Blue Mercy: A Novel. by Orna Ross Read Free Book Online Page A

squat, without a single attractive feature except the shrubberies.
    "The garden's pretty, isn't it?" I said. "Even at this time of year. Somebody in there has green fingers."
    "I think we should go in," Star said.
    "Absolutely not."
    "Oh, come on, Mom. Why not?"
    "I'm not even sure that it's the right house. If it is, they could well be dead by now. And even if not, what on earth do you think we can go in there and say? 'Oh hi! I was married to your son, the one who left when he was eighteen and never contacted you again. This is your granddaughter. Nice to meet you.'"
    "But, Mom, they don't know whether he is alive or dead. Whatever happened, that's just not right."
    "I know, honey. But going in there and putting the heart crossways in a mother or father who must be in their seventies by now is not going to give your dad's sad story a happy ending."
    "But..."
    "It's too late, Star."
    "No. Don't say that. I hate those words."
    "If you want to do this, you'll have to do it another day. On your own."
    "Or on my own, now."
    "Okay. Give me the keys and I'll wait for you in the car."
    She rummaged in her bag, handed them across. I turned and began to walk back down the hill. I hadn't got far when she called me. "Stop. Wait."
    I turned.
    "Maybe you're right," she puffed, as she caught up.
    "You could write to them first. That might be an approach."
    "I probably won't even do that. As usual I'm a funk."
    "You just want to know more about him." I took her arm. She let me and I gave it a squeeze. "It's natural."
    But that only set her off again. "Why didn't you tell me more when I was growing up, Mom? Why did you keep it all from me?"
    "Star, I've admitted that was a mistake. I did what I thought was best."
    "It wasn't."
    "I know. You've said. And I'm sorry."
    Over and over: the same thing. Was she never going to let it go? These reproaches were the flip side to the excessive love she used to lavish on me when she was little: "I love you, Mommy," holding my head in place with her two little hands, so I couldn't look away from her.
    Twice in my life I had wronged her, she believed. The first time with her father and in her mind, our recent travails were connected with that. A connection she would never explain and I could never fathom.
    I realized I was going to have to say something, take hold of the subject we were both avoiding. "This isn't just about Brendan, is it?"
    "Mom, don't. I'm warning you, just don't."
    "I gave him up for you, Star. He's gone." There it was, out in the open.
    She snatched back her arm, looked around herself, as if for a door she could escape through and slam behind her.  
    "Why does that mean nothing, Star? I don't know what else to do."
    "Okay, Mom, that's it. This sham of a day is now officially over."
    "I know it's hard for you to talk about it, honey. But we have to. Please."
    "Dr Aintree told me this would happen." I was hardly listening. She knew I liked Amanda Aintree, her therapist, a good doctor. And a good woman. I felt she was just using her against me and all my mental attention was on trying to find persuasive words that might work, might melt the hardness between us so we could communicate. Until I heard her say, "She warned me. Told me you were likely to   annihilate me again."
    "Annihilate you?"
    "We are driving home now, Mom, and then I am going to pack and leave as planned."
    "Annihilate you, Star? You have got to be joking. Annihilate ?"

    On the drive back to Doolough from Glendalough, Star turned on the radio so we wouldn't have to talk. Back at the house, I said to her, "Will you help me clear away your Granddad's things before you go?" If I could get her to hold off until darkness, she might stay another night.
     
    She didn't want to but she could hardly say no, so we set to it, working through the house with boxes and black plastic sacks, separately and in silence, like burglars.
     
    It's surprising the amount of detritus that even the least accumulative life can gather, but my