Hannie Rising Read online

  Hannie Rising

  by

  Jeanette Baker

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2013 by Jeanette Baker. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Chapter 1

  Mickey

  Mickey Enright released a long, slow breath. The stabbing pain that just minutes ago had collapsed his lungs and sent knife-like, jagged thrusts pounding down his left arm and through his chest had disappeared, leaving in its place a euphoric, slightly energized sense of well being. Afraid to trust this new sensation, Mickey kept his limbs perfectly still. Slowly, ever-so-slowly, he opened his eyes. Activity somewhere below distracted him, drawing his attention. Shifting for a better view, he looked down upon a scene of what looked, to him, like professional chaos.

  In a small, white-walled room, smelling of antiseptic, five people, one man, the rest women, all dressed in medical scrubs, swarmed about a motionless figure stretched out on a table. Except for the patient, he recognized all of them. Doctor Dougherty lived in the housing estate above Cahirweesheen, not too far from his own house in Ballyard. They didn't move in the same circles but Johannah, Mickey's wife, spoke highly of him and they'd occasionally met while walking.

  Molly O'Leary was a nurse and his mother-in-law's neighbor. She kept an eye on Dolly and reported to Johannah when her mother talked to the walls or argued with people dead for decades. Marie Sullivan, another nurse, was called in on child abuse cases. She'd gone to school with Mickey's daughter, and was recently married. He and Johannah had attended the wedding. He remembered thinking she'd been a mousy little thing when she was a girl but that she'd turned out nicely in the end.

  Kitty Donohue and Claire Malone were regulars at Betty's Pub on Rock Street. They'd grown up in Kevin Barry's Villas just as Mickey had, one in Number 5, the other in Number 14. Kitty and Claire had gone to nursing school together and still lived in the old neighborhood. He grinned remembering the trouble they'd cooked up on the street and the laughs he'd shared with them.

  It occurred to Mickey that he was the only one there who wasn't a medical professional and that his presence in the room was odd. But no one else seemed to mind or even to acknowledge him at all and curiosity had gotten the better of him, so he continued to look.

  * * *

  "No pulse or heartbeat. He's coding." Doctor Dougherty, his voice clear and calm, called out instructions as he positioned one hand over the other on the patient's chest, pushing hard and fast, thirty compressions to two breaths. He stopped to check the rhythm. "Set up an IV, pull up his medical history and charge to 200."

  Marie Sullivan left the room. Mickey was sorry to see her go. She really was very attractive.

  Kitty handed the doctor the paddles. "Stand clear," he called out, spreading his arms. "Stand clear."

  The room emptied. Mickey winced as the patient leaped and buckled under the force of the jump. He wondered if the man's ribs had broken and if he felt any pain.

  "Prepare for intubation and one milligram of adrenaline," Dougherty called out, once again pushing down on the man's chest for thirty compressions, leaning in for two breaths, checking rhythm.

  Claire Malone plunged a syringe into the man's arm, attached a tube and inserted the other end into a liquid-filled bag which she hung on an IV pole. "One milligram of adrenaline administered." Mickey couldn't see what she was doing with the other tube. "Patient intubated," she continued.

  "Prepare three hundred milligrams of amioderone and flush through," the doctor called out, continuing the compression. "Check rhythm and prepare one milligram of adrenaline." Mickey watched while Claire added a syringe of medication to the bag.

  The doctor checked the monitor. "No change." He raised his arms. "Stand clear. Stand clear. Charge to 300." His voice had risen. Again the room emptied and, as before, the patient, still unconscious, jumped at the kick of the paddles. "Administer adrenaline and flush through."

  Unflaggingly, like machines, the team repeated their rhythm, CPR, shocks, this time to 360, adrenaline, amioderone. Sweat beaded the doctor's brow. "Check his pulse," he ordered, one hand over the other, counting and pumping the unresponsive chest. Finally, he stepped back. "Give him forty units of Vasopressin and keep up the CPR."

  Marie Sullivan reentered the room. "No history of heart attack, diabetes or suicide," she reported.

  The doctor nodded. "It happens. No internal bleeding either."

  The room was silent now as the emergency team labored, a seemingly endless rhythm of shocks, CPR and medication.

  Minutes passed, or was it hours? Mickey couldn't be sure. His hands were clenched. Anticipation coated his mouth with a strange metallic taste. How odd for this to bother him so. Did he even know the man?

  The saw-toothed line on the monitor had flattened, stretching out, thin and straight. Dougherty looked at the clock. His face was gray. "Stop," he said. "He's gone. I'm calling it. Time of death is 6:17 P.M."

  Molly O'Leary dropped her head into her hands and wept. "It isn't fair. Johannah doesn't deserve this."

  Kitty was crying, too.

  "Your man was always up for a good laugh," Claire said, her face drawn. "The town will miss him."

  Mickey frowned. Who would they miss? Why would Molly mention Johannah? His Johannah? Hannie? What had Hannie to do with this man, now a corpse, lying on the table?

  Marie Sullivan spoke to the doctor. "The family is waiting. Give us ten minutes to make him presentable. Katie's brought her wee boy."

  The family? What family? Katie's wee boy? Were they talking about Evan? Mickey opened his mouth to ask but the words never found voice. He felt air under his limbs, a breeze first and then a wind, a terrible wind, tearing at his hair, stinging his skin, burning his eyes, flinging him back and then forward, his body turning and twisting, tossing and rolling until he was flung senseless into the blackness, the void, and then everything was still.

  Chapter 2

  Johannah

  Johannah had read once that when a man marries a woman, it is her hand he will hold in the final moments of his life. She remembered being diverted by the sentiment, by the prophetic and powerful drama of the words, but then she'd read on, conveniently forgetting what had turned out to be a truer prediction of her fate than she'd ever dreamed.

  She paused in the action of filing the four remaining death certificates she had no idea what to do with. She'd ordered nine, one for The Building Society, another for the church, the bank, Mickey's life insurance company and their solicitor. At the time, it seemed like a good idea to have a few extra, just in case the utility co
mpanies required evidence that she, Hannie, his wife of thirty years, four months, twenty-six days and seven hours, and now his widow was, by default, the responsible party.

  She knew now that she'd been overly zealous. Given that the entire town of Tralee had shown up for the viewing, the service at St. John's and the subsequent wake at the house, she couldn't imagine anyone demanding proof of his demise. The amount of food still in her freezer after three weeks was obscene. She'd sent platters and casseroles home with the children, but even so, she could, without exaggeration, live on the leftovers for months. There were only two solutions she could think of, both of them impossible. She couldn't throw away the food because someone was sure to catch her at the dumpster throwing away the very shepherds' pie or lamb stew they'd brought over weeks earlier. Besides, her sense of frugality wouldn't allow it. She could give it away, but somehow the idea of recycling food after three weeks in her freezer seemed beyond thrifty, more like well on the way to being cheap.

  Someone was tapping on her back window. She stood, dusting off the knees of her trousers and pulled back the drape. It was Maura Keane. Thank God. Johannah could use the diversion. She motioned her friend toward the back door and opened it.

  Maura shook the rain from her coat and stepped inside. Her freckled cheeks were red-apple cold and her glorious hair, cinnamon-brown and damp from the wet, curled riotously around her face. "Where were you, Hannie? I rang and rang. Where's your head? Didn't you hear the bell?"

  "Mind the floor. There's water from your coat all over it. My husband died, in case you forgot."

  Maura's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, God, I didn't mean—I'm an awful fool, love. Forgive me. I'm not thinking clearly. Of course you're at sixes and sevens." She looked around the spare room where Mickey once threw bottle caps at the referees on television when he didn't agree with the call. Now his wife used it as an office. The floor boards shone with the same reverence Maura had seen in the entry hall at the rectory. Not a speck of dust filtered through the still air. Every book was shelved according to color and a distinctive lemon scent rose from the couch cushions. "You need to go back to work, Hannie," she said matter-of-factly. "This place looks like a feckin' undertaker lives here."

  Johannah winced, opened her mouth to remind her visitor that she didn't tolerate cursing in her house, not by women anyway, and that she'd had enough of undertakers, but then she decided against it. Maura always did have a mouth that a bar of soap would improve. Johannah had known her since they entered the Convent School together at six years old. She was her first and dearest friend and there would be no changing her. Sometimes, in particularly morbid moments, the thought crossed Johannah's mind that the time would come when one of them would have to face the world without the other. The very idea was so unbearable that she would force herself to change direction, to bury the dreadful possibility with whatever means would ease the moment. She shook off the notion. "Come into the kitchen and I'll put on the kettle. Why aren't you working?"

  "Milo is minding the store." Maura unwrapped her scarf, unbuttoned her coat, threw both on the nearest chair and followed Johannah into the kitchen. She sniffed appreciatively. "Something smells good."

  "Nan Heaney brought over a coffee cake. Pour yourself a cup of tea. What am I going to do with all this food?"

  Maura settled her small form into a chair. "Bring it to work with you. Those cows at the Health Executive never heard of saying no thanks to food."

  "That's mean of you, Maura. You sound like my mother and even she wouldn't say such a thing if she wasn't on the way to being completely dotty. They're lovely people with good hearts. Not everyone can weigh seven stone. Besides what does it have to do with you?"

  "Not a thing," Maura replied breezily. "Forget I said it. How is your mother?"

  Johannah groaned, pulled a knife from the drawer and began slicing the warm coffee cake. "She's desperate. I'm having her bills sent here. Otherwise she'd toss them into the fire or end up sending more than she owes. She shouts at my father at all hours of the night. More than likely her neighbors are after taking up a collection to have her admitted."

  "Your father passed away ten years ago."

  "Exactly."

  "What about Philomena and Kathleen? Are they any help at all?"

  "They don't live here."

  "Paying bills doesn't require living in Tralee. Do they know you're shopping and cleaning for her, too?"

  "They know."

  Maura added milk to her tea. "Have you actually told them, Hannie?"

  "It isn't something to just bring up."

  "Why not?"

  Johannah set a plate of coffee cake in front of her friend. "It sounds as if I'm putting myself forward, as if because I'm doing it all I think I'm better than they are."

  "When it comes to caring for your mother you are better."

  "Only because they're not here," Johannah argued. "They'd do the same if they lived in town."

  Maura shook her head. "That isn't true."

  "All right, miss know-everything, what is true?"

  "You're a giver, Hannie. Look at what you do for a living. You care for everyone, even when they don't want it. It's people like you who let the takers off the hook. Phil and Kathleen are takers and you're their designated giver."

  Johannah picked at her cake. She hadn't had an appetite since they laid Mickey in the ground. Not that she couldn't afford to lose a bit of weight. "What am I supposed to do? She's my mother."

  Maura picked out another slice of cake. "Tell your sisters you can't do everything and make them share the work. Just say it out loud, all at once, like."

  Johannah shook her head. "Look at you, eating me out of house and home and still thin as a spider's leg."

  "Don't change the subject." Maura glanced at Johannah and spoke so as to get the words out as quickly as possible. "Do you think Dolly might be better off in a home?"

  "She won't hear of it."

  Maura set down her fork. "What will you do, Hannie, when things get worse?"

  Johannah forced her mouth to lose its tremble. "She'll have to come here and don't you say another word."

  This time it was Maura who changed the subject. "It's Thursday. Are you keeping Evan tomorrow?"

  Relieved at the new direction of their conversation, Johannah shook her head. "There's no need. Katie's off this week."

  Maura reached across the table and covered her friend's hand. "Can I do anything for you, Hannie?"

  Johannah shook her head.

  "You know it isn't a bother for me. You'd do the same if anything happened to Milo."

  "Bite your tongue, Maura Keane. Don't call down bad luck upon yourself."

  Maura sighed and stood. "If you don't need me, I'm off to the Building Society to pay my loan. May God punish them for their outrageous rates."

  "Be grateful. With our economy the way it is, you're lucky they loaned you any money at all."

  Maura frowned, an expression that raised her short upper lip into a cat-like pout. "You're very good, Hannie. Don't you get tired of always looking on the bright side?"

  "Better that than the other." She smiled bracingly. "It's all I can manage at the moment."

  Maura nodded, wrapped an arm around Johannah's shoulders for a quick hug and disappeared down the hall. The reassuring click of the dead bolt followed almost immediately. She was gone and once again the house was silent. Johannah, suddenly bereft of energy, couldn't bring herself to move. She attempted a laugh. It failed miserably. Always looking on the bright side. Is that what people said about her? It wasn't how she saw herself at all. More like pathetic, lonely and irreparably saddened, a woman crippled by a too early loss, a woman completely unprepared to move forward on her own. Tears sprang into her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She didn't bother to brush them away. She'd been crying for weeks now. The slightest thing set them off: finding an unexpected picture, Mickey's voice on the answer machine, the memory of a conversation, couples in a restaurant or walking on the r
oad, any sight or scent of two people locked in a world of companionship and she was a weeping mess, no longer coherent.

  Johannah hadn't considered the possibility of Mickey dying. Death, grave sites and markers were subjects she thought she had years to sort out. Mickey was so healthy and vital, so youthful, lean and straight and looking years younger than he was. He'd been so proud of his appearance, so carefully casual about relaying an encounter where his remarkable good looks were mentioned. Johannah had long since decided against letting the attentions of other women toward her husband bother her. In the end, Mickey always came home to her... until now.

  Now Johannah woke in the morning with the vague uncomfortable feeling that she was alone. But for the briefest of instants, in that gray moment when she was still hazy from sleep, not yet awake but nearly so, when the reason for her discomfort wasn't yet clear, it would hit her all at once, all over again. Mickey was dead. Then the air would leave her lungs in a single gasp. She would lie there hoping it would all be over for her as well, but then her traitorous body would rally, struggling toward survival, sucking in life-giving oxygen, leaving the uncomfortable burn in her chest that no amount of anti-acid medication, fizzy drinks or tap water could completely take away.

  It still amazed her how much she missed him. When he was alive there had been times when she'd longed to be alone, when she'd envisioned the luxurious comfort of sleeping in the middle of the bed, of washing only her own clothes, of listening to music she preferred and eating only salad and a boiled egg for tea. She never voiced those sentiments, of course, not even to Maura. But she'd wished for them. Sometimes, in her Catholic background of tangled guilt, she wondered if she'd wished too hard, if God had punished her by giving her what she thought she wanted and then realized, too late, that she didn't want it at all, that she would give anything to wash Mickey's clothes and cook his meals and hear his voice at the other end of her mobile.