The Last Little Blue Envelope (13 page)

The Emerald Isle

“Why are Americans so fascinated by Ireland?” Keith asked when he opened the door the next morning. “Ellis and I were just talking about this. Now we need you to explain. Explain, American. You all seem to think it’s magic.
Ireland
. . .”

He said the last word in an Irish lilt. Ellis, who was sitting on the steps cradling a cup of tea, shook her head.

“Morning, Gin,” she said. “I wasn’t talking about this. He was. To himself.”

Ginny smiled thinly, taking in Ellis’s jeans and sweater from the day they had started their journey to France. Either Ellis had gotten there very early or . . . or she had never left and had no other clothes to change into. That was the horrible but entirely likely option. Ginny tried to beat down the creeping misery that came with this thought, the one that wound around her body like a vine.

“Plus,” Keith added, oblivious to her suffering, “you all think you’re Irish. What’s the appeal? Do you like the accent more? Is it all the magical rocks? Oh, look, a leprechaun. . . .”

That signified the arrival of Oliver, who was just coming up behind Ginny.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Is it?” Keith asked. “
Is
it?”

Oliver took his normal course of ignoring everything that came out of Keith’s mouth and got into the backseat. He had prepared for this leg of the trip by packing very lightly—just a backpack. No computer. Nothing he couldn’t keep on his lap. Ginny could barely face getting back in the car, which was looking ever so slightly the worse for wear. The heavy driving in the rain and snow had covered it in a layer of grime that actually altered the color and tinted the windows, making it feel even smaller.

“Ahead of us today,” Keith said, jiggling the key and coaxing the cold engine to life, “we have yet another long drive to a ferry crossing. Nothing like the Irish Sea in the dead of winter.”

“You could drop us off at the ferry terminal,” Oliver offered.

“Oh no,” Keith said. “Wouldn’t miss it. New Year’s Eve? Dublin? You and me together? The magic of
you
combined with the magic of Ireland?”

This time, they headed north and west, to Holyhead, in Wales. This was the longest drive yet, well over six hours—about the same amount of time it took Ginny to fly to England in the first place. There was very little discussion. No one was quite awake enough for that. Ginny stared glassy-eyed at the changing English landscape. The signs were suddenly in English and another quite strange language that Oliver told her was Welsh. She hadn’t realized that Welsh was something people spoke, or even that it existed. It was a bit wilder here, rolling hills and tiny villages, and long stretches of nothing but fields.

It was slightly terrifying to drive into the belly of the ferry, a cavernous space half full with huge trucks and a smattering of cars and motorcycles. As soon as they had parked the car, they made their way up the stark metal staircase to the passenger decks. Keith and Ellis both stretched out on some seats in one of the lounges, head to head.

“You getting some sleep, mad one?” Keith asked, as he positioned his coat under his head as a pillow.

“No,” Ginny said.

“Make sure no one feeds us to the kraken, then, right?” He gave her a little smile and a wink.

They were both asleep before the boat even left the dock. Ginny sat across from them, wobbling in her seat as the boat listed left and right. She couldn’t sleep that peacefully—not on this boat, and not in this position. Oliver went outside on the deck. She could see him through the drizzle-splattered windows, battling all of nature in his attempt to light a cigarette. The wind battered his coat and sent its tails flapping, his closely clipped hair pushed up on end. There was something mesmerizing about watching him try to do the same thing over and over. The flick of the lighter. The cup of the hand. The turn to try to find the one position where the wind wouldn’t put out the flame. After a few minutes and two ruined cigarettes, he gave up and came back inside.

“Must be a smokers’ lounge,” he said. “I hate them. They smell terrible. But it’ll have to do.”

“They smell like smoke,” Ginny said. “What do you think
you
smell like?”

This was a little unfair. Oliver didn’t actually smell like smoke that often—maybe just a tiny whiff on his coat right after he came in. He walked away silently. Ginny looked over at the happily sleeping couple again, shook it off, and decided to go out onto the deck.

Then they were off, the Welsh coast vanishing into the mist. Though it was a cold and choppy passage, Ginny enjoyed the trip. The ferry in the summer had been smooth and even, the sun beating down on blue water. She enjoyed the slosh and chug of the boat. It was
active
. This was traveling. It had a pulse to it. She spent most of the four-hour trip walking loops of the deck, listening to music at full blast on her headphones. (No
Starbucks: the Musical
. She had considered putting some of the songs onto her playlist, but then realized she had enough of Keith in her eyes and ears at all times. She was learning.) She took pride in the fact that she could walk so steadily as the boat rocked and slammed on the water. She was starting to feel in control of this thing—she could handle being around Ellis and Keith. She could handle Oliver. A little loud music, a rough boat ride across the Irish Sea . . . she could take it.

When the announcement was made for all drivers to return to their vehicles, Ginny bought two coffees and went to wake Ellis and Keith, who were still sound asleep on the lounge chairs.

“Oh, bless you,” Ellis said, accepting her coffee.

Along with a coffee, Ginny gave Keith the driving directions she had gotten from Richard the night before.

“It doesn’t look far at all,” Keith said. “If we hurry, we can get the piece, have something to eat, and get back up to Dublin for midnight. But we’ve said that before, haven’t we? I suppose you know but you aren’t going to tell us, because it’s much more fun to drive around Ireland without a clue of what’s going on.”

This was to Oliver, who had emerged from whatever hidey hole he’d secreted himself in and joined them.

“I don’t know how long it will take,” he said. “I don’t even know where it is. Ginny got the directions.”

“This is somewhere near Richard’s grandmother’s house,” Ginny explained. “The letter just said this place she and Richard visited together. He didn’t say what it was either.”

“All a bit mysterious, isn’t it?” Keith asked. “Still. Looks like we can get it done and get our party hats on. Shall we?”

Ginny immediately saw what Aunt Peg would have liked about Ireland—the colors. There were long stretches of almost nothing but fields, but the fields were a dozen different shades of green. Then suddenly a tiny stone church, a few boring box stores, then a small town with four pubs painted in yellow and red and blue . . . a row of houses in every pastel color of the rainbow. So many colors in defiance of the steel gray of the sky.

The sun had just gone down when they reached the spot Richard had marked on the map. The car coughed to a stop. They got out.

“This is a field,” Keith said. “Are you sure that’s right?”

“It says stop at the end of the road and look for the white gate, go up the steps.” Ginny lowered the paper and looked around. It was too dark to see clearly. Keith produced a flashlight from his car and shone it around, until he landed on a little stone wall, which lead to a chipped white gate, partially covered by shrubs.

“There we are,” he said.

They started trudging through the mucky grass. The ground was like a sponge, and every step produced a sucking noise. Only certain patches were actually muddy, but there was nothing solid about this field at all. The chipped white iron gate was unlocked, and it lead to a series of stone steps that had been stuck into the side of a small hill, cutting a path up through the trees.

“I think—” Oliver said.

“Don’t care,” Keith cut in.

“Shut it for once and listen,” Oliver said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out some white photocopied pages.

“Copies?” she asked.

“I didn’t want the letter to get damaged,” he explained. “And I think you might want to do this part yourself. It’s more . . . personal.”

Ginny looked at the path ahead. She could only see the first few steps; then it was completely obscured by darkness and trees. It wasn’t the biggest hill ever, but it was still a good climb.

“Really,” Oliver said. “I think we should wait here.”

Keith tentatively held the flashlight out to her.

“Whatever you want to do,” he said.

“I guess I’ll go,” she said, accepting it. “It’s just up there.”

She stuck the phone into her coat pocket and pushed the gate open and started up the steps. The stones were coated in slippery green moss. Getting up them was a challenge, as there was nothing to hold on to but the occasional tree branch or the step above. She lost her footing several times, sending the beam of light dancing all over the place.

“You all right?” Keith called. She couldn’t even see him anymore. The view down was just darkness.

“Fine . . . ,” she said, scrabbling to the top.

She was standing in a graveyard.

It wasn’t like any graveyard she had ever seen in her life. It was more like a strange stone garden. Some markers were plain, rough stones. Other monuments were ornate Celtic crosses. Some had been here so long that the ground had come up to meet them, coming up halfway, sometimes more. Some were just little rounded tips sticking out of the ground. Many were crooked, tilting as the earth had changed around them. The inscriptions were covered in white lichen and black creeping mosses and molds obscuring the words—when the words were still there. Some inscriptions had been worn away by years of rain and wind. Interspersed throughout were new headstones, cut from some gleaming, silvery rock. At some of these were gifts and tokens. Along with the usual flowers and candles, small stuffed animals perched on the branches of the crosses, half-full bottles of whiskey remained from some recent, drunken communion with the dead. It was an amazingly not-creepy place. It was peaceful.

The moon was low and bright enough that she could see pretty well, but she needed the flashlight to read the pages she’d been given. Even though they were just copies, it made a huge difference to have them physically in her hand, to read them herself in the place where she was supposed to read them. She was grateful that Oliver had realized that this was one step she had to take by herself.

I learned my most important art lesson when I was ten years old. We had to do a project in which we set our heads down on a piece of paper, sideways, in profile, and then someone traced them. Then this was copied, and the two halves were put together. When you put the two sides together, we learned the lesson: The result looks nothing like you. Surprise!

Why? Because we’re not symmetrical. What’s happening on the one side isn’t happening on the other. There’s this scientific theory that humans think symmetry is beautiful—equal, even things, all in the correct measure. But we are asymmetrical, Gin. Our faces, our bodies—they’re not the same on both sides. Your eyes are not identical. Your nose is not exactly straight. And trust me, your boobs are almost definitely different sizes.

What’s art, Gin? What’s beauty? What makes my strange drawings or pile of stuff a work and not just junk?

This discussion has been going on for the ages, and there is no definite answer. So I’m as entitled as anyone to throw my hat in the ring and make up some definitions. I think something is art when it is created with intention—serious intention. Even crazy intention. And I think something is beautiful if it reveals something important about what it means to be alive.

This place is beautiful. They are strange things of beauty, monuments of death, lopsided, weathered . . . many generations gathered together in one place. They aren’t pristine and ordered in rows. They are carefully maintained, while they are also allowed to change and decay as nature commands. And so, they are living places. Look around, Gin. From here, you can see everything.

I came here with Richard soon after I realized I was sick and was tested. His grandmother lives near here, and we came to visit. I actually got the call with my diagnosis when I was here. (Richard is half Irish. You should know this, since you are related to him. That makes you just a little bit Irish yourself, at least by marriage. But I think our family is a little Irish anyway.)

Dammit. Keith was right about that Irish thing.

We had been planning on walking up here—it’s a famous spot locally. Richard didn’t want me to come after I got the news, because going to a graveyard when you just found out that you’re going to die is kind of morbid. I don’t think I accepted it, really. He was more devastated than I was. I left him with his gran for an hour and walked up by myself, because I just had to see this place.

I was immediately drawn to one monument. I won’t even have to tell you which one. If you look around, you will know.

Ginny looked around. There were so many monuments, in so many conditions. But she remembered to look softly, to just let her eyes drift. “Paint with your eyes,” Aunt Peg used to say. “Sweeping gestures, just like a brush.” Side to side. Gentle.

There it was, perfectly obvious. It was one of the few monuments that wasn’t a cross or a standard headstone, but an obelisk. She walked over to it gently, stepping around the plots, both the open ones and the ones marked off by little metal bars, low to the ground, and the large slabs. When she got close to it, she saw a carving of a woman, dancing, with a book in her hand. What she read next confirmed her guess.