Chapter Thirty
Faye crimped the crust on an apple pie while Nola Wren sucked on a sugar-coated slice that poked out of her mouth, dark hair up in pigtails that bobbed off the back of her head.
Faye marveled at how the sweet smell of a blueberry pie fresh from the oven masked the nervous energy that vibrated through the house since Molly’s call earlier in the week.
The front door squeaked, and William’s voice called out.
“In here,” Faye responded. “Let’s wash your hands,” she said to Nola Wren. “Grandpa will read to you while I finish up.”
Faye ran the child’s tiny hands under the water, dried them with a dish towel, then the little girl stepped down from her stool dutifully.
Her quiet nature sometimes worried Faye.
She was wide eyed and observant—so like Molly when she was little—and sweet, especially with William.
How he doted on her! But she had a fretful side, too, a twiglike furrow at the bridge of her little nose, as if she expected an alarm to go off.
Faye knew it was nothing more than a trait, an expression of curiosity, though it caused her to wonder how much angst the child might have absorbed so early in her little life. They had all tried so hard.
And what would Molly even look like, how long might her hair be, what color even?
She’d never said it aloud but, over the years, she’d worried about drugs and rapists and terrible things she heard on the news that happened to girls traveling alone.
Would she be too thin? Anorexic even? She was never a great eater.
So many worrisome thoughts! If Nola Wren’s brow furrowed, she probably caught it from Faye.
Maeve had dropped Nola Wren off with Faye that morning.
Her own flurry of activity since Molly’s call had not yet subsided.
Faye had tried to convince Maeve to slow down, to be reasonable.
On the phone that morning, she’d asked, “Do you really think Molly’s going to judge you?
You think she’s going to care whether you’ve cleaned under the couch?
Try to put yourself in her shoes. She’s nervous.
She’s the one who feels judged, Maeve. Not you. ”
“You’re right,” Maeve replied. “But also, tell me what you’re doing, right this second. I’m guessing you’re rolling out pie dough.”
Faye laughed. It was true. She baked Molly’s favorites, knowing she was never able to resist homemade pie.
But weren’t they all running around like they were preparing for a nor’easter?
William had been in the barn of all places, tidying heaps of half-broken antiques, sweeping up shavings, hanging tools he’d left on the bench.
Maeve was off to town now for more groceries as if a full cupboard equaled a happy home.
Wendy had work until three and would be home soon after, she’d promised Maeve.
William peeked his head into the kitchen. “Smells good already!” he said. He was holding his right arm at an odd angle.
“What happened to your hand?”
“Ahh, I banged it on the bench.” He dropped the newspaper he was holding on the table. Nola Wren grabbed his pant leg.
“I told her you’d read to her.”
“Let me wash up. And I might shut my eyes for a bit before I head to the station.”
“But you’ll read to her first.”
“Yes, dear,” he said, shaking his hand out like it had been asleep. Faye touched his scruffy face. It was still electric for her, the whiskers on her palm. All these years later, and she loved him still, loved him more.
“You excited?” His eyes lit up. He’d talked of little else all week, Molly coming home.
“Very,” Faye said. “And you are as happy as a leprechaun, William Sullivan. Now go get cleaned up.”
He pointed at the paper. “Oh. I saw this in my pile. Is this that refugee program you talked about? Says here, ‘Operation Shamrock.’ The German girls? From the boat?”
Faye’s mouth fell open, and the whole of the sea filled it. She tried to speak, but her throat clamped shut. William’s name drowned on her tongue.
Too gleeful to register Faye’s shock, he picked up his grandchild. “Your mommy is coming home! All will be right. You’ll see.” As he left the kitchen, he turned to Faye, his face dewy and gleaming. He smiled ear to ear, shore to shore, as broad as the horizon.
Pies in the oven, shears unstabbed on the table, Faye held the newspaper to her ear.
German voices, jigs and lullabies, the Irish lilt of the girl singing children to sleep.
Her knees gave out, and she sat herself in the chair.
That Millay sonnet again, reminding her that she was her Irish father’s daughter, the way poetry entered her head instead of her own thoughts.
Call me in all things what I was before,
A flutterer in the wind, a woman still;
I tell you I am what I was and more.
She set the paper back down, peered into the faces there.
Gisela. She was Gisela. She covered the face of the child she was with the tip of her finger.
She did the same with Elisabeth’s face. She stood briskly, the walls closing in as sure as birds blackened the sky.
She grabbed her gathering basket. “I’m going to the garden,” she shouted.
“Back in a minute!” She turned the knob, halted.
The newspaper. She snatched it from the table and tossed it into the basket.
In the barn, she switched on the light over William’s workbench.
A box was on the ground, a little haphazard, and two bundles wrapped in The Irish Times lay next to a stack of china.
She pulled a weathered milking stool from under the bench and took the newspaper in both hands.
She could read the story here, cry her tears here, decide what to do next here, away from eyes that she feared might see through her, accuse her.
Somehow, after finding Hannie’s letter to Jean all those years ago, and despite never having found the photograph, Elisabeth had become clearer in her mind, at least the girl that she had been, what with the endless tides of memories that had come and gone and come again.
And this photo told the same story. Elisabeth, smiling and open, Gisela, furrowed and suspicious.
Ah, there’s my granddaughter’s furrow, there on a child’s face.
Up until this moment, those girls were both so distant they could have been characters in a story.
But now, she could almost taste the Irish air, soft and green on her tongue.
She could almost feel her sister’s hand in her own, how small.
Time itself taunted her. Come clean! Come clean!
The rough stool dug into the back of her legs.
William was everywhere in this workshop.
Had his face registered any doubt in her when he set the paper down? It had not. She was certain of that.
An image of Molly boarding a bus flashed in her mind. And then Maeve and Wendy. Yes, Wendy. William had been so understanding of Maeve, so forgiving of Molly. Surely, he would have that same grace for her. Surely, he would understand. It wasn’t too late for the truth.
Her tears fell onto the newsprint—distorting, magnifying, obscuring. We were only children, you see. We were only children. Faye looked at her own face again, fuzzy in black and white, yet clear to her now in a way she could not begin to understand then. I was so afraid.
Back in the kitchen, she set the empty vegetable basket down.
Her hands still shook despite the long minutes she’d spent in the barn, trying to gather herself.
It did not have to be right now. This wasn’t the time.
But she would tell him. Once Molly was home and they could see the shape of their family again.
She folded the newspaper over and set it on the table.
All was quiet in the living room. She looked in, and William was asleep on the couch, head back, mouth open, one arm loosely around Nola Wren, who fussed on his lap, Miss Spider in her hands. Blueberries for Sal lay spine up on the carpet next to a stuffed bear.
“Hush, now,” she whispered, her arms out. “Let Grandpa sleep. He has to get our Molly soon.” When the child reached for Faye, the book dropped onto William’s leg. He didn’t start.
What was it about his face, eyes closed beyond rest?
Faye put Nola Wren down and shook her husband’s shoulder lightly.
“William . . .” He didn’t stir. “William!” She spoke louder now, shook him more aggressively.
Nothing. Nola Wren cried, and Faye bent to her, pressed the bear into her hands.
She sat beside her husband, put her head to his chest, warm from where Nola Wren had cuddled.
He was not breathing. “William!” she cried, black waves crashing inside her. “William. No, you can’t. Oh!”
Nola Wren seemed to think it was a game and tugged at William’s pants, laughing.
Then she caught Faye’s despair, amplifying it with uncharacteristic shouts.
Faye ran past her to the telephone, dialed 911.
“Please, hurry!” she begged. Please, oh, dear God.
Faye pulled William, lifeless and heavy, into her arms. Nola Wren plopped on the floor, cried as if she understood.
Faye could hear paramedics arrive, the slamming of doors, knocking and shouting.
But it was somewhere far away, in some other time where she wasn’t.
She held a colding body, but William—he was everywhere, the dust around her, a genie out of the bottle.
She was behind the veil. She marveled at the grandeur of his spirit, breathed him into her lungs and bones, remembering a time they danced at the VFW hall.
It was winter. In the corner of the wood-paneled hall, there was a Christmas tree with colored bulbs, light snow was falling outside.
Yes, the Fireman’s Ball. She’d worn a pretty dress, gold with white piping, her hair done up.
So light on her feet! William twirled her until they were floating above all the other dancers and revelers.
She threw her head back, joy and disbelief.
She did not want to come back to earth. But then the dance hall disappeared, and she was in her living room with this slumped body, her grandchild cried out at her feet.
If she moved, she feared he would fall over.
A hand on her shoulder, a face she didn’t recognize, a ghost in a window, tapping on the glass with a delicate fingernail. Faye whispered into William’s ear, deaf now to all sound. “Summer sang in me.” Millay again.
And then, he was there, William, ten years then twenty years younger, leaning against the kitchen doorframe.
Worn blue jeans, fur-lined slippers, down vest over a red flannel shirt she had not seen in a decade, hair the color of the setting sun.
He held out his hands in that way of his, winked and gestured with his thumb toward the kitchen.
Syrupy smoke blackened the room.
In the oven, the pies burned.