The Crooked Branch by Jeanine Cummins Page B

the girls scattered, but Michael turned to look back at his mother.
    “Mammy,” he spoke.
    The miracle sound of his voice after eight weeks of silence brought a rush of blood swishing through her. Ginny went down on her two knees beside him, and gripped his hands in her own.
    “There you are.” She smiled.
    He cleared his throat, like his voice was rusty after not being used. “We should clear out the shed, bring everything inside the house,” he said.
    There was no question, no sentiment. His voice was solid. He was right. They would have to keep everything under watch now, things being the way they were. Ginny should’ve thought of it before. She stood up.
    “Come on, girls,” she said. “Poppy and Maire, you clear space in here—make as much room as you can. Michael and Maggie, come with me. We’ll start hauling it in.”
    “Hauling what in, Mammy?” Maggie asked.
    “Everything.”
    •   •   •
    Winter deepened, and the novelty of snow fled. It was the worst weather Ginny ever remembered having, and they stayed inside the whole time. They went out most Sundays, for mass, and the church was half-empty like she’d never seen it before. The people of the parish were disappearing. The Doyles’ cottage was tight and close, packed as it was now, with their provisions. The weeks went by like an oblivion. They seldom had visitors; everyone drew into themselves, their own little families. The hungry ones were too shamed to show themselves. The lucky ones even more so. They all became suspicious of one another, so they stayed inside and barred the doors. It was like all of Ireland was asleep, like the country thought it could outwit the famine by a trick of hibernation.
    But Maggie never missed a day—never mind the winds blowing the rain sideways in lashing ropes across the frozen fields, never mind the drenching lonesomeness of her task—she went out and tended to her cairn. It grew fat and bloated, and she had to venture farther and farther from the cottage to find suitable stones. Christmas went, and then the year ticked over to the new one, and as Ginny watched that cairn growing larger, and their oat bushels dwindle, she began counting the weeks until she might get word from Ray.

Chapter Five
    NEW YORK, NOW
    T hings have not improved with Dr. Zimmer, but I keep going, mostly because Leo watches Emma for an hour before I leave, so I can take a shower. My hair dryer has acquired a luxury status I never imagined before motherhood, so I run it until my scalp is hot, until I fear that my hair will scorch. I think about canceling the therapy session and not telling Leo, so I can use my free time to go out with my good, clean hair, and window-shop or sit on a bench somewhere and feed pigeons like a proper crazy person. But then I remember the crunching, so I go.
    On my way out the door, Leo grabs my hand. He has Emma snuggled effortlessly in the crook of one arm, in a way I haven’t learned how to do yet.
    “Hey,” he says. “I’m really glad you’re doing this for yourself.”
    “It’s important.”
    “It is,” he agrees, “and I have no problem babysitting while you—”
    “Babysitting?” I interrupt.
    “Yeah, I have no problem babysitting while you go and do this, however long it takes.”
    Leo is smiling warmly at me. His face is completely without guile, and I wonder if mine is reflecting the degree of enraged disgust that suddenly engulfs me. I close my mouth, measure my tone carefully. “It’s not
babysitting
when it’s your own kid, Leo.”
    He looks at me quizzically. We’re standing in the open doorway, and his hand is on the knob. “You know what I meant,” he says.
    “No, I know what you
said
.”
    He sighs, and I see the effort, but it fails: he rolls his eyes. “Oh, Majella, come
on
.” He is exhausted by me. I am exhausting.
    I don’t want to be hypersensitive. I don’t want to be a bitch. But come the fuck on.
Babysitting?
    “Did I give up my life and friends and