“Are you not angry?”
“With Marian?”
“Yes, mam. With Marian.”
“You don’t understand. She could have been dead.”
“If it were me,” I say, “you’d be angry.”
“Oh for god’s sake.”
“You would. You were always tougher on me.”
“I had to be, Tessa. Do you mind yourself as a teenager?”
“Because I wouldn’t go to Mass? I never built bombs, mam.”
My mother makes a clucking sound, like it was inappropriate of me to mention the bombs. It is one small consolation to consider how furious the Dunlops would be if they knew that Marian had been to their house, that a member of the IRA had held their dogs’ leashes, had been given part of their dinner.
“Do you forgive her?” I ask.
“Yes.”
A silence falls between us. I know she is thinking that her forgiveness is beside the point, it is for god to forgive. She won’t say it aloud, though.
“She’s a terrorist,” I say.
“Not anymore. She wants peace.”
“She lied to us for seven years, mam. We don’t even know who she is.”
“Oh, I know exactly who she is,” she says. “And who you are.”
* * *
—
The funny thing, I think later, is that our mother sounded clear-eyed and proud, even though one of her daughters is a terrorist and the other is a bystander.
17
AFTER WORK THE NEXT DAY, I sit on my front step, my chin propped in my hand, waiting for Tom and Finn. When they arrive, I skip forward, elated to see Finn, but he refuses to meet my eyes.
“He’s punishing you,” says Tom, “for leaving him.”
“I didn’t leave you,” I tell Finn. “Your da took you to visit your grandparents. I missed you so much.”
“He’ll never trust you again,” says Tom, and I burst into tears. “Jesus, Tessa, I’m joking. He’ll be over it in an hour.”
While Tom carries in the bags, I split blueberries in half and feed them to the baby. “What are you doing?” asks Tom.
“Rebuilding our bond.”
“By bribing him?” he asks, and I shrug. Finn opens his mouth and I feed him another blueberry half.
Tom’s parents gave him a train set, and the three of us sit together on the living-room carpet assembling the wooden tracks.
“I need to talk to you,” I say. “I want to move.”
Tom places a bridge over the tracks. “You want to take him away from me?”
“No, of course not. We can pick somewhere together. You used to talk about London all the time.” His architecture firm has an office in London, he could ask to be relocated.
“Briony can’t leave. Her father has MS, she’s the one looking after him.”
“Her father can come, too,” I say. “We can all talk about it together.”
Tom reaches for another length of track. “Is this about Marian?”
“No.”
He sets a red station house along the tracks. “Were there any signs?”
“Are you asking me if I knew?”
“Don’t get defensive. I mean now, looking back. Did she ever act strange?”
“No. There was nothing.”
“And this is your solution?” he asks. “For all of us to move abroad?”
“It’s not because of Marian. There was a bomb scare in Belfast on Sunday. Why are you not worried for Finn?”
“How often do you bring Finn into Belfast?”
“It could happen here,” I say, as Finn lifts the station house and begins to chew on it. “What about a trial run? We could go for six months.”
“Do you think the conflict will be over in six months?”
“It has to end at some point, doesn’t it? Then we can come back.”
Tom fits the carriages together and begins to push them around the track, over the bridge, past the stand of painted trees. Finn watches, transfixed, rising onto his knee and raising one arm.
“This is my home,” I say. “I don’t want to leave either, but I don’t think Finn’s safe here.”
“If we moved, you’d find something else to worry about.”
“That’s not fair.” I rub my forehead. “What if just me and Finn go? You can visit.”
Tom looks down at Finn before answering. “If it were you,” he says, “how would you feel about visiting?”
* * *
—
After Tom leaves, I strap the baby into his carrier and we walk down the lane. Finn doesn’t seem to be giving me the cold shoulder anymore. I snap off a wheat chaff and offer it to him, and he grips it in his fist while we walk.