Page 9 of Beneath the Poet's House

OMG, hi, Saoirse! How are you?!? Do you want to get together? Maybe do a little writing/hang out/coffee date? I’m working on something for a submission call, a short story of about 5,000 words, and Roberto and Mia aren’t around, but I LOVE writing WITH another person when I have something I’m putting together on a timeline ... so, let me know!!! It’ll be so fun!!!

Saoirse winces. The thought of Lucretia watching her try to formulate paragraphs, sentences, even string two words together when she hasn’t written in almost four years, causes a pit to form at the bottom of her stomach.

Maybe this is what you need,the voice whispers, and Saoirse freezes, anger rising.

“Uh-uh,” she says aloud. “No way. You don’t get to comment on this, of all things, when it was you that caused me to stop writing in the first place.”

Yeah, well, maybe committing to a writing date will get you to stop feeling sorry for yourself,the voice offers unhelpfully. Death has not stopped Jonathan from advising—or judging, or demeaning—her every decision, though now his words come from inside her head as opposed to across the breakfast table or behind the wheel of their car. But unlike when he was alive, Saoirse has the luxury of not dignifying those words with a response. Her thumb hovers over the blank text box.Say yes,she thinks.Just type,yes, that sounds great, find a notebook, and be on yourway.She stands but is rooted to the living room carpet, stuck entertaining the same tired justifications and whiplash pull of the past.

In the three years before Jonathan’s death, no force on earth could’ve gotten Saoirse to write; the root of her pain was too present, the need to protect herself all too real. But since his death, she’s been tortured by her inability to put pen to paper. Every waking hour since the previous January, some deep, repressed part of her has screamed for her to write. But another, stronger part—the part that’s stuffed down what happened—resists. Tells her that returning to writing will expose her to her own terrifying thoughts and to the raw ugliness of her grief in a way she won’t survive. That it will break her.

She types her response to Lucretia:

Getting together sounds nice ... but could we save the writing for another day? Maybe just grab coffee?

She considers adding more, explaining her reluctance, then decides she doesn’t owe Lucretia anything. She hits send. A few seconds later:

That’s totally fine! Okay, yes! Awesome! Do you know where Carr Haus Cafe is?

Saoirse googles it. Spidery tickles of unease graze the back of her neck. Carr Haus would have her walking in the direction of the Athenæum again. Still, there’s nogoodreason to suggest they go somewhere different. Saoirse doesn’t know any other coffee shops in the area, though it can’t be far to the nearest Starbucks. Would a transcendentalist go to a Starbucks? She sighs, looks up Carr Haus on Google Images, and types:

The Gothic-looking place right past the old library that’s part of the RI School of Design?

Lucretia confirms, and they agree to meet in half an hour. Saoirse wanders the rooms on the main floor, planning on going out in what she’s wearing. That is, until she catches sight of her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her hair is wild and unwashed, and her clothes are rumpled. There are bags beneath her eyes, and her skin has the same pallor as some legless, eyeless creature scooped out from under a rock. She hikes up the too-big jeans and smooths her threadbare sweater, but her efforts are futile. Saoirse trudges upstairs.

There’s no time for a shower, but she alleviates the worst of her problems with a belt and a hair elastic. She fishes a slightly less worn sweater from the closet and mines a nearly dry tube of mascara for enough of a coat to promote her appearance from half-dead to merely exhausted. Slipping her phone into her pocket, she returns downstairs and grabs her bag. She doesn’t bother with locking the house.

The walk goes quickly, focused as she is on keeping the Ath from luring her toward it, sucking her into its serpentine rooms. She’s keeping her mind sufficiently empty, considering nothing more than the rustle of leaves and the murmur of passing cars, when her phone vibrates in her pocket.

Maybe Lucretia’s calling to cancel. But no, it’s her mother’s name that flashes across the screen. Saoirse answers the phone, feeling both the little twinge of warmth that always comes with thoughts of her mother and guilt for not calling her first.

“Hello,” she says breezily, as if everything is fine, as if the past nine months—and maybe the entire marriage preceding them—never happened.

“Hi!” her mother responds, and the concern and love in that one word make Saoirse close her eyes and take a breath. “How are you settling in?”

“I’m . . . settling,” Saoirse says.

“Is the neighborhood nice? Are there any issues with the property? Do you need anything? I can do an Amazon order.”

Saoirse stares up at the bright-blue sky. “The neighborhood’s great, and the house is fine. More than fine, really. You’d love it. Homey and beautiful at the same time.”

“And you have everything you need? Towels? Toiletries? Groceries? Blankets?”

“My husband died, Mom. I didn’t lose everything I owned in a fire.” She wonders if her mother is surprised she’s mentioned Jonathan, but the only response is a bit of static as Ann Norman expels a whoosh of air. Saoirse can picture her, perched at the island in her kitchen, lips pressed together while one hand rests on a cup of tea and the other fidgets with the pearl-and-sterling drop earrings Saoirse bought her the previous Christmas. Photos of Saoirse, her mother’s only child, would be hanging on the wall behind her, glass frames glinting, each shot curated to suggest the nonexistence of any father figure, the same way the photos in Saoirse’s father’s house contained only him and his new wife, with no allusions to her mother or to her.

“Fair enough,” her mother says. “When can I come and visit?”

“Give me a few weeks.” Saoirse has stopped walking and stands at the corner of Benefit and Angell Streets. She is vaguely cognizant of the flashing walk sign on the opposite streetlight but doesn’t move. “I need to get my bearings. I’ve ...” She hesitates, then says, “I’ve met a few people already. I’m on my way to get coffee with someone as we speak.” With her father, this sort of admission would invite endless inquiry and suspicion, but her mother responds as expected:

“That’s great news! I’m so happy to hear it.” A pause, and then she says, “You haven’t called in a while, Sersh. You know how I worry.”

Guilt causes her eyes to water, clouding her vision. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m really sorry. You know why I do it. It’s just—” Saoirse’s fingers are cold around the phone case, and her mouth is dry, but she manages to continue. “Even though we agreed not to talk about things, it’s hard justknowing that you know.”

“I understand,” her mother says. “I just worry about you, all by yourself in the city. And I worry that you’re wallowing, letting the pastremain present. You’re allowed to let things go, you know. Allowed to move on with your life.”

The walk sign is flashing again, and Saoirse steps off the curb. “I’m not wallowing, Mom. I promise.”

“And you’re taking care of yourself? Not overdoing it? Taking your medications?”

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