I picture Brendan, arriving home from a hard day at the office and no dinner on the table and the washing still hanging on the line in the back garden. Anna brought a week’s worth over yesterday, and I promised her I’d...

THINK.

I think about Iris. Say I went.

I can’t go.

But say I did.

Could I persuade Iris to change her mind? I’ve never persuaded anyone to do anything. I couldn’t even talk Brendan out of having the vasectomy after Anna was born. “Terry? Terry? Are you there?” I hear the bristle in his voice, straining to get back to his important meeting.

“Yes.”

“So I’ll see you tonight?”

“Well, I...”

“Terry, this is nonsensical.”

“I have to go.” I hang up.

I’ve never hung up on Brendan. Ever. It’s true that we rarely communicate by telephone, but still, I’ve always held a civil tongue in my head and allowed him to finish his sentences and said my goodbyes before disconnecting the call.

Outside the terminal building, people stand and smoke or punch buttons on their phones or search for something in their handbags or stare into the middle distance.

There is no sign of Iris. The boat is leaving in—I check my watch—seventy minutes. And you have to check in thirty minutes before departure. Giving me forty minutes to come up with something.

THINK.

Everything Brendan said is true. Apart from Iris having notions. Iris has plans, not notions.

“Do you think your mother will be back soon?” I look at Dad. Without his dentures, his cheeks are hollow. He looks old. And cold. And so thin. When did he get so thin? “Yes,” I say. I wish it were true. Mam would know what to do. She would have advice although she offered it only when it was sought. Even then, she maintained that people never really wanted advice, just someone to listen to them. I think about Iris, sitting on the boat, her long fingers drumming the armrest of her chair, anxious to be off, regretful that things did not go according to plan. If they had, I would not have read her letter until next week, and by then, it would have been too late.

But it’s not too late. Not yet.

THINK.

I ring Celia Murphy, my next-door neighbor, who has a key for our house. She gave me her front-door key, so I felt I had to reciprocate. I mind her cats when she goes to those juicing seminars in Scotland, and she gives us pears from her tree in the autumn, although none of us like pears. I stew them with ginger and brown sugar and put them in Tupperware containers in the freezer. The freezer is full of Tupperware containers of stewed pear. I don’t know why. My mother hated waste. Perhaps that’s it.

“Celia? It’s Terry, I... No, nothing’s wrong, not a thing, sorry to disturb but, I...well, I need a favor and...”

Celia launches into a monologue about her cats, Fluffy and Flopsy. One of them is sick. I can’t make out which one. When she pauses for breath, I attempt to divert her.