Chapter 56
CHAPTER 56
Maura
Nuala and I learn to share a house. I learn that she likes her tea black and leaves her wet towels on the bathroom floor after a wash. She learns that I like to read the morning paper with breakfast, and she cares for me as a master might care for a wounded dog.
“Don’t get up, I’ll get that,” she says when I begin to lift my bottom off the seat to boil some water. “Let your body heal. And your heart.”
Nuala means well, and I like her very much. And while she might be right that my leg will heal faster and better if I rest, I have no doubt that my heart may remain forever broken. I don’t miss Christy, goodness knows. But I miss the life I once hoped I would have.
The doorbell rings.
As usual, Nuala places her hand on my shoulder and repeats, “Don’t get up, I’ll get that.”
I hear chatter at the door. Nuala returns to the kitchen with a small white sack.
“More post,” she says.
She turns the sack upside down and white envelopes scatter like snowflakes in winter.
“More,” I say, not quite able to believe it.
In the days and weeks since The Late Late Show interview, Nuala and I have been inundated with letters from women all over Ireland. Sharon says she’s receiving more letters than she has time to read too. Women post their heartfelt letters to RTé studios and someone from the studio delivers sacks full to our door every few days. There aren’t enough hours in the day to read them all, but we try our best to get through as many as possible.
Nuala pulls a silver knife from the drawer and creates a makeshift letter opener. She slides the serrated edge under the white flap and tugs a small handwritten letter out. Her eyes sweep the paper.
“Another one signed anonymously,” she sighs, somewhat disappointed.
“Did she say where she’s from?” I ask.
Nuala shakes her head. “Not this time.”
“I wish they weren’t ashamed to share their names,” I say.
“Me too. But they’re scared. I understand.”
“Read it?” I say, lifting the china teapot to top up Nuala’s waiting cup and then mine.
Dear Ms. Tyrone, Ms. Davenport, and Ms. Casey,
I have watched The Late Late Show every Saturday night since it first aired and I have never been compelled to write in before now. But I just had to tell you how much I admire each and every one of you. I have eight children. I love every hair on each of their heads. They are the best of me and I am very proud of them. I don’t understand why, as their mother, I cannot collect the children’s allowance for them myself. My husband is a good man. A great man. He collects the allowance every week and brings it straight home. He doesn’t spend a single penny on himself. But I know other families who aren’t so lucky. I know women whose husbands stop in to the tavern on the way home from the post office. By the time they stagger home there’s not one penny left for shoes for the children’s feet or a bite of grub for their bellies. If you continue your fight for women’s rights, I’d be mighty grateful if someday I could collect the allowance all by myself.
Yours sincerely,
Mrs. B
Nuala lowers the letter and shakes her head. “This damn country,” she says.
I pick up another letter, tear it open and read.
Dear Nuala, Maura, and Sharon,
I watched the show and thought you all look like mighty clever women. I don’t want babies. I love my fella but I won’t marry him for that very reason. I don’t ever want to give birth. I’m scared. Can you help me?
Yours sincerely,
Young and scared in Westmeath
Nuala rolls her eyes. “Young and scared in Westmeath seems to think we’re agony aunts.”
“Poor girl,” I say. “Imagine being too afraid to experience intimacy. God, it breaks my heart.”
“These letters won’t stop, you know.” Nuala adds some milk and sugar to her tea and stirs. “Even if they stop coming in the post, the words on the page, the problem that forced them to pick up a pen, won’t stop.”
I curl my hands around my teacup and close my eyes. “Yes, they will,” I say with blind determination. “Someday. It will all be different. I really believe that.”