I hated most of all that Peg was dying in the small, downstairs bedroom in my house, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it but wait.

It had been eight years since the day Patrick had come to my house, hurting and confused after Moira’s death. I’d seen him occasionally in passing after I’d made him leave the next morning, and even more often after Peg had gotten sick, but I’d still never met his daughter.

According to Patrick, she’d been too upset after her mother’s death to go very far from home, and by the time she seemed to be healing, Peg had refused to see her because she was so sick. She’d didn’t want to be the cause of more pain, the crazy old broad. I couldn’t understand how she could ever believe that knowing her and losing her would be worse than not knowing her at all.

Mum. She was Mum to me now, and my chest ached as I thought about how she’d taken care of me for half my life. I’d never heard from my parents again after they’d left me, and looking back, I’d barely missed them. How could I when I’d been pulled under a wing so kind and full of love as Peg’s?

Tires crunched outside and I was brought back to the present. A truck was coming down the road, but I couldn’t see who was inside it. I placed Mum’s hand on the quilt she was wrapped in, and stepped quietly out of the room. There was no need to wake her if it was just someone who’d taken a wrong turn. None of the roads near my house were marked, so it happened more often than I liked.

The door was open, letting in a cool breeze, and I pushed the screen out of my way as I stepped onto the porch… and felt my legs buckle beneath me.

Memories flew through my head as my stomach lurched and I anxiously reminded myself of every technique I’d learned to calm my breathing.

What in the fucking hell was that man doing standing in my driveway?

“Amy?” Patrick asked, racing toward me from the driver’s side door of the truck.

I waved him back as I caught my breath, gripping the post that held up my porch railing.

“Get the fuck off my property,” I growled, looking at the second man.

“I’m just here to—”

“I don’t give a flying fuck what you were doing. Leave.”

The white clerical collar at his throat made me want to vomit—it was a response I’d had to train myself for years to get over. It wasn’t socially acceptable to puke every time your mother brought you to Mass.

“What de fuck?” Patrick asked in confusion, stepping forward once before stopping himself. “He’s just here for Mum’s last rites. I thought she’d like to see a familiar face.”

“I can guarantee your mother would do something to land her an extended stay in purgatory if she got one look at him,” I retorted, feeling stronger with Patrick standing between me and the priest.

“Kevie?” Patrick asked, looking back toward the truck. His expression was a mask of absolute confusion, and in that moment I hated that I’d never told him the whole story about my attack. Watching Peg deteriorate was already breaking my heart, and I was afraid that seeing Kevie again was going to push me over the edge.

Kevie stepped forward, his face a mask of pious calm, and I wanted nothing more than to string him up in the nearest tree. I knew how to tie a fucking noose, I’d learned it for a history presentation in college. I still couldn’t move past the fear, though. If Kevie knew where we were, then Malcolm might know, too.

It was too much.

“I’m sorry me presence offends ye, Amy,” Kevie said calmly, “Very sorry. I did not realize dat after all dis time…”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I hissed, hiding my shaking hands in my armpits as I crossed my arms. “After all these years? Look at my hand!”

I raised up the fingers that had bent and twisted from arthritis and poorly set bones. It was gnarly looking, and when I pressed both hands together, they looked like they belonged to two different people. While Phoenix was growing, I’d made it into a game—‘the claw.’ No matter how sore the joints felt, I’d tickle him with my left hand until he was practically peeing his pants.

I’d turned the disfigurement into something joyful, but standing just feet from Kevie had me looking at it in disgust once again.

“Your presence will offend me until it’s buried six feet under,” I announced flatly. “Even then, I hope you rot in hell.”

Patrick’s face was like stone and his fingers began tapping his leg as he turned to Kevie, “What’s goin’ on, Kevin?”

“Ye don’t—” Kevie asked before turning to me. “Ye never told him?” He swallowed hard and turned scared eyes back to Patrick.

“No,” I replied flatly, his frightened expression like a balm over the resentment I’d felt for years. “I didn’t tell him that you’re the one who found me after your brother tortured and raped me. I didn’t tell him that you told me no one would believe me, and if they did, they wouldn’t care.”

Kevie’s face fell, his remorseful eyes refusing to leave me even as Patrick spoke.

“Ye knew?” Patrick asked, meeting his oldest friend’s eyes. “Ye fuckin’ knew and ye never said anyt’in’? I’ve spoken to ye hundreds of times in de past fifteen years. Malcolm?”

I noticed then, while listening to them talk, that Patrick had lost a lot of his accent while we’d been in America. It wasn’t something that I’d ever thought about, but hearing both of them at once made it clear how much thicker Kevie’s accent was. Patrick still sounded like Ireland, but his inflections and pronunciation had become more and more Americanized. He also sounded more and more like Peg as we got older. I guess a mother’s voice really is the most important sound a child hears as they grow.