rougher than me growin’ up. I was raised in the Projects, that’s real bad, but Hennesey, he had no chance. Right from the start, he was tossed from foster home to foster home, like some hot potato. After one beatin’, he took off and didn’t look back. He was fourteen then. He’s been on his own ever since. Maybe that ‘splains his badass.”

“Maybe.”

“Still workin’ out the kinks.”

Joy obviously loved the guy to put up with his bullshit. If Hennesey had a certain charm, Catherine hadn’t experienced it yet. She supposed there had to be something that kept Joy loyal. If anything, he was a man’s man, like Hemingway.

Joy’s relationship with Hennesey got Catherine thinking of her own manlessness. Maybe she was the one who was too picky. Maybe that was why she’d left Richard and why she hadn’t found anyone else. That would be something to discuss with Barbara when she got back to New York.

~~~

Catherine threw her sports bag on the floor of her room and called Alex, who babbled non-stop about the horse she was going to ride. Alex had started the riding camp one week earlier. It was fine with her as not much happened in the last week of school. Catherine wished she could be there to share the excitement. She listened for awhile and then asked, “Have you met Papa’s girlfriend?”

“She’s so nice. She bought me a beautiful Indian jewel box. I keep my special stones in it.”

Catherine said, with a lump in her throat, “Wasn’t that sweet of her.”
It wasn’t sweet; it was horrible.
Having some other woman across the ocean trying to win her way into Alex’s heart was hard to take.

“When are you coming home?”

Good question.
She had hoped the three weeks she’d planned would be enough but since they hadn’t found anything yet, she was no longer sure.

“Mama, did you hear me? When are you coming home?”

“In a few weeks, honey. We were out on the boat today, but we still haven’t found any sign of an old ship.”

“Sorry, Mama, I have to go. Kaitlin’s over and we’re playing equestrian with our dolls. Kaitlin has two horses and we’ve braided their manes and put ribbons on them and everything.”