Page 77 of Whale Harbor

Cathal’s name was also there, waiting for a date. “Does that give you the creeps?” Mary asked.

“No avoiding it,” he said. “I don’t mind.”

“Can I ask you something?” she asked on their way back to the car. She had him grasped by the elbow and could feel how bony he was through his sweater. He wanted to have dinner in the pub so everyone would see her. “Do you wonder about Rian?”

He stopped walking and she felt a splash of fear in her chest. “I do, of course.”

“If you knew where to find him, I mean for sure where to find him, would you try to get in touch?”

Cathal looked at the ground for a long time. His eyes seemed almost closed and she wondered if he understood. His face was sunken, but his hair, steel gray now, was still wild. The cousins thought he looked like a mad scientist.

“Why are you asking me this?” he asked eventually.

“Well,” she said. “I know where he is.”

Mary had gotten the information from the little pad Mac kept in the glove compartment of his work van. That’s where he kept his notes about various horses and random phone numbers and any little thought he had that he didn’t want to forget. She felt strongly that her grandfather should have Rian’s address and phone number. It was only right. If she had a child one day, she couldn’t imagine not knowing where he was. She would never, ever stop looking. And she also imagined that if she were almost eighty-five years old and her children treated her like she was a child, shielding her from her own business, she’d be pretty mad about it. Cathal had been through more than any of them. He deserved to know.

So she told him as they made their way slowly back to the car. She told Cathal she thought he might want to write to Rian, and from there maybe they could talk on the phone and you never know, maybe Rian would come back and see him. It had been so long. Maybe they’d all come at once and have a big reunion, wouldn’t that be nice?

Cathal looked like the wind had been taken from his sails.

“Did your father want you to tell me this?” he asked.

“When I left they were still deciding whether to tell you or not.”

“And what did your father think?”

“He thought—” Should she lie? Would he be angry at her father for wanting to hide it from him? “He thought it might be too much at your age but—”

“You shouldn’t have disobeyed him,” Cathal said, removing his elbow from her grasp. “He’s your father. He understands things that you don’t.”

Mary felt shock ripple through her, followed by shame. Cathal had never reprimanded her before. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought—”

“You should have thought a bit more,” he said, and she felt the prick of tears. She always cried when she was surprised by something, and it was embarrassing because she didn’t consider herself a crier. She tried to help him into the car but once again he shook her hand from his elbow. She closed the door for him, walked around.

“We’ll go home now,” he said.

“Granda,” she said, a word that felt strange to her. When they talked about him at home they only ever called him Cathal. “Didn’t you want to eat at the pub?”

“We’ll have something at home. Coleman will make us something.”

“Sure,” she said. “No problem.”

Once they got back to the cottage, he said it had been a big afternoon and he needed to lie down for a while. He went into his bedroom and closed the door.

“Did something happen?” Seamus asked, looking at the closed door. “That’s not like him.”

THE NEXT MORNING, MARY STEPPED out of the bedroom into the chilly main room to find Cathal searching through a cupboard of papers. He was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing the day before except with an old checkered bathrobe on top.

“Are you feeling all right?” she asked. All night, she’d been trying to think of a way to unwind what she’d said, to apologize. What a thing to hit him with, the age he was. It was none of her business. And here she thought she was helping. How incredibly arrogant. She could cope with just about anyone being angry with her, but not him.

He didn’t answer but after a moment he turned around. He was as bent as a scythe. His hands were arthritic, the knuckles swollen into little knobs. He was holding a passport.

“What’s that?” Mary asked, though what she meant was: Why are you holding your passport?

“I’ve decided what we’ll do,” he said.

“We? What we’ll do?”