Letters Across the Sea by Genevieve Graham (best short novels of all time txt) 📗

affairs with just Liam, our parents, and me, and he was gone most nights, either at work or out with his girlfriend, Louise. So it was usually just me, alone with my parents. I didn’t mind. Mum had stopped encouraging me to date long before, grateful for my help with Dad. Then again, she had been quietly pleased to hear I was now working with Ian.

Tonight it would be all seven of us in one house again, plus four more. The normally sober quiet would be smothered beneath love and laughter, I hoped.

As I finished setting the table, Liam wandered into the kitchen. At eighteen, he had grown taller than all of us. His shoulders had thickened from working with Jimmy at the Inglis factory, which had recently turned their appliance assembly line over to the manufacturing of Bren machine guns in preparation for war.

Liam sniffed the air appreciatively. “Your pea soup is the best, Mum. Louise is gonna love it.”

She wiggled her eyebrows. “It’s a family recipe, dear. Louise can have the recipe if she’s a family member, you know.”

He laughed. “I will keep that in mind.”

“Would you bring the high chair from the basement for little Evelyn, please?” she asked.

He nodded then headed downstairs just as the front door swung open, bringing the rush of the rainstorm inside.

“We’re here!” Mark announced, ushering Helen in front of him. Jimmy was on his heels, and the three of them stood in the doorway, thumping rainwater off their boots. Mark had put on some weight, I noticed as he took off his coat. It looked good on him.

“Come on in,” Jimmy said, holding the door open for Louise, who was just behind him. “Hey, Liam!” he called. “Come and be a gentleman, would you?”

Liam rushed up from the basement with the high chair, then reached to take Louise’s coat and umbrella. It warmed my heart to see the love in his eyes.

He planted a kiss on her cheek. “Hi there,” he said. “You look beautiful.”

Louise blushed, then turned to my mother. “It smells wonderful in here, Mrs. Ryan. Is that pea soup? Oh, I’d love the recipe.”

Mum and I glanced from her to Liam, hiding our smiles. “You’ll have to ask Liam,” she said, and Liam turned beet red.

“Where’s Richie?” I asked, scanning my brothers’ faces.

Mum shrugged. “Any time now. Mark, would you go get your father?”

“Oh, I’ll get him,” I said quickly, moving toward the stairs.

Upstairs, I paused at the doorway of my parents’ room, watching Dad. He was sitting at the window in Seanmháthair’s chair, reading. I’d brought the chair from my room to his six years ago, knowing he’d need it more than I. Dad was a smaller man now, shrunken into himself. Far from the imposing policeman he had once been.

It had all started on the night of the riot. After he’d been struck by the brick, Dad had seemed a little dazed and needed help getting to his feet, but we didn’t suspect anything serious, and I was caught up in a cloud of righteous anger of his treatment of Max. When we’d gotten home, he’d said goodnight and I had walked past without acknowledging his presence. I still clearly remember Mum’s cry of anguish the next morning. We’d all run into their room to find Dad lying perfectly still in his bed, his eyes wide with terror. When we asked what was wrong, he couldn’t answer. Richie raced for the doctor, who told us Dad had suffered a massive brain bleed that caused a stroke, and that we shouldn’t expect much improvement. He’d said we were lucky Dad hadn’t died right there. Nothing in our lives had been the same since.

When anyone asked, which they rarely did anymore, Mum and I liked to say he was improving. The truth was that not much had changed in the past six years. He could talk, but only slowly and in short sentences. His mind seemed fine most of the time, but his memory slipped sometimes, which meant he missed out on some of our conversations. He’d reluctantly accepted using the cane when he was well enough to stand, and I doubted he’d ever walk without it. But it was the pain beneath his weaknesses that had stolen most of his strength. The knowledge that he couldn’t support his family, that he’d never be the man he was before. That lived in the emptiness of his eyes.

I knocked gently on the doorframe, and he looked up. He gave me his approximation of a smile, affecting only half his face, and my heart melted as it always did. I’d never forget what had put him in this position, and I’d never forgive myself.

“Everyone here?” he asked in his wavering voice.

“Almost,” I said, settling on the bed near him. “Still waiting on Richie.”

“Smells good.”

I nodded, then my eyes went to his hands, folded over some paper. I recognized the handwriting as mine. “Are those my stories?”

They shook in his grip. “Mum found them.”

He was reading about the Great Famine, the story told to me by his mother. My mind recalled the people in the story, the families torn by tragedy then shaped into survivors. I wished I could have written a happier ending for him to enjoy.

“Those are from so long ago. They’re probably really bad.”

“They’re beautiful.”

My throat squeezed at the sight of tears in his eyes. He was much more emotional these days, and I still hadn’t gotten used to that.

“It’s like your seanmháthair is right here.” He patted his chest, over his heart.

“I miss her,” I said. I wondered what my dear grandmother would say if she were here now. Seeing her son like this, the rest of us spread out in different directions, a war on the horizon. “I still do.”

“She would be proud of you.” He paused. “I am.”

“Oh, Dad.”

I wrapped my arms around him and pressed my cheek to his, and his one good arm went around me. What a fool I’d been all those