She seemed defensive about having still been in bed. I wanted her to know that I didn’t think her weekend was silly or inconsequential, that I didn’t judge her for her freedom or how she used it, that I didn’t feel sorry for her or for myself. One of our lives wasn’t smaller than the other’s.
And I needed to know she felt the same. That she didn’t pity me, alone in the countryside with an infant. Or the opposite, that she didn’t think I’d become smug and insufferable.
Marian might not be able to have a baby. Three years ago, she had an ovarian cyst removed, and afterward was told she has asymptomatic endometriosis. Her obstetrician put her odds of a pregnancy at about half. It’s very hard to wrap your mind around that percentage. Marian said she’d be more optimistic if the odds were slightly worse, that she’d be able to convince herself she’d be in the lucky, say, 40 percent.
After her surgery, I promised to help, if the time came, to donate an egg, or be her surrogate. It will be difficult for her to adopt while Northern Ireland is a conflict zone.
When Finn was born, I watched Marian look around the maternity ward, and knew she was wondering if she’d ever be there herself.
So we were quiet in her messy flat, me nursing the baby, her upending a bottle of red wine in the sink. I wondered if she wanted me to leave. But then Marian said, “My friend brought baklava last night. Do you want some?”
I nodded, and she sat down across from us and handed me a plate.
Since then, we’ve slowly reverted to normal. We’ve gone back to complaining to each other about our lives, cheerfully competing over who had the worse day, criticizing each other, arguing. Our last argument, about a film that she liked and I hated, went on for so long that near the end I thought we were about to switch sides and argue the other’s point.
The two of us shared a room until I left for university. I’m so accustomed to her company, her physical presence. I would drive to the cottage on the coast now to feel near her, if the police weren’t still searching it. The last sighting of her wasn’t in Ballycastle, though, but during the robbery in Templepatrick.
On the sofa, my mother rubs her eyes, then notices Finn watching her and pulls her face into a smile for him.
“When are the visiting hours at Maghaberry?” I ask.
“Four to six,” she says.
“Can you mind the baby before then?” I ask, and she nods. Templepatrick is only thirty miles north. The staff at the petrol station might have noticed something useful, and I can be there and back within a couple of hours.
I set Finn on the bed while I dress, to have a little more time with him before leaving. He pushes himself up on the duvet, delighted by its soft, broad surface, while I pull on jeans and an oversize jumper. When I turn around again, Finn has found the label on the pillowcase. I curl on the bed next to him, rubbing his back while he lowers his face toward the label, his eyes wide. A few weeks ago, Marian said, “Why tags? Is it all babies or just him?”
“I think all babies.”
She pretended to gobble his arm, and Finn kicked his feet to acknowledge her without looking away from the label.
My mother leans against the doorframe. “I need to leave at three, Tessa.”
“Sorry, I’m going.”
6
THE SKY AND THE surface of the lough have gone dark. Along the coves, the cypresses twist in the wind, and sailboats with furled masts strain against their anchors. I hear thunder, then a curtain of rain drops on the roof of the car. The rain sweeps out across the lough, stippling the surface while beneath the tide churns in from the sea. The tide here is one of the fastest in the world, though from here you can’t see the fathoms of water rushing under the surface.
A bolt of lightning seems to freeze the rain in midair. I flex my hands on the steering wheel, speeding past the large Georgian houses outside Greyabbey, with their deep windows and warm kitchens. I feel a twist of envy for the owners, but they’re probably scared at the moment, too. That’s the point of terrorism, isn’t it, for even people like them to feel scared.
Two army helicopters are making their way north over the lough, cutting a swath through the heavy rain. You always see them in pairs, so one can return fire if the other is shot down. They’re flying with their noses tipped down, moving fast despite their weight, their heavy plates of matte-gray armor.
When I came down this road a few weeks ago, there was an army roadblock. It was raining a little, and in the drizzle the soldiers looked surreal, suddenly appearing on a quiet stretch of road between potato fields. It took ages, it always takes ages.