Page 13 of Wistful Whispers
four
Seamus
A Few Days Later
Thenoiseshouldfeellike home.
Voices layered over one another. Traditional Irish music in the background. The smell of Ma’s cooking in the air.
I sit at the edge of it—watching, not quite inside it, but steadied by it anyway.
These people know me. They always have.
Even when I don’t know myself.
Growing up with my brothers was pure ruckus—fights left bruises. Never bad blood. Sports always ended with someone injured. I’ve endured slagging so ruthless it could break a lesser man. As the youngest, I didn’t have the luxury of keeping up—I had to survive.
There are so many things about my childhood I miss.
A lot I’m glad is behind me.
Now, the little kids tearing through this house are my wee nephews and luckily, they have amazing parents who won’t put them through some of the hell we experienced.
I’ll admit, I love the sound of little feet pounding against the hardwood floors. The hum of overlapping conversation. The clatter of dishes as Ma moves around the kitchen like a general directing Ronni, who’s trying to help.
Despite my ongoing sorrow about Miranda, the comfort wraps around me like an old, familiar jacket.
Right now, I’m half bent over in the living room while Torin and Tristan use me as their personal climbing apparatus. My oldest brother, Connor, lounges in the recliner, watching with amusement as I brace myself under the weight of the boys.
“Uncle Seamus is a mountain!” Tristan giggles as he latches on to my shoulder.
“A mountain?” I grumble dramatically as I shift them higher onto my back. “I thought I was a very serious doctor.”
“You don’tlookserious.” Torin grabs two fistfuls of my hair.
Connor smirks. “Because he lets the two of youse climb him like a jungle gym.”
I huff, straightening and holding both boys under their arms before swinging them through the air. They squeal in delight before I plop them down onto the couch next to my brother.
Connor gives them a mock-serious look. “Alright, lads, wash up before dinner.”
“We don’t know how.” Torin furrows his tiny brow.
Connor snorts, shaking his head. “Aye, right. You’ve only been alive four years and haven’t figured out the art of washing your own hands.”
Ronni appears in the doorway holding Teagan against her chest. “Nice try, boys.” She lifts her chin toward me. “Seamus, will you help them? I need Connor to grab the diaper bag out of the car.”
I groan in feigned annoyance, scooping up the twins and carrying them to the bathroom like a pair of wriggling sacks of potatoes while they giggle and shriek. They’re barely any help at the sink, sending water splashing everywhere. I make sure they’re at least somewhat clean before herding them back into the dining room, where Ma is setting the last of the dishes on the table.
The smell alone makes my stomach growl—roast lamb, the crispy edges glistening, mashed potatoes rich with butter and cream, roasted carrots and parsnips and a heaping plate of golden, flaky soda farls and fresh brown bread.
After a week of living out of a vending machine or drive-thru window, Sunday is when I can count on a filling, nutritious meal.
We take our usual seats. The moment I get settled, my gaze drifts to the empty chair where Cillian should be sitting.
He hasn’t joined us for weeks—no, months.
Ma doesn’t say anything at first. I see the way she sucks her lips over her teeth as she ladles food onto Da’s plate. The way she keeps glancing at the door like maybe he’ll walk through it.
