1. Fiadh

Fiadh

I place my last folded sweater in a box, taping it shut. My eyes scan the room, taking in the barren shelves and the plain white walls void of pictures. The blaring emptiness breaks the silence surrounding me. All my clothes, knick-knacks, and books are gone. That’s everything…an entire life packed away in cardboard. Tears sting behind my eyes as an overwhelming surge of anxiety threatens to drown me. I reach into my pocket to get my pills, swallowing one down. I’ve packed the entire flat except this room, saving it for last. Sleeping in here at night is hard enough, let alone being in here during the daytime. I feel him here the strongest. His presence is so overwhelming that I’m forced to sit on my bed to catch my breath.

I look around our bedroom, reminiscing about better times. Even six months later, my memories of him are still fresh in my mind, as if they happened yesterday. I see Daire in the doorway, peeking at me while I read a book. His mirthful green eyes gaze at me before he jumps into the bed and pins me to the mattress. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling while I remember how warm his body felt against mine. His coarse beard rubs against my face while he kisses me. He strays south to my jaw, down my neck, under my shirt… We made love so many times in this bed.

I feel Daire’s hands skimming down my legs in the early morning, telling me it’s time to start the day. He woke me up and poured my coffee every morning. If he had time he’d cook us breakfast. He was always a morning person, whereas I relished late nights spent writing. When I quit my full time job to write a couple of years ago, he supported me every step of the way. When my third book hit the bestseller list, he celebrated with me. We were partners in everything.

The tears I’ve tried to hold at bay finally break loose, cascading down my face like a lashing that could flood the streets. I’ve tried to stay strong…but thinking of him makes me feel like I’m shutting down. I’ll never feel the warmth of his skin, or see him smile. He’ll never yell “Lovebug, I’m home!” when he gets in from work again. We’ll never stay up all night talking about the plans we made, our future together.

We were only married a year before he was taken from me in a motorcycle accident. A car collided with him. He died at twenty-five years old, with his whole life ahead of him. We were going to move out of Dublin and get a cottage in the country. Have wee ones of our own. He had accepted a work-from-home position, and we were finally going to make our dreams come true.

My entire body shakes like a leaf as sobs wrack through me. It feels as if my throat is closing, like the walls are collapsing around me. I try to recall what my therapist told me. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Breathe in for four seconds, hold for seven, exhale for eight. 4-7-8. Focus on one object in the room. I grab onto my wedding ring that hangs from a rose gold chain around my neck. I gently pull it back and forth along the chain, listening as the metals scrape against each other. The sound soothes me slightly, and after several minutes, I can breathe again. I can feel the pill settling my mind, encasing me in a heavy, comforting fog.

I can’t live in Dublin anymore. This city had been our home, and I can’t survive here alone. No matter where I go, I think of him. Every pub, shop, and street holds memories of him. I can’t take the neighbors’ pitying smiles and strangers’ stares.

“That poor girl, widowed at twenty-three,” they whisper.

“She hasn’t been well since he passed,” they gossip. “Did you know she had to stay in a mental health hospital for a few weeks after the accident.”

I can’t bear to feel Daire all around me, haunting my every move. The thoughts of how our lives should have happened play in a loop in my every waking moment. The rare times my sleeping meds work, I dream of him. Every day without him rips my heart into smaller shreds and guts my soul. Without Daire, I’ll never be complete. He was my heart…my soul…my everything since the day I met him. We’ll never be together again.

Moving to Granda’s house is the right move. Maybe returning to Donegal will be a new start for me, like he promised it would be. I know he wants me to move so he can keep an eye on me, but maybe all the trees in the Bonny Glen Wood and the fresh air will set me right. Maybe I’ll get inspiration to write again. Being back in the comfort of my granda’s house may be just what I need to heal.

* * *

Driving through the back country roads brings back so many childhood memories of Granda. He was my go-to person, and no matter what, I could always count on him to be there for me. I still can. My mother immigrated from Ireland to America when she fell in love with my father. His family never liked her, and subsequently never took to me. They said she was only with my father for a green card, and knowing my mother, that was most likely true.

My father died of a heart attack when I was young—I barely remember what he sounded like. We promptly came back to Ireland and moved in with Granda. While my mom spent her evenings searching for a rich husband, he helped me with my homework and introduced me to American classic horror films—Halloween, Carrie, The Shining, Psycho, A Nightmare on Elm Street, and The Amityville Horror. After my mom remarried to her second husband, Eamonn, she had less time for me. Eamonn’s philosophy was that children be seen and not heard, so I spent a lot of time showing my face at charity dinners, eating, and subsequently being picked up by Granda so I wasn’t in the way.

While Eamonn and my mom took vacations in the Mediterranean, I spent my summers at Granda’s cottage on the edge of the woods, running through the trees, playing make-believe. I would ‘talk’ to the woodland creatures and faeries, allowing myself to get swept up in the magic of childhood awe. We took trips into town to eat sweets and gossip with all of his friends about the townsfolk. Then we’d visit the library to pick up new books. Granda fostered my love of reading, which led me to becoming a writer. He taught me how to cook all of our family recipes, too.

Mom felt that cooking was a menial task, mainly the help’s responsibility. Despite finding out about two of Eamonn’s mistresses, she stuck by his side. To her, money was more important than family or dignity. Her loss.

I take a deep breath as I see trees so tall, their canopies block out the sky. Their thick trunks border the road, passing by in my peripheral vision. As it gets darker outside, they take on an ominous, creepy feeling, as if they’re crowding me. How does Granda live out here all by himself? His health hasn’t been in great shape lately. He coughed more frequently on our calls and wheezed as he moved from room to room. His neighbor tells me how he leaves his house less frequently than he used to. He thinks he’ll take care of me, but it’s my turn to take care of him. Hopefully my moving in will lighten the load.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a human-shaped figure dart through the trees and step out into the road. My heart thuds in a rapid beat, then freezes altogether. I scramble to stop the car–slamming my foot on the brake–and skid to a halt inches from a monstrous, imposing being.

Everything in the wood falls silent. No insects, birds, or noise filters through my cracked window. The dusky evening light illuminates its face. Dark eyes, sharp cheekbones, and lips curved into a sneer sit on pale, opal skin. Its entire massive body is cloaked in black, wispy shadows and looms over my car. As wide as a tree trunk and taller than me by a good several feet, its inky black presence seems to suck the light from the forest. The smirk and red eyes on its shadowed face seem like a bad omen. It slams a rough, clawed hand on the hood. Each of his fingertips are topped with sharp onyx-colored talons that appear sharp enough to slice through human skin like its tissue paper.

It focuses on me and it cocks its head, regarding me in a curious way. Slowly, it makes its way around the car and stops right outside my door, tapping a hard talon against the window. I regret not rolling it up and using my air conditioning instead. A deep, rasping breath comes from the creature lurking inches away from me, and I whimper. It’s too close. I’m too scared to move, let alone drive away.

“Fiadh,” I hear. At first, it sounded like the wind outside. “Fiadh…” It almost sounds like…no. It can’t be this thing calling my name.

Bright red eyes peer at me through the glass, gluing me in place. I wish I had locked the doors before starting my trip. All it would have to do is reach in and grab me, and I’d be defenseless to save myself. Deep breath in, deep breath out. You are not going to die in the woods.

Closing my eyes, I pray to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph that this thing leaves. My heart slams into my chest and I hold my breath. The rasping breath gets louder, as does the sound of claws scratching against the window glass. I’m in a tailspin, fighting to stay cognisant instead of slipping into another panic episode.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Deep breath in, deep breath out. This isn’t real, it’s just another hallucination. This isn’t real.

Time ceases, and I have no clue how long I’ve been hyperventilating. I feel the cold air around me dissipate. The sounds of insects and birds chirping float through the open window. When I open my eyes, there’s just trees outside. I glance in my side and rear mirrors and see nothing but the trees around me. It’s gone.

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

My hands are shaking too hard to hold the steering wheel, so my car sits in the middle of the road. What the feck was that? This has to be another hallucination…there’s no way that creature is real. My therapist told me that the oppressive mix of grief, stress, and anxiety I’ve been experiencing could result in more hallucinations. That’s why he prescribed me my medications. But aren’t they supposed to make them go away? A car behind me blares its horn, and I reluctantly press the gas pedal and get a move on.

* * *

I spend the remainder of the drive glancing out the windows, shaking like a leaf and wondering whether or not that thing would come back. When I finally pull my car into Granda’s drive, he stands at the door of his cottage waiting to usher me in. I immediately see the concerned frown form on his face.

I cringe when I hear sympathy from others. People will say the polite thing and give me their condolences. But most people don’t care how I’m feeling, or push past the very fake ‘I’m fine’ I offer them in reply. Their words feel empty. How could they hold any meaning? How could anyone understand what happened to me? Granda lost his wife long before I was born, so at least he knows how awful this feels. That’s the only reason I can stand to be around him, because he knows how fecked up it feels to lose someone you love. Instead of saying empty words, he chooses to show he cares by fussing over me instead.

“Christ on a bike, Fiadh. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you well?” he inquiries as he moves to the car to get my bags. I can hear him wheeze as he lumbers toward the boot of the car.

“I’m fine, just had a long day. Go inside, I got it,” I say, quickly beating him to it and lifting my two suitcases out. My other must-haves are in a moving truck that will arrive later in the week and everything else was donated.

“Stubborn mule,” he jests. “I got those biscuits you like and tea. Let’s settle in and watch a few episodes of Doctor Who. I’m on season nine now!”

“Sounds grand,” I reply as I wheel my bags into my childhood sanctuary—the only place where I can start to feel like me again.