I pull Iris’s chair out from under her desk, lower myself onto it. Even the paper clips have been tidied into an old earring box. I pick up two paper clips and attach them together. Good to have something to do with my hands. I reach for a third when I hear a high plink that nearly lifts me out of the chair. I think it came from Iris’s laptop, closed on the desk. An incoming mail or a Tweet or something. I should turn it off. It’s a fire hazard. A plugged-in computer. I lift the lid of the laptop. On the screen, what looks like a booking form. An Irish Ferries booking form. On top of the keyboard are two white envelopes, warm to the touch. Iris’s large, flamboyant handwriting is unmistakable on both.

One reads Vera Armstrong. Her mother’s name. The second envelope is addressed to me.

2

You must always be aware of your speed and judge the appropriate speed for your vehicle.

“The speed limit on a regional road is eighty kilometers per hour,” Dad says.

“Sorry, I’m...in a hurry.” I glance in the rearview mirror. I think I hear sirens, but I see no police cars behind me.

In my peripheral vision, Iris’s letter, in a crumpled ball at the top of my handbag.

My dearest Terry,

The first thing you should know is there was nothing you could have done. My mind was made up.

Panic is spinning my thoughts around and around, faster and faster, until it’s difficult to make out individual ones.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I had Frank Sinatra in the taxi?” says Dad.

“No.” Most of my conversations with my father are crippled with lies.

“It was a Friday night, and I was driving down Harcourt Street. The traffic was terrible because of the...the stuff...the water...”

“Rain?”

“Yes, rain and...”

The second thing you should know is there was nothing you could have done. My mind was made up.

The lights are red and I jerk to a stop. The brakes screech. The car is due for a National Car Test next month. I need to get it serviced before then. Brendan says I should get a new one. A little runaround, he says. Something easier to park. But I like the heft of the Volvo. It’s true that it’s nearing its sell-by date. Maybe even past it. But I feel safe inside it. And it’s never let me down.

“...and I said to Frank I know the words to all your songs and...”

...but please know that this is a decision I have come to after a long, thorough thought process and I do not and will not regret it.

I’ve never been to Dublin Port before. I park in a disabled spot. I have no permit to do so.

“Dad, will you stay here? I have to... I have to do something.”

“Of course, love, no problem.”

“Promise me you won’t get out of the car?”