“It’s all go,” Iris says, shaking her head.

“Has that ever happened before?” I ask. I’ve seen tremors running up and down her arms and legs before, but nothing like this.

Iris nods, and I wonder what else she goes through. What else she doesn’t tell me.

“Weren’t you afraid?” I ask. “You were so close to the edge when it happened.”

Iris shakes her head. “No,” she says. This seems preposterous, given the extent of my own fear.

“Why not?”

“Because you were here.”

“Oh,” I say.

“You’re quite the Amazon, aren’t you?” she says.

“I’m just stronger than I look,” I say.

16

Before you start to maneuver, you must exercise due care and attention.

The boat to France only takes an hour. And it’s going fast. Much faster than the one from Dublin to Holyhead, it seems to me.

Everything’s gone smoothly. No queue at the ferry office in Dover. No problem purchasing tickets for Dad and me, despite the last-minute nature of the transaction. Lots of room for maneuver in the car park on the boat. I gave nobody cause to beep at me. And Bakewell tart in the cafeteria, which is exactly what Dad ordered. And yes, I know I could have given him a slice of lemon drizzle and told him it was Bakewell tart and he would have eaten it with equal enthusiasm, but that is beside the point.

These are good things. I could have called them Signs. Signs that I’m on the right track. That I’m doing the right thing.

Iris is playing Scrabble on her iPad. We have not talked about the plan for hours. This is good. Not quite a Sign. But it feels good. It feels like a lull.

Dad finishes his Bakewell tart and falls asleep, his head on top of his arms, which are folded on the table in front of him. Like in junior infants when the teacher would tell you to ‘Téigh a chodladh.’ Go to sleep. I remember closing my eyes tightly—Mr. O’Toole would patrol the classroom, inspecting us—and me, digging my fingernails into my arm so I wouldn’t fall asleep in case I didn’t wake up the second we were told to.

My phone rings and I wrestle it out of my handbag before the shrill sound wakes Dad. I glance at the screen. It’s Kate.

“Hello, love,” I say, my tone light and breezy. I sound like a woman who hasn’t a worry in the world.

“Mum, what on earth is going on?” Kate sounds worried.

“What do you mean?”

“Where are you?”

“Oh, you know, out and about. Where are you?”

“I’m at your house.” It still sounds strange. She used to call it home.

“Oh. Right, yes, your father mentioned you were coming up this evening. Did you...find what you were looking for?”

“What? Oh, yes, I did. But look, that’s not why I’m ringing, I—”

“Did you get something to eat?”

“Dad’s gone down to Macari’s for chips, but listen, the thing is—”