The Nature of Water and Air Read online

  Thank you for downloading this Touchstone eBook.

  * * *

  Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Touchstone and Simon & Schuster.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

  For my husband, Neil, whose spirit of loving generosity is a constant wonder in my life, and for my little daughter, Miranda. My peach. My angel.

  Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun,

  Which is my sin, though it were done before?

  Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run,

  And do run still, though still I do deplore?

  When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,

  For I have more.

  —John Donne

  PART I

  Agatha

  WICKLOW, IRELAND

  1960–79

  Wait

  for the dawn to make us clear to one another.

  —Eavan Boland

  Is fada cuimhne sean leanbh

  (An old child has a long memory).

  —Irish Proverb

  · 1 ·

  MY MOTHER WAS NEVER EASY in the world of houses. She was a tinker, a traveler girl who had married a wealthy man. Her name was Agatha Sheehy. I don’t know her maiden name. There are silences all around my mother’s story.

  People stared at her when we walked on the old road to Dublin or in the nearby fields on our way into town. She was an anachronism, like a vagabond who’d walked off with a wealthy woman’s traveling case.

  A pretty, red-faced girl with long white-blond hair, she had about her a wild, unrefined grace, and a penchant for sequins and beads and things that glimmered. In the bright of morning, on her way into town to shop for eggs and rashers, she navigated the often sopping fields in opulence, dragging the hems of long silk dresses, raking her black boots in mud. Even the old women wore their practical woolen skirts near the knee.

  She watched the eyes of the townspeople, choosing to read their silent stares as approbation or envy; but some days when her mood was more suspicious, a suppressed smile could send her scudding back across the field and into the house in a breathy tirade about the ugliness of the little ramshackle beach town of Bray, calling the Wicklow hills “lumps,” insulting the land as if it were inseparable from the people. She laughed at the Irish Sea, which we could see from the parlor window, and said that even at their most tumultuous, the waves were “demure” in comparison with the waves of the great Atlantic in the rocky west of Ireland, beating and spuming at the Galway crags.

  We lived in an old estate house on Mercymount Strand, isolated between fields gone out of cultivation. Mrs. O’Dare, the woman who lived with us and did the cooking and cleaning, called it a “decrepit castle.” It had no central heating, just the “fires,” as the old woman called them: plug-in heaters too puny to heat the vast, high-ceilinged rooms.

  Most of the house we left empty and unlived in, while my mother, twin sister, and I slept all together in the parlor and Mrs. O’Dare in a smaller, connecting room. In a pillowcase under her bed, my mother kept all the things my father had given her during their courtship, objects I took out secretly sometimes to wonder over. A glass sea horse with pearls for eyes. A porcelain Dutch girl holding a tulip. A pair of linen gloves with a mysterious blue stain on one finger.

  In the one picture we had of my father, he was standing near a tree, squinting his eyes, his hair ruffled by the wind. The air around him was blasted with daylight so his face looked milky and blurred and I stared hard at him, struggling to read his expression.

  Though I had never known him, I felt as if I knew more about him than I knew about my mother. With him I associated the area known as Dunshee in the west, straight across on the other side of Ireland; and I could imagine the great mansion in which he’d grown up, and where he’d brought my mother to live.

  But my mother seemed to have come from nowhere.

  • • •

  The one story I knew about my mother’s life before I was born was how she and my father had met in the west. He had been thirty years old and suffering from heart disease. My mother had been fifteen.

  He’d first seen her, standing on Ailwee Head, facing the noisy Atlantic. He’d just come through a week confined to his bed having experienced serious palpitations. She had not heard the engine of the car, deafened as she was by the booming surf on the rocks below. Frank Sheehy had the driver stop. He got out and stood awhile watching her push the hair from her eyes in the wind, her rough skirt stirring wildly at her shins.

  He’d later tell his unmarried sisters with whom he lived that when he saw her he felt his heart steady in his chest, and a surge of strength come into his body. Overcome by a desire to take care of her, the world seemed a different place. The sun lit the backs of the waves and in the depths of him something vital stirred. He had a dream that same night that she came to live in his house, and he took this as a sign from God that he should find her. Every day after that he went along the beaches and headlands looking for her but a year passed before he saw her, to his surprise, from an upstairs window, driving three cows up a rocky road on the outskirts of his property.

  Careful not to frighten my mother off, my father had his sister Kitty overtake her on the road and invite her to tea. Surprised and a little suspicious, she agreed, and Kitty Sheehy followed her as she returned the cows to the farmer who’d hired her to drive them upfield.

  When she’d first come into the house her skin was windburned and her feet hard and black, callous. “More like hooves than feet,” Kitty Sheehy had whispered to her sister, Lily.

  Before tea Kitty directed my mother to the lavatory to wash her hands. When she did not come back to the dining room, Kitty found her at the other side of the house having lost her way through the corridors.

  My father was fascinated. At tea he stared at her unabashedly with a cocked half-smile on his face. If she expressed interest in any little object on the table he gave it to her. A porcelain salt shaker shaped like a windmill. A cluster of crystal grapes. A pink and gilt cup with a rose painted in the bowl of it. He offered her everything she touched, no matter that the things belonged to his sisters. Kitty and Lily held their breath tolerantly, seeing how she animated him, but behind the kitchen door they moaned about the smell of her, how her hair must be crawling with bugs.

  Much to their distress my father insisted she stay in one of the guest rooms. They agreed so long as she let one of the servants bathe her and give her something clean to wear. My mother’d been horrified about the bath, particularly when the servant washed and pumiced her feet. And then she expressed uneasiness with staying on one of the upper floors so Mrs. O’Dare, who’d been working for the Sheehys at the time, offered her own room that was behind the kitchen.

  Right away my mother took to Mrs. O’Dare. “I was the only one among them that treated her kindly. None thought they should be serving her.”

  She hated using the toilet in the lavatory and crept from her room at night to do her water in the cold grass. The servants whispered about her odd ways. A rumor spread among them that she had been living in one of the caves in the sea cliff. A fisherman had reported seeing a dim fire flickering among the rocks each night until the tinker girl met my father.

  My mother liked Frank Sheehy right away, gazing at him with the same gentle inquisitiveness with which he gazed at her. She was touched by his attention, and though it had never been revealed to her that he was responsible for her invitation to the house, she knew, and her warmth to him increased his affection for her.

  Soon enough she realized the advantage he a
fforded her; that it was his word that was most important in a house full of women and servants. She sidled up to that and as she grew more comfortable, sneered at the reluctant servants and pushed her weight with them. Once, she deliberately spilled a bowl of oatmeal and demanded that a certain haughty kitchen servant clean it up.

  Frank Sheehy asked questions. Where was her mother, her people? Why was a fifteen-year-old girl on her own so? She met his inquisitiveness with dismay and silence, and he did not persist, afraid of driving her away. She was not interested in talking much, except to ask about little glimmering objects. They went for walks together in the house the way most couples go for walks outside. They toured the house, him speaking with a gentle formality, pointing out paintings, statues. Decorative novelties. Her eyes shined. She touched his arm.

  “The man’s besotted with the creature,” the servants whispered.

  “Whatever’s wrong with his heart has made its way into his brain.”

  One particularly stormy night she urinated in the water pitcher in her room rather than face the rain or the toilet. The servants complained to my aunts and my aunts approached Frank, wanting to know when she was going to leave.

  Mrs. O’Dare remembered an argument behind closed doors. She saw my father storm from the room breathing fast. He stopped as he ascended the stairs and shouted to his sisters, “She’s keeping me alive.” In the middle of the night he had a mild heart attack. The week he was in hospital my mother kept near Mrs. O’Dare. My aunts went out of their way to be kind to my mother, promising Frank that she’d be there, well treated and comfortable, when he returned.

  • • •

  My father married my mother in a service in the conservatory in Drumcoyne House. She’d been put through a trial by the priest and had proven she was a Catholic to his satisfaction by reciting the Angelus, the Act of Contrition, and the Hail Mary. He’d asked her, “Who is God the Father?” and she’d answered, “The maker of Heaven and earth.”

  Rumor among the servants was that Frank Sheehy had schooled her, but others cited the fervent Catholicism of many of the tinkers who loitered in the backs of churches on Sundays, earnest for the word of God.

  • • •

  My father died the following spring, almost a year after they’d married, and a few weeks before my mother discovered she was pregnant.

  After his death, Drumcoyne House was a lonely place to my mother. She walked on the beach for hours. A few nights she stayed outside on the windy shore, sallying into the house after dawn, trailing damp sand and weather after her. The brocade and velvet skirts that had been made for her were torn or ruined from walking in the salty tides.

  And she took things. Cups and saucers. Figurines. She took a small, very expensive bottle of perfume and a pair of sapphire earrings that belonged to Kitty Sheehy, the older, more nervous of Frank’s sisters.

  “Your mother didn’t like Kitty Sheehy,” Mrs. O’Dare once told me. “She knew the woman had little patience for her.”

  Kitty Sheehy said that she couldn’t take it, that her nerves were too frayed by Agatha’s presence. What would they do with the creature, pregnant as she was with their brother’s child?

  Kitty floated the idea about sending Agatha east across Ireland to live at the family’s empty house on Mercymount Strand. Lily said they should wait until the birth but Kitty insisted that would be worse; that she ought to start a new life elsewhere; that they could provide her with everything, but elsewhere.

  And so my aunts shipped my mother across Ireland, discharging the old woman to take care of her in the deserted house.

  · 2 ·

  VAST AND COLD, MOST OF the rooms in the house were empty. The walls were pocked and riddled blue with broken paint, wallpapered areas stained and swollen. In one room, cornices ran along the ceilings replete with stuccowork herons and angels. A piano, draped haphazardly with sheets, sat in a far corner. Before it, a dining table chair with a collapsed seat.

  When we were barely three years old, our mother brought us to the threshold of the hallway that led into the uninhabited area of our house. Squatting down between us she whispered fervently, “You children stay out of those terrible rooms!”

  The walls issued a damp, forlorn odor.

  “What’s wrong with the rooms?” my sister asked her.

  “They’re sad rooms,” she said, staring into the gloom with the same fear and curiosity that filled us.

  When we were four years old, in an attempt to dispell our uneasiness, Mrs. O’Dare took my sister and me up that hall, the two of us squeezing the hem of her flannel skirt in our hands.

  “They’re just empty rooms, for cripe’s sake!” the old woman insisted.

  • • •

  One night during a rain we heard a crash from somewhere down the hallway and Mrs. O’Dare went to investigate. Darkness swallowed the light from her batteried torch. We could hear the echoes of her footsteps and a snapping like twigs underfoot.

  She came out complaining, saying that it was ridiculous that the rooms were left in such a condition. An old gas lamp had fallen from its fixture on a waterlogged wall.

  Mrs. O’Dare was always on my mother about getting men in to wire and paint. It was a sore point between them, as was the fact that my mother had “lost” the only keys to the door on the second-floor landing that led to the upper house. Once Mrs. O’Dare had snuck in a locksmith who discovered that not only had nails been driven from the door into the walls, but something heavy also blocked it from behind. It was not his area of work to dismantle the door so he left.

  Mrs. O’Dare said she was tired of the madness and threatened to telephone our aunts in the west to complain about the terrible conditions and ask them to arrange for repairs.

  My mother’s argument never changed: she could only manage to live there as it was; in just the area needed and the rest shut off. It was just too big a house for her.

  But Mrs. O’Dare came back, saying that it was perfectly fine for my mother to live only out of the kitchen and the parlor, but that the rest of the house should be cleaned and wired for electricity. It wasn’t safe otherwise. She had two daughters who should not be raised like animals.

  “The rooms are full of echoes,” my mother pleaded.

  “Echoes can be driven out with fresh air and good rugs and curtains.”

  “No, Missus! You can’t do that,” my mother cried. “You have to leave the dead a place to themselves.”

  “What, love?” the old woman asked, looking inscrutable into her face.

  “The dead, Missus,” my mother said softly.

  “Agatha, stop! The dead are in your mind and not in those rooms.”

  “If you open and light the rooms you’ll drive them into the rest of the house and we’ll have no peace from them. You’ll drive me out into the fields to sleep!”

  • • •

  Only in the kitchen with its low, off-kilter ceiling did my mother feel truly comfortable. It was a misplaced, aboriginal room that contained a hearth, a turf fire burning in the grate. She’d told the old woman that she did not trust the little plug-in ranges, the steady orange light glowing through the grills. She did not trust a fire that did not tremble as it burned.

  Before my sister and I were born, our mother had Mrs. O’Dare move a bed in so that she could be near the hearth. The old woman called it the “buried bedroom,” dark as it was with only one small window high up on the east wall, but level with the earth at the back of the house.

  • • •

  My sister and I were born in the buried bedroom within half an hour of each other on February first, the feast of Saint Brigid, the night that ends the darkness of the Irish year. “Like peas in a pod, the two of you,” Mrs. O’Dare said with emotion, remembering the night, points of sweat appearing on her great red brow. “Everything the same down to the veins in your tiny temples! And isn’t your sister still your thinner, sadder replica?”

  My mother had refused to go to hospital when she started he
r labor and Mrs. O’Dare had been unable to find a doctor or a midwife so she’d sent for her sister, a Kildare nun who had, during her novitiate many years before, worked as a nurse’s assistant.

  I was born first, drawing in a great gust of air and clamoring loudly. The moment the blood had been wiped from my eyes Mrs. O’Dare was sure to God that I was waiting for my sister to follow.

  Mare was born with no instinct to breathe, and only after gentle tormenting from the nun did she open her eyes and attempt to pull at the air.

  “Like a tiny wheezing banshee, the sound of her,” Mrs. O’Dare said, pressing a hand to her bosom. “Never had I heard so godforsaken a sound as that wee creature trying to breathe.”

  Even when I was alone running in the field fronting the sea, it was as if my sister were breathing into my ear. The misbegotten noise was recorded in my own cells. “And you, dear Clodagh,” Mrs. O’Dare had said to me time and again, smoothing my hair, “you’re so hearty. In that way the two of you are as different as night and day.”

  But her words were of little comfort to me. I felt faintly ashamed of my heartiness and thought of Mare’s frailty as a kind of saintliness.

  Mare had been alive nearly an hour when, after a sudden riotous fit of breathing, she exhaled and went quiet. Sister Veronica prodded and pressed at her until she drew again uneasily at the air.

  And each time Mare seemed to stop breathing altogether my mother wept aloud, demented with the panic. Once she cried out: “She’s not ready for the world yet, Missus. Put her back in me, for the love of God!”

  Sister Veronica, the only one managing to keep her head, pressed an ear to my sister’s chest and said to my mother, “She is breathing, but ever so quietly. Her lungs may be confused, dear, but her heart is as sound as a bell! Just listen to it when you’re afraid she’s disappearing.”