An Irish Heart Read online

  There was one entry that held my attention more than the others. It captivated and bemused me, left me feeling dazed and a little lost. (And I should note, as an aside, that I was somewhat appalled by my early spelling abilities.)

  June 2, 1898

  I was playing with Bucky Bunny to-day. I think that, of all my frends, he is my faverit. We ran all the way down to the pond and picked blueberrys. Well, Bucky just watched, and I did all the picking. But he did help me eat them.

  Something strange happened on the way back. I was walking on the path with Bucky hopping next to me, and I saw something I have never ever seen before. All of a sudden, a lady I did not know came out from no-ware and told me something that I do not remember now. She was a very pretty lady, but she looked very strange. When she stepped out of the woods there was white lite all around that had not ben there before. It scared me a little but I did not run away. I just lissened while she talked. I do not remember most of what she said but I do remember something about how if I was good I would see her again someday, but that I can not see her any more rite now. She is very pretty but I am still scared. I asked her ware she lives but she would not tell me. I said if she told me ware then I really could come visit maybe, if my daddy said so. (I don’t ever do nothing any more unless he says so, because it always ends up hurting.) But she would not tell ware she lives. I think she said she loves me, but I do not know why because I do not know who she is. I did not tell my daddy because he would say that I am stupid.

  I am going to go to bed now. I am a little bit afrade that the lady will come back and try to hurt me, but I do not think that she is mean that way. So I think I will be all rite.

  I read this entry many times, trying to understand what it meant. I was sure that, written by the hand of a child, it could mean almost anything. But there was something about the words that rang true, something that sounded familiar to me, as though the same thing had happened more than once before. It sounded like a dream I’d had not three months before – but that was very unlikely. Nevertheless, I proceeded to conduct an intimate study of the first few pages of the notebook, searching for other occurrences like the one I have already described.

  But I found none.

  Chapter 5

  The days passed in a flashing fashion, as I spent a great deal of my time sleeping. The syrup Dr Burrows had given me was terribly conducive to drowsiness; which was followed inevitably by slumber. By Friday, however, the syrup was gone, and my wound was looking much improved. The skin around it had returned to its normal colour, and the wound itself was a much lighter shade of pink.

  I spent the weekend cleaning the house, with especial detail paid to the filthy floors. On Saturday, I took a trip into town, where I even went so far as to buy a new dress for myself.

  I asked my father that morning, not really expecting him to agree, if I could borrow Charlie. He puckered his lips, crossed his arms over his chest, and pondered my request for what seemed a very long time. Finally he said yes – though he promised that I would be sorry, if anything happened to his horse.

  It was wonderful. I rode down, and then back up, Schullery Road, at an easy pace; and then one that was not-so-easy, relishing the breeze that blew through my hair. I patted Charlie every so often, for he was a very good horse, and it was no wonder that my father was so sentimental about him. He was awfully handsome, what with his smooth black coat, and shiny brown eyes.

  The road seemed much shorter on horseback. I arrived back home well before lunchtime. I was in for quite a surprise, though, when my father sat down to the meal with me, for the first time since I could remember. He was kinder to me than I had known it was possible for him to be – which isn’t very kind at all, but civil, at the least.

  Still I was plagued by that strange desire to keep a consistent diary, though I could not think of a thing to record in my notebook. I longed for something exciting – if not quite so dangerous – to happen again, so that I would have something to write about.

  I got my wish a week later. Though I honestly don’t believe that I ever really wished for that – I will set it down now, seeing no real reason to insert any more bits of fluff in an effort to pluck up my courage. So I did it; and so I say it.

  I was at the stream beside the pond – the pond I had apparently once visited with Bucky Bunny – washing my father’s clothes. I cursed all the while, shivering from the cold, splashing water, and wrinkling my nose at the odour that rose up from the sweat-stained shirts. You may wonder why I did not simply wash them in the kitchen, where the skin of my hands would not split, and the feel of the water would not be so cold. I have good reason for this; which amounts, really, to nothing but a silly reason; for my father insisted, that clothes washed in the stream attained a far more pleasant scent. With the state of his smelling shirts, I was earnest in the belief that any scent at all would be an improvement to the one which permeated his clothing – but this argument made little headway with the man, just as any and all of my arguments tended to do.

  I had not been by the stream for ten minutes, rubbing fabric against a wooden slat board, when I heard my father calling to me. It was Sunday, and we had been home together for two days.

  I had gone to the stream to get away from him. Even with his obvious attempt at affability, his sullen temperament never relented. It was still very difficult (if not impossible) to carry on a conversation with him, without running into a disagreement.

  “Katharine!” he called. “Katharine, where are you?”

  “At the stream!” I hollered back. “I told you that!”

  He did not respond, and I wondered if he had heard me.

  But I only went back to my washing; for he had been doing a similar thing, you see, very often over past days. He would say my name, and then look at me expectantly, as though hoping that I would say something; but then I would simply ask what it was that he wanted (though he never did seem to want anything).

  I threw a wet shirt into my basket, and picked up a sock from the pile on the ground. I scrubbed it clean, then started on the mate.

  A crunching of leaves and twigs sounded behind me. I cocked my head to one side, listening. The sound seemed far off; but I could hear it clear as anything.

  Before I had so much as finished with another shirt, the sound repeated – closer this time. I whirled about, looking all around.

  But I saw nothing.

  I turned nervously back to the water, starting on a pair of old slacks. I’d not been rubbing them against the slat board for more than five seconds, when the crunching transformed into unmistakable footsteps; and I spun around once more, this time to find my father walking quickly towards me. His face was strange – and the fear that should have dissipated at the sight of him, only increased.

  “I called you,” he said.

  “I heard you.”

  “Why didn’t you come when I called?”

  “I answered you.”

  “You’re the same as her, you know. She never came when I called. She always said she was busy; I wasn’t a child, she said, I would just have to wait.”

  “What are you –”

  “Then, when you came, it was a whole different story altogether. She didn’t have any time left for me at all. For two years, she cared about nothing – except you. The rest of the world didn’t matter. I didn’t matter. She drove me crazy, but I didn’t leave. Because I loved her! What a fool I was. What a fool I am!”

  “Why –”

  “Hush! Just like her, you never let me talk! What you have to say is always more important. Well, it’s not. I’m your father. You should respect what I have to say.”

  “Why are you so upset? I only left to wash your clothes.”

  His eyes were shining with feral anger. “God, your smart mouth!” he cried. “How tired of it I am!”

  I was silent, then. I hoped that my wordless gaze would assuage him.

  Silence reigned for what seemed a very long time. We stared at one another in confus
ion, neither of us much able to comprehend the presence of the other, standing there before us. But then a bird called from high above, and we were both snapped back to our strange reality.

  “I don’t know what you want from me,” I said softly, nothing but earnest.

  “I want you to be – different from her! I’ve spent the past twenty years trying to forget her; and now she’s back. You’ve become her! How am I supposed to live, with her shadow always there behind me? With you there?”

  I knew not what to say. So I took a stab into the unknown, and said: “I’m not who you think I am. I’m Katharine – don’t you see?”

  He reached up, and ran his fingers wildly through his hair. He seemed a dishevelled madman.

  “You are! You’re her! Oh, curse it all – you are!”

  He continued to pull on his hair, his eyes bursting now with something other than rage. His anguish was clear – even with the space that separated us.

  But then he began to close the gap. He moved forward, slowly but surely. I took a step back, but remembered the stream; and stopped before I fell.

  I watched him carefully.

  “You don’t understand,” he said, almost whispering now. “You don’t know how I’ve missed her. You can’t know; you were too young when she died. You don’t know what it’s like, to wake up one morning, and find her again in my house! I can’t live like this. I can’t . . .”

  He kept coming, and I started backing away again, this time lengthwise along the bank of the stream. My boot sank into a patch of mud; I pulled it out with a dull sucking sound, and continued to move away.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “I would never have hurt her. I really didn’t mean to do what I did. I didn’t mean to hit her; I didn’t mean to hurt her. I don’t want to hurt you . . .”

  I felt my heart flipping about behind my ribs, pounding painfully against the bone. I put a hand to my chest, trying to ease the soreness there. But it refused to be allayed.

  He had killed her! All these years of wishing, all these years of wondering; and all I needed have done was look at him! Oh, how unmerciful!

  “You’re not well,” I whispered, damning my shaking voice.

  “You don’t know the half of it, love.”

  I realised, then, that I was backing into the thicker part of the forest; and my exit was impeded by a wild-eyed lunatic.

  “Why are you running from me?” he asked. His face was etched with a smile; but his eyes still pulsed angrily in their sockets. They seemed possessive of an electric current, which flowed through them like lightning, and made them flash.

  I swallowed thickly, and looked over my shoulder. I could run down the path, to the place where it would empty me back out into the field. I wondered, though, if he could keep up.

  He commanded me to stop.

  And so I ran. I flew down the path, my footsteps thudding in time with my heart. I looked back once, and saw him there, running along after me; but not so quickly as I might have expected. I was smaller, lighter – and I suspected that he had been drinking.

  I saw him stumble. I prayed that he would fall.

  I ran until the wound at my stomach, still persistent, began to ache. I felt a stitch forming in my side, and was forced to slow my step. I jogged along the path, hand to my stomach, legs as heavy as lead. My knees buckled once, and it was enough to send me sprawling to the ground.

  I lay panting, curled up on my side, clutching my stomach and trying to catch my breath. I heard his footsteps running up to me. I closed my eyes, and willed myself to stand.

  But before I could find the strength, he was beside me. I wondered if he would beat me to death, or drown me in the stream.

  “Why did you run?” he asked. “From your own father! You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Leave me alone,” I pleaded. “Just leave me be.”

  “Don’t you tell me what to do, you little wretch. This is my house. This is my land! How dare you?”

  I struggled to rise, but he was already on top of me. I felt his hands circle round my throat, felt them tighten like iron manacles. I choked, but had not even enough air to cough.

  “That’s enough out of you,” he spat, shaking me like a rag doll.

  My vision began to blur. The colour was dissipating from the scene, replacing itself with an inky blackness.

  I felt all around me, flinging my hands in all directions while straining my body to recede from his cold, clutching hands. I felt for anything hard, anything heavy.

  My right hand closed around a large, jagged stone. I brought it up quickly, smashing it as best as I could into his eye. I was successful – his hands went slack, and fell away from my neck.

  He dropped down to his knees, covering his bloodied eye with both hands. Then he looked up at me with the remaining, seeing eye, and lunged.

  I struck out again with the rock, bashing his head till I could scarcely feel myself doing it. He fell and rose several times, wiping the blood away and coming back for me, sure that he could get a grasp on me again. But I was too fast for him; and when he fell for the fifth time, he did not rise again.

  I felt as though my entire life had been leading up to this – that my entire life had in fact consisted of this. He would come at me, and I would beat him back, knowing it would not be long till he returned for more. It had never involved rocks, or the fear of impending death – but so far as metaphors go, it was fitting enough.

  I stood watching him for what seemed a very long time. But finally I managed to shake my inaction away, and ran back to the house, not quite knowing what to do next.

  ***

  My father was dead. He was dead, and I’d killed him. It was a very large thing to wrap my head around.

  I spent the day pacing the house, walking from room to room, and straightening things that did not need to be straightened. I swept, I mopped, I dusted; I cooked food and set two plates of it on the table. Then I sat down, waiting for my father to come, praying that none of it was real.

  I must have sat at that table for three hours. The food congealed, and small flies came to buzz all around it. But I could not bring myself to take it up; for I could not admit that he for whom it was meant, would not be coming to eat it.

  By the time darkness fell, my denial had begun to dissipate. I accepted, by then, that Timothy O’Brien would not return.

  What was I going to do?

  I knew what must be done; but whence would I collect the courage to do it? It took me some time, to even conclude the concoction of my plan. Eventually, though, I rose from the table; I went out to the barn, and took a spade down off the wall; and then I made my way back to the pond.

  His body, of course, lay exactly as I had left it. Face-down in the dirt.

  I started digging a hole near the tree-line. It took what seemed ages, to make it wide and deep enough; but when I had finally finished, I did not hesitate. I walked directly to the body; took hold of the legs; and began to drag it. When I reached the large hollow I had made in the earth, I knelt down, and pushed the body down into it. It flopped to the bottom with a dull thud.

  He had landed on his back. He stared up at me with open eyes. I knew that I should reach down and close them; but I could not bring myself to do it. He would have to lie for all eternity, with his eyes wide open.

  I used the spade to replace the earth I had turned. The whole time I worked, I felt very far away – very disconnected from myself. I could scarcely even feel my arms, shovelling pile after pile of dirt down onto my father’s dead body.

  When I finally finished, I stood leaning against the spade, looking down at the patch of earth I had disturbed. It was hardly conspicuous. Even if someone passed by, they would never notice.

  No one would ever know what I had done, unless I told them outright.

  I stood there for a very long time. But finally I shook myself; took up the wet laundry that was left at the water’s edge; and spotted the bloody rock which I had used to murder my
father. I took it up in one shaking hand, and threw it into the deepest part of the stream.

  As I made my way back to the house, the moon was high in the sky, and was gazing down at me in rather an accusatory manner. I wished it would keep its judgment to itself. I had no need for that kind of thing.

  I replaced the spade in the barn, and then hung the wet shirts up on the clothesline, not knowing what else to do with them.

  Back in the house, on my way to my bedroom, I peered into the kitchen – two plates of food still sitting on the table. I finally cleared them away.

  In my room, I changed clothes immediately. My dress was covered in blood and dirt. I realised, then, that I had sat at the kitchen table for hours that evening – in front of a plate of food which I had no intention of eating – with blood all over my dress.

  My stomach rolled.

  What was I going to do with my soiled clothes?

  How was I going to explain my father’s disappearance?

  On what would I survive?

  In what way could I live with myself?

  My father was dead. He was dead, and I’d killed him.

  Chapter 6

  I spent a week in a terrified stupor. I could barely sleep; for when I did, I was plagued by a nightmare in which a skeleton attempted to strangle me with its bony hands.

  I brought my father’s shirts in off the line, folded them neatly and placed them in his drawer. I burned my bloody dress in the backyard. After that, there was nothing to do but wait.