Rifiuto: Non Mirena
"Married in Galway... but... but their first daughter is born in... aught-six..." Tim rubbed a hand over his face with a sigh. "November of aught-six, meaning-"
"They were married in late May of the year before," Sarah added, pulling the tree towards her. "'round the time the twins 'ad been born."
"No, twins tend t' come early, 'specially back then, when medicine wasn't as advanced." Kathleen cut in, turning to the papers she'd brought out from the box in the attic. She quickly searched through it, before finally finding what she was looking for. "Look."
The kids gathered around her, reading over the birth certificate their mother had carefully laid out on the table.
Name: Evelyn Lorraine Phillips
Born: 12th November, 1906
Birthplace:
"Galway City, Ireland. They had their first daughter in Galway. But... when did she come back to Dublin? And... how?" Tim looked up in time to see Fiona move away from the doorway, disappearing as she turned from them.
"Evelyn wasn't th' only one born in Galway." Sarah replied, pulling out another certificate. She carefully unfolded it, laying it beside the first. "Their second daugh'er was too."
Name: Moira Rowan Phillips
Born: 3rd June, 1908
Birthplace: Galway City, Ireland
"They lived in Galway. But.. bu' tha' makes no sense! Timothy Michael said tha'... tha' Éamon knew 'bout the uprising-"
"'course I knew 'bout the rebellion, lad, ye really think I dinna?"
All three McGees looked up at the voice. A young man leaned against the far wall, dressed in a nice three piece suit, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair, a soft light brown, was slicked back, though strands fell over his forehead, and he had a pencil tucked behind his ear. The simple silk tie he wore around his neck was undone, and the waistcoat unbuttoned. A moment passed, before he removed the round-rimmed spectacles, carefully folding them up and slipping them into the pocket of his waistcoat. It didn't escape Tim's notice, the ink staining his fingers-
"Éamon's a writ'r, f'r a newspap'r, no less. 'e shoul' keep t' th' print'n shop." Tim quickly shook his head, the words sending shivers up his spine as he realized who stood before them.
"'ventually ran the Dublin Gazette, I did, 'twas me job t' know ev'rythin' afore it 'appened. Words are worth a pretty shillin', more than a photograph, as me boss told me tha' first day. Worked me way up, I did," He removed a gold pocket watch, flicking it open to check the time. "while we was in Galway wit' me sist'r; saved ev'ry coin I earned, so's I could give me Fiona ev'rythin' she desired, an' more."
He looked up as a hand slid over his bicep, and quickly straightened. Tim and Sarah shared surprised looks as the woman finally stepped into view-
"F... Fiona?"
The oldest O'Shea daughter glanced at them, smiling softly, before turning her gaze back to Éamon. No longer the frightened teenager dressed in the uniform of the Magdelens, that they had seen skulking around the doorway earlier, but a grown woman, she was dressed in what could be considered the latest fashion of the times-
The long, light blue tartan skirt just barely brushed tips of her black lace up boots, the buttons on it running slightly diagonal down her hips, the white blouse with the simple lace overlay at her throat the accent against matching light blue tartan jacket. Her red hair was piled high on her head in a simple pompadour, a single braid accenting the top of the hairstyle. Around her throat hung a gold chain, what appeared to be a watch of some kind dangling from it, engraved with roses. She looked healthier than she had been when they'd seen her before, something that made Kathleen relax slightly.
The thought of Fiona- innocent as she'd been, for it didn't matter what the laundries tried to say, she had been a mere child when imprisoned within their walls- having escaped to live happily with Éamon brought tears to her eyes. But she didn't live happily. None of 'em did. No matt'r wha' they say, they suff'red, in one way or 'nother. In ways we canna only imagine.
He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him, reaching up to gently caress her cheek. "The only woman I ev'r loved, me Fiona... since I was a boy... an' I nearly los' her."
"To the laundries, aft'r she got pregnant." Sarah cut in; the pair turned back to her. Tears slipped silently down Fiona's cheeks, and she buried her face in Éamon's chest. "She had twins-"
"I know. I re'memb'r the day she told me." He pulled away from her, gently lifting her chin to meet her gaze. "Promised 'er I'd find our chil'ren... bu' I nev'r go' the chance."
"What do you mean you never got the chance?" Tim asked, but Éamon ignored him.
"They coul' 'ave died right aft'r birth," Kathleen spoke up, sifting through the files on the table. "'twasn't uncommon in those days, especially multiples-"
"No!" Kathleen's head snapped up; Fiona watched her, pretty features pulled into a look of anger. "Was alive, both o' 'em. I know they were. Heard 'em cry, I did, when Mother Superior took 'em from me tha' day. Was always alive; t'would know if they wasn't."
"Mother's intuition." Kathleen whispered; she knew a thing or two about it.
Fiona nodded, turning back to Éamon. "I want 'em back, Éamon. Ye promised me." She pushed him, but it was gentle, despite her tone. "Ye promised me ye woul' bring 'em home." Her voice, choked with tears, rang loud in the quiet kitchen. "An' instead, ye got yerself killed-"
"Killed? Killed how? Not in the... the uprising-"
Fiona's gaze snapped back to them, as Éamon sighed, meeting Kathleen's gaze. "T'would 'ave pref'red t' die in the r'bellion. Least then I'd 'ave died f'r som'thin' 'portant... on me own soil, opposed t'-"
"To?" Kathleen breathed softly, Éamon met her gaze, pulling Fiona back against his chest. He pressed a firm kiss to her head, whispering softly to her in what the kids now knew was Irish Gaelic.
"Shh, hush, mo ghrá. Ní ortsa a bhí an locht, b'éigean dom dul, cé gur bhris sé mo chroí mo chailíní áille a fhágáil."
Fiona shook her head, tangling a hand in his shirt, looking up at him, tears in her eyes. "Ní hea, a Éamon, sibh! Chuaigh sibh mar d'éiligh na Sasanaigh fuilteacha go dtroidfeadh sibh ina gcogadh! Nárbh iad na Gearmánaigh a mharaigh sibh, mo ghrá..."
"Germans?" Sarah asked softly, and Tim grabbed her hand, squeezing gently when he realized what Fiona meant.
"He fought in the Great War."
"Who?"
But before Tim could answer his sister, Fiona's sobs interrupted him, as she looked up at her husband, fingers tracing his features, as though memorizing him that long ago day she'd kissed him goodbye for what would be- unknown to them both- the final time.
"Rinne na Sasanaigh. Na Sasanaigh damanta sin sibh!"