"But not without a new job. How will you pay the rent?"
"Jude inherited the house from her mother."
"You know what I mean," said Marcus. "What are you going to be?"
"Well, that's something I need your help with, since switching horses is something you've done already." Síle's tone strained to maintain the fiction that this was a chat instead of a spat.
He sighed. Then, after a second, he said, "Something online."
"Like what?"
"I don't know, but the point is, the Internet's your playground, so you might as well make a job out of it. A job that isn't tied to any one location," he added darkly, "just in case this turns out to have been a disastrous mistake."
Later, thinking about it, Síle was rather taken with this idea. She tried to picture herself as an online something-or-other; a travel advisor, maybe? But the problem was, these days everybody seemed eager to offer information and expertise for free, just for the pleasure of seeing their own words onscreen. Maybe Síle could milk her cousins for contacts and run a business selling cheap mirrored hangings from Rajasthan to customers in Red Deer, Alberta, or Nacogdoches, Texas. Hmm, that sounded both exploitative and unlikely. But the Internet was clogged with people who apparently made a good living from selling weirdly specialist items: doll's furniture, soy candles, baseball cards...
One evening, when she and Jude had both had bad days—Síle's involving a cracked front window (she blamed those little yobs who'd kidnapped Petrushka back in June), Jude's hinging on an eight-year-old who'd gone into hysterics when Jude had smacked her desk with a willow switch during a workshop—they decided to get drunk together. Jude hadn't had a drink since Detroit, but her various bones were feeling so much better that she was ready to open a bottle of Glenfiddich. At Síle's end she'd prepared a cocktail shaker of martinis. She went through the list of careers she'd considered so far.
"Supermodel," suggested Jude.
"Flatterer! Something more consultational, I think, if it's to be the beauty world. Makeup Tips for Mixed-Race Lovelies?"
Jude howled. "Snow shoveler? Rizla says I should be paying him a hundred bucks a week."
"Cat masseuse," she countered, scratching the back of Petrushka's head.
"Premier of Ontario?"
"Ha! I'd give your Medicare a kick up the arse."
"So how long's it going to take to get this visa?" Jude wondered.
Síle groaned. "I was hoping you wouldn't ask. Have some more whiskey."
"That bad, eh?"
"You have to put together this elaborate application with photos and birth certs and CVs and your addresses for the last ten years, you get police clearances and notarized copies of records of employment and and and, you courier it all in to the nearest Canadian High Commission—oh, and I forgot the medical. The form's alarming, listen to this," said Síle, fingering through her pile of printouts.
Have you received treatment, attention or advice from any physician or practitioner for disease of the heart, tumour or polyp, disorder of the intestines, dizziness, abdominal bruits, nephritis, pus or blood in urine, paralysis, deformity of bone, lung masses, thalassaemia, disorder of testes, impairment of throat, murmurs, thrills, or convulsions?
"Wait up," said Jude, "I believe I may have seen you experience murmurs, thrills, and convulsions."
"Every time you've taken my clothes off," Síle admitted, grinning. She read on. "'Have you ever been advised to reduce your alcohol consumption?' "That one made them both laugh. "Only every bloody Christmas, by my sister. Then there's all these mysterious parts of me the doctor has to give a clean bill of health to, like my fundi; I dread to think where that is..."
"This reminds me of the Irish ships arriving at Quebec in the 1840s," said Jude—"the terror of the dirty, disease-spreading immigrants." After a second, she said, "But you haven't told me how long it all takes."
Síle knew she'd been stalling. "It's really hard to track down figures on processing times. One site says currently it's anything between six and forty-two months. Average more like twelve to eighteen."
That Silenced them both.
"Oh, my love," said Síle. The mouthpiece was damp with her breath.
"If I know you're on your way, if I know it's really going to happen, that makes all the difference," Jude told her. "These days I walk around grinning like a clown."
Halfway through a sleepless night at an airport hotel in JFK, Síle sat up in bed and turned on her gizmo. She went back to the immigration Web site, then checked her airline for the latest details on the voluntary severance offer. Next she had a look at real-estate listings for Stoneybatter. Then she found something called ancestors.com and tapped in "O'Shaughnessy."
"I've been looking at this all wrong," she told Jude, yawning at 6 A.M., when she called her from the hotel over an elaborate breakfast tray.
"Oh yeah?" The small sound of coffee being sipped from that ghastly handmade mug.
"Did you heat the milk?"
"It's fine," said Jude.
"You have to heat the milk," Síle told her.
"Oh, the joys of domesticity. In forty-two months or less you'll be able to nag me in person."
Síle laughed. "I can't wait that long. See, where I've gone astray is, I've been asking myself how to get a Canadian visa."
"To be a landed immigrant, right."
"Actually, it's called permanent resident nowadays. But what I should be asking is, What do I need in order to move in with Jude?"
"Why is that a better question?"
"Because the answer is, nothing but my passport!"
"You've lost me," said Jude.
"If I come in as a visitor, initially," Síle gabbled, "I'll be allowed to stay six months, and I could probably renew that while I'm applying for a visa to stay. I'll be fine for money; I'll have my golden handshake and the proceeds of my house. Meanwhile I'll still be domiciled at Da's house in Dublin for tax purposes while I'm starting up my Web business as a genealogical conduit—"
"As a what?"
"You'll like this bit. You know how you get pestered with queries about great-grandmothers who might have lived in Huron County? Well, it turns out heritage-hunting's the biggest hobby online—if you don't count porn or gambling," Síle conceded—"and people will pay surprising amounts for help tracking theirs down."
"Not to undermine you, sweet thing, but what you know about history—"
"Could fit on my gusset, I know. I've only just learned to spell genealogy and what a GedCom file is. But my job will be to link up clients in Iowa or Melbourne with researchers in Lyons or Waterford or Minsk or wherever," Síle explained. "It's just people skills and a fast grasp of information."
"Without the vomit in the aisles."
"Precisely! I'm going to call it Origins."
"Yeah, actually," said Jude, sounding much more awake, "I can see you making a go of this."
"Can you really? I might have to hire you as an archival consultant. Maybe we can talk about it when I arrive. That's on—" Síle set the receiver down on the bedside table, and did a loud drumroll, then snatched it up—"December fifteenth."
"No way!"
"I've bought my ticket. That's just thirty-two days, thirteen hours, and twenty minutes from now."
She'd been avoiding Jael, till now; she had a childish fear of being talked out of her plans. But that afternoon, when she spotted her friend in a sandwich bar in intense conversation with a blond woman, she decided to get it over with.
Jael blinked, and pushed a red curl away from her face. "Síle, howarya." After a second, she added, "Remember Caitríona, from the office?"
Síle smiled. "You organize Primadonna's music events, don't you, Caitríona?"
"Actually I've been promoted," said the woman with a slightly sheepish nod at Jael, "I'm head of marketing now."
"Marvelous!" It was funny to see Jael as an authority figure.
"Take my chair," Caitríona told Síle, picking up her sandwich and coffee.
"Oh, no—"
"Really, I need to head back and chase up a package."
Síle sat down and helped herself to a mushroom from Jael's plate. "So, brace yourself."
Jael heard her out in untypical Silence.
Síle wound down. "Go on, what do you think?"
"What do you think I think?" Jael countered, rolling her eyes. "You got the girl back, without any concessions; she was lying there in the hospital bed, slightly dented but fully contrite. You won by a fluke," she reminded Síle. "So what possessed you to throw in your cards?"
"It's not a game." Síle thought of trying to explain about that moment on Jude's porch when her future had slammed into her like a car. "I don't just want her back, I want her happy."
"Couldn't you have prised her out of her incestuous little hamlet, even?" asked Jael. "Vancouver, Montreal ... You'll wilt without a bit of metropolitan buzz."
"I'm not going to haggle. What I need right now is to stop clock-watching and live with the woman I love."
"Every fucking folly gets committed in the name of love," sighed Jael. "Women are still such suckers for self-sacrifice. Listen, Síle, love's what makes you miss a bus or stay up all night, fine. But it's not enough of a reason to abandon your friends and spend your prime years chewing your nails in Zilchville, Ottawa."
"The province is Ontario. Ottawa's the capital."
"Come off it. Wake up. You don't have to see this story through like it's Patience and Fucking Sarah."
Síle's voice came out so wrathful it startled her. "In forty years, Jude is the best thing that's happened to me and if I have to go to the Rings of Saturn to be with her, that's what I'll do. And if you can't give me your blessing, like I did when you suddenly announced you were marrying Anton, then get the hell out of my life."
There was a long moment. Then—"Okay, bless you, my child," Jael said in her best Father Ted imitation. She dipped her fingers in her water glass and flicked drops at Síle's head, mumbling, "Ominy pominy dominy..."
Síle managed only a small smile. Jael picked up the rest of her sandwich. Síle thought perhaps the conversation was over, but then she saw a dark mark spread on the black tablecloth. Another tear dripped from Jael's jaw. Síle stared at her. "Ignore me," said her friend through a mouthful of ham.
"What—"
"Blame parenthood."
Now Síle was really confused.
"I was never like this before Yseult," complained Jael, pressing her eyes with the back of the hand that held her sandwich. "Having a baby, it cracks you like an egg. Leaves you so bloody permeable. I cry when the child gets a mouth ulcer, though I don't let her see me. I cry when I'm listening to the news in the car, sometimes."
"Oh pet—"
"Don't you pet me. Yseult's growing up so fast, she'll probably swan off to Thailand any day now. Nobody stays in one place anymore. Call yourself my best friend, fecking off to Canada."
Síle reached to grab her arm. "I'm really sorry."
"What good does that do me?" Jael's wet eyes met Síle's, for a long second, then she produced a horrible grin. "Besides, you are not sorry, you're a woman on a mission. You're wetting your knickers with excitement."
"I love you to bits, you know. Do you believe in long-distance friendships?"
Jael put her head back and groaned like a walrus.
***
Telling people was like breaking the news of a terminal disease, Síle found. Only in this case, of course, it was her own fault.
Shay stared at his daughter at the other end of the sofa. "Moving to Canada? Fully? So ... you two must be in for the long haul."
"That's right, Da," said Síle, hiding her irritation. Why did no one believe any two people felt strongly about each other until they set up home together? And why did these metaphors—going the distance was another—have to make love sound like trucking?
"Till death do you part?"
"That's the idea," said Síle, dry-mouthed.
"Well!"
She'd been afraid he might scold her for impulsiveness, but he claimed to be very taken by her business plan for Origins. She was glad he was taking it so well, but also absurdly hurt. How could her father be so urbane about this when her friends had given her such grief?
"Certainly you couldn't have picked a nicer girl than Jude," he murmured.
"I didn't pick her," Síle said. "I never imagined someone coming along and knocking my life into a spin."
"Ah well," said Shay. The pause stretched. "Of course I'll miss you terribly, but that's by-the-by."
Her wail burst out. "It's not by-the-by, Da!"
They were holding hands. "I only mean it's neither here nor there," he told her. "No parent would want to clip your feathers ... It's our job to raise you right, then stand back and see you launched on the wing." Her father put his hand to his watery eyes, and she noticed, for the first time, the dark insignia of liver spots. "No, it's an excellent idea to change country. Gets you out of your rut."
Shay had lived all his adult life in Monkstown. "Did you ever think of living anywhere else, Da?" she asked, expecting him to shake his head.
"Tanzania," he answered promptly. "The time I was there, on Guinness's business—I've never felt so relaxed. You didn't have to dither among fifteen kinds of toothpaste or pore over a bus schedule, you just asked, 'Is there toothpaste?' or 'Is there a bus?,' and if there wasn't, too bad."
On impulse, Síle asked, "How long did it take for Amma to adjust?"
He looked blank.
"To the new weather and religion and everything, here in Ireland. It must have been a strange time to arrive, when the Irish were fleeing the country as fast as they could."
"In 1961 Kerala was on the brink of civil war," Shay reminded her, rubbing the bridge of his nose where his glasses had left a mark, "so there was really no question—"
"No, I see it made sense for you two to settle here rather than India," she interrupted, "I'm just wondering how fast Amma got through the blahs and actually felt at home."
"Hard to say."
Was it making him sad to harp on his marriage, she wondered belatedly? Widowed at thirty-seven.
"But this move of yours will be a great adventure," said Shay. "There's an Indian proverb, something about a bridge..."
"We can probably find it online," she told him quickly. She hated to see her father fret over memory lapses. He was seventy-five; what was male life expectancy nowadays? How many years would he be around, after her departure?
He snapped his fingers. "'Life is a bridge,'" he quoted. "That's it."
"That's it?"
"Hang on. 'Life is a bridge: cross over it, but build no house on it.'"
That left Síle uncomforted.
She kept a list of tasks on her gizmo and updated it hourly. She worked out the final details of her redundancy package with the airline. (It turned out that in the teeth of their union's protests, sixteen hundred of her fellow flight attendants were fleeing too.) She tidied her house—taking down at least nine-tenths of what was hung on the walls, on the estate agent's insistence—and it sold in three days, after a bitter bidding war between a child protection officer, a cellist, and a director of an Irish-language reality TV show. Neighbours stopped her in the street to tell her how much she'd be missed, and to ask who was moving in, and are you really sure you're sure now?
The whole thing had the unreal feeling of a dream. Some days this emigration project made Síle feel like a smuggler, or a giver of gifts; Joan of Arc with a gleaming, noble face. But other days she felt dull and floppy as she faced the stack of paperwork to do with her job, the house sale, Petrushka's rabies certificate, the thousand unromantic details. Occasionally she caught herself thinking Jude, you're going to owe me big-time.
She went through her possessions, dividing them into three piles: Canada, Da's Attic, and Give Away. The Canada pile got winnowed down to winter clothes, shoes, a few small pictures, and the gadgets she always traveled with. Two suitcases, plus Petrushk
a in her travel box as hand luggage: It wasn't much more than she usually packed for going on a week's holiday.
"Are you going to let me mess up your austere house by hanging up my gaudies?" she asked Jude on the phone. "Anywhere you like."
"Oh, you say that now, but you haven't seen the barbed wire crucifix I picked up in Louisiana."
On reflection, she put the crucifix into the Give Away pile.
"People keep telling me that emigration's a great opportunity to reinvent yourself," she said to Orla, over artichoke soup at a café counter.
"Really."
"A chance to shed accretions," Síle went on, feeling like a poorly scripted TV ad. Come on, Orla, work with me. "Did you find that, in Glasgow?"
Orla sipped her soup. "I don't think I'd gathered many accretions by twenty-two. But yeah, I suppose I made new friends there."
Politicos, Síle remembered; Orla had even sold Socialist Worker at demos for a while, and brought a boyfriend home who'd done three months for throwing eggs at an M.P. So when had respectability hardened around her sister like amber around a fly?
"When we were at college," Orla observed, "didn't it seem like everyone we knew was moving to New York or Brussels? But then the minute the Boom happened, most of them came rushing home. You've picked an odd moment to leave, I must say; you're pushing against the tide."
"Oh, well that settles it," said Síle, caustic; "I'd hate to be statistically anomalous."
Orla set down her spoon with a clink. "Why don't you just buy a Porsche?"
Síle stared at her. "Why don't I what?"
"You've got every other symptom of a classic midlife crisis. Turn forty, start chasing change. Dump the devoted partner," said Orla, counting on her fingers, "take up with some exotic young thing, jack in an excellent career, and flee the country!"
There was a strained Silence. "Bitter old cow," said Síle under her breath. They were seven and nine again, and somehow they were laughing.
Some days, as Síle puzzled over Canadian government Web sites and browsed through the Globe and Mail online, she felt adrift in confusion. What was this Canada she was going to humbly petition to be let into? She'd only seen a couple of square miles of one of its provinces, a couple of times. The country was 142 times the size of Ireland, but with only eight times the population, a full quarter of them immigrants. Bilingual, in theory. Liberal and diverse; cautious and provincial. Sport-fixated, snowy, scorching; a sedate Stepford with a Wagnerian climate. Red leaves, good manners, civil rights, God Save the Queen, doughnuts. Socialist, Americanized, dull or a thrill, Síle had no real idea yet, and besides, all that mattered, in the end, was whether she and Jude would master the trick of being happy together.