Craving Resurrection
Page 39

“I won’t be de last.”
“Good. Here’s your mom.”
There was a pause and some shuffling before Mum got on the phone, and I listened intently as she scolded Amy for dropping a stitch before she said hello.
“Hey, Mum,” I called dully.
“Hello, my lad! Get home safe then?”
“Safe and sound. But I had a couple of visitors to me flat not long ago.”
“Oh?” On the surface, her voice sounded nonchalant, but I could hear the panic threading through it.
“Malcolm was here lookin’ for Da.”
She sniffed into the phone.
“I told dem I just came from Ballyshannon and I’ve not seen him in weeks… but Malcolm mentioned stoppin’ by yer place,” I warned, just the thought of it making me want to race back home.
“Ach. I can handle Malcolm. I changed that boy’s nappies,” she snapped back.
“Mum, he’s not de boy—”
“I know that, son. But I know nothin’, so there’s nothin’ for him here. I’ll tell him the same if he comes.”
“Please be careful, Mum. Dese men won’t be trifled wit’.”
“Aye, I will.”
“Keep an eye on Amy, will ye?”
“Of course. We’ve a weddin’ to prepare for.”
“I’ll talk to ye soon, Mum. Ring me if ye need to.”
“I will.”
She disconnected without another word, and I was left once again standing in the flat I suddenly hated with a bed I wanted nothing to do with.
The next month could not go quickly enough.
Chapter 19
Amy
My future wife,
The days cannot move fast enough for my taste. It feels as if every minute takes an hour and every day a month.
I’ve had a hard time concentrating on classes and I almost dropped an engine on my foot at work yesterday. How would you feel about a groom on crutches with his foot in a cast? It may be a distinct possibility by the time I can come home to you.
Yes, home to you. My flat has become this depressing place where I brood and bemoan my loneliness like an Emily Bronte hero. I’ve never missed my tiny cot at Mum’s more than I do now, knowing that is where you fall asleep each night.
Some days I wonder why the hell I made us wait until we were married, and others I’m filled with anticipation and a feeling of rightness that our wedding night will be the first time we come together.
I sound like a woman, don’t I?
Ignore my ramblings. I’m tired.
Remember that you only have a few weeks left of school. Don’t go offending the priests now, or you may never get out of there… even if you did think that he was trying to get a glimpse up your skirt. (Even writing that has me grinding my teeth.) Though, I’m sure by the time you receive this letter, you’ll have already come to the same conclusion.
You flashes of anger remind me of Roses and Rue by Oscar Wilde:
“And your mouth, it would never smile,
For a long, long while.
Then it rippled all over with laughter,
Five minutes after.”
Not much longer, my love, and I’ll be there with you.
I’ll slay all your dragons.
Love, Patrick
The weeks flew by at a rapid pace. There was so much to do and so many small details to finalize that it felt as if I was deciding on wedding favors in my sleep. We’d decided to have a very small service, just those closest to Peg and Patrick, and even though I knew Peg had hoped for something bigger, I was relieved. All my attempts to contact my parents had been in vain, so I would have no one on my side of the church except for some of my teachers from school.
My pews would be filled with black and white habits… at least I knew none of them would try to outshine the bride.
I talked to Patrick at least twice a week, sometimes more, and we sent tons of letters back and forth, sometimes overlapping so a question in one of my letters was already answered before I knew he’d gotten the one I’d sent. He hadn’t been able to visit during the month like he’d hoped, but the things we talked about while we were far away from each other seemed to have created a stronger bond, anyway. It was so much easier to write our feelings down on paper—our fears and hopes for the future—that we seemed to have discussed a lot more than we ever had face to face. A part of me also reveled in the fact that I was receiving dozens of love letters that I could keep forever. Occasionally, his notes only contained a few lines, a poem or something he couldn’t wait to tell me about—but other times they were long and heartfelt and made me feel like the luckiest woman on earth.
He’d finally come home the night before for our rehearsal at the church, and it had been extremely hard to keep our hands off one another. When I’d caught sight of him, stepping off a motorcycle I’d never seen before, Peg had gripped my arm like a vice in order to keep me from flinging myself into his arms.
He’d laid himself bare for me in his letters, and I wanted nothing more than to pull him into me and wrap myself around him.
Dinner at Peg’s had been a lesson in torture, as she’d made us sit across from each other. She was adamant that we behave ourselves, and for the first time, became some sort of morality police to keep us honest. I think we were all afraid that after waiting so long, Patrick and I wouldn’t be able to help ourselves. The thought being that we were so close to being married, we could act as if it already happened.
I could honestly say that I’d contemplated finding a way to get him alone more than once. The tension at the table was almost unbearable, and to add insult to injury, Peg had invited Kevie home to eat with us. He was officiating the service the next day, and if bursting with pride was an actual possibility, we would have been scraping pieces of Peg out of the sanctuary.