Scarlett - Cathy Cassidy [58]
‘Aislinn,’ Dad offers. ‘It means dream, vision, inspiration. That would fit.’
‘Or Etain,’ Holly says. ‘That means shining one. What d’you think?’
Clare frowns. ‘I’m not sure,’ she says. ‘What about Kiara? Small and dark, that means.’
I take the book from Clare, scanning the page until I find what I’m looking for. I read it, and my eyes mist over.
‘Got one, Scarlett?’ Dad asks, but I shake my head.
The name I’ve found is not for my baby sister. It’s Kian, and it means ancient, enduring, magical.
Clare gets up and wanders over to the glass partition. ‘Maybe an old Irish name is too grand, too fancy, for such a little girl,’ she muses. ‘Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place.’
She reaches out to touch the vase of flowers on the wide window sill, gathered fresh this afternoon from the cottage garden. Her fingers trace the velvet petals of deep pink roses, raggedy shasta daisies, tall, pale, regal lilies. At the back, for foliage and for luck, are a few branches of hazel from the wishing tree, with soft green leaves and tiny, budding nuts clustered in groups of three.
‘Hazel,’ Clare says slowly. ‘I think her name is… Hazel.’
My heart thumps.
‘Hazel,’ Dad repeats. ‘Hazel, Holly and Scarlett… it feels right, somehow. I like it.’
And after two weeks in hospital, my baby sister Hazel comes home. She lies in her cot and twists her beautiful cot quilt between her fists and gazes at the stars and the moon and the rainbow up above her. Overnight, the cottage smells of baby powder and wet wipes and other, dodgier, nappy-type aromas.
Mum books her plane ticket home, and we all drive to Knock to wave her off.
‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough,’ Clare tells her. ‘You’ve been a star. Looking after the girls, keeping the cottage and the garden in order, running everyone up and down to the hospital. Even keeping the Internet soap orders ticking over! Thanks, Sara.’
The two women hug, and I’m sure I see Mum wipe her eye. She must have a speck of dust in it.
‘We really are grateful,’ Dad adds. ‘We couldn’t have managed without you.’
‘My pleasure,’ Mum sniffs. ‘It was a holiday for me.’
Holly doesn’t waste words, she just hurls herself at Mum and hugs her tightly, and then it’s down to me. I look at Mum and I know that there’s no speck of dust that could account for the fat, shiny tears running down her cheeks.
‘Sweetheart, I’ll miss you,’ she whispers.
‘I’ll miss you too.’
It feels like I’m being torn in two all over again, and even though it was Mum who sent me away to Ireland, it feels like we’re sending her away now. She looks little and lost, standing in the airport check-in queue with one measly overnight bag and nothing and nobody to go home to. I fling my arms round her and I hold her tightly.
‘I’m sorry, Scarlett,’ she says into my hair. ‘I’m so, so sorry for everything. I handled it all wrong, the break-up. I was a mess, and I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I murmur, because it doesn’t, not any more. ‘We both messed up, didn’t we?’
‘Big style,’ Mum laughs. ‘It’s a talent we have.’
‘A skill,’ I agree. ‘But hey, we’re learning, aren’t we? We’ll get through.’
‘I love you, Scarlett,’ she tells me. ‘Always. Any time you want to come home, just let me know. It’ll be different now, I promise you. We can work things out together – schools, friends, rules. Can’t we?’
‘Maybe, Mum,’ I tell her. ‘Who knows?’
Maybe.
I stay in Connemara till the end of the summer. I watch my baby sister grow, see her cheeks flush pink from lying out in the garden on her patchwork cot quilt, kicking her legs. I watch her learn to focus her eyes, form her tiny rosebud mouth into a smile meant just for me.
In the day, I hook up with Ros and Matty and sometimes Kevin Fahey, the shy boy who wants to be a priest. He’s no pin-up, no dreamboy, but he’s fun. He’s a friend, and I need all the friends I can get.
At night, I lie awake talking to Holly. I listen to her chatter, I tell her about my day, I tell her, again and again,