A Father's Heart

                                                 A FATHER’S HEART

   The first thing Maggie noticed, even before her eyes were open, was the smell of rashers sizzling in her mum’s heavy iron skillet downstairs. Forever, it seems, rashers have been a common part of any artery-blocking meal in Ireland. As was the household custom, these thick slices of bacon were served on only two days of the year—Christmas Day and Maggie’s birthday. This being the end of June, the brand new eighteen-year-old vaulted out of her bed. Stopping at the top of the stairs, Maggie inhaled the succulent aroma of a food she loved nearly even more than Christmas morning itself.

My birthday! thought Maggie.

   Today was the most special day of all—her day, shared by only two other people she knew. Her Auntie Felicia explained to her one day that being aware of only two others born on this day out of a population of 7.5 billion people in the world just highlighted its specialness.  Being an only child, Maggie received what sometimes seemed like stacks of presents—some of them most unique. Perhaps the most unsettling, a gift from a family friend doing research in Angola, was the rabbit’s foot, a bloody stump really. Covered in hair, blood-stained wrapping had the Postal Inspector knocking at the front door, demanding to be present when the package was opened. In addition, there was always cash and checks from her aunties and uncles and, of course, from the overabundance of cousins scattered around the world. The second tier, gifts Maggie hoped for and secretly counted on, were from the multitude of her mum’s friends. For Maggie, the gifts were always laced with suspicion, as she believed they were really meant to somehow impress her mum. Only casually acquainted with her mum’s friends, at best, Maggie thought it odd that they would go to such extremes to shower her—a teenager—with elaborate birthday presents.

   But Maggie received these gifts year after year with benevolent poise, offering the sincere “Oh my! Thank you so very much” she had learned from her mum, Carleen. Carleen was the epitome of social charm and grace when she chose to offer that side of herself to the world. Regrettably, that flow of magical personality was fleeting and could cease at any moment. There was simply no telling with Carleen.  

   When Maggie was no more than toddler traveling with her mum on the M-50 one day, Dublin’s main motorway, the Garda pulled them over. A routine pairing in Ireland, naturally enough, is a male Sargent and female rookie. Carleen rolled down her window and, even before she could see either Garda approaching, let off a fury of insults using the foulest, most vulgar language imaginable. In fact, Carleen went so far as to suggest that the approaching Garda’s mother had carnal knowledge with a farm animal. So concerned for her safety was the female Garda that, as Carleen began to exit the car, the new Garda shielded herself behind the strapping Sargent.  

“Jaeus Christ woman!” thundered the now cheesed-off Sargent as he approached Carleen.

  His own anger overtaking him, all the good man could do was point to Maggie, fortunately safely strapped into the car seat, innocently combing the hair of her princess doll.  

   Maybe it was the Sargent’s angry voice, or maybe it was seeing her daughter so exposed. Whatever the reason, the effect on Carleen was sudden and dramatic. Covering her face with her hands and splaying her fingers, Carleen hid behind those hands, a makeshift shield that day on the M-50, protecting her from feeling guilty for one of one more uncaring and heedless exploit. That afternoon, with Maggie still combing her doll’s golden hair, Carleen, still badly shaken, had the Garda drive her back to their home in Killiney. By the time they had made the 20-minute drive to Carleen’s detached bungalow, she’d put the fury away and let the magic flow.

“Please, would you both sit with wee Maggie and meself for a while? At least until Maggie is asleep. It may save both of you a trip back should my head take leave of me again? I am still just beside meself.”

   It was nearly dark outside before the Sargent and the rookie had eaten their fill of cakes and drunk their fill of tea at Carleen’s kitchen table. Such was the unpredictable, winning charisma of Carleen, quietly preparing for the emotional insurgency surely someday to follow. The real question, though, concerned Maggie: What would become of her? Would she grow to be a woman of well-defined order and routine like Carleen, or an enchanting and lovable rogue like her dah, Cillian?

Now, years later, on her eighteenth birthday, the jury was still out, deliberating whose influence would hold sway. Had wee Maggie grown into a beautiful young woman with a brilliance all her own?  More than likely, but birthdays have been known to assess a person’s mettle, too. The celebration commemorating Maggie’s years could very well become the perfect stage for just a test. However, on this day there were still rashers to be located and devoured.

   Standing at the top of the stairs and soaking in the smells that filled her head, the Irish beauty slid down the banister, her arms out as counter balance gaining top speed and her ultimate destination. Landing feet first like a well-practiced Olympic vaulter, Margaret Marilyn Fitzgerald was definitely not disappointed when she flung open the swinging kitchen door.

“SURPRISE!” boomed a chorus of mostly youthful voices belonging to the people Maggie most loved.

   There were best classmates from school, along with her Auntie Felicia, her wavy brown hair always pulled back and loosely held by a single pin. The librarian look Auntie Felicia presented was far from the adventurous spirit behind those wire-rim granny glasses she always wore. Auntie Felicia was not a real blood-auntie, but Carleen’s best friend. Next to Auntie Felicia, who could always be counted on to be there for any festive goings-on, was Carleen’s “special friend,” Mickey, whom Maggie adored and who was always fun. Mickey’s real job, it seemed to Maggie, was to make sure the gathering was memorable for Maggie, Carleen and Auntie Felicia. At the end of the festivities Mickey was to become a Sherpa, hauling the booty wherever he was directed.

   No birthday in English-speaking western civilization would be worth a hapenny without the obligatory singing of one song in particular.

“H-a-a-pppyy Birthday” began Carleen, encouraging everyone else to sing along until all voices blended into an ear-shattering, window-rattling, and floor-shaking rendition of “Happy Birthday.” 

Trying her best to store it all in her memory, Maggie studied the spirited faces of the singers around the table. Not knowing if she should join in or not, as singing the song to herself was a little flashy and redundant, the birthday girl stood listening, smiling broadly, and drinking in each note as if it was the last her ears would ever hear.

  Mickey rolled a three-tiered cake out from an anteroom near the front door. Helping Mickey push the cart was Celie, Maggie’s best friend. Celie’s shoulder-length red curls danced whenever she laughed, which was often, and her ivory skin highlighted the thirty or so perfectly placed freckles across the bridge of her nose, giving Celie a natural, freshly scrubbed look that definitely grew in beauty, but never seemed to age over the years. The girls had known one another since they’d barely started to walk, and they shared several common threads in their interlaced backgrounds. For instance, Celie’s mum and Carleen were second cousins. But it was the hurt they shared over dahs who just didn’t seem to be around at all the way each girl needed and deserved that created the connection between Celie and Maggie. This bond was born from a loneliness each knew too well. But no little girl should ever discover; too many in modern Dublin discover this too young.

   Over time, each girl came to understand isolation better in the other than in themselves. When the Garda detectives questioned Celie’s dah about his gambling “enterprise” before sending him to prison, Maggie was by Celie’s side. Celie could sit with Maggie for long stretches, sometimes hours without uttering more than a few words, knowing her friend was sad and missed her own dah. The two girls employed a kind of self-awareness by proxy learning curve—a felt understanding that would become the underpinnings of an unbreakable link between the two. Taking Celie’s hand in hers, Maggie wiped away tears with her other.

All in all, Carleen, with brilliance and stealth—and the help of Mickey and Felicia—had snuck in a cadre of seven friends. This was her mum’s one shot at her daughter’s birthday surprise, and Carleen had made the most of it. To think about having a surprise party at the end of the day, especially knowing what Carleen knew at this, the beginning of the day, would have been mindboggling.

   Make no mistake about it, the days were full for both Carleen and Maggie. Most days, mum and daughter shuffled through the door—at the earliest—around 6 pm. Most nights, Carleen, finally home from teaching and Maggie, home after a day of tests at school, then piano lessons or maybe her once a week dance lessons, fell into the house exhausted.  That left very little time for Maggie to eat, and do her homework with headphones on. Carleen and Maggie both liked to relax with music at the end of a long day—their free time. And unless they chose to live in chaos, there were house responsibilities that only grew larger when ignored. After everything was put away, reorganized, and prepared for the following day, finally, the two women practically crawled to bed.

“Thank you Mum, Auntie Felicia, Mickey,” began Maggie, “and Celie, Aideen, Grainne, and Oona, of course…” She went on until her voice became choked with emotion.

  Micky handed Maggie a cup of tea and, and taking a deep breath and then a swallow, she composed herself and started again.  “Sorry, and Neala, Aoife, and finally, Saoirse. Merci, merci, for getting up so early and…” Again, her voice her voice trailed off, so packed with gratitude that continuing was impossible. Meanwhile,  Mickey and Felicia gathered up all the gifts, taking great care to keep card and gift together.

   Carleen never permitted her daughter to open gifts in front of her friends, because, as she argued, it was not “genteel.” Maggie was never quite sure what the word meant, exactly, but she was forced to go along with the stipulation because her mum held the launch code keys to her birthday liftoff, the actual opening of gifts.  There was routine to her birthday now, and Maggie had grown to love it. The ceremonial opening of birthday presents was a fluid time, and she was always looking for the subtlest hints from her mum, telling her where and when she could rip open the wrappers. Carleen on the phone speaking with normal volume, and then suddenly dropping to a stage whisper, well, it almost goes without saying that Maggie anticipated this maneuver at some point in the day.

   Maggie wore a silly smile now, a cat that ate the canary half-smile that refused to go away so delighted she was with the beginning of her eighteenth birthday. With all the love and attention showered on her, it was nearly perfect. Nearly. But there was a piece missing, and this was what Maggie couldn’t tell another soul, except Celie. Mickey and Auntie Felicia, who had gathered up school books and had purchased extra bus passes before the celebration started, handed each girl’s bag and bus pass to her as they lined up ready to leave. When Maggie issued the last ‘thank you’ and the door closed, Celie and Maggie were locked in what only best friends understand, namely, those moments where one girl understood the unspoken sadness in the other and there was no need to speak. Celie kept trying to catch Maggie’s eye, but Maggie’s head remained down. This, Celie knew, had everything to do with Maggie missing her dah. Maggie just stood by the window in the front of the house, gazing out beyond the trees and other houses.

“This will be the year, Mags. I can feel it,” said Celie. The words would not help, she knew, but maybe soothe her friend’s despondency just a little.  “God forgive me, but Sister Genevie will give birth to triplets if we’re late again.  Now, come on or we’ll both get a detention for sure.”

Celie, still unsure of the right thing to do or say, stood behind Maggie, never saying a single word. Once the gifts were stored, Auntie Felicia and Mickey began the washing up. The clatter and banging of plates, cutlery, saucers, and tea cups being put away stirred Maggie back to the moment.

“I have a splendid idea, Celie. Let’s walk to school. If we get there, we get there. If not, we’ll buy some nappies for Sister Genevie’s new triplets. What do ya say?”

Celie, pulling her hair back into a braid and clipping it, just smiled.

   The day was ordered from Heaven. The mild weather, warm sunbeams, and deep blue, cloudless sky had the girls, jumpers tied around their waists, scrambling for their knockoff Aubrey and Vogue sunglasses. Celie, never one to exercise or walk much, was the first to put her thumb out to hitch a ride, if possible, all the way into City Center. The two beauties elicited some whistles and uncomfortably long gazes from drivers not resembling anything close to a safe ride. Not giving up but not trying either, Maggie jumped up on a nearby stone wall and folded her tartan school skirt between her legs, forming makeshift shorts. Not to be outdone, Celie followed suit but not nearly as gracefully, jumping so high she nearly hopped completely over the stone boundary. 

“Jumping Jiminy, Mags, how come you can do it so easily and I can’t?” Celie demanded, struggling.

“Because the only exercise you get is jumping to conclusions, lazy butt,” Maggie shot back.

“Oh that’s nice, real nice Mags. Toilet talk as encouragement. You’ll be a great effin mum.”

      In the warm sun and apparently without a care in the world, Celie noticed Maggie’s head drop as it had at the end of the party. With cars still whirling by and drivers now only shouting out the occasional cat-calls or whistling in passing, the sudden silence seemed amplified to Celie. Some people embrace silence and seek it out. Others grow, over time, to appreciate quiet and tranquility. Celie did not fit any category. Silence was a curse to her and needed the Pope’s blessing to be broken. 

 “I have to say, Mags, this is much better than school, isn’t it?” Celie wanted to once again rescue her friend, just make her happy on her birthday. Celie knew that Maggie’s dah was the issue, an enigma, a puzzle Maggie was forever attempting to solve. Of all days to lose her ability to cheer her friend up, today was the worst.

“I remember how angry I felt, and how I pouted when Mickey filled in for my dah at that first Father-Daughter dance. As hard as I tried to pretend that going with Mickey was the same as going with Dah, it simply wasn’t.”

“I don’t believe you even said that, Mags, ya big tosser. Do ya recall who it was that happened to be my feckin’ surrogate that same year? Don’t even pretend like you don’t remember either. You try growing new boobs and having the good Monsignor, my surrogate that night, practically drooling all over himself as if, Jeasus, t’was only tits on an old sow he’d ever seen. At least Mickey had the decency not to vomit all over himself.”  

  Humor is what Celie was best at and, for a split second, it distracted both girls from the heaviness of their lives. Because her own dah would not be returning home again in the foreseeable future, Celie grasped the hurt that was overpowering Maggie at this moment. She recognized that agonizing feeling inside her best friend, that aching which predictably returned each birthday and Christmas when Celie watched Maggie wait for something, anything, a sign from her dah, letting Maggie know that he missed her and loved her. Once the giggles from Celie’s one-liners died down, there was a familiar quiet between the friends once again.

Somewhere in the distance a door slammed hard, followed by shouting, as if Celie had caught a couple in the middle of a fierce argument. Maggie never took notice, locked deep inside her own little world. The second door bang, followed by more shouting, then another door slam and finally quiet. The argument in the distance took Celie back to a day not all that long ago when, Carleen not at home,  Celie let herself in and decided she’d surprise her friend. Rather than give Maggie the scare of a lifetime, Celie caught Maggie crying, sobbing on her bed listening to a particular song. The song, by a famous female artist about a dad in Texas, so caught Celie by surprise that, standing by the banister outside Maggie’s room, she became wet-eyed herself. When Celie asked Maggie why she was so sad, she never forgot Maggie’s reply.  

“Maybe me growing up is what caused my dah to not come around, do ya know Ceils? I mean, what makes a man not want to be around a daughter that adores him? I just don’t get it. Now just mom and me. I always thought that me parents would be tighter, friends, if they just bleeding lived in separate flats, that’s all.”

That afternoon Celie held her friend in her arms like a parent. “Hey Mags, ‘From here to Donegal and back again,’ never forget that, girl. ‘From here to Donegal and back again.’ Don’t ever forget that, ok?” It was a mantra of comfort most of the time, except that day.

  The idea of being late for school was now the furthest thing from both girls’ mind.  Celie looked up into the searing blue sky and then to the overheated face across from her.  

“Ya know Maggie, it’s right queer, actually hard, remembering when your dah, my dah was around all the time. My best remembering is that suddenly, one day, our mums were single parents raising their darling daughters by themselves. Jesus Maggie, how clearly do ya remember your mum and Felicia sitting you down at the kitchen table? For feck’s sake Mags, we’re too bleeding young ta have memories like ‘The Talk’ already tucked in our nickers.  Jeasus, at least ya feckin had the benefit of a right explanation, ya know?.”

 Carleen and Felicia explained to Maggie something she had known in her heart for the longest time, namely, that her dah and mum did not get along, and that dah had some disease that made him fall from time to time; it was somewhat unpredictable and there were times he was not himself. From that day at the kitchen table to this one, Maggie had never seen or heard from her dah again.

   Before Cillian left, she could always count on receiving some astounding gifts on her birthday from him. They were never the things on her birthday list, but gifts so specialized and unique that only Cillian would ever come up with such an idea. There were the portraits he had done each year from her school pictures; a small plot of land in the Republic of Ireland he had purchased for her, but registered in Northern Ireland so when his daughter turned eighteen she could carry the title of Squires; and the specially engraved stationary with her initials at the top in a very fancy font.

Still on the wall, legs out, jumpers under their bums, the girls were beginning to show the first real signs of a summer sunburn—Celie especially, for the simple reason that her freckled skin was so much paler than Maggie’s black Irish ancestry.  That was when the car, a new Volvo, slowed and stopped next to them. Dreamily, as if the glass had a mind of its own, the passenger side window slowly rolled down.

“Oh you two lovies,” came the voice from the car. “Do ya fancy a few scoops?”

“For feck sake, Brian, I thought you were some pervert,” came Celie’s immediate and serious rebuke. Behind the wheel was Brian McDaid, a boy two years older and usually away at university in Galway. Brian had an uncommon handsomeness about him, even for Dublin. Both parents were French, and as a result, Brian had a darker tone to his skin and hair. They’d been killed just after Brian was born. Raised by his Irish grandmother, Brian possessed an air that women, old and young, were attracted to.

“When did ya get home from Galway? Or did they finally figure you were a bleedin’ fraud after all?” Celie shot back as she jumped down from the stone wall.

“Hop in now if ya so feel it, because I’m headed to Fitzsimons in Temple Bar. You are most definitely welcome to join me, both of you Maggie, all the way to the pub.”

“Oh it’s tempting Brian McDaid. Going on the gip are ya? No, and I am sorry for your troubles. As a future solicitor, I believe I can also speak for my quiet client here. We’re sure the craic would be great, too. But we’re spoken for I am sorry to say, ” Celie continues as she walked toward Brian.

   It was no Irish state secret that Brian McDaid  carried quite a torch for Maggie, and there was a rumor, still unfounded, that Brian wore a tattoo of Maggie’s likeness on his shoulder. Yet, as handsome and intelligent as Brian might be (he received nine A1s on his leaving cert—almost impossible), Maggie couldn’t be bothered with the likes of a Brian McDaid. Nonetheless, they accepted his ride to St. Stevens’ Green in the City Center. First, however, Maggie made Celie sit between Brian and her.

“You’re looking well, Maggie. How’s your mum?” asked Brian, attempting to break the ice.

“She’s well Brian. I’ll tell her you were asking for her.” After a short pause Maggie continued. “And what, may I ask, in the name of the holy Mother of God, are ya going on the piss in Temple Bar at half-nine in the morning?” asked Maggie, doing her best not to burst out laughing.

“Fair question, Maggie. And I’ll answer it by asking one of my own now: What in the flaming robe of St. Peter are the two of you hussies hitching into the city when we both know you should be in school?” shot back Brian himself starting to snicker as well.

The ride into the City Center was light and fun for all three, with the jokes rolling along as fast as the car. Yet, as they approached St. Stephen’s Green, Celie caught her friend once again with her head tilted down and away, a sure sign that Maggie’s mood had also tilted downward, too.

“Brian, do us a favor and pull over,” began Celie. “I’ve a giant ache in me back and I’ll be needin’ to have a good stretch of the legs to send it on its way.”

As the two girls exit the car, Brian tried for some redemption. “Maggie, would ya mind if I were to call up to the house some evening?”

Thinking for a moment Maggie replied, “Not at all Mr. McDaid. Me mum would love to see ya. Thanks for the lift Brian,” finished Maggie slamming the car door shut. “I’ll let my mum know to expect ya.”

Watching Brian pull away Celie just needed one questions answered: “Mags, there isn’t a girl, oh hell or even a gal’s mum, who wouldn’t kill to have Brian pay attention to ‘em the way he does ta you. But you, ya little snob, ya treat the poor boy like shite. Why Mags? What gives?” Celie’s question was sincere, as she was as lost as Brian McDaid as to the lack of motivation on Maggie’s part.

“Not sure really, Celis. I just know that I don’t know how I feel about Brian, ya know?”

“No, haven’t a clue ya gorgeous spud, ya. Now, keep up with me if ya can. I have a surprise I was savin’ for later but now is the time, I reckon. Come on.”

   Kicking off their shoes, the two dashed through the green’s stone entrance, running faster and faster and hardly noticing the caretaker’s house or the pram in front of it. Stopping no more than a whisker’s-width from hitting the buggy and the sleeping child inside, Celie’ momentum brought the top part of her torso bending out over the baby below, so only the shadow from fell.  Once the near catastrophe had been avoided, Celie smacked Maggie hard on the back of the head and again It seemed only a matter of seconds before they had their  feet in the cold water of the fountain with the sun like a bright orange coin high overhead.  After another prolonged silence, it was Celie who again posed a question to her friend.

“Maggie do ya think you’ll marry a man like your dah? Or do you ya think you’ll end up with a Mickey, dependable but as far away from being imaginative and creative as far can get?”

“Don’t know really. How about you?”

“Oh I’d marry a man like your dah in a second. Not Cillian your real dah, I mean. It would be weird if I were your step-mum, eh Maggie? I mean someone like him. No Maggie I’d take creative over boring any day. With one ya settle for less, ya know. The other ya just never know, like my own dah, your dah was the unsettling sort.”

   The question, although completely in line with Celie’s way of thinking, still took Maggie aback. Mickey, it seemed to the birthday girl, truly and sincerely adored her willowy single mum, Carleen. But it was her understanding—no, it was definitely a feeling, and Celie’s as well—that Carleen “cherished” Mickey, but it was just different from when she married Cillian.  Sometimes Mickey was there in the morning but, often, he slept at his own house; the original and the replica stayed at their own homes.

  “Ya know something Celie,” Maggie began reflectively, “the lead-up to this birthday just feels different for some reason. Listen, for starters, there’s been none of the background chatter this year. I always used those reckless clues as an opportunity to eavesdrop. This year, in fact, it was only days before that my mum even asked me for my birthday wish list. Something is just not right.”  

“Ah you daft Maggie. Too much sun. This year is the same as the others...” Celie knew instantly that she was an eejit for not including the possibility that Cillian could still appear. “I mean it’s usual so far, I think.”

“No Ceil, believe me, I’ve been listening at twice my normal eavesdropping rate. It’s radio silence.”

Celie pulled a silver flask from her purse, unscrewed the top and handed it to Maggie.

“Here Mags, maybe this will help with the radio reception.”

Maggie sniffed the opening. “Ah Bailey’s. You’re a peach, Celis.”  Maggie took a long swig and handed the flask to Celie who also drank deeply from the silver hipflask. 

 “Is there any left?” inquired Celie, referring to the almost drained silver container.

“Oh aye. Just enough for one last swallow.”  

Without hesitation Maggie tilted her head back and drained what was left.

“Listen to me Celie. Usually the calls around my birthday are so predictable. It’s like some silly cat and mouse game mum and I play but we never really acknowledge we’re playing really, do ya know? Any other year  I could hear mum in the kitchen yackin’away, planning her day and my surprise, please God. So I’m eavesdropping and a clear sign she’s up to something good is her voice. Up and down, then up and down. Her version a stage whisper ut ere is the daft part: Those stage whisper calls?  I  heard her  weeping, for minutes on end.”

“Recently, Maggie?”

“As in yesterday.”

“Oh dear Mags. This is not good, not good at all. Well, we know she didn’t break up with Mickey, so that lets a broken heart out. Any ideas?”

“Wow!” began Maggie, “I’d forgotten how beautiful a few pulls of Bailey’s can make a girl feel. Thanks.”

“Happy birthday. I wonder if your mum’s crying has anything to do with that big ole donnybrook your mum and Felicia had? We both agreed that we’d never heard them ague before. Rare as a hen’s tooth we said. Remember when we pulled back the rug?”  

   It was that night that the two girls overheard Auntie Felicia and Maggie’s mum raise their voices to one another. Auntie Felicia had come over and was angry at something Maggie’s mum had said. The girls climbed out of bed, pulled back the throw rug and pressed their ears to the floor. It was better than TV. Clear as anything they heard the two women snarling at each other below. That night shed new light on the puzzle always on Maggie’s mind.  

   “He never came back not because he didn’t love or miss Maggie terribly, you eejit! You made his life a living hell! Jeasus, you were calling the Garda at the drop of a hat! Fckin’ Pope Francis himself would have walked out on you, woman!”

   This last piece of news was so startling that both girls immediately sat up so quickly they bumped heads. The girls were sure that the “he” the women referred was Maggie’s dah, Cillian. 

“Eejit? You have some nerve woman. I am strong, not stupid or an idiot. He lied to me. Ove ad over. You know the history. Why am I defending myself to you? I could never trust him, you know that. And him hiding those pills and whatnot, well, it just put me over the edge. He was weak, weak, ya hear me, feckin weak! The man could not handle me seeing Mickey.”

  It was Celie’s expert opinion that something startling had taken place to make Carleen so sad at such a happy time of year. Maggie spent a surprising number of nights at Celie’s during the Christmas school break last year.  Once in the New Year, when her mum collected her from school, Maggie dared to ask about the sad calls and hearing her dah’s name. Her question seemed to leave Carleen paralyzed. She drew into a frozen upright posture, like a statue, and then without a word, moved toward the car. Maggie joined her and they drove home in silence.

“I am the feckin’ eejit, Mags! Leave it o me to pull up some painful feckin memory on you birthday! Your feckin eighteenth birthday yet! Feck this, Maggie. Come on and let’s get to your house before your mum.”

   The girls were not so lucky headed back to Maggie’s house as they were on their way into town. Car after car blew by the two until, finally, an old flatbed truck with empty chicken coops piled high and deep, pulled to the side. Also piled high and deep was the deposits laid down by the absent chickens, over time.  Swallowing their pride, the two hoped up and onto the wooden bed.  Celie, unable to take the smell, started to wretch with the dry heaves. For some reason--or perhaps it was the Bailey’s—the more Celie suffered the more Maggie laughed, and laughed, and laughed even harder until tears, streaming down her face made it impossible for Maggie to see Celie any longer.  It was a most unusual ruse to get her friend to smile and laugh on her birthday; unfortunately, this was one trick Celie could not take credit.  

   With so much excitement, and having to walk more than either had wanted, they climbed the stairs in Maggie’s house and both flopped onto the bed in Maggie’s room, and just in time. They froze when they heard the key sliding into the lock, the tumbler turn, and the heavy oak door open and close. Carleen’s heels striking the wooden floor made it easy for the girls to track her progress from one room to the next.  Aware only of her breathing, Maggie could easily recognize the sounds of her mother rearranging chairs and dishes in the kitchen.  Then, she heard the phone ring. Maggie couldn’t tell who was calling, but Maggie definitely heard Carleen mention the name she’d been hoping to hear again: Cillian. That was when the queerest thing of all happened.

“Sweetie, we’ll be having special guest for dinner tonight. And will you please ask Celie if she could join us?” Carleen yelled up the stairs to the reception of two frozen-in-place girls.  

“Jesus, Maggie, it scares the taste right out of my mouth when mums do shit like that. Answer her, will you, please, so she knows that we know that we knew she was there all along,  or something like that.”

“OK right mum. Will do. Celie’s right here with me,” replied Maggie, still not sure how her mum knew she was home—and with Celie, too!

“I know,” was all Carleen needed to say.

“Blessed Virgin Mary save us,” began Celie, “and look at my arms, Mags, they’re exploding with goose pimples. There must be some secret ESP thing mums learn just after delivery.”

   The mention of a “special guest” made Maggie literally stop in her tracks. She was absolutely positive that her dah was to be her birthday surprise and she could not have been more delighted.

“God Mags, it’s your dah for sure. Mother of pearl, nothing this exciting ever happens at me house. You OK?”

A quizzical look appeared on Maggie’s face as she tried to remember the last time she had actually seen her dah, for real. The harder she tried to remember, the farther down her now knitted brows arched.

“I can’t even remember when it was I last saw your dah, Mags. When did ya last see him, Mags?”

Maggie considered Celie’s question for a moment then replied, “It was at that restaurant, the one that sold those globs of delicious ice cream during the summer.

   “Margaret Grace…!” Her mum’s voice boomed up the stairwell.  “What on Google Earth are you girls doing up there? I could use a hand and I would like it to be before your nineteenth birthday, at least.”

“One minute,” Maggie yelled back.                                                                                

   “I’m counting, missy.”

Her mum really wouldn’t count, for she had more important things on her mind, or at least Maggie hoped.  A wave of nostalgia flooded the young woman as her face turned white as a sheet. Sadly, she had to acknowledge that years had passed since her dah had contacted her. Time was suddenly her enemy as she worked even harder to put together, like some gazillion-piece puzzle, the story of her dah and why he never came back, called, or even wrote.

"Ah Christ almighty Celie. I’m an ocean of  emotions right now. My dah would break my melt right now should he walk through that door.  I don’t want to be a buckshee to my own dah, Ceils. Do ya know?”

“I do know.  Maybe I am the one person who does understand. At least your dah has a pulse. Oh, the craic was always good around him, no? Indeed, it was. So, he had a liking for the gargle and the tablets. Is that any reason to send him packing? Indeed, not. But I do have to wonder why, Mags, he’s appearing now after all this time, I mean.”

“I am going to university in a few months. I am a smart girl. What did I ever do to make my dah not want to see me? Can ya feckin’ tell me that, Ceils? Can ya?” As the last word left Maggie’s lips she buried her face into a pillow. She had done her best to dam the flood of tears, but finally, she gave in to the flow of her soul-sucking sadness. Once again Celie could only look on as the cotton pillow absorbed Maggie’s tears.

“Ah you’re a sad panda, Miss Mags. And this is one of those events they say makes us stronger. I say feck strength!” Celie, gently rubbing Maggie’s back, hesitated before continuing. “I just wonder if this is, I don’t know, this is why your mum was so downhearted last Christmas. Now your mum is telling ya there’ll be ‘special guest’ on your eighteenth birthday?”

  Frankly, it didn’t make any sense that her dah would reappear now. To complicate things even more, Maggie felt guilty—ashamed—for hating her dah sometimes, because, quite simply, he seemed not to remember he had a daughter.

“You OK, Mags? I know I keep asking that, but it’s only because you don’t look OK. OK?”

“Does it matter to you Ceils, that even through your dah isn’t home in the house…” There was a pause that seemed to last a fortnight. “You know where he is and can write and see him if ya want?”

The question was a good one and set Celie back a bit. “I suppose, if I compare it to your dah. But no, no. It’s just the same, Ceils.”  Her voice quivered noticeably. “Ya know when the last feckin time was when my dah hugged me, held me, told me everything’s going to be just honky-dory? He used to say ta me, “Your son is your son today, but your daughter is your daughter forever. Boy, does that sound like bullocks now.”

A cascades of tears streamed down Celie’s cheeks. Each brought out in the other the sad reality that a girl needed a hands-on dah. Wiping away her tears with her sleeve, Celie went to the mirror to examine the damage.

“Christ on a bike! Look at the state of me, Maggie. I’ve got a face like a bull dog chewing wasps!"

Celie’s humor was exactly what the moment needed, and Maggie immediately reached over to console her. Laced in an embrace, the girls gently swayed from side to side.

   “Margaret, we are all waiting!” Her mother’s voice thundered up the stairs, bringing Maggie back to the moment.  “And please tell Celie I rang her mum to let her know she’d be having supper here. She can thank me later. Now will the two of you get down here please?”

   “We’re on our way.”

“Your mum said ‘We’re all waiting.’ We?”

 Still sitting on her bed, Maggie found herself wondering what was going on, the questions coming in rapid succession: Why couldn’t he just be around a little bit? she snuffled. And what do I say to him after all this time? Why does he have to make things so confusing?

“Ready Mags?”

   When Maggie heard the doorbell ring her heart stopped, then seemed to purr rather than beat. She was overwhelmed with feelings and sensations flooding up in such rapid succession, she found it difficult to distinguish when one feeling stopped and another began. The first to surface was anger, making her unsteady on her feet for a moment.

“I thought you were going to take a header. Sure you’re OK?”

Regaining her balance, Maggie smiled and looked at Celie but was really looking right through her and off into something quite wonderful, namely, the image in her mind of throwing her arms around her dah once again.

“Yea, let’s get this over with.”

   Celie was first down the staircase, bounding down the stairs three at a time. Then the doorbell rang again, and, from the top of the staircase, Maggie looked down on Celie’s serious looking expression.

 “How about I get the door?” Auntie Felicia said to Mickey, Carleen, and Maggie as she too made her way down and into the kitchen.

“Sweetie, why don’t you and Celie take a seat, here at the table,” Carleen instructed the girls.

   There was nothing in Carleen’s voice to indicate that anything resembling good was at the door. Without thinking, Celie reached out and took Maggie’s hand. Together, the girls waited to see who would enter with Auntie Felicia. They did not have to wait long.  Celie turned to Maggie and struggled to find the right words for this more than awkward moment.

   “She’s not your dah, Maggie!” was the best she could muster.

   If Maggie’s eighteenth birthday wasn’t already unusual enough, this would have to do until truly unusual showed up. Auntie Felicia entered the kitchen with two people who, for Maggie and Celie both, were complete strangers. The first was surprising enough: a youthful, impeccably dressed woman in her forties.  Her hair was done in a French braid with golden sparkles throughout. Over her left shoulder lay a wee infant. Sound asleep, the infant, snug in its pink cozy, was no more than a fortnight old. The wee one was wearing a monogramed ‘MG’ on every piece of clothing and on all the accessories that were visible. For Maggie, the lady was the most stunning, radiantly beautiful woman she’d seen in her eighteen years—besides Carleen.

   A nervous energy filled the room. Neither Maggie nor Celie seemed able to control the movement of their bodies. Like two jitterbugs on a dance floor, their feet in constant motion, the girls flitted from one awkward stance to another. Looking to Maggie and then the baby, Celie got closer for a better look at the infant.

“Oh, what’s her name?” Celie politely asked.

 The beautiful woman replied, “Oh, I thought you knew. Why it’s…” Abruptly, Maggie’s mum, bordering on rude, cut the woman off before she could finish her sentence.

   “You’re very welcome here, Sophia. Some tea? Maggie, get Sophia some tea, please…”

   “I’ll give them a hand,” Auntie Felicia interjected, herding the girls in the direction of the kettle.

Her nervous energy seemed contagious. Now it was Maggie’s mum whose hands appeared to have minds of their own, reaching first to arrange the napkins on the table, then to her hair and face, and then back to rearrange the salt, pepper, and sugar. It quickly became obvious to Sophia that something was simply not right. The delighted look she’d worn upon entering the house had changed into an expression of genuine perplexity. Sophia hadn’t expected to receive the unnerving reception Maggie’s mum was offering her.

   Shielding the rim of her face with her hand to conceal what she was about to say, Maggie’s mum silently mouthed to Sophia, “She doesn’t know anything.” Catching Celie and Maggie trying to peek around to see what was happening at the table behind them, Auntie Felicia brought them back to task.

“Now pay attention to what you’re doing here Maggie, and let the ladies have their privacy. Watch where you pour the water now, or you’ll be turning my fingers into sausages.”

   “Told me what, Mum? Told me what? Please, tell me now.” Now in the middle of the kitchen, Maggie began backing away from everyone, even Celie. 

   “This is about Dah, isn’t it? What is going on here? Someone please tell me why, on my birthday, my eighteenth birthday, you had to…ruin it with—with I don’t even know what. And who is Sophia?” Maggie continued, now with even more emotion. “God I hate all of you! I hate you even more than I hate Dah!” With the last syllable, Maggie began tearing up the stairs, until her mum’s words stopped her in her tracks.

“Hate me, Maggie, not your dah, because he’ll never be able to change your thinking himself again.” Collectively, the group held its breath, everyone from Mickey to Sophia waiting to hear exactly what Maggie’s mum’s next words would be, and how Maggie would react. Surprisingly, the prolonged silence seemed to introduce a peaceful feeling into the hearts of everyone in the room. 

 “He didn’t want to die. It was an accident….” Carleen’s voice trailed off. She now conversed with her daughter only by means of her tears and language of the body. Unable to stand one second more of her mum’s suffering, Maggie quickly descended the few last stairs and ran directly into her arms, burying her head inside her embrace.

Then, pulling her face away to meet her mother’s eyes, Maggie softly whispered, “It was before Christmas, wasn’t it, Mum? When you were so sad all those days?”

“Yes…yes.  An accident Maggie—just before Christmas, with a drunk driver. Your dah didn’t make it. I am so, so sorry darling.”

Each person seemed immobilized, as if struck by tranquilizing darts. No one spoke, all of them frozen in place like the figures of Pompeii.

Being a good, cautious, restrained man, Mickey possessed qualities that now brought tremendous comfort to Maggie and Carleen. Enveloping both mother and daughter in his gigantic arms, he too Mickey’s words  

“It’s going to be all right, just fine. You hear me? Both of you. Trust ole Mickey. I’ll never let you down.”

Carrying the wee girl on her shoulder Sophia rose from her chair and made her way over to Maggie.  “Now I am the one to say ‘sorry.’ And I am, Maggie, just so, so sorry for ruining your birthday, but I thought you knew about your father. Here, I brought this for you.”  Sophia handed Maggie a box wrapped in glittery paper and tied with a delicate bow, then retreated to her seat where she unbuttoned her blouse and began to nurse. Once she’d settled in, she continued.

“I’m 46 years old, Maggie, and, almost a year ago, for the first time in my life, I became pregnant. For a woman my age and with that history, well hell, that’s practically a biblical miracle. Now, doctors being doctors, they sometimes discover more than what they had expect to find. Well now wouldn’t you know it, but not only was I pregnant, but I was sick with two different types of heart disease. Two. I certainly drew the short stick on that one, no? One was called pericarditis. The other one myocarditis. Come here to me and sit with me, Maggie. Please. There’s much more to this story.”

Maggie did as Sophia requested while as Auntie Felicia happily took hold of the sleeping wee girl.  Sophia collected her thoughts, pausing for what felt like an eternity before beginning once more. “These two heart diseases, one infects the heart muscle and the other the sack that holds the heart. There is no statistical evidence, anywhere, of another pregnant woman with that condition any place on this earth, having a healthy, and full-term, child—until I did. That’s when the miracle happened.”

Immediately Maggie’s ears perked up. Miracle? Maggie’s heart began to race. She loved the idea that Sophia was somehow associated with a miracle. Sophia then asked Maggie the question she’d been waiting to hear since the new mother entered the house.

“Would you like to hold her, Maggie?

“Oh, may I please?

“Nothing would make me happier to see.”

Carleen located her I-phone and, like some out-of-control paparazzi, began taking shot after shot. Without needing to speak, Carleen understood what a momentous and forever memorable moment this was, one Maggie would soon understand, as well. 

“My heart, growing weaker and weaker by the day, held very little hope of the baby surviving, much less me. Then the day came that I knew might come, but that I’d always pushed as far back in my mind as possible. I had tubes in my arms, oxygen on full and, well, I knew when three doctors came through the door what they were about to say.”

As if sent by God himself to break the tension, the wee baby passed wind and belched at the same time. Despite the seriousness of the topic, everyone in the room politely paused, then, including Sophia herself, burst into laughter. As the momentary mirth began to subside Celie asked, “Please, Miss Sophia, don’t stop. Tell us the rest of the story.”

“Now where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?” asked Sophia, knowing full well where she had stopped. “Oh yes, now I remember.” Not meaning to over-dramatize what she wanted to be a great epiphany for Maggie, Sophia ceased storytelling and simply recounted the facts.

“After I had given the doctors my decision, there was nothing more left to say. The baby and I, well, we were going to see this through to the end—together. It was just as they were opening the door that every machine I was hooked to begin to sound its own individual alarm. The noise was so loud that I wanted to cover my ears. Then the room was suddenly filled with more doctors and nurses than graduation at a medical school. I distinctly remember the next two sentences I heard. The first came from a doctor who was getting ready to use a defibrillator on me. He said:

“We’re losing her!”

“And what was the second?” asked a very excited Maggie.

“That was the miracle. A woman came through the door and yelled out to everyone, “We just found the perfect donor and match for her. Prep her for surgery. She’s getting a new heart today!”

Silence seemed to be all anyone could marshal in response to the miracle story. Maggie, especially, listened with awe-struck attention, fingers tightly gripping the edge of her chair.

“So the heart inside you now, the one that kept you and this beautiful wee baby alive all those months, was…err, is, my Dah’s?” 

“Your father’s heart, Maggie, not only made it possible for me to live, but Margaret Grace, too. We named her after you.”

Everyone gazed at the baby, then Maggie, and then back to Sophia.  

“Now, I’d be pleased if, with your mother’s permission, you’d open the gift little Maggie and I brought.”

Carleen nodded, and that was all Maggie needed. Immediately and with great care, Maggie unwrapped the package. The look on her face was the first indication that what was inside was truly special. Maggie held up a necklace with an emerald pendant the shape of a baseball infield. She struggled to read the inscription.

“It’s Gaelic, Irish Maggie. It says: Ón áit seo go Dún na nGall-deo. Or, in English, ‘From here to Donegal—forever!’ And for me and little Maggie, the real miracle was the donor card in your father’s wallet. It was signed and dated the day of the accident. I know your mother raised you on her own, Maggie. And I’m sorry you won’t have a chance to get to know your father better. I understand he had his faults, but to Maggie and me, well, if a man’s heart is how the world judges his legacy, your dah will forever be the greatest man who ever lived.”

The moment Sophia finished her story, Maggie, still holding the baby, rose and stood in the center of the kitchen. The indirect lighting from the bulbs concealed behind the splashboards cast the most uncomfortable feeling over everyone in the room before. But now it shone radiantly on Maggie.

“I know Dah was ‘not all that and a bag of chips,’ but he is the only Dah I’ll ever know. And thank you Mum and Miss Sophie for making this simply the best eighteenth birthday a girl could ever have.” Maggie kissed little Maggie on the head gently. “From here to Donegal—forever, little Maggie.”