Patricia Falvey (55 page)

The property was all sold for a good price. I now had enough money to live without having to work again. Terrence planted the notion in me that I should buy my own house. After all, he said, you can’t live in a mill house when you no longer work at the mill.

“They’d hardly throw me out,” I cried, “after what I did for them.”

But Terrence knew me too well. He had hit a nerve of pride. I knew I could not stay.

“The old Yellow House is up for sale again,” Terrence said casually one night.

My whole body tensed. “Owen’s selling it?” I whispered.

Terrence nodded.

“Well, good luck to whoever gets it now. It won’t be me. I don’t give a rat’s arse about that place. It was always bad luck.”

But the seed had been planted. Did I dare even think I could go back there? Was the dream still alive? Could I trust God this time? Had this been His mysterious way of answering my prayers, or were the evil ghosts still waiting for me? That night, Slieve Gullion appeared to me in my dreams. “Come home, darlin’,” she said, “come home.”

W
e moved in the week before Christmas 1922. The house had been transformed. It smelled new and fresh. Theresa had sewn flowered curtains for all the windows, bright rugs covered the floors, and a pair of brass andirons shone beside the fireplace. The walls had been painted a soft cream, and Ma’s pictures hung on them. Shane Kearney had been good to his word and kept everything that had been salvaged from the fire. I cried when I went into the back room of his pub with Theresa and saw Ma’s sewing machine, the desk with inlaid marble that Da had made for her, and her paintings. The “ghost chair” that always stood empty beside the fireplace for Great-Grandda Hugh was there as well.

The outside of the house was still a bit drab. The whitewashed exterior was stained and chipped. Maybe in the spring I would paint it. I wasn’t quite ready for it to be yellow again. Maybe I would never want it yellow again—it might bring bad luck. I decided to leave the decision until spring, after the garden was planted.

Word came from Lizzie that she would be home for Christmas. I was delighted. She did not say if it was to be for a visit or for good, but no bother, I would be happy to see her either way. I decided to throw a party for her on Christmas Eve, and I wanted everybody there.

I sent a note to Owen. I tried to sound offhand in it, but the truth was I was desperate to see him again. I had cursed myself more than once for having let him go.

Terrence and I got permission from the hospital to bring Ma home for the holiday. She sat beside me in the backseat of Terrence’s car, shrunken like a frail doll. She gazed out the window at the houses and fields as we passed. It was a dozen years since she had been outside. I squeezed her hand. When we pulled up in front of the house, it was hard to know if she recognized it. She got out and stood and stared up at it for a minute, but I could read nothing in her eyes. We brought her in and sat her down in an armchair beside the fire. Theresa had tea made and handed her a cup.

“Thank you,” she said in the polite way I had come to know.

Her hand trembled as she held the cup. Aoife toddled over to her and sat on the floor beside her, holding on to the arm of the chair.

“Hello, Granny,” she said.

I supposed Theresa had told her who was coming, but Theresa looked surprised.

“How did you know she was your granny, love?” she said.

Aoife said nothing but leaned closer to the chair. Ma looked down at her and smiled. She reached a thin hand down and stroked the child’s hair. I swallowed a lump in my throat.

THE WORD WENT
out to everyone that the ceili was on at the Yellow House for Christmas Eve. I looked around the big kitchen. Theresa had decorated it as well as she had ever decorated the Temperance Hall in Queensbrook. She bustled about now, adjusting this and that. Ma sat in the armchair by the fire, Aoife on the floor next to her. Saoirse crowed in her cradle, and Frankie sat in a corner, occupied with a new puppy Terrence had brought him. We called it Cuchulainn, after our faithful old dog. The turf fire burned bright, while loaves of soda bread baked in its ashes. Bottles of porter stood like soldiers on the kitchen table along with a big bowl of apple cider. I looked out the kitchen window. A few flakes of snow swirled in the evening sky.

“We’re having a party, Mrs. Gullion,” I whispered as I stared out toward my beloved mountain, “just like old times. What do you think of that? Aye, I know, it’s about time.”

P.J. and Fergus were the first to arrive, stamping their feet from the cold and admiring the house. They had brought Joe Shields with them, along with his accordion. One by one they went over and took Ma’s hands in theirs and greeted her. She smiled a shy, thin smile but said nothing. Then they settled themselves on stools in the kitchen with bottles of porter, their instruments on the floor beside them. Terrence put a glass of porter beside Great-Grandda Hugh’s chair, and wee Cuchulainn bounded out of Frankie’s arms and settled himself on the empty chair, where we all knew an invisible hand petted him. I turned away before I would begin crying and making an eejit of myself.

More people streamed in, and the music began. We had moved the furniture back against the walls so people could dance, and the jigs and reels were soon in full swing. Mrs. Mullen and Paddy had arrived with P.J. We were almost all there now. I kept watching the door. Where was Lizzie? And where was Owen?

Lizzie arrived with Father Dornan, stamping her feet like the others and dusting the snow off her coat. She put out her small hands toward me, and I ran to her.

“Lizzie,” I cried. “Och, Lizzie. Welcome home!”

The music and dancing stopped. Everyone watched us. Lizzie smiled her lovely calm smile, tears edging her blue eyes. I took her by the hand and led her over to Ma.

“Here’s Ma, Lizzie,” I whispered.

Lizzie stood very still and gazed at the old woman in the chair. I wondered what she thought of this frail creature. Surely she looked nothing like the woman in Lizzie’s dreams—the tall, young, dark-haired woman with the beautiful eyes. Lizzie knelt in front of Ma and took both her hands in hers. Aoife moved away, and silence hushed the room.

“Hello, Mammy,” she whispered, “it’s me, Lizzie. I’ve come home.”

Ma stared at Lizzie. She said nothing, but her face crumpled and tears flowed down her thin cheeks like a stream thawing over gray, frozen rocks. Lizzie began to hum “The Spinning Wheel.” Then suddenly Ma began to hum with her, a small, frail sound like a baby bird. Frankie and Paddy came to stand beside me, watching their ma and their sister. I squeezed them both close to me.

“Thank God,” I whispered. “Thank God.”

The party went into full swing. I played Da’s fiddle and people danced. P.J. played tunes in memory of Da and Billy Craig, as he called on God to give rest to their souls. Lizzie went over to Frankie and brought him to the middle of the floor to dance with her. This time it was poor Frankie and not Lizzie who shuffled on unsteady legs. I watched them with a joy and a sadness that threatened to break my heart wide open. Later, Lizzie took Saoirse on her lap and sat next to Ma. Tommy McParland brought the local children around the fireplace and told ghost stories. The
craic
lasted well into the early hours of the morning. People kept arriving, but no one left.

I imagined myself standing on top of Slieve Gullion, looking down on the house bright with lights, the merry sounds drifting across the fields and valleys. I thought of Da and Billy Craig, and I knew they were watching us, too, and James as well—poor James. But despite all the warmth and joy of the evening, there was a hollowness inside me. Over the last weeks, the kindness of everyone around me had chipped away at my old armor. I was a changed woman now. I was happier than I had been even as a child. I had peeled away all the defenses I had built up over the years. I was naked as a newborn, ready to love and allow myself to be loved. And I had no shortage of love. My family was around me again. I had friends. I was back at the Yellow House, and like the Yellow House, I had been returned to life.

Och, Owen, I thought, where are you? Why did I ever let you go?

Terrence came over and put his arm around my shoulder. “Owen?” he whispered.

I nodded. “I sent him word about the party, but he didn’t come.”

“Give it time, Eileen,” Terrence said gently.

“I know.”

IT WAS NEARLY
dawn when the house finally emptied, leaving Ma, Frankie, Saoirse, Aoife, and myself—our own wee family—to ourselves. Paddy asked to stay as well. He would celebrate his fourteenth birthday the next day. I had wondered how he would react to the sight of Ma again—and she to him. She stared at him, but there was no repeat of the screams she had let out when she last saw him. I didn’t know if she even recognized him now—I prayed that in time she would, and that the wound that was still buried deep inside Paddy’s heart would be healed.

The Music Men left, and Father Dornan drove Lizzie to the hotel in Newry. I took Ma up to bed in my old bedroom and left the curtains open so that she could see Slieve Gullion in the moonlight. Aoife insisted on sleeping with her granny. I leaned over to kiss them good night, but they were already asleep, arms curled around each other. Paddy and I helped Frankie up the stairs to bed. He was exhausted from all the doings of the night, but happier than I had ever seen him. I almost envied him his innocence. Saoirse was out like a light. She had been passed around from lap to lap all night long, smiling and crowing with pleasure. How I wish Owen could have seen her. I leaned over her cradle and kissed her. “Dream of angels, darlin’,” I whispered.

I put on my coat and slipped out the kitchen door into the damp, dawn air. It was Christmas Day! I climbed the gentle slope at the back of the house toward the graveyard where Da was buried. The smell of smoke from our turf fire mixed with the fragrances of wet earth and grass. The snow had left behind a thin frost delicate as icing on a wedding cake. My boots crunched on it as I drew near Da’s grave. A rustling startled me, and I swung around. Cuchulainn came panting up to me. I was glad of his company. We had built a low stone wall around the graveyard and put a small iron gate at one end. I swung open the gate and entered the sacred ground. Lizzie’s headstone with the angels was still there; I had not had the heart to remove it. I knelt and ran my hand over Da’s gravestone.

“It was a grand party, wasn’t it, Da? Did you see we found Great-Grandda Hugh’s chair, and did you see the cut of Cuchulainn here sitting up on it? I think Hugh was petting him. Och, sure I didn’t think to put out a chair for you, Da, but of course if I set up a chair for every one of the dead, there’d be no room for the living at all.” I chuckled softly.

“Aye, I know, Da. Sure it’s only a symbol. What did you think of Lizzie and Ma singing, Da? Wasn’t it grand?”

I brushed back a tear. “I’m only crying because I’m happy, Da. We’re all back here, aren’t we? One way or the other, we’re all back together. Didn’t I tell you, Da? Didn’t I say we would be one day?… What’s that?… Aye, sure why wouldn’t I be happy, Da? What more could I want? What I have will do me. It’s more than most have.”