2011
'The Writer is by nature a dreamer—a conscious dreamer."
The sheets clenched around her body like angry fingers; warm, sweaty and strangling. Erin struggled restlessly within their grasp.
Sleep? What the feck was sleep?
She stared at the pale blue stripy wallpaper opposite her.
Erin's scattered attention had been captured by the handful of multicoloured post-it notes that somehow still adorned the walls of her childhood bedroom after so many years of it being mostly unoccupied.
'Writing isn't a choice - it's a calling!'
The blonde haired woman scoffed, rolling her eyes at the overwhelming nievity of her younger self.
Sixteen year old Erin Quinn had fancied 'the writer' as a romantic and mysterious character —one who, licking their pencils and readying their notepads, were perpetually peering out foggy windows on rainy days in search of inspiration. In her teenaged mind, 'the writer' was elevated somehow, enjoying an Olympian perspective on the world around them. They were the kind of people who effortlessly snatched beautiful sentences out of thin air like passing butterflies, fixing them decoratively to the page.
Load of B.A.L.L.S!
Being an author, as it turned out, was a job just like any other...
The editorial process was a daily dose of hell—complete with drafts going backwards and forwards ad infinitum. Then came the rejections, the critics, the meetings with publishers, the constant battle against clichés, the crippling expectations and the ever-looming knowledge that writing one good book is by no means a guarantee that you will be able to write another.
It was all alright though. She was absoutely grand. Of course she was!
Erin huffed agitatedly, rolling on to her back.
Being back in Derry was the problem. Returning to a once multi-generational home and a family that no longer included her Granda that...that was the problem.
It was inevitable that everyone would loose their grandparents at some point in their lives. And given that she was now approaching thirty-three with a wealth of heartfelt memories still fresh in her mind, Erin would admit to knowing that she had been a hell of a whole lot luckier on that front than most.
Their Granda had seen all three of his granddaughters grow up—Erin, Orla and Anna. He'd seen Erin publish her first novel. He'd been there when Orla had opened Tír na nÓg and he'd leant an ear when Anna had been busy fussing over what to put on her UCAS applications.
They'd been lucky to have him in their lives for so long...so fecking lucky. But somehow it still hurt.
It all hurt.
Sighing frustratedly, Erin knew that (on a night like this) waiting for the tendrils of sleep to pull her under would only prove futile. Her mind was on high alert, running rampant in an attempt to process and make sense of the day's events.
Fecking hopeless...
So slipping out of bed, Erin gracelessly tossed off the heavy covers from her body and reached blindly out into the darkness for the tell-tale fuzzy material of her dressing gown.
To avoid waking up her Ma, Erin trudged quietly out into the hallway. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she mindlessly began padding down the stairs. Anything to get out of her own head.
And besides...the sitting room light was on.
Peeking through a crack in the door, Erin spotted the back of a curly balding head. Inhaling sharply to prepare herself, she let herself into the room.
"A'right there, Daddy?", Erin mumbled, her eyes following her father's solemn and unwavering gaze to her grandfather's open coffin at the far end of the room.
It was a sight that no amount of psyching herself up could prepare Erin for...
Pale, lifeless and smaller somehow, Joe McCool didn't look much like himself anymore. In fact, Erin wholeheartedly agreed with the simple but effective deduction Orla had made hours earlier before disappearing into the kitchen for the rest of the evening.
Unlike their Auntie Bridie, their Granda really didn't suit being dead...
Gerry glanced up, a faint smile playing about his lips at the sight of his eldest daughter standing in the room.
"Shouldn't you be all jetlagged or somethin', Love?"
Erin screwed up her nose, plopping down heavily next to him on the couch. She shook her head, blinking quickly to compose herself.
"France's hardly much of a jaunt."
Accepting her explanation, Gerry nodded vaguely.
"I think this may well be the longest we've ever sat silent in a room together", he observed, not without a touch of humor, as he gestured towards the room's thirdl—and quietest—occupant.
Gerry Quinn had been sitting vigil there for quite a few hours now, tradition dictating that someone had to stay up with the body during a wake. Needless to say, he probably wouldn't have been able to sleep regardless.
Erin smirked, a watery smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
"Knowin' Granda, he'd probably still be givin' ya guff if he could."
Letting out a bark of laughter, Gerry shook his head. "Ach, don't I know..."
"Feckin' weird, so it is", she observed absentmindedly.
Erin knew that her proficiency as a writer would suggest her capable of saying something a whole lot more eloquent in such a situation. The trouble was she geuinely hadn't the slightest clue what! Not a baldies!
Her feelings, intense as always, were all mixed up—an unintelligible jumble burning somewhere at the back of her throat.
Gerry smiled softly, understanding her uncharacteristic lack of verbosity without his daughter having to say much of anything. "He was fierce proud of you, Erin."
Erin squirmed under the weight of her father's statement.
She knew he was talking about 'Made in Derry' and how her Granda had felt about it when he was alive.
Erin's debut novel had been praised far and wide for its larger than life characters, visceral setting and raw depiction of the insecurities faced in adolescence and early adulthood.
It had been seen as honest and confessional...maybe a wee bit too much so in retrospect.
As though having guessed the direction in which her thoughts had wandered, the next words out of Gerry's mouth almost caused Erin to flee the room altogether; "Y'know the girls may be around some part of tomorrow?"
"Da..."
Gerry sighed deeply at Erin's blatant reluctance to discuss the matter further. Over the years, he had always been the one his eldest daughter came to for advice...something that had been a lot easier when she was sixteen.
"I know yer a grown woman now and I'm not tellin' you yer business but—"
"No", Erin replied with a smirk, clearly attempting to steer the conversation back to more comfortable waters. "That's Mammy's job."
Gerry shook his head in a vague sort of amusement, not disagreeing with her.
"I just can't believe you lot went this long without even tryin' to sort things out", he said, openly referring to Orla, Michelle, James and Clare for the first time since Erin had arrived home. "Ye were joined at the hip, so ye were. For years."
Erin shifted guilty, her prim and prideful exterior wavering. "I think yer underestimatin' people's ability to hold grudges."
"Not without reason though", he added, not unsympathetically.
"No", she admitted. "Not without reason."
"What about Orla?", Gerry asked after a moment, having witnessed the downright bizarre exchange between Erin and Orla earlier on that evening for himself. "Ye are cousins."
Erin dipped her head, avoiding her father's eye.
In all honestly, she hadn't known what to expect when she saw Orla again...but the reality sure as hell hadn't met any of her expectations.
Orla had greeted her in pretty much the same nonchalant easy-going manner as she would any other distant relative who crossed her path at a family gathering. Just a quick 'what's the craic?' before becoming otherwise distracted.
To be honest, it was the indifference that broke Erin's heart to smithereens.
"I actually really missed her", she admitted softly, thinking not only of Orla and her mad ways but of her whole family and their lives that she'd missed so much of by putting off her return to Derry for so long.
While her Ma, Da and Aunt Sarah were (mercifully!) much the same as they had always been. Her sister Anna had somehow turned from a wee girl into a whole feckin' eighteen year old with opinions and dreams and God knows what else—something Erin was yet to even try to get her head around.
"I missed all of ye..."
Gerry smiled sadly, reaching out to cover her hand with his own.
"I know ya did, Love. We missed you too."
Silence fell for a few moments between the father and daughter, both of them glad their family was back together despite the circumstances.
"Do you think I'll be able to make any of it right again? Y'know...with the girls?", Erin asked quietly, lacking most of her usual towering self-confidence and sounding much younger than her years. "They probably wouldn't even listen to me. They probably hate me!"
"To be fair, I doubt that James or Orla have it in them to hate anyone. Especially you."
"But Michelle and Clare still do?"
"Well, that situation's a wee bit more complicated, eh?"
She sighed deeply, clearly distressed by the thought.
"Erin", Gerry tried. "I might'nt agree with everythin' you've done, but I do know you could make the whole world listen if that's what you wanted."
Glancing up, Erin felt herself relax a little. Her shoulders straighted and she smiled tentatively. Something akin to hope welled up inside her.
"Y'think so?", she asked, knowing that her Da undoubtedly had certain biases when it came to her but wanting to believe him anyway.
"I know so".
"Thanks."
Gerry nodded resolutely, sensing that a small piece of the daughter that he knew and loved had returned to Erin.
"Now that's sorted...off with ya!", he teased gently, elbowing her. "I'm sure yer Ma'll have a million jobs for us tomorrow."
Erin rolled her eyes, dutifully sliding of the couch.
Naturally, she was more than aware of what her mother was capable of. No doubt there would be absolute uproar in the house come morning and all hands would have to be on deck.
"G'night, Da", she responded simply, giving her father a grateful peck on the cheek for his words of encouragement
Gerry smiled in return, not moving from his spot on the couch. "G'night, Erin Love."
...
Gray November
I've been down since July
Motion capture
Put me in a bad light
I replay my footsteps on each stepping stone
Trying to find the one where I went wrong
Writing letters
Addressed to the fire
~Taylor Swift, Evermore.
...