I Am You
Orlaigh Joyce
Marianne,
I wanted to thank you for the kind gift, it completely slipped my mind that you had mentioned the figurines your mammy gave you when your Saoirse was born. There wasn’t a letter attached but the post has never been very good here and it will probably arrive in a couple of days! It’s very kind of you to let them leave the family. Sure, I know that you say that we are family, but you know what I mean. It is a very kind gesture, Marianne. My apologies for writing late, I’ve been so busy with the baby I haven’t had a moment to myself.
Ciara was a tricky birth, but you said yourself that the first always is. But recently, she cannot stop crying! Crying hardly describes it… A constant wailing? I don’t think words would do it justice. It’s dreadful, truth be told. Like an overly persistent banshee, if you could imagine though I’m sure you’d rather not. When I finally get her settled, she just starts howling again. I can’t believe that the neighbours haven’t said anything. But I suppose auld John is the closest and you can hardly see his house from the kitchen window. And going deaf, come to think of it. Who knows how he’s kept that farm running since Mary passed, God rest her soul. I never see him at mass anymore… It gets awfully lonely around here; when you’re closer to the waves than another soul. Believe me, you were lucky to leave when you did, when everyone did. I’m glad you did, I want the best for you, Marianne, I just wish we could have, too. Pádraic is still tied to this harbour and until he finds new work, I guess we’ll just have to stay put.
I’m sorry for going on about this all, sure you must have heard me bang on about it for years now. I just can’t believe I never got out. I’ve never left this house, not for longer than a weekend. I’ve watched my sisters leave through the front door, gone forever, my mammy and daddy took their last breaths in this house and now it’s just me. I thought that having a child would mean Pádraic would be home more but now I fear he’s always at work, bleeding himself dry just to make ends meet. Even the fish have left this godforsaken place. Good for them…
I will tell you this, now. I’m sure I heard the floorboards creaking a week ago, just down by the door that leads out onto the fields. You remember how we would have to avoid it coming in late to not wake mammy? It sounded like something was wailing underneath if you were to put too much weight on it? We never got that fixed, it always seemed so pointless with promises of leaving. Well, I just assumed it was Pádraic in from the harbour, but he walked through the door the next morning stinking of sea salt and fish guts. He spent all night on that wee boat! I didn’t want to worry him or have him tell me I was going mad, hearing things at night. I swear I heard something because Ciara started howling not long after. I was sure that someone got in but… there was nothing? I checked all the doors and windows, tightly locked, every cupboard and dark corner, empty and free of intruders. Maybe I am going mad, Marianne, I just… I’m sure I heard something. It’s strange though, Ciara was such a quiet baby before then. I thought myself so lucky that I wasn’t kept up at all hours of the night in that first month, it made Pádraic being gone a little easier. But it’s unbearable, listening to her wailing like that; and every time I check on her, she’s fine? She has no temperature, no flushed cheeks, nothing I can see that I could call the doctor out for. I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong, what has changed to make her so upset. Perhaps she just misses her daddy; he’s meant to be home all weekend, maybe he’ll know what to do.
I’ll write to you again soon, Marianne. Let you know if she’s doing any better. I hope you and the family are well.
Le grá mór ó
Brónach
Marianne,
I am so sorry to write again so soon and to not wait for you to write back first. But I fear if I don’t tell someone, I may go insane, (or more so than I already am. I can’t tell Pádraic. I can’t face what he might have to say. We can’t afford to have him work any less than he is. It won’t do any good to tell him, it’ll only cause him to stress and when he gets worked up he’s in such a foul mood. I must put on a brave face, grin and bear it. But it was awful Marianne, so awful.
Ciara is still crying more nights than not. Maybe I’ve just gotten used to the piercing wails, but I find it no longer bothers me so much, being woken at all hours of the night. I get up and pray she falls back asleep quickly. I’m not a bad mother, I’ll swear on anything that’s good and holy, Marianne. I can’t be a bad mother. But I keep finding myself lying in bed, listening to her cry for, what feels like, hours before I finally get up. I’ve lost any sense of urgency as cruel as that sounds. Pádraic has had to shake me awake several times now. I understand that he has to be up at the crack of dawn and stretches himself thin to put food on the table, I do. But he never goes to comfort her when she cries anymore. Never, Marianne. He used to be so good with her in that first month; the month she didn’t cry at all, of course… It’s like he doesn’t recognise her as his own anymore.
What troubles me more is the marks, Marianne. The inside of her cradle is tattered, and the wicker is severed in places. As if a feral cat has found its way in. But there’s no sign it’s been anywhere else. Come to think, I can’t remember the last time I saw a cat. I haven’t seen another person besides Ciara and Pádraic in almost a month now. With him working so much, he can’t take me to mass and even if he could, who’s to say Ciara won’t have one of her screaming fits? Then everyone would know I’m failing as her mother. The village is too small, people talk, sure you know yourself, Marianne. They couldn’t contain themselves when you emigrated. As if you had any choice. We can only choose between fleeing and starving, that is what it’s come to. You were lucky to leave when you did. Yet still, people talk. I’m sure our absence at mass is already dancing across their lips, anyway. Bad mother or bad Catholic? What does it really matter? We need to get out, I don’t even care where anymore. I am sick of being surrounded by nothingness; the only things that break the silence are Ciara screaming bloody murder almost every night and Pádraic leaving for work. I look forward to the storms now, it’s a nice change to hear the wind howling instead of her.
But those marks, Marianne, I just don’t understand where they came from. Ciara hardly has the fingernails to do it herself and I can’t remember the last time Pádraic stepped foot near her cradle. I’ve scoured the house and there’s no sign that something has got inside. There isn’t anything to get inside. I can’t make a head nor tail of it, there is just no explanation. Perhaps it’s a good thing Pádraic is so cold towards her. He’ll never notice the cradle; I can keep carrying on as normal, let him think everything is fine. Truth be told, I’m not sure what he’d do if he knew. I know he loves me but I’m just not so sure about Ciara.
I do hope you write soon; it would be nice to know someone else is out there somewhere…
Le grá mór ó
Brónach
Marianne,
I am beginning to worry that you are not receiving my letters. Has your address changed? Perhaps we don’t have a postman anymore and these are simply piling up in a dark room? Pádraic has to deliver them for me between shifts and I can’t bring myself to believe that he would be so cruel as to just throw them away. I haven’t done something to anger you, have I, Marianne? I would hope that you would tell me if so.
Pádraic is still so cold towards Ciara, and I fear that any reminder of her in me is causing his coldness to spread. I’m lucky if he says hello to me when he comes in from work, he says he doesn’t have the energy to be around us on the rare occasion he does utter words to me. It’s like he can’t bear the idea of her, but a child was his idea? This is what he wanted. He said that this was what he wanted.
I’m so very lonely, Marianne. Please, please, do write soon. If I have done something to hurt you, I pray you tell me how to fix it.
Le grá mór ó
Brónach
Marianne,
Father Eoghan stopped by this morning. Apparently, they’ve been worried about me at church. Maureen and Gráinne had a wee night dress and shoes for Ciara they had wanted to give us. I’m not sure it’ll fit her anymore, given how long ago they wanted to gift them, but Marianne, it is gorgeous. It’s a crisp, white satin; so pure like a layer of fresh snow. I do hope it fits her… she hasn’t really grown all that much. But Father Eoghan, aye, that’s it. He told me that more people had been leaving the village, with haste, too, Marianne. We’re becoming more and more isolated. I’m going to speak to Pádraic about it when he comes home. I don’t want us to be the last ones standing; alone on the island until we’re taken by the elements, or... It’s not what I want, especially not for Ciara. He thought we had left already, but when he saw Pádraic delivering my last letter a couple of days ago, he came up to the house to ensure that all was well. I confided in him about Ciara, I showed him the marks in her cradle and, as God is my witness, I saw all the colour drain from that man’s face. Those rosy patches that were so firmly embedded in his cheeks were nowhere to be seen. He was consumed by fear, Marianne. I watched as he just stood and stared at her, motionless as if any sudden movement would be fatal. He lied, of course. Said everything was fine and that maybe the isolation was making things seem stranger than usual, that the coldness of the sea air was making the cradle stiff and more prone to breakage. I know he was doing it to ease my mind, but I saw right through it. He said a few prayers and left me some rosary beads to hang above her as she sleeps, promising to pay me a visit the following week.
Ciara began her wailing immediately after he left, it’s as if she knew all the pressure would be on me to calm her. When I picked her up and saw her underneath the light… Marianne, her skin was grey. For a moment there, I watched her skin transform from something you’d find washed up on the shore, something that’s been left, caught up in the rocks for days, back to, well human, I suppose. She didn’t look ill, she looked wrong. I ran, screaming down the road for Father Eoghan with Ciara bundled up in my arms but it was too late, he was too far away. I looked down at her, the wind whipping my hair around my neck. Even she is trying to silence me. Her eyes looked old and weathered by the passage of time. There was no innocence in there, Marianne. No innocence at all…
I sat and watched the wall for hours after. Ciara lay in my arms, finally sound asleep. I didn’t want to wake her. I didn’t want to look into those eyes again. I thought maybe if I sat still enough, I’d catch whatever was causing this madness. I saw nothing. Not in the same way Father Eoghan saw nothing, but truly nothing. When Pádraic gets back, I need to tell him. It’s gotten too much, and he needs to know. He needs to know that we have to leave this place. Before it’s too late. He’s been working even more; I didn’t know it was possible to do that but he’s spending nights out on the sea. Or so he says, is there any point in being suspicious of what he says anymore? It’s late already as I write to you, Marianne, and I just pray tonight is a night he walks through that door.
There’s a storm brewing: I can taste it in the wind, I can see it on the horizon, I can hear it in the waves. She’s coming in with a vengeance, and she’s here to stay.
I have accepted that I may never hear from you again, Marianne, but I shall continue to write. If anything, for proof of me, of Ciara, of Pádraic.
Le grá mór ó
Brónach
Marianne,
I told Pádraic. I told him everything. About the marks in the cradle, how her skin changed as I held her in my arms, how she looked at me with the wisdom of the earth. He thinks I’m mad. He “knows” I should say. He wouldn’t hear me out, not even when I dragged him to where she slept, urging him to give me a reason for the state it stood in. He just kept repeating that I was mad, that I was probably doing it myself in a desperate bid for attention. He said he would hear nothing more of it and that I needed to get a hold of myself. That he wasn’t working himself to death on that desolate harbour day in, day out to come home to my nonsense. I reached in for Ciara, plucking her out of her cradle and shoving her into his arms. I screamed at him to hold her, to act like her father. To stop pretending she’s a figment of my imagination. When he looked down, I saw the same wave of fear fall across his face that I had seen on Father Eoghan. I asked him what was wrong, no response. I asked him again, and again, and again. Not looking up, he finally spoke; he asked when she got the mark. I didn’t know what he meant, she doesn’t have a mark? He pointed to just below her eye, to what looked like a stain. Like a misjudged ink blot that had begun to descend down her cheek. I tried to wipe it away but to no avail. I don’t understand, Marianne, it wasn’t there when I had put her to bed. I would have known; I would have seen it. Birthmarks don’t appear overnight, and they aren’t blue… It looked like someone had come in and painted a tiny lough on her face, it was so vivid in colour that I thought my finger would disappear into its watery depths if I touched it.
That was last night. He left again early this morning. He thinks that all this business with Ciara is in my head, or that I am doing it to her. I feel hollow and that I may shatter with no warning. He is so cold, so angry. He hasn’t said it, but I fear he’s going to leave us, and I’ll be more alone than ever. He never used to be this way, Marianne. I would have never married a man like this. I was hoping that Father Eoghan would have paid another visit but he’s old and doesn’t like to travel in bad weather. I don’t know if it’ll be too late before he knocks on our door again.
There’s been a cold wind swirling around the house and I can’t find the source, it’s as if it's contained within these four walls. Ciara won’t stop crying and the roars from the waves crashing onto the shore are only getting louder. There’s a fog rolling in over the sea, I can’t make out anything past my outstretched arm. It’s going to get dark soon and I have to know Pádraic isn’t still out on that boat. He might hate us, Marianne, but I still love him, and I’ll do whatever I can to get back the man I married. The man he was before Ciara… Christ, maybe I am a bad mother. I don’t know what to think anymore.
We’re going out to the harbour. To see if I can find him, perhaps. I can’t sit in this house a moment longer. All I am ever doing is sitting in this house, waiting. Maybe Pádraic is right, and I am mad. Who wouldn’t go mad in a place like this? The waiting has to end. I can’t keep going on like this.
I’m not sure if I will ever write to you again, Marianne. I am praying that you are in a better place than I am.
Le grá mór ó
Brónach