Colm McGough was the exception. He was a year and half or so older than Mason and tall and handsome. He was the boy in the village all the young girls wanted to impress. He came from a family of fishermen by trade, the second-born of two sons, and the rumor was his father, Gerard, was an authoritative figure who showered little affection on his boys. His mother was a meek little creature who seemed to be afraid of Gerard McGough’s very shadow. I don’t think I ever heard that woman give an opinion of her own volition or contradict Mr. McGough. Still, Colm seemed a cheerful sort, easygoing, and he surely knew he had the eye of every young girl in the village. I would daydream of him, and I was content enough with that. I had no illusions that Colm McGough fancied me. I was Mason Whalen’s little sister; that’s all I was. That’s what I thought, anyway.

The day my father fell from the roof was an ordinary day. I was still going to classes at sixteen, although many of my schoolmates had stopped at fourteen and were working or learning a trade. I was walking home from school, the long way by the docks, and keeping my eye out for Colm’s fishing boat, when I heard someone calling my name. A neighbor was running toward me, holding her skirts up so that she wouldn’t trip. My father had fallen and hit his head, the doctor had been summoned to my house, and my mother needed me.

I ran home expecting my father to be sitting in his favorite chair with a chunk of ice to his head, laughing about his clumsiness. But when I came into the house I saw that my da was not in his chair. He was in his bed with a bandage around his head that was seeping blood, and his skin looked pale and slack. The doctor was there and he was telling my mother that it was quite possible Da would not awaken, that my father’s eyes were fixed when the doctor had shone his light in them and that was never a good sign.

The doctor told us he could do nothing for him. Prayer was the only thing that could save my da. So we prayed. For four days we prayed. But the doctor was right. Da did not awaken. My mother had been sitting up with Da at night for fear of missing the moment he opened his eyes, but she had fallen asleep holding his hand, and when she startled awake at dawn on the fifth day, the hand in hers was stiff and cold.

Up to that point what I knew of death was the loss of Sophie, which I could barely remember, and the loss of my gram, who had died three years previous. My grandmother had seemed old to me and it seemed natural when she passed. I didn’t like it one bit, but other people’s grandmothers had died. It didn’t seem odd, just sad. My father’s death, however, seemed wrong, as if a giant mistake had been made. I could not fathom that my da was gone.