“And then what?”

“Well, then she’s got her master’s in linguistics now, don’t she? She’s not just a walking mess of problems. The girl speaks five languages. That’s something, Lucy.”

Lucy wiped her forehead. “Yes, Lord yes, it is, I’m not going to argue about that. She’s just got her frigging thesis she can’t finish. But they all got their master’s these days. They’re either volunteering or working in a café. No one does anything normal anymore. Deirdre went and learned languages hardly anyone speaks. How practical is that?” Lucy was yelling now, almost crying.

“If she wants to learn languages hardly anyone speaks that’s something we should be proud of. How many people around here would even bother? There’s just no pleasing you. Lucy, God almighty, if she wants to come, then let her come home. She never wanted to come home before.”

It was true, Lucy thought. Deirdre never had wanted to come before. Not through the detox, the hospital, the unemployment, the welfare, the in and out of university, all the endless breakups with one man after another. Lucy could never keep their names straight. Just a spattering of phone calls, sometimes drunk ones in the middle of the night, sometimes hung-over calls in the middle of the afternoon, never after supper or on Sunday when most people called. They’d been phoned and told item by item, no details.

I’m off the booze.

Went to detox.

Went to rehab.

Learned a new language.

Going to university.

Graduated.

Broke up with Matthew the lawyer, Reverend John, Jason the guitarist, Charles the interpreter, Professor Patrick the leprechaun, and the Pied-Bloody-Piper.

Learned another new language.

Started my master’s.

Dropped out of my master’s.

Met Dr. Bob.

Going up north to work with the Grey Nuns.

Learned Inuktitut.

Broke up with Dr. Bob.

Canoed on the river with migrating beluga whales.

Ate an eyeball.

Any time Lucy wanted, she could sit down in the comfy chair on the verandah, shut her eyes, smell the roses, and think back to the vomit. It was easy to imagine Deirdre in a coffin in the funeral home, just like her grandfather, all laid out and done in by her heart. And Lucy could scatter pieces of her own heart on the grave. She told Declan that Deirdre could come home.

Lucy and Declan were in the shade having iced tea, escaping the high noon sun, when the car came down the driveway. It was almost six weeks since the horrible eyeball phone call. July was always a stunning month, a month you could count on. The roses were in full bloom, the raspberries were on, and the blue sky hung over like a stretch of lake. Lucy was exhausted again. The heat had never bothered her this much.

Deirdre had written a letter mentioning she was going to arrive this Sunday, but of course, didn’t say how or when. Just said she didn’t need to be picked up at the airport, and Lucy didn’t ask any questions. These days she was too tired to think about the particulars, asking the right kinds of questions. At square dancing last week she hadn’t even noticed the others, and she could hardly follow the calls, turning the wrong way, getting dizzy when Declan would swing her, not able to even do a grand chain without losing her breath. Lucy just wanted to sit in the shade and watch the hummingbirds feasting.