Sleeping Brides Page 6

  “I don’t know who the James fella is, but I’m pretty sure the city is named after General Lafayette.”

  I was disappointed. “That’s too bad. James was a pretty exciting guy. He was a slave, but he volunteered to fight against the British in the War of Independence. The British didn’t know this. They captured him, and thinking him to be a runaway, they offered him freedom in exchange for information. It was exactly as General Lafayette planned. Working as a double agent, James fed false information to the British, which led to their defeat at Yorktown and their ultimate surrender. Afterward, James added Lafayette to his name, in honor of his general.”

  “Did he win his freedom?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I hope so.”

  “You know what I’d like to see? Gettysburg. But not the traditional Gettysburg. I want to do a ghost tour.”

  “You’re Catholic. I didn’t think you were allowed to believe in ghosts.”

  Dermott laughed. “Ghosts. The deceased. Souls. Angels. Whatever. I believe people exist after they die. Gettysburg is meant to have buckets of ghosts, and it’s not just soldiers. There’s a ridge of boulders on the battlefield called Devil’s Den. A lot of fighting took place there, but ghost stories at Devil’s Den predate the Civil War. Settlers claimed to hear Native American war cries and drums beating, long before the Confederacy.”

  “Spooky,” I said. “I have a small bit of Native American blood. I have ancestors who were of the Lenape people.”

  “Native Americans and Irish share a common history. We both were conquered for our land. We fought oppression for hundreds of years. During the frontier days, we were discriminated against. The Injuns and the dirty Irish.”

  “I read about how Native American tribes sent food to Ireland during the Great Famine,” I recalled. “They must have identified strongly with the Irish.”

  We stopped for a fallen tree, which Dermott helped me over, lifting me with his tender strength.

  “I like listening to Native American wind flutes or whatever they’re called,” I added as we continued our hike.

  “I wonder where we could buy the flutes. Maybe a gift shop. Or online.”

  “I said I liked to listen to them. Not play them. If I were to play an instrument, it’d be the electric violin. Or an electric harp.” I stopped. “Hey, give me your phone.”

  “Why?”

  I pointed to the ground where two rocks and a broken stick resembled a smiley face. “The battery on my phone is gone. Hurry, the rain is about to pick up.”

  “I don’t understand your obsession with taking pictures of odd smiley faces,” Dermott taunted, handing me his phone. As I took my photos, he held his hand out to catch the rain falling through the leaves above us. “When I propose to you again, it’s going to be on a rainy, lawless day like this,” he declared.

  Remembering the piece of dusty, aged rope I’d found at the back of the cottage, and feeling the moment right, I handed Dermott back his phone, and I took the rope out of my pocket. “Give me your hand.”

  “You planning something kinky, Cuddles?” he asked as he lifted both hands out to me.

  I held my own hand next to one of his, and I wrapped the rope loosely around our wrists. “There. Now I’m promised to you, the way your ancient Celts used to do it. It’s not the engagement you want, but I hope it symbolizes just how much I care about you. We do have a future together.”

  It made Dermott happy, my lover in the mist, but there was something mischievous about the way he smiled.

  “What?” I asked.

  “We’re married now.”

  My hand dropped, causing the rope to fall to the dirt. “No, we’re not.”

  “You just performed a hand-fasting ritual. You’re right. It’s what Celts did when they promised themselves together—in marriage. You just married us. You’re my bride.”

  I didn’t believe him. “That’s not funny.”

  He picked up the rope and tucked it into his pocket. “Why do you think they call it tying the knot?”

  “We’re not married,” I insisted, the mountain closing in around me.

  Dermott saw how uncomfortable I was, but he persisted. “Not legally, but you can’t undo what my Celtic ancestors have witnessed here today, wifey.”

  Realizing it was a tease, I continued up the trail, ignoring him until we reached a clearing that overlooked the valley below. A road twisted at the foot of the mountain, disappearing beyond the bend.

  “Where does that lead?” I asked.

  “To a village forgotten by time. Here in the midlands, away from the cities and the sea, the villages are about as Irish as you can get. There’s drink. And there’s banter. And there’s more drink. Women raise the kids. Men farm the land.”

  “Ireland is rich in technology and science. It celebrates music and art. Does it bother you how much you stereotype your own people?” I asked, but I didn’t wait for him to answer. “Do they have a post office? We leave soon, and I want to send a postcard to Laney before we go.”

  “The shop in the village probably sells postcards and stamps. I can take you there later,” Dermott offered. “To celebrate our honeymoon.”

  “You’ll be too tired to go anywhere later,” I predicted, moving along the trail. “The last time we went hiking, you were conked out for the winter.”

  “It’s easy to sleep with you by my side,” he said as he put his arm around me. “You’re my sweetest dream.”

  “We’ll see,” I said, enjoying the shelter of his hold, but fearing when we confronted a rainy, lawless day once again.

  ***

  Soon after we returned to the cottage, Dermott fell asleep, his giant body stretched out in front of the fire he’d built, a blanket against the summer rain. I was far from tired, still feeling adventurous after our afternoon of exploration, so I crept out to the back and shook leaves and rust loose from a bicycle I’d spotted earlier in the day. With its yellow frame and woven basket, it looked like a bike that belonged in an old Italian movie, where women cycled around in their floral dresses and big hair, bottles of wine and loaves of bread protruding from their baskets. At one time, the bike must have belonged to Dermott’s mother.

  It didn’t take long to reach the road that ran through the valley. The ride down the mountain was jarring against the delicate brakes of the bike, but the road was flat, making it easy to pedal. I did not know how far the village was from the cottage, but as long as the road remained flat, I didn’t care. The bends in the road were repetitious, as was the green pastures and sparse woodlands within the valley. It made it hard to calculate the distance I traveled, but easy to lose myself in the calm of the day.

  Few cars passed by. I was alone, free to claim the mountains as my own, until I reached a stretch of road where a line of campervans were parked to the side—Travelers. Passing by them was unavoidable if I wanted to reach the village. It wouldn’t have bothered me, except for the huddle of men sitting outside one of the campervans drinking, their rowdy talk filtering down to me, pale gypsies with no reverence for society. Next to them, a donkey was tied to a rotting wheelbarrow.

  Dermott had not warned me to stay away from the Travelers. He had told me to ignore them, which meant they were an annoyance, but not a danger, so I carried on, my head held high. I would show them no fear.

  They spotted me. As I approached, they leered, suddenly quiet, their drink stagnant in their hands. My instinct was to turn back, to avoid meeting them on the abandoned road, but I didn’t. I road on, tensing as I passed by.

  One of the men stood and shouted, demanding my attention. I refused to stop, but he shouted again, and I heard him.

  “Careful on these here roads! Everyone speeds. Watch yerself!”

  “You really shouldn’t be cycling here!” another added. “Crash. You’re gone.”

  “I’ll buy your bike for a tenner!” a younger fellow hollered. “Or I can sell you new tires for twenty!”

  A kid next to him snickered. �
��I’ll sell ya tires for ten!”

  Relieved that I had nothing to fear from them, I called out my gratitude, and I pressed on. I was starting to like the Travelers. I had no doubt they could be master swindlers, but I would share a pint with them, if Dermott was with me.

  Leaving the Travelers behind, I realized I was the outcast in Ireland. I was the recluse, the foreigner. It swayed my thoughts to the shelter. I would leave my job, one day, but I wasn’t sure where I would go afterwards. I wanted to travel, to visit countries where I didn’t know the language, to be a foreigner once more, but it didn’t seem enough to just travel. I wanted my life to be significant. I had hope that it could be significant. Working at the shelter was rewarding, and Dermott was my happiness, but neither fulfilled me. I didn’t know what would, but I had to figure it out.

  They were heavy thoughts that poured out of me harder than the rain. I should not have been so distracted. I should have focused on the road, paying heed to the warning given to me by the Travelers. If I had, I would have been more cautious of my position on the road, and I would have heard the car racing up behind me, known how fast it was going and realized it was not the kind of car to slow, not even after it skimmed my back tire, tossing me into the bushes where I fell, hidden beneath the leaves, left alone, a casualty in the valley.

  ***

  Mr. Glenn. Sitting on the bus with his shoes polished and his three-piece suit pressed, he didn’t speak to others. He liked to be alone, to exist in his own company. We were the same. Solitude was peace for people like us. I had never been scared to be alone before. I sought it, the way a gardener sought the seed and the soil, a soldier his home. But I was scared now.

  “Dermott!” I called, unknowing if the words actually formed. My hearing was as blind as my vision. Treetops looked down upon me, but I only knew so because of my memory of them from the road, not because I could see. My isolation was whole.

  This is my death, I thought. I’m going to die here.

  I wasn’t being dramatic. It was real. The density of the bushes had cushioned my fall, but only barely. I tried to sit up, but it was impossible. I felt nothing. There was no pain. No indication of life in my bones. There was only the numbing alone.

  Dermott doesn’t even know where I’ve gone. What if he thinks I ran off, too scared to commit myself to him?

  That scared me more than the alone—that Dermott would never know the truth of what happened to me. That he would always assume I chose fear of our future over my happiness with him. I would die loving him more than I’d loved anyone before him, and he would never know.

  A rare tear rolled down my cheek. I felt it, salty and warm against my skin. With it, my vision began to clear. I could see the silhouette of the branches of the trees above me, but they provided no comfort. Tiered and gnarled, they reminded me of branches young souls hanged themselves from. I stared at them, wondering how many broken bodies had landed where I did now, cut from their ropes.

  Unable to take it, I turned my head, my body awakening to small movements. I reached my hand away from the bushes where I lay and dug my nails into the moist earth. Beside my hand, a bird landed, a blur of white feathers and a beak.

  “Don’t eat me,” I mumbled.

  It squawked, insulted, and it flew off.

  “Come back!” I pleaded, again not knowing if I actually managed to form the words, but the bird did not return, taking the day with it.

  The dark came. I gave up. I gave up on everything, and I closed my eyes. When I did, the weight holding down my body was lifted, and I felt as if I were floating. Hands touched me, held me, comforted me, but I did not feel. I only floated.

  “Ronnie.”

  It was Dermott. His voice was my adrenaline, waking me fully. It was he who held me, lifting me out of the bushes. I was crying, clinging to him like a child. Never before had I cried in front of him. I was not sure I had ever cried in front of anyone.

  “I’m here,” he soothed as he carried me to where his motorcycle was parked. “What happened?”

  “There was a car... I couldn’t move,” I told him. “I couldn’t see.”

  “But you can see now? You can see me?”

  “Inescapably,” I answered.

  “You were in shock,” he assessed, and he held me close. My back was bruised and tender against his touch, but I didn’t care. I was just glad he was there. “Good thing I spotted the wheel of the bike sticking out.”

  What if he hadn’t? My sobs hardened with the gravity of what had happened. “I want to grow old,” I cried into his shoulder.

  “You will,” he promised me. “We’ll grow old together. We have to. I couldn’t survive old age without you.”

  ***

  Following the accident, I took rest in the cottage for several days, enjoying the idleness of lying in a duvet, especially with Dermott next to me, but the morning before our flight home, he slipped away from our bed. “Was it the kicking?” I called after him, cold without his warmth. “It’s not my fault! With all the rain outside, I kept dreaming I was a ninja mermaid!”

  I listened, waiting for the sound of the kettle boiling in the kitchen. Instead, I heard him take off on the motorcycle. It was the afternoon before he returned. By then, I had dressed and was sitting at the end of the bed watching quirky Irish comedies on the TV.

  “Come outside,” Dermott beseeched.

  I switched off the TV and followed him out to the front of the cottage, into a dry tranquility. The rain had stopped, but the earth remained soft beneath my feet. Pinned to a tree was a target—the kind to shoot arrows at. Sharp arrows.

  “I thought you might like to try the real thing,” Dermott revealed, handing me a bow and a quiver full of tapered arrows.

  “Where did you get these?”

  “A friend of my father’s. Here.” He passed the equipment on to me then picked up his own set from the ground.

  Thrilled, I worked the arrow against the bow and aimed it at the tree. The bow was heavy, it took a moment to steady my arms, but I found my center.

  “You standing there like that, it’s hot,” Dermott praised, whistling. “There’s nothing sexier than a woman with a lethal weapon.”

  I prepared to shoot, but a dove appeared on a branch near the target. It perched and stared straight at me, testing my ability to let go. Remembering the white bird that had landed near my hand as I lay in the bushes, I instantly dropped my bow, a flood of emotions filing through me. “Dermott, look, a dove.”

  Still fiddling with his own bowstring, Dermott briefly glanced up. “You starting to believe in signs, darling?” he asked, his attention caught somewhere between the dove and the task at hand.

  Doves represented hope. I carried the hope that I would find something more when I eventually traveled, something that fulfilled me. And I hoped that though Dermott and I wanted opposite things, we could still make it work—that our love was strong enough.

  “I think I believe,” I said with swollen willfulness.

  “Then I hate to say it, but that’s a small seagull.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I insisted, my focus fixed on the tiny visitor.

  Dermott raised his bow, concentrating on the target. “How so?”

  I lowered his arrow with my arm, afraid he would miss and hit the bird. “Because we’re nowhere near the sea.”

  Chapter Six

  Her Death

  Eight Years Later

  The morning of my wedding, the sun had been slow to rise, or maybe I had risen too early as unsettled dreams shifted into unsettled thoughts. Dermott slept heavily beside me, his lanky body wrapped around the sienna sheets that matched my Native American quilt. As I climbed out of bed, he stirred and intuitively reached out towards me. I should have stayed there with him, nestled in our private cocoon, but instead I guiltily tiptoed across the studio apartment towards the fridge, my mind already in full gear.

  It’s never too early for a drink on your wedding day, I thought as I reached for a carton of
orange juice and a near-empty bottle of bourbon, suspiciously thirsty. Pouring the mixture into a mug, I walked hesitantly towards the full-length mirror where my dress hung.

  The flawless material of the dress, loose like the robe of a Greek oracle, was a complete contrast to the bride who’d bought it. Wearing plaid pajama shorts and an oversized Jimmy Hendrix T-shirt that draped lazily over my curves, I was more like mismatched patchwork than anything of antiquity, but I liked the simplicity of the dress. Simplicity was exactly what I had envisioned for the day. No formality. Just simplicity.

  I would not walk down the aisle. Dermott and I would stand side by side together while the guests arrived. I would have done away with the guest list altogether if it wouldn’t have broken Mrs. O’Brallaghan’s heart. She was already upset we’d refused her idea of marrying in an Italian cathedral. My cathedral was a cozy nature reserve north of Baton Rouge where, in a private little meadow, altars were swapped for living oaks, pews for chairs. There would be a barbeque afterwards, something intimate that let the day speak for itself without unnecessary finery.

  Because of the simplicity of the day, I hadn’t objected when Aileen and Emer offered to decorate. They were probably in the meadow now, preparing for the ceremony, leaving Dermott and I to enjoy the morning of our wedding together in luscious solitude.

  I looked towards Dermott as the sun climbed its way above the horizon and shone brightly through the small bay window over the bed. Within it, dust particles floated down towards him, glinting like grains of sand. He didn’t need the breath of Ole Lukøje, the wanderer they called the Sandman, to bring him giant, wondrous dreams. He already had them stored in that big heart of his. He still wanted kids. Lots of them. His idea of nirvana was a loud, messy family.

  Knowing this, I took another sip from the mug, trying not to let my happiness falter. I had thought that, by now, I would have completed my travels, that I would have found my sense of fulfillment. I hadn’t. I’d been promoted at the shelter to daytime management. When I’d accepted the promotion, I’d told myself it was to save up for traveling, but really I was grounding my wings, for Dermott. There was no sovereignty when a person loved someone as much as I loved Dermott.