The Mermaids Singing Read online

  For the last year, with a gradual laying of bricks—the silent, stubborn bricks of Seamus and the sharp weapon-bricks of Grace—a wall had grown between the two of them, a wall that sometimes shocked them, as each was convinced that the other had built it alone. Grace fought Seamus, screaming vicious insults and throwing pottery, but he refused to fight back. He watched her calmly until she exhausted herself and left the house when she started to cry. He spent many long nights in the pub, but when he came home he was never drunk. She would have preferred him drunk; she could have been condescending then, could have beaten him down. But he slipped into their bed with bright and focused eyes, and she gave in once his heat reached her. They bruised each other making love, woke without speaking of their sore hips and swollen, bitter mouths. They glided by one another like blind ghosts during the day, focusing their attention on Gráinne, taking turns with her as though they were already separate, single parents. When Seamus was out of her sight, Grace wondered why she’d ever agreed to marry him. She hated herself for the way she lost her grip in that bed and laid her love open for him to see like a gaping wound. She knew she needed to get away, far enough so the gravity of his body wouldn’t pull her back.

  One afternoon while Seamus was fishing with Owen, Grace swam through the harbor to Max’s boat, where he was waiting. She fucked him on a hard bed in his private cabin. It was like lying underneath a dead man compared to Seamus; Max’s body was sticky-cold and his stomach had the texture of a jellyfish. They smoked, naked above the bedclothes, and Grace painted him a portrait of an abusive, ignorant Seamus, to get Max to shake his head and grumble that she deserved more. He actually thought it was his own idea when they decided that Grace would go on to Spain with him. They could bring the baby as well, Max said, there was room enough. Grace left the boat after dark, and floated through the water to the hotel. She was excited as she pulled on her clothes and walked in to pick up Gráinne, like a prisoner who had finally sawed through the first bar of her cell.

  In the hotel pub, there was a party going for her stepbrothers Conor and Marc Jr., who were turning seventeen and were headed for England in a week. Clíona was laughing loudly between the twins, who were now a head taller than she. She reached up to straighten their fair hair, gazing with pride—as though, Grace thought with disgust, they were her own sons. “Sure, she can send them out of Ireland with her blessing,” Grace mumbled under her breath, “because they’re men, and island men are spoon-fed everything they want.”

  Gráinne was playing under the bar stools with Liam. Someone had given them chocolate cookies, and Gráinne was smeared with brown frosting.

  “Will you have a pint, Grace?” Marcus said cheerfully, pulling the Guinness tap with its squeal and hiss of air. He looked delighted, his blue eyes drinking in the family he believed was sound.

  “I won’t, Marcus,” Grace said. “Come on, sweetie,” she said to Gráinne. She tried to wipe the chocolate from the girl’s face, but the napkin shredded into lint that stuck to her little chin like feathers to tar.

  “Ah, come on now,” Marcus said. “One drink won’t kill you.” He put the half-poured stout on the grate to settle, the tan cloud showering like fog in the glass.

  “I said I don’t want it,” Grace snapped, and Marcus’s face fell. He shrugged, shaking his head, and moved down the bar to Clíona and the twins. He’s never liked me, Grace thought. I just came in the package with his mail-order bride. She was meanly satisfied that after tomorrow his face, and all the faces that looked like his, would never peer at her again.

  That night, Grace crawled under her daughter’s covers and whispered that they were going on an adventure.

  “What’s adventure?” Gráinne said. Her little voice was like an islander’s, rising and falling in a watery tune.

  “An adventure means you and I leaving this island and traveling to exciting places.”

  “Like my uncles?” Gráinne said.

  “They’re only going to England,” Grace said. “Wouldn’t you like to see the world?”

  “Ah, sure,” Gráinne said. Lately, she’d been imitating Clíona’s expressions with frightening accuracy. “Will Dada come, as well?”

  “Not right away,” Grace said. “But who’s your best friend in the universe?”

  “Mummy,” Gráinne said, yawning.

  “And you’re Mommy’s. Why do we need anyone else?” Gráinne fell asleep before she could answer, her warm wet breath staining Grace’s neck.

  In her half sleep at dawn, Grace felt Seamus get out of their bed, heard him showering and knocking around the kitchen. She lay like a child on Christmas morning, longing to spring out of bed but frightened it wasn’t time yet. She pulled the covers up over her nose; once Seamus left, the duvet and pillows always turned chilly. She waited for him to come kiss her good-bye, but heard the crinkling of his jacket and the slip of a metal key off the hook.

  “Seamus?” she called out in a weak, worried voice. He came into the curtained bedroom with his hat on, his camera bag pinching his shoulder. It was too dark to see the expression on his face.

  “Weren’t you going to say good-bye?” she said. He was going to Belfast again; when he came back, he would find her gone.

  Seamus didn’t say anything, and her excitement went cold; she suddenly felt trapped again, like a paralyzed invalid in the bed. He stepped up to her quickly, his shadow rushing down, and kissed her so deeply she felt her insides crack like silvery slivers of coal cleaved by heat. Then he was gone, and though he hadn’t spoken, the room fell into silence. Why, when she was the one who was leaving, did she feel abandoned? She kicked off the blankets and slapped her feet on the damp carpet, trying to concentrate her tricky mind on what she needed to take with her.

  Grace’s plan was to leave late that night, when no one would be around to stop her. At dinnertime, when she had everything packed and repacked, Mary Louise stopped by with Liam. Grace was annoyed.

  “Can’t you come back tomorrow?” Grace said. “Gráinne’s not feeling well and I want to put her to bed early.”

  “She looks well enough,” Mary Louise said, watching Gráinne grab Liam’s hand and run off to her bedroom. Grace swallowed her fury.

  “I just wanted to bring the boy over to say good-bye,” Mary Louise said. Grace slammed the door, but Mary Louise had already slithered in.

  “How did you know?” Grace said. “Is your life so pathetically boring that you need to spy on me?”

  “Ah, Grace, don’t be angry,” Mary Louise said. “I saw the signs. I’m not so dim as you think.”

  “Did you tell anyone?” Grace said.

  “No, and why would I? No one can stop you when you fix your mind on a thing.”

  “I guess you think I’m a bitch for abandoning my husband,” Grace said, mimicking what she thought of as Mary Louise’s whiny tone.

  “Not so,” Mary Louise said. She was looking at the pictures on the sitting room wall: Seamus’s parents’ wedding next to his own. “That’s just your way,” she said. “You’re not one to settle; you fancy yourself in prison if you’re obliged to anyone else.” Mary Louise turned to look at her. “It’s your mother you take after.”

  Grace laughed meanly. “I’m nothing like my mother,” she said. “She’s even more settled than you are.”

  “You didn’t know her years ago,” Mary Louise said.

  “Yeah? Neither did you.”

  “Aye, but I heard stories.” Mary Louise smiled. “And I can see it in her still. There’s the same restlessness there; she’s made different decisions is all.”

  Grace shook her head and told Mary Louise to leave. Who did she think she was, saying she understood Grace or her mother? Mary Louise called to Liam that it was time to go, and Liam and Gráinne came to the door, holding hands and whining that they wanted to play for a few more minutes.

  “Sure, I’ll miss you Grace,” Mary Louise whispered. “Though I know you won’t say the same about me.” Grace wanted to ask her: Why have yo
u always been so stupidly nice to me, when it’s obvious I hate you? But she knew what the woman’s naive answer would be: You’re my sister. Grace watched them walk down the path and closed the door with a satisfied bang.

  When Grace arrived at the quay at midnight, Clíona was waiting grimly by the yacht.

  “Jesus Christ,” Grace said. “What do you want?” All her plans for a secretive escape were being twisted into good-byes. Clíona picked Gráinne up out of the stroller, and they went through their silly little routine: a hug, a kiss, and a squeeze, and at the squeeze part they both squealed and crushed each other. Grace looked on with disgust. If she traced back over her whole life, she could not remember her mother ever touching her, except to smack her in anger.

  “What did you do now?” Grace said. “Bribe Max? Murder the captain? Are you going to lock me up in the church until I promise to be a good girl?”

  “No, Grace,” Clíona sighed, putting Gráinne down, “I’m through fighting you.” Max came up the steps, looking furtive and guilty, and loaded Grace’s bags and the stroller onto the deck.

  “So why are you here, Mother?” Grace said. Clíona looked at her with the same hard, expressionless gaze.

  “Don’t be thinking Seamus will come after you,” she said. “He’s too much pride.”

  “I’m not doing this so Seamus, or any of you, will come after me,” Grace said, though the same jolt of fear she’d felt with Seamus that morning hit her with Clíona’s words. He will come after me, she thought. And everything will be different.

  “Spare me the lecture,” Grace said. “I already got one from Mary Louise. What, does the whole island know I’m going? I’m surprised they’re not all here, picketing.”

  “Sure, they all knew you’d leave someday,” Clíona said. “It’s plain to anyone you hate it here. Haven’t you been wandering around with that same sulky face these five years?”

  “I don’t sulk,” Grace said.

  “You do, sure, always have. No one could ever make you happy, except that wee one.” Gráinne was looking at them with a worried expression that made her babyish face look old. “I hope you can make yourself happy,” Clíona said. “That’s all I came to say.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Grace said. “As usual, Mother, you came here to try to ruin things for me.”

  Her mother backed away, leaving the entrance clear to the boat.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll write and tell us where you are,” Clíona said.

  “No.”

  “Ah, no,” Clíona echoed softly. For a moment she looked thin-shouldered and old, but she straightened her posture and did up the top snap of her rain jacket.

  “Good-bye so,” she said lightly. “I wouldn’t stay with your man there too long,” she said, gesturing toward Max, who was waiting with a melodramatic expression. “He looks a bit feckless, that one.” She turned around before Grace could answer, and walked gracefully up the pier, her jacket flaps fluttering in the wind.

  “Are we going or what?” Max said, and Grace, closing her eyes against her mother’s iron figure, handed Gráinne over the wooden rails.

  As the yacht rounded the harbor entrance by Granuaile’s castle, the turrets glinting silver under the full moon, Max poured Grace a glass of wine and toasted her escape.

  “I thought I’d have to wrestle with that bitch on the dock,” Max joked. Grace didn’t answer. She was looking at the castle walls, imagining a stone-finned woman, and Seamus’s light hand. She saw herself as a little girl, laying a hopeful place at the kitchen table.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Max said.

  Grace snapped to attention, smiling sexily. “Of course,” she said, kissing him.

  He gave a satisfied grunt and put his hand on her ass. “Jesus!” he yelled, and Grace almost giggled until she saw he was looking behind her.

  She turned and saw Gráinne, balanced on the back rails, leaning precariously over the rushing water.

  “Move back, baby,” Grace yelled, running toward her, but Gráinne let out a musical laugh and toppled overboard.

  “Oh shit!” Max yelled. “Stop the fucking boat, the kid’s fallen off.” He climbed the slippery ladder to the navigation deck.

  Before they could even turn on the searchlights, Grace was in the water, gliding below the surface, her arms strained and blindly groping in the cold sea. She grabbed hold of a little body and pulled it up, keeping Gráinne’s head up as she paddled back to the boat. The captain lifted Gráinne, and Max dragged Grace on deck with a wet plop.

  “Is she breathing?” Grace cried, pushing Max away. Gráinne started coughing, and Grace wrapped her with shaking hands in the deck blanket.

  “Should we go back?” the captain said.

  Max looked unsure. “No,” he said. “She’s all right, isn’t she Grace?”

  Grace turned her back and told him to leave her alone. She peeled Gráinne’s wet clothes off and rubbed her viciously with a monogrammed blue towel, as Gráinne looked at the water with a calm, detached expression.

  “Don’t ever do that again,” Grace yelled. “You don’t jump off a boat. You could have drowned, do you understand me? You’d have drowned if I hadn’t found you.”

  “The lady told me to do it,” Gráinne whined. For a minute, Grace thought she meant Clíona.

  “What lady?”

  “The mer-lady,” Gráinne said. “I wanna swim with her. She pulled me.”

  “There’s no such thing as mermaids, Gráinne,” Grace said. “That was me that pulled you out of the water.”

  “No, there!” Gráinne insisted, pointing at the dark water.

  Grace looked and thought she saw the bluish curve of something diving, probably a dolphin. Or, God, a shark. She shivered, holding Gráinne tighter.

  “I don’t care what you think you saw,” Grace said. “Never go in the water without me.”

  “She’s following us,” Gráinne said, wriggling away and peering over the rails.

  “Stop it, Gráinne,” Grace said.

  “She’s lonely,” Gráinne said. “I sing to her.” She started singing in her little island voice, the lullaby her father had taught her in Irish. Grace had no idea if the words were even right—they sounded like gibberish. But Gráinne sang with confidence, wooing and moaning at the water.

  Grace started to cry. “I’m sorry, Gráinne,” she whispered, hugging the girl from behind. “We’ll be all right, kiddo. Just me and you, for a while. You won’t miss him for long, I promise.”

  She rocked the girl until long after the island faded out of sight, and Gráinne sang faintly, the same tune over and over like an echo, until Grace could no longer distinguish whether the music came from her daughter, or rose from the sea below.

  CHAPTER 27

  Gráinne

  I was in my mother’s bed, huddled at the corner, my hot cheek against the cool wall. I was aware of a man’s presence; I couldn’t see him, but there was that sweaty, musty smell that made me think it was one of my mother’s men. I could hear my mother’s voice coming from the dark corner of the room; she was reading poetry from one of my notebooks.

  Shy one, shy one

  Shy one of my heart,

  She moves in the firelight

  Pensively apart.

  “Mom!” I called, and she came over, her face barely visible in the blue night-light I hadn’t used since I was five. She sat down on the bed; there was no man there, it was only the two of us.

  “Are you feeling better?” she said. Her hair was down, like curls of blood around her neck. I tried to get up but I couldn’t move.

  “I’m not sick,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely sure my voice was working.

  My mother kept reading the poetry, from typed columns on sheets of white paper, forming the words through a secret grin.

  She carries in the dishes,

  And lays them in a row.

  To an isle in the water

  With her I would go.

  “Mom,” I said. I was c
rying, but my mother continued to smile. “Don’t you know you’re going to die?” I said. She stood up then and walked away, as though I’d stumbled on a rare untouchable topic.

  I got out of bed and noticed I was wearing Stephen’s flannel shirt, which smelled of low tide, and my mother’s sand-caked sneakers. I left the room and found myself in the cottage at Singing Beach. On the braided rug was a path of shorn hair, seaweed, and blood—red jellyfish, leading to my mother and Stephen’s bedroom. I followed it, the debris slipping under my feet.

  I opened the door slowly, afraid of what I might find. It wasn’t the cottage room but a hospital: a tall silver-railed bed, IV poles and red flashing buttons on the walls. I got into bed to wait for my mother, and someone who looked like my grandmother but didn’t seem to recognize me started to hook me up to tubes and strap my legs with seat belts to the railing.

  “There’s nothing wrong with me,” I said, but she shoved the prongs of an oxygen line up my nose. There was an IV needle stuck to my inner arm, and I could see it pumping—sliding in and out like it was having sex with my vein.

  “Where is my mother?” I said, and I heard myself wheezing, saw my breath like sea fog in the air.

  “You’re all right, Gráinne,” the woman sang. She leaned over me with a needle, pulled a ropy black thread through a gash in my breast.

  “Stop that,” I said, and when I pushed her away, both she and my wound disappeared.

  There was a telephone next to the bed. I lifted it and dialed my home number. It rang continuously, but behind the ringing I could hear my mother’s laughter, and the rhythmic moan and breath of a man.

  “I should answer that,” I heard Stephen say, his throat thick with sex, the way it had been long ago, when I’d listened to them making love in the next room.

  “Don’t stop,” my mother moaned, and the thumping quickened.