He Told Me I Lost Our Baby, and Five Years Later I Met Him at His Door novel · Chapter 22 of 24

Chapter 22: The Porch at Dawn

Siobhan's POV

I woke before dawn on the porch swing of the house on Savin Hill Avenue, under Cormac's coat, with a crick in my neck and the whole street silent.

It was the Monday after the table.

Padraig and his wife had taken Fintan back to Quincy at nine the night before.

The boy had fallen asleep in the car with a biscuit in his fist, and I had kissed his hair and watched the red tail lights to the corner.

The house behind me was empty.

For the first time in five years nobody was behind a door on the first floor with a rosary and a sum.

I had not been able to sleep inside it, so I had sat down on the swing with a cup of tea gone cold, and some time after midnight Cormac had come out and put his coat over my knees without a word.

He sat now on the top step with his back against the post and a mug between his hands.

He had been awake all night.

I could tell by the grey in his face, and by the way he did not look round when the swing creaked.

"You've been sitting there since two," I said.

"Since half past one."

"You could have gone to bed."

"You were on the porch," Cormac said. "I thought I'd stay where I could see you."

"That's what you said on the sidewalk, the first morning."

"It's what I'd say again."

The street was grey and wet, and the lamp at the corner was going out.

A bus went by on the avenue below, and a long way off a church bell began, the early Mass at St. Margaret's.

I pulled the coat around my shoulders.

It smelled of his soap and the cold.

"I have an answer," I said.

He did not move.

I saw his hand tighten on the mug.

"You don't have to give it," he said. "I told you. I'm not asking for anything."

"I know. You've said it five times," I said.

"Six," he said.

"I'm going to say it anyway."

"Then I'll listen," said Cormac.

I put my bare feet on the boards and held the swing still.

"I'm not going back to being your wife," I said. "Not the one I was. That woman's gone, and I'm not sorry."

"No," he said.

"I'm not going to live in your mother's house."

"No," he said.

"I'm going to tell you what I want done with it," I said. "I've thought about it for a week, and you don't get a vote."

His mouth moved.

"I'm listening," he said.

"The first floor is hers. The rooms, the kitchen with the yellow floor, the lace curtains, the kitchen table. I want it gone."

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