Safe in the Water
Niall
IWAS ABLE to tell that Molly had been a little nervous, her hands fidgeting in her lap and her eyes a little wider than usual when we came through the door, but the more we talked the more she seemed like she was enjoying herself.
The pub is warm and noisy, and I’m glad for the background noise of clinking glasses, shouted conversations, and the footie match on the telly in the corner.
We’re tucked away in a little booth in the back, a small island of privacy in the sea of people, and the smell of fry-up food and stale beer (that we’re too young to have, we’re both drinking minerals) hangs around us.
Though I don’t miss the scent of flowers coming from her.
“I’ve never been on a dinner date before,” I admit, taking a sip of my drink. The words are out before I can stop them, making my cheeks turn hot as I wonder if that was the right thing to say.
She laughs, the bright sound lifting me up. “I thought you said you used to have a girlfriend?”
“Two, but one was only when I was thirteen, and that barely counts. We held hands once, it was sweaty and awkward,” I say, cringing at the memory. “And my last one wasn’t very...”
Ugh, rule number one. Don’t talk about exes on first dates. It’s a cardinal sin, right up there with checking your phone under the table or ordering for her without asking.
“We didn’t like the same things anyway, but we never went to dinner. It was more... just... hanging out.”
She accepts that as an answer, taking a sip of her drink. “So do we have plans for after dinner?”
No, I really didn’t think that far ahead.
My grand plan for the perfect first date consisted of: 1. Go to Mulligans. 2. Don’t be a dick. And... that was it.
I was operating on a wing and a prayer, fueled by advice from Fitzy (who is, let’s be honest, clueless, but has had the most girlfriends and dates out of us all) and a few hastily googled articles with titles like “10 First Date Tips That Will Guarantee a Second Date.”
“Duh, of course we have plans. It’s a surprise.”
I don’t know if her smile is her way of saying she sees right through me or not, but it's addictive in any case. I clear my throat, trying to think of a better topic, something that doesn’t involve me admitting I’m a clueless idiot who’s making this all up as he goes along.
“Did I ever tell you about the first time I went swimming?”
It’s a risky topic, a minefield of memories and emotions I usually keep locked away tight. I usually avoided all topics having to do with water and memories of my dad, because it just brings the pain closer to the surface.
But with Molly, all the thoughts and memories feel like they’re safe with her. Like I know that she’ll understand what I’m saying, know what they mean to me, know how hard they are to remember—because I know they’ll only ever be in my past.
Past, present, future, me. Merge them all, what do I see...
That’s an old song Claire, Niamh and Marissa used to sing in our driveway, jumping rope. I think they made it up, I’m not sure. The next line says something about so-and-so kissing in a tree, how many babies do you see and then they’d start counting upwards.
I don’t know what made me think of that, but I do know that I want Molly in my future as much as she is in my present. And that I want to let her in on my past.
“Tell me,” Molly smiles, her full attention on me.
I was five years old. It was around the time Da just stopped drinking, but before he got the boat.
We’d always go down to The Strand in the warm months, to play in the sand and stuff, which is where Da had taken me that day. The sun was high in the sky, a brilliant, blinding white and the sea was a sparkling blue.
He was always better at teaching me things than Ma was—less likely to lose patience. He was the one who taught me to ride a bike, too, running alongside me, his hand a steady presence on the small of my back until I was ready to fly on my own. But swimming lessons were a different beast entirely.
“I didn’t like the water,” I admit, swirling my drink around in its glass. “I was scared of it. Of the waves, of the deepness of it, of... everything.”
Molly nods, understanding without me having to explain further. She gets it. She gets the fear, the irrational, all-consuming terror that can grip you and hold you under.
“He didn’t push me in or anything—he just held my hand and walked me into the shallows, and then he’d hold me up while I kicked my legs,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “He never let go until I told him to.”
I can still remember the way the sun felt on my skin, the way Da’s hands were warm and steady under my arms, his voice still in my ear. The way he laughed when I finally got the hang of it, splashing around like a little fish, my fear forgotten in the joy of the moment.
“Sounds like a good dad,” Molly murmurs softly.
“He was.” I swallow hard, looking down at my plate, my appetite suddenly gone. “I miss him.”
Molly reaches across the table, her fingers brushing against mine. The small gesture feels like a warm anchor in the storm of my memories. “I wish I could meet him. He sounds like he was amazing.”
I get an idea. A crazy, impulsive, probably-terrible for a first date idea. But it feels right. “You could.”
“What do you mean?”
??ˋ ?? ?ˊ?
IN MY QUEST to take Molly on the perfect first date, I spent the last couple days getting opinions from my trusted peers, and the most trustworthy source of all: the internet.
It was a dark and twisted rabbit hole of listicles and forums, a cacophony of conflicting advice that ranged from ridiculously specific (“wear a matching pair of socks, it shows you’re detail oriented”) to utterly insane (“take her to a taxidermy museum, it’s a great conversation start”).
It was how I landed on simply going to Mulligan’s. It was easy, familiar, and according to one article, “a low-pressure environment” was the best way to go. And it worked out really well, because we laughed a lot and had nice conversations and I didn’t once spill ketchup on my shirt.
Somehow though, I don’t think the internet would approve of my choice to take Molly to the cemetery. Maybe the person who wrote the taxidermy thing, but even he might side-eye this choice.
I gave her about four outs since I suggested it, but each time she said she was okay with coming here as long as I was. And now here we were. The sun has sunk down by now, the sky dusky and stars are starting to poke through the murky fabric of the air.
“Just down this way.” I can hear the shake in my own voice. I haven’t been here in a while, not since Claire’s birthday. But I’ve been here enough to know the way like the back of my hand.
“This place is kind of calming for a cemetery,” she looks around, her eyes taking in the neat row of headstones, the wilting flowers on some of the graves. “You know, not as creepy as I expected.”
“Yeah, it's a small place... he's right up here.”
He's nestled in between two other graves I've gotten to know fairly well from all my trips here. On one side was Shannon Clár Blue, 1969 - 1981, and on the other side was Johnathan Collin Lynch, 1964 to 1983, a childhood friend of my da’s.
On the other side of Shannon's grave was my Nanny Aoife, who died in '93.
Her death is what started my fathers two year drinking problem, him unable to take another loss in his life.
I can’t even be mad at him for it. All I lost was one person and look how well I coped.
Molly crouches down in front of Da, reading his headstone.
“Patrick Brian Blue,” she murmurs, running her fingers over the engraved letters. “1964 to 2002.”
“Yeah.” I crouch next to her, the damp grass seeping through the knees of my jeans. “He was thirty-seven. Would've been thirty-eight.”
“You never told me you guys' had the same birthday.”
“Yeah.” I chuckle, sad and hollow. “He used to say I was his birthday present.”
Molly smiles at that. She glances up at me, then back at the grave. “Do you come here often?”
“Sometimes,” I admit. “But usually if I want to talk to him I... I'll go to The Strand. Because... you know. He drowned.”
She nods in understanding, not asking for more, running her fingers over the engraved epitaph. “What's this say?”
“Cibé áit a shiúlann tú, gheobhaidh mé thú,” I pronounce it out for her.
“What does it mean?”
“It's Irish. Means ‘wherever you walk, I will find you.’”
“That’s beautiful.”
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat feeling like a golf ball. “Yeah.”
She stands up, brushing off her knees. “What else?”
I glance up at her, her silhouette framed against the darkening sky. “What?”
“What else do you want me to know about him?”
I smile softly, a genuine heartfelt smile that reaches my eyes. “He had the worst singing voice. Like, truly awful. But he sang all the time.”
“What was his favorite song?”
“This old folk song, you wouldn’t know it. I've got the record in my bedroom. I'll have to play it for you sometime.”
“How about right now?”