Hannie Rising Read online

  It was a silly idea, of course. Johannah wasn't pious enough, nor egocentric enough, to believe that God was overly concerned with the wishes of a middle-aged woman from Kerry. Mickey's heart attack was the result of blocked arteries, a family predisposition, the doctor called it, plaque lining the arteries preventing blood flow to the heart. Smoking and drinking hadn't helped. Neither had the vanillas he regularly consumed. Sick arteries weren't always evident. Who would have thought Mickey Enright with his flat stomach, smooth skin and head full of brown hair was at risk for a heart attack? But he was and now he was gone and she was alone.

  Chapter 3

  Mickey

  Mickey was conscious of time passing, but the weight of his eyelids made lifting them too great an attempt. He had no desire to stretch his legs, flex his muscles, even turn his head. He was tired, the kind of bone-weary tired that makes nothing so important as sleep, continual, uninterrupted, effortless sleep. Behind the veil of skin covering his eyes, he saw shadows move, heard voices rise and fall, felt an incredible softness beneath his body coupled with a rocking motion as if he rose, dipped and rose again on a scoop of mashed potatoes.

  He was a stranger in a strange land, without Johannah and the children, without anyone familiar. That he knew. Beyond the knowing, he cared not at all. It was wonderful to rest, to feel nothing, to be completely free of stiffness in the knees and back, of cramping in the calves, of the never-ending worry of too many bills and not enough cash, of providing for his family while still keeping back a bit for a pint or two at Betty's or Nancy Miles Pub, of reassuring Johannah enough to keep her forehead free of the worry line that divided her face with uncanny precision and changed her from the girl he'd married to a woman old before her time.

  "Michael Enright." The voice was peremptory, high on expectation, limiting all choice, a voice to be heeded and answered to. With great effort, Mickey opened his eyes.

  Standing before him was a small man, olive-skinned, foreign looking, balding except for a carefully cultivated curl falling over eyes so dark they appeared black. He wore a long, loose robe and rough, handmade sandals.

  Without thinking, Mickey voiced the question paramount on his mind. "Why aren't you dressed?"

  "I am," the man said irritably. "I'm wearing what it is you expect of me." He changed the subject. "You took your time in coming. I'm not accustomed to waiting."

  Mickey looked around. Large sand dunes rose and fell all around them. The sky was a brilliant, metallic blue without a hint of cloud. Accustomed to the verdant green and boiling clouds of his homeland, he felt bereft. "Where am I and who are you?"

  "I am The Guardian and you are Michael Patrick Enright, although your full name is not as important here as it is where you come from. You may call me Peter."

  "I know who I am. It's where I am that puzzles me."

  Peter rubbed his chin. "You're not quite where you should be, but if everything goes as planned, we'll have it sorted out in no time at all. The problem is you've a few loose ends to straighten out."

  Mickey's eyes narrowed. He wasn't sure about this man, this Peter, with his riddles and his half answers, his bathrobe and those piercing dark eyes that seemed to look into the parts of Mickey's soul that he'd rather not have examined too closely. "Don't be tiptoeing about the bush. Just say it, man, all at once."

  "This part is difficult for me," said Peter, scratching the side of his neck and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the calling card of a man in discomfort. "No matter how often I do this, it doesn't get easier. You're right about one thing. There's no point in mincing words." He drew a deep breath and released it. "You're dead, Mickey Enright, and if you're to end up in a place that's satisfactory to you and to me, there's work to be done. I'll help you, of course, but most of the labor must be yours."

  Mickey laughed. This Peter, whoever he was, had swallowed one too many. "Listen lad. I know what ails you. I've been there more times than I care to remember. Why don't you sleep it off and we can talk later."

  "I beg your pardon."

  "You're drunk," replied Mickey. "You handle it well, better than most, but you're definitely away with the fairies."

  Peter sighed. "Drink is not the situation this time, not even for you which is a rare occasion, rare enough to be celebrated. For once in your life try to listen, Mickey Enright, and perhaps you'll understand. You're dead. You had a heart attack while watching the football game on the television. You were shouting at a call when it happened. Johannah found you and rang for an ambulance. It was too late. They couldn't save you."

  Mickey began to feel the slightest bit uneasy. "Who couldn't save me?"

  "That nice young doctor who lives on your side of town, for one. He tried very hard, as did the nurses. I believe you know them as well. They were very upset. Most people are, of course, when they lose a patient. But it was meant to be. It was your time."

  "My time for what?"

  "Dying." Peter paused. "Such a harsh word, dying. I don't like the sound of it. I suppose we could use passed away although that isn't really accurate either. We don't actually pass away. There's no away about it. Rather, we move on. Passed on is a better phrase, although it could mean a number of things besides leaving one life to start a new one." He looked at Mickey. "That's all there is to it. It's your time to leave your life as you know it and begin again."

  Mickey's head was in a muddle. The man was nattering on about passing and dying and starting again. It was outrageous, of course, but there was a small bit Mickey couldn't get out of his head, the part about the nurses he knew and the doctor who lived on his side of town. It was very close to the scene he'd witnessed, too close to be mere coincidence. He decided to test the messenger. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

  Peter looked affronted. "Bearing false witness isn't possible for me."

  "You can't blame me for asking. Give me a sign. Tell me what I'm thinking."

  "I don't have to be a miracle worker to figure that out," Peter said dryly. "You're not hiding anything, Mickey Enright. You never could. What you're thinking is whatever comes out of your mouth."

  "Prove it."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Prove that you are who you say you are, St. Peter of the pearly gates."

  "Surely you know that's a metaphor."

  "It's the way I've always heard it. Now, stop changing the subject and tell me something no one else knows except me."

  The man's dark eyes were measuring and filled with what could only be pity. "We don't have to do this, you know. I assure you, I'm telling the truth. There is no other alternative here. Yours is the typical reaction of a man such as yourself. Most men who come to us unexpectedly feel just as you do. The adjustment is a bit of a struggle. For some reason women are easier. Nevertheless, you'll become accustomed to your situation, and when you do, we can proceed. Yours isn't a cut-and-dried case by the way. You're hovering on the fence. Now if it were Johannah, we'd have clear sailing. Johannah has led an exemplary life. She's honest, hard-working and unselfish. Her first thought has always been for others, yet another trait females appear to have a handle on. Johannah's destiny is clearly marked."

  "What does Johannah have to do with this?" Fear closed around his heart. "You're not thinking of taking her?"

  "Not at all," Peter replied. "Johannah has a great deal of time left before she's called. Given all she's been through, she deserves some good years." For the first time he smiled at Mickey. "Your concern does you justice. Every little bit helps, you know."

  Mickey relaxed. "You've made a mistake."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You've made a mistake with me," Mickey repeated. "It isn't my time at all."

  "My good man," Peter protested. "Mistakes aren't made here."

  "Mistakes are made everywhere," countered Mickey. "You sound like an Englishman. Are you English?"

  "Certainly not. England didn't exist when I came into my position. I'm an original follower, an apostle, and we don't make mistak
es."

  "I'd like to speak to a higher authority."

  Peter stared at him. "I can't remember orienting anyone quite like you before. There is only one Higher Authority and if you'd done more speaking with Him when you were alive, we wouldn't be having this discussion."

  "Am I prohibited from seeing Him?"

  "You haven't reached the place where you are able to see Him, although that will come. You may speak with Him, however. Anyone may speak with Him, although the answers you receive may not be the ones you hope for."

  Mickey folded his arms against his chest. "I want to see Him."

  Peter glared disapprovingly. "You Irish have been falsely credited. You are an impatient and rude people."

  "Sorry?"

  "You heard me. You have your tea breaks, your pastries and custards and your lovely way of turning a phrase. You've a reputation for politeness. But underneath it all, there's your wit which can be cruel, your vague and twisting replies to direct questions, your unending, merciless, destructive penchant for ugly gossip and, of course, your superior, unquestioning belief that you are the chosen race. You are an arrogant population as well. You have a lovely country, but loveliness isn't unique. You forget the grandeur of the Rockies, the chiseled beauty of the Grand Canyon, blue glaciers of Alaska. Your tiny scrap of patchwork green, forever surrounded by clouds and inundated by constant, miserable, bone-chilling rain is not what God intended as His model for heaven."

  "Why are you telling me this?"

  "To point out that you're a stubborn man, Michael Enright."

  "All I ask for is a sign."

  All at once Peter seemed taller, more forbidding. "Very well, I'll give you a sign. Better yet, I'll show you."

  Once again Mickey felt the wind lifting him, stinging his skin, biting into his flesh. It was cold this time, the breath-stealing kind accompanied by a hard rain. Just when he felt the darkness pierce his brain and he could bear no more, it stopped.

  Breathing heavily, he looked around. He was behind the wheel of a car, a Viva he'd owned long ago. It was very late, far from the nearest village, and black as pitch. He was stopped by the side of the road and through his rearview mirror he saw a figure walking toward the car. Mickey's hands tightened on the wheel. He remembered the unlocked door and lunged across the seat to engage the lock. Too late. The door opened.

  The man slid into the seat. "Thanks for the lift, lad." He reeked of spirits.

  Mickey relaxed. "Where can I drop you?"

  "Limerick."

  Some instinct warned Mickey to keep his destination to himself. "I'm only going as far as the cross at Drumnacurra."

  "That'll be grand. There's a caravan park on the way. I'll stop there."

  His speech, the small eyes and high sharp bones indicated he was a pavee, an itinerant, one of the travelers barred from the shops and pubs of decent people for their thievery and penchant for brawling. He was also very drunk, a condition Mickey recognized because he was close to the same himself.

  The road was narrow and empty with nothing to alleviate the boredom. Mickey, realizing his reflexes weren't what they should be, drove slowly. Eventually the tinker nodded off, his head pressed against the window, oblivious to the dips in the road and the thunk of his head against the glass. His coat hung open and Mickey noticed the pound notes peeking from his shirt pocket. The bulge indicated a significant amount. Where could a drunken pavee have picked up such a wad? Nowhere legitimate, that was certain.

  Before a plan had time to root in his brain, Mickey had lifted the money from the tinker's shirt and deposited it inside his own. Heart pounding, he picked up speed and drove the next ten kilometers while his passenger slept soundly. At the fork in the road he stopped and shook the man awake.

  "Drumnacurra's less than a mile down the road," he said, pointing out the way. "It won't take you long."

  The man rubbed the sleep from his eyes and peered through the window. "There's a serious bite to the air, mate. Would it be too far out of your way to drop me at the caravan park?"

  "It would. Sorry lad. There's no rain and the night's clear."

  "Right."

  Mickey watched the man fumble inside his shirt. His stomach heaved and then righted itself again when he saw the bottle.

  Downing a healthy swig, the traveler opened the door and began walking down the road toward the village.

  This time the wind didn't feel quite so cold to Mickey. Maybe he was growing accustomed to having his body flung like a bowling ball between earth and somewhere that wasn't quite heaven. When the ringing in his ears stopped, he once again stood before a disapproving St. Peter.

  "Do you remember the terrible storm that came in that night, Mickey Enright?"

  "I don't. I was very young when the incident occurred."

  "How convenient for you." The saint had certainly mastered the art of sarcasm. "Let me refresh your memory. The man you sent away that night, in the wrong direction, fell into a swollen creek and died. Shed no tears for him, Mickey Enright. He was only a tinker."

  Mickey appeared older, shrunken and pale, his bravado stripped from him. "All right," he whispered, "you win."

  "It's not a matter of winning."

  "I'm ashamed."

  "Of course you are." Peter's voice warmed. "You have potential. That's why you're here."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "It isn't quite that easy. I can't tell you what to do. You must make amends to those you've hurt. In your own way you must decide for yourself to do what is right."

  "I don't understand. The man you showed me is long dead. I'm not so bad, you know. I go to Mass on Sundays. I donate a generous amount to the collection plate. I've given up fags and cut down on the drink. I've never seriously looked at another woman." He swallowed. Better to be completely honest. "The incident with Barbara O'Connor when she took off her blouse and sat on my lap meant nothing. Even Johannah never mentioned it, not even once. Ask anyone at all. I'm a man without vice, a clean-living, God-fearing man with responsibilities."

  Peter's eyebrows rose. "Say it louder and even you might come to believe it."

  Mickey's cheeks reddened. He looked away. "Where shall I begin?"

  This time Peter actually smiled. "That's better. Begin at home, Mickey Enright. It all begins at home."

  "Is that possible?"

  "It's done all the time."

  "But I've died. Johannah will have had the wake and buried me. How will I go back?"

  "As someone else."

  Mickey's head was reeling. "Someone else?"

  "You'll arrive in Tralee as a stranger. Johannah and your children won't recognize you. If you try to reveal your identity, they won't believe you."

  "Is there no other way?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  "How long will I be there?"

  "I don't know."

  "I thought you knew everything."

  "Who told you that?"

  "The nuns at school. The parish priest."

  St. Peter shook his head. "Fools, all of them. Don't believe any of it. I'm not the one in charge. All I do is manage the keys."

  "But you're the head of the church. You know. 'Upon this rock I will build my church.'"

  The saint snorted. "That's always been open to interpretation. Ask any Protestant."

  Mickey was rendered speechless. What had the world come to if Saint Peter was calling upon Protestants? "Can you make any decisions at all?"

  "A few," Peter concedes. "Most of what will happen depends upon you and Johannah. You may woo your wife, Mickey, as another man. Your time is limited either way, but your stay will be longer if she befriends you. We wouldn't send you back to make her suffer such a loss twice in such a short period of time. But the challenge will be great. You must be in complete agreement for the transformation to take place. If you have the slightest doubt—"

  "I want another chance at life. I want to go home, to be a better man. I want to prepare my family, leave something for Johannah and my
children. They won't know what to do. Johannah has never been alone. She must be frantic. How is she managing without me?"

  "You will be surprised at what Johannah can do," replied Peter.

  Chapter 4

  One year later

  Johannah

  Stirring raisins into the soda bread batter, Johannah alternated between humming and singing the words, the few she could remember, to the tune, Whiskey in the Jar. Mickey had always been the one with the voice. She wouldn't think of Mickey today. Today she was happy and thoroughly content.

  The day began as a particularly beautiful Friday. Spring sunlight poured through the windows of her house in Ballyard, warming the oak finish on her dining table and the handmade Irish dresser she'd commissioned from T'os O'Meara, the carpenter whose skill allowed him to pick and choose his projects and to show up when he felt like it, or not.

  Johannah was grateful for the circumstances that had given her this home. She and Mickey had moved in when Kate was a baby after her mother-in-law died. They could never have afforded it on their own. Ballyard was where the business owners of Tralee lived behind iron gates in stately homes with names like Ashland House and Faeries Point. On a one acre site, the house, a warm, yellow-gabled, red-trimmed, two-story set back from the road at the end of a long gravel drive bordered by trees, came to her father-in-law from his father. Three of his brothers had never married. That left Mickey, an only child, to inherit the lot.

  Because of the weather, Johannah had decided to walk to the Health Service Executive where she worked doing her best to help people qualify for services they needed to make ends meet. They called her a social worker but there was nothing social about it unless endless hours on the telephone setting up meal delivery, home care visits and physical therapy appointments qualified. This morning there was an emergency meeting called by Gerry Fox, her supervisor and nemesis. Johannah had a feeling she knew what it was about.

  Stopping in for a take-away coffee at the Daily Grind on Castle Street, she'd noticed a stranger sitting alone at one of the tables. He was a pleasant-looking gentleman, somewhere in his late sixties with thinning gray hair, a belly round enough to stretch the fibers of his cable-knit gansey and friendly eyes. Johannah was fairly sure she'd never seen him before, but he looked up when she walked in and smiled as if he knew her. Tentatively, she smiled back.