Page 73 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

At least a hundred locals stood outside the pub, and as the camera zeroed in on the mass of smiling faces, they all raised their mugs and sang out, “Happy Birthday, Michael!”

The Pogues hit their last “whack fall the daddy-o; there’s whiskey in the jar,” and the video came to a colossal close.

Everyone rose to their feet, and joyful pandemonium swept the room.

“Theyseemed to like it, Pop,” my father said. “But what did you think?”

Grandpa Mike leaned into the microphone. “Blew me away, son. Made me wish I was there.”

“Well, in that case, I’ve got good news and bad news,” my dad said.

“I’ll take the good news.”

“Youaregoing there, and all those folks you saw at Biddy’s O’Barnes are waiting to toast you. You’re leaving tomorrow,” my father said, handing him an Aer Lingus flight envelope.

The old man was stunned.

“Are you ready for the bad news?” my father asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m going with you.”

Grandpa Mike, wiping away tears, hugged my father, and all hell broke loose.

The trip had been a well-kept secret. Only Lizzie, Alex, and I knew, along with Chef Tommy and Dotty Briggs, who would run the place while my father and grandfather spent ten days on the windswept shores of County Donegal.

And there was one more surprise waiting for him. Lizzie was flying to London for a medical conference tomorrow. But when the mayor of the county designated Wednesday, June 14, as Michael McCormick Appreciation Day, Lizzie decided to fly to Ireland to join him. My father had asked me to be there too, but my life was too hectic for me to leave Heartstone.

I stood there, Alex, Katie, and Kevin at my side, my own eyes tearing up, my heart filled with joy for what I had, but aching for my mother, and I thought how blessed I was.

Thirty-six hours later, it would all turn to shit, and my sister, my father, and my grandfather—three pillars of strength who had been there for me my entire life—would be three thousand miles away when I needed them most.

FORTY-THREE

I woke up Monday morning in a sweat. I’d had a sex dream, and my mind was doing its best to hold on to the details before they slipped away.

The dream camera was overhead, and I could see the teenage me in the back seat of my mother’s red Mustang, screaming, “Yes, yes, yes!” and clawing at the man on top of me.

I’ve had sex in a lot of places, but never in my mother’s car. So I had no idea who the guy was.

It didn’t matter. Whoever he was, he hadn’t gotten me off in the dream, and I needed a man to finish the job.

I put one hand between my legs and reached across the bed for Alex with the other.

He wasn’t there.

I looked at the clock. 6:42 a.m. He was probably downstairs making my tea.

I closed my eyes and started without him. Nothing aggressive. Just enough stimulation to feed the desire in the pit of my stomach.

A minute later he came bounding into the bedroom. He set my mug of tea on the night table and kissed me on the forehead.

“Forget the foreplay and take off those pants,” I said.

“I can’t, babe. A bus overturned on I-eighty-four. Two dead and about forty injured. The state cops are diverting a dozen of them to us. It’s all hands on deck, and I’m captain of the ship.”

Another kiss on the forehead, and he was gone.

I pulled my hand from under the covers, sat up, and swung my legs to the floor. The images of my dream were getting fuzzier and fuzzier, but the desire was still there. My real man was gone, but I still had my old reliable Mr. Plastic Fantastic in my dresser drawer. As long as I had fresh batteries, he never left me hanging.

I picked up my mug, tilted it toward my mouth, and took a few swallows. “Thanks for the tea, Alex,” I said into the ether. “At least you’re good for something in the morning.”

---