24. Abigail

24

ABIGAIL

I pull down the hood of my rain jacket as I enter the pub. The pub is warm and swollen with laughter, much different from the cold, Irish rainstorms outside.

My mother is behind the bar, as usual. The Failte is a Sullivan family establishment.

My mother, Grainne Sullivan, inherited it after my grandmother passed away. Failte is the Irish word for "welcome," and boy does the Failte welcome its guests.

"Early for drinking, Abigail," she calls out, tapping her pen on her crossword.

Her accent is stronger than it was when I was a kid. When I went to college, she moved back to Eire to be with my grandmother before she passed away. Being back in her home country made her accent come back with a vengeance. I love it, though. So musical. I've always been jealous of it.

Plus, it's nice to be in the land of the Irish to remind me how annoying the British are. Perfect timing.

I roll my eyes as I sidle up to the bar. "Visibility got too low at the cliffs. We took off early."

Mom smiles, her green eyes appraising me thoughtfully. "You hungry?"

"Starving."

She laughs and gives a knock against the service window that looks into the kitchen in the back. "Chips and mashed peas, Cookie!"

"I'm not going to eat the peas," I grumble, shirking off my coat.

"You will, and you'll enjoy it, or you're no daughter of mine," Mom replies. "Now careful with that coat, you'll flood the place."

As it's late afternoon, the pub is only starting to fill up for the evening, which means my mom can hang around me and chat.

The past few weeks being able to visit my mom every day after work have been everything to me.

Ireland is like a different world, meaning my life in New York feels almost like a fictional tale. Something that might not have actually happened.

However, from the way my sternum aches at the memories, I know that's not the case.

"All right now, show me the birds," my mom says after placing a plate of chips and mashed peas, ew, in front of me.

I pull out my phone and flick through to my photos from the day.

The puffins don't get old. They look like little businessmen wearing orange traffic cones on their face.

I let my mom go through the photos I took that day while I devour the fried potatoes, sprinkling them with malt vinegar as I go.

"Now, that's a nice shot, isn't it?" my mother asks, turning the phone back to me.

The picture is a view from the Cliffs of Moher before the clouds rolled in. Vibrant green coating the cliffs, the dark slate of the rocks, the rolling ocean below, eager to swallow as much as it can. Stunning and petrifying.

A far cry from New York City and its clusters of buildings. The closest I get to nature like this is Central Park. And I certainly don't miss that view right now.

"So." My mother puts my phone down, screen side on the bar so that I can't get distracted by any incoming notifications. Not that I have many these days. "What's heavy on you today?"

I shrug my shoulders, not drawing my focus from my fries. "What isn't?"

"Oh, Abigail…"

I roll my eyes. "It's not that deep."

"Of course it is. You're always sour-faced these days."

I've told my mother that Dad and I aren't speaking. And she's not too nosy. Says that she knows how hard it was to have my grandmother in her business all the time, so she doesn't want to pry.

She hasn't asked too much about the circumstances. She knows my dad, knows his history of hard-headedness. After all, the two of them were together for nearly a decade.

However, by her question, it's evident she's tired of waiting around for me to give her the scoop.

"What happened with your dad, hm?"

Telling her what happened with Dad means I have to tell her about Theo. And I don't want to talk about it. I've sealed away the past five months in the attic of my mind, intent on forgetting them. I've chalked them up to…mistakes.

I was a fool to think Theo was different than other men, a fool to think we could find a place for us in the world together, and a fool to believe I was meant for that.

For…love.

That's why I don't want to face it. Facing it means dealing with that pesky little word, four letters that somehow encompass the entire meaning of life. At least according to some people.

My life doesn't have to be about love. My life can be about work and research and saving the planet.

I know it can.

"I don't want to talk about it." I drag a fry through a puddle of vinegar.

She sighs. "I knew I shouldn't have left the States."

"Mom, that's not what this is about."

Mom adjusts the clip in her lightening red hair. It's gone from fiery red to almost strawberry blonde as I've gotten older.

I look forward to aging like a graceful Irish woman.

"I know it's not, but I don't like being out of the loop. I like knowing what's going on. I don't want you to feel like you can't come to me just because there's an ocean between us."

I give my mom a small smile. "The Atlantic doesn't make me feel like I can't talk to you."

Mom tilts her head to the side, folding her arms on the bar. My mom is a firecracker, not just because of her hair. She's loud and brash and left home the second she could to see the world, got her degree in engineering from Columbia, bossed her way to the top.

She refused to marry my dad despite his wishes, railed against her catholic upbringing, and made me the woman I am today. I think I'm pretty great, all things considered.

Except maybe not knowing what's good for me.

It's rare my mother isn't smiling or glinting with mischief. Right now, is one of those moments, the edges of her eyes gone soft, and her lips turned down. "I'm getting worried about you, Abigail. More than I usually am."

I swallow.

She reaches out and cups my hand tenderly. "Would you please tell me?"

Something inside me breaks. I hardened the moment I found out Theo had been dishonest with me. Calcified my insides so that nothing could crumble.

One gentle touch from my mother has me descending into tears I have not shed over everything.

"Oh no, no, no, that's not what I meant to do," she tuts.

Before she can comfort me further, she has to tell a patron bellying up to the bar to scram and pour his own bloody beer. They bicker, speaking so fast in their Irish accents I can't really make sense of it, especially as I try to focus on keeping my tears at bay.

"All right, now tell me everything, mo stór ." My treasure .

I smile, but my lips fall the second tears touch the corners of my mouth. "I did something bad."

"Did you kill anyone?"

"No…"

"Hurt anyone on purpose?"

I try not to giggle. "No…"

"Steal something? Set something on fire? Wear the same pair of knickers two days in a row?"

I can't stifle the laugh now. What is it with moms being able to pull you right out of a funk and laugh when you least want to? "No! None of that."

"All right, then whatever you did can't be bad, Abigail."

A group of men bursts into some laughter and cheers in the middle of their darts tournament. Gives me a second to collect my thoughts. How am I going to say it? How do I tell her? "It was bad to Dad."

"Well, your father is an interesting man," Mom says with a look of resignation. She's never talked badly about him to me, but that doesn't mean she doesn't have her opinions. "And I know he's changed a lot in the past few years, but leopards can't change their spots. At least not entirely. They hold onto them tight."

That's true. Dad isn't the same "scorched earth policy" type of person he used to be. He's not the same man he was when he told Nate he wouldn't speak to him if Nate decided not to take a job at the club. But old habits die hard, I suppose.

"You can tell me anything, mo stór ."

"I know, I know, I just…"

Just have to say it, Abigail .

And here I go.

"I started an affair with Theodore Wallington, and then Dad found out and I chose Theo over Dad and I fell in love with him, but then I found out he did something stupid behind my back and so I broke things off," I blurt, every word trying to come out at the same time.

I cover my mouth with my hand, both shocked it came out like that and surprised it's my story. I've immersed myself in my work, avoided thinking about it so entirely, I almost forgot it wasn't just a story.

It's my life.

My mother's eyes widen. "Oh, my god, Abigail."

"It's bad, isn't it?"

"No, no, it's not bad, but it is going to require some Guiness." She puts her hand flat on the bar to steady herself. "Wait right here."

Two Guinesses later, the story is out in all its glory for my mother.

She's a good listener, doesn't interrupt except with some clarifying questions here and there.

"Now I'm here." With everything out in the open, I feel like I've emptied my body of all its organs.

My mother hums. "Well, now that makes sense why your father is upset, then. Not saying he should be, but…"

"I can't believe I let myself–" I lean on the bar, covering my face. "It's that stupid accent, that stupid, stupid–"

Mom chortles. "Oh, come on, Abigail, if you wanted a guy just for an accent you would have come to visit me. That's not what this is about."

I peek through my fingers at my mom.

Her expression is soft and smiling. "You wouldn't have chosen him the way you did if it wasn't more than that."

"Don't encourage me, Mom, don't–"

"How could I not? I followed my heart with your father. And I made choices people thought were ridiculous. I mean, when things ended, your grandmother got in her share of ‘I told you so'. God rest her bitter soul," she says, tipping her head back and looking at the ceiling.

I scoff. "Yes, and we all know how things turned out between you and Dad. No offense."

"None taken, it's the truth."

I rub a hand over my face. "I don't want to get into something that's going to blow up in my face."

"Seems you already have, Abigail. The difference is, though, with your father and me, that was just not meant to be. We tried. Years of trying. And we grew in different directions. You and Theo–"

I groan at the mention of his name.

"Stop that and listen to me! I swear, you complain about your father being stubborn, but you're just as bad."

"Worse because you're my mother."

She grins devilishly. "That's very true."

I hunch down in my chair, exhaustion settling into my bones thanks to my release of all these feelings.

"Your father, no matter what he's feeling, does not abandon the people he loves."

I shake my head. "What about when he wasn't talking to us? After you guys broke up and he traipsed around Europe with Theo?"

"Oh, mo stór , that was my fault, not his." Mom's lips twist with awkwardness. "I told him to keep his distance. That wasn't because he wanted it."

I blink. "Really?"

"He begged to speak with you. But I was…I was selfish. I'm sorry, I didn't know you still thought about that."

It's oddly comforting, knowing those three months of my life, Dad didn't just disappear because he wanted to. There were other circumstances. "You mean he…he didn't abandon me?"

"Edwin is a lot of things, but he loves you, Abigail. He's always loved you unconditionally. His judgment just gets clouded sometimes," Mom explains. "I'm so sorry I created that…that story for you."

I glance out the window.

It's gotten dark in the time I've been here at the pub. And the pub has filled up with patrons. Thank goodness Mom has another bartender on hand to deal with pretty much all the customers so that she can talk to me.

"It's okay, I know you were doing your best."

"Yes. Yes , that's all any of us are doing, Abigail."

I return my gaze to my mother, our matching eyes meeting. Her smile is apologetic. "His distance is only temporary. I promise, your father would never–"

"He cut out Nate."

"Years ago! And if he ever dared to do that to you, he'd have to deal with me, and I'm sorry, but I'm much more bullish than Nate's mother. In fact, you want me to call your father now?"

"No!" I exclaim, loud enough to cut through the Bruce Springsteen song playing over the speakers and get a few glances thrown our way.

My mother picks up a now cold chip off my plate, examines it, then pops it in her mouth. As she chews, she says, "A Brit, hm?"

"Don't remind me." Theo never let me forget it either. It used to bug me, but when we were together, I found it endearing. Another element of our forbidden romance. "And he's old."

"Eh. Just a number. The question is, what do you want to do about him?"

"What do you mean?"

Mom narrows her eyes. "Don't be coy. You came out here to punish him, didn't you? So, is that to punish him because you feel you've been taken advantage of or because you're heartbroken? If it's the former, I'll get a flight right now and go kill him."

"No killing, Mom."

She tips her shoulder up. "Fine. For now."

I smile. I might not know what comes next but having the story off my heart is nicer than I expected.

"Tell me, Abigail. How do you feel about him? Really feel?"

I ask the question of myself all the time. Because sometimes the pressure is great on my chest, the memory of all the time we spent together, the life we made for a month back in New York. And sometimes, the pressure is great on my mind, a vise grip of frustration with him for what he attempted to do. For how he tried to keep me in New York for his own purposes. "I don't know. I'm not sure I…I'm still confused."

"Well, that's just fine. You're here and that's what matters." My mom points a finger in my face. "But now I know it happened, and that means I'm going to ask about it from time to time."

"Ugh…"

"I know, that's just the rule, I'm sorry!" She lifts her hands. Then, she clasps her hands in front of her chest. "I'm your mother. I want you to be happy above anything in the whole world."

It's nice to know someone in the world is still rooting for me. Someone still sees me as competent and strong. "Thanks, Mom."

She puts a knuckle under my chin, pride enveloping her posture. "You didn't eat your peas."

"And I'm not going to," I say resolutely.

Laughing, she nods. "Good girl."