Jamie nods, a tear finally escaping and trekking down her cheek. “She flew out the next day. She got me into rehab there, but it didn’t stick the first time, or the second. She had just started working in Ireland, and was able to get me into a specialized treatment center in Dublin. I was there for a year—I’d just gotten out in September.”
All the puzzle pieces were clicking together in my mind. All the times Jamie went to Dublin with Mom—I’d thought she just had some sort of job there too. But...
“I’m in outpatient therapy now, three times a week,” Jamie says, confirming my suspicions I hadn’t even voiced. “I’m clean now, Molly. But I still feel so shitty for what I did to you.”
I look away from her, my eyes landing on a photo of me and Dad on my bedside table. My dad, not Jamie’s. Jamie’s father was a man I’d never met, someone no one in my family ever talked about.
“Why didn’t Mom just tell me?” I hear myself asking. “I was so mad at her after you left. She just let me blame her for everything.”
“Because you were just a little kid, Mols. She wanted to protect you.Iwanted to protect you,” she says, wiping under her eyes. “I can’t fix the last six years. I can’t take any of it back. But I’m here now, and I really want to try again.”
A wave of nausea rolls through me. My whole reality seems to have shifted all in the matter of a few minutes. Suddenly my sister didn’t just leave me because she couldn’t stand my mother. My mother wasn’t a cold, controlling woman who chased her daughter away.
I open my mouth, intending to tell her everything, but instead just say, “I’m sorry, too. For not letting you explain earlier.”
She rises from her seat, moving to sit next to me on the bed. She doesn’t reach out—she just sits beside me, leaving room for me to pull away if I want to.
“You don’t have to apologize, Molly. You didn’t know,” she says, brushing her fingers against mine. “But... I’m here now. And whatever happened while I was gone, whatever you need... I’m here. We can fix it together.”
My throat tightens.
You can’t fix it, I think. Telling her wouldn’t fix it, I reason. It would still be there. The pain would still linger, the nightmares would stay, the memories wouldn’t ever go away.
You can’t fix what he did.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I whisper, squeezing her fingers.
It’s not everything—not even close—but it’s a start.
36
The Dinner Party
Niall
November, 2007
FIRST OF ALL, I condone none of this; from the fancy sausage pasta Ma insisted on making to the good silverware she has Claire laying out on the dining table.
Why oh why can’t they just give me a detention.
Comet is sitting faithfully by my side, his tail thumping hopefully against the floor and waiting to see if any stray noodles might fall his way. I’m stirring a massive pot of pasta for my mother, who’s wiping down the already spotless surfaces of our kitchen. She’s acting as though we’re expecting the pope.
“I’m so excited. Aren’t you excited?” Claire asks, over by the table. Normally, our table only has six chairs (one on each end and two on each side), but Mam has JJ bringing his ma’s chairs over so we have enough foreightnine people (since JJ has invited himself to dinner while his ma takes over the bakery for the rest of the night).
“Niall, this is so exciting!”
I sigh, not exactly sharing my little sister’s over enthusiasm. I’m just about spent for the day.
I’d redone mine and Claire’s roots this morning, and then I had to take Comet down to the groomer to get his nails trimmed and coat washed. And when I got home, Claire forced me to give Atticus a bath too, and now my arms are covered in tiny red scratches and Ma made me put on a long shirt.
The entire house smells like bleach and lemon Pledge, since we spent the whole rest of the day scrubbing the place top to bottom. She’d even borrowed Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s fancy floral plates for the night, since apparently our normal ones just weren’t fancy enough.
“No,” I tell Comet sternly, as he lets out a low whine from the floor.
I check over my shoulder to make sure Ma isn’t paying attention and then quickly get a noodle out and toss it on the floor. Comet skids, his newly trimmed nails making a large racket on the wood.
“Niall Patrick Blue, did you just feed that dog pasta?” Ma snaps, turning to glare at me.
