Alane Ferguson - The Circle of Blood

It was then she heard the tiny ping coming from her laptop computer. She’d left it on that morning, and the screensaver had gone to black. Plucking a tissue, she blew her nose, then sat down on her chair and flicked her mouse. An e-mail had just arrived.

I’m in the office working late. I have just received an e-mail concerning the Kyle O’Neil case you were involved with. I have some questions. Please e-mail me at your earliest convenience. Jo Ann Whittaker.

Cameryn stared at the blinking cursor. The black vertical line appeared and disappeared from the screen, like a tiny, beating heart. Her finger hovered an entire minute before she hit “Shut Down.” She watched her computer go through the motions until her screen returned to black. Jo Ann Whittaker could wait. They all could. The problems would still be there in the morning.

“GOOD, YOU’RE DRESSED. I made banoffee, so here’s a slice to go with your coffee-you need to eat fast, but mind, don’t gulp it down. Your father’s already gone to Ouray. Mass starts in thirty minutes, so there’s still time for you to eat.”

Her grandmother bustled through the kitchen in a pair of black knit pants topped by a red sweater embroidered with a Christmas wreath. Mammaw’s close-cropped white hair had been tamed with a curling iron, and she’d put on lipstick, a bright cherry to match her sweater. Earrings shaped like snowmen dangled from her lobes, swaying as she set the Irish pie on a quilted place mat. As she dropped a fork beside the plate, she said, “Hurry now. Eat! ”

Cameryn walked across the kitchen to slide into the chair. “Thanks, Mammaw. That’s my favorite.”

“Pure cream and a dash of coffee. The Irish know how to cook,” Mammaw answered, looking pleased. “You need to eat, child. You’re as thin as a traithnin.”

“What’s a traithnin?”

“A blade of grass.”

Although her grandmother had emigrated from Dublin sixty years earlier, her soul had remained rooted in the green hills of Ireland. Her dream was to take Cameryn there, to the stone cottage in Dunshaughlin where Mammaw had been born. An Irish lilt still buoyed her words, brightening the syllables, and yet it was the only thing soft about her. A thick-bodied woman accustomed to hard work, and a fierce Catholic as well, Mammaw could fire up like no one else. Which would make what Cameryn was about to say that much harder.

Taking a sip of coffee, Cameryn said, “I, um… I think I’m going to skip church this morning.”

“And why would you be doing that?” Two tight lines appeared at the corners of her grandmother’s mouth. With her mug in hand, she sat down on a chair opposite. “Are you feeling sick?”

“No.”

“That’s the only reason you can miss Mass without it being a sin.”

Bracing herself, she said, “I need to see Hannah.”

Mammaw raised her chin. Her eyes, pale as Mariah’s, flashed. “And why would that be? You were with that woman yesterday, and now you’re wanting to play hooky with her today as well? I need time with you, too, Cammie. And so does God.”

Cameryn couldn’t possibly tell her grandmother all the reasons, so she kept quiet, slowly eating her banoffee so she wouldn’t have to speak. The kitchen, a small room brimming with Christmas decorations, smelled like coffee and winterberry, the latter from the candles her grandmother loved to light. Cameryn could hear herself chew as the clock on the wall marked time, every sound amplified in the silence. The swallow, the slurp of coffee, the clink of her fork on her plate-Cameryn ate and drank, all the while avoiding her grandmother’s eyes. Finally, she did look up. But the condemnation she’d been expecting wasn’t there.

"Mammaw? ”

“I’ve raised you since you were small,” her mammaw murmured in a distant voice. “All that time I’ve fought against that woman and… we, me and Patrick, we’ve been doing our best. It may not have been good enough, but it has been our best. Cammie, we’re scared for you.”

“Don’t be. I know all about Hannah. She explained the accident with Jayne and I told her I understood. We should forgive-that’s what Father John would tell you to do.”

The lines around Mammaw’s mouth seemed even deeper this morning. "Typical. Hannah gave you a cleaned-up version of reality. Smoke and mirrors is what that woman does best.”

“But, Mammaw-”

“Listen to me, girl.” She took Cameryn’s hands in hers. Sunshine poured through the window, the light shadowing the blue veins that snaked across the back of her grandmother’s strong hands. “You know about your mother’s illness?”

Cameryn nodded.

“Then you understand the woman has always been… weak.”

Was Mammaw reading her mind? Earlier that morning, when she’d slipped out of bed to look out her window, Cameryn had noticed the way the night wind had smoothed the top layer of snow into a delicate, shimmering crust. From experience she knew that crust would crumble beneath the smallest bit of pressure. As she’d pulled her blanket up under her chin she’d sat, staring out that window, thinking of Justin, her father, her mammaw, Lyric. They all had one thing in common: they were strong. Each of their souls was tenacious enough to stand without help. But Hannah seemed different, needier than anyone Cameryn had ever known. Like that crust of snow-beautiful, yet delicate. It was impossible to walk away from that fragility.

Again Cameryn felt the grip of her grandmother’s hands tighten against hers. “You have to understand, we knew Hannah was ill back then, back before Jayne died. We knew she needed help. Your father took her to a doctor. Medicines were prescribed. But without telling us, your mother stopped taking her pills. Instead, she began smoking marijuana as a sort of self-medication. She thought it was a ‘natural’ remedy. She refused to listen to reason.”

“What?” Cameryn asked, incredulous. “But Hannah hates drugs. She told me so. The first week she was here she said to stay away from drugs because they were poison. ”

Nodding tersely, Mammaw said, “Nevertheless. The truth is, your mother got high every day, trying to treat herself instead of listening to the ones who knew best.”

The bite of pie turned sour in Cameryn’s mouth. Pulling her hand away, she protested, “But Hannah’s not smoking pot-”

“I’m talking about then, not now,” her grandmother interrupted. “Please, just listen to the story, girl. You may think your father and I have been too harsh with her, but there is a reason. At the time, your mother’s moods got worse and worse, and yet she refused all reason. I suspected-oh, I suspected-but Hannah lied and lied and lied to my face. She lied to both of us.” She sighed. “In the end, your father believed her, but I knew better. Patrick loved Hannah, right up until that day…”

Mammaw faltered. Shutting her eyes, she waited a moment, swallowing so hard Cameryn could see the faint undulation in her neck. “On the day your sister… died… your father found Hannah alone inside the house. She was smoking a joint, while you and little Jayne were all by yourselves outside.

“Patrick just lost it. He called her a bad mother. Hannah didn’t want to hear it. She jumped in her car and raced out of the driveway so fast she didn’t see…” Once again her grandmother reached out for Cameryn’s hand, cradled it between the two of hers. “Do you understand now? Your father-I-we could never forgive Hannah for what she did. The wastefulness of an angel lost. All because of stubbornness and stupidity.”

“Mammaw, I know it was wrong,” Cameryn pleaded, “but-it was still an accident.”

Mammaw fired up once again. “Is it an accident when someone’s deliberate actions cause a tragedy? No, no, no-back then, even Hannah realized the truth. The guilt made her try to end her own life, another sin before God to add to the first. And still your father wanted her back, until…”