“Oh, come on—”

“Christ kid, I’m not giving out.” She waved dismissively with a frying pan. “How do I say this? You—you’ve started dressing differently lately. You smoke. You’re probably drinking, too. And it’s been a pretty abrupt change, is all. I just…of course I’m gonna be concerned.”

“Right.”

“Change isn’t bad! I’m happy you’re branching out, Alex. Really happy. I just don’t…” She sighed, rubbing at her forehead with the back of her palm. “I’m just making sure you’re okay.”

“Right. Well. Thanks, Claire.” I tried to keep my voice neutral but an edge of sarcasm seeped in nonetheless.

“Sure you don’t want any beans?”

I watched her clatter through the cutlery for the tin opener I was fairly certain we no longer had. Or hadn’t had, in months. “Yeah, I think I’m good. Enjoy them, though.” I stood up to leave, stretching out my limbs. She turned back around.

“She’s very pretty, too. Your new friend.”

“I—what?”

“She’s very pretty.”

“So?”

She shrugged. “An observation, kid. Just an observation.”

I was happy she couldn’t see the blush on my cheeks as I ran from the room, racing up the stairs two steps at a time. And later, after I finished another chapter of my book and showered, thoughts of Niamh and Lauren long forgotten, thoughts of Claire pushed aside, I collapsed into bed and smiled upon the realization that the scent of Connie’s citrus shampoo lingered on my pillow still.

Chapter 4

January 1994

The earliest memory I possessed of my mother was of a trip to visit her brother in Wexford one summer. We spent two weeks in his house near Rosslare every year during Claire’s annual leave and as a child, I treasured those short holidays. I couldn’t have been much older than three or four that year but the memory stuck with me for a long time. We drove down some winding back roads on what must have been a fairly high altitude, both of us singing along to whatever tape was playing. She loved singing, always had. My father had been big into music as I found out from my grandmother, who always swore he might have made it on stage if he never met her. Claire had no musical talents whatsoever, a voice that was too warbling and off-key, but she sang with persistent zest nonetheless. I sometimes thought maybe she only sang so much as a tribute to my father, some peculiar kind of homage to his memory.

A car that was pulled in on the side of a cliff flagged us down and Claire immediately came to a halt, hopping out to offer her help. The woman she spoke to was hysterical, I remember. The two kids at her sides, grasping her hands, were sobbing. She explained to Claire that they had let their dog, Charlie, out of the car to relieve himself but he had wandered too close to the edge of the cliff and had fallen down. Peering over, Claire could see Charlie hanging by his lead; it had caught onto something miraculously jutting out from the face of the cliff, a few meters down. Charlie was a small dog but rather heavyset, and neither the woman nor her children were able to balance themselves on the cliff’s face to reach him. It wasn’t steep, by any means, but one slip and they would plummet in an instant. Claire immediately offered to help them out and I watched from the backseat of our car as she steadily edged down out of sight, re-emerging a moment later with Charlie’s lead. She hauled the poor hound up to the sound of cheers from the small family, and still in tears they all embraced him, their dog safe at last. The woman explained to Claire how many cars had simply passed them by as she thanked her over and over, begging her to take some kind of reward. Claire dismissed her and wished them luck before jumping back in the car, and we continued on as if nothing had ever happened. I asked a few years later if she remembered the incident. She didn’t.