Luck of the Irish

(This story contains mental health, physical abuse, and substance abuse in it. Only meant for twelve and up.)

How to fit your whole life in one suitcase? Boy, Liam wished there was a book on that one.

Those fancy authors, all writing manuals on how to fix a car engine, or how to survive in the wilderness for a year, and yet not one thirty-page book on how to pack up your whole life in one day. Then again, nothing had ever come easily for Liam, and he hadn't expected this would, either. Sixty years ago, being able to leave the dirty, overcrowded burrow of Manhattan, New York City, for the safe refuge of his homeland in Ireland would've felt like a blessing, but now it just felt like a curse. How old was he when he left? Barely thirteen, he remembered.

Barely thirteen, and already being shipped across the Atlantic Ocean on a rickety old steamship headed for America, where the streets were made of gold. Where his father couldn't hurt him anymore. Where his mother, oh his dear mother, who deserved so much more than the life she was given, would never be able to hold him tight and kiss both of his cheeks again. "Like the French," she always told him, "because God knows we are not really Irish."

She was right in a way, her being born in France and his father's mother having lived there for most of her life, until she met his grandfather, a stone-faced soldier who taught his father to drink away all of their troubles and savor the taste of the bottle 'till the very end.

"You ready, Dad?" Liam's daughter's voice interrupted his thoughts. He looked at his darling daughter, who had inherited those same bright blue eyes he had gotten from his mother. "No, Bridget." He said softly, not wanting to upset her. "I think I need a few more minutes."

Bridget nodded, then left without a word. Thankful for the quiet, Liam sat down on the shaky iron bed frame that now stood bare in the bedroom he and his late wife, Ruby, had shared for decades. Oh, how he missed her and her laugh, the way she twirled her skirt to make him smile, the sound of her voice soothing him whenever he was ill, which was quite often. He remembered the day they met. He had just come back from working triple nights at the spool factory, breathing in the dust and soot of those awful machines and developing a terrible cough in the process. Oh, what would his mother say? Then he remembered, his mother wasn't here.

Just an old uncle who let him sleep on the floor and gave him a piece of bread every morning and night.

At least he wasn't on the street, and for that, Liam was very grateful. Tired and thirsty, he had wandered into a bar and decided to try the drink. Though his mind was screaming no, his body acted otherwise.

"Wouldn't do that, if I were you." A voice behind him made him stop mid-sip. "I've seen what that can do to you firsthand." He turned around, and there, standing right behind him with her hands on her hips, as if they were a married couple bossing each other around, was a beautiful young woman with long, straight brown hair and freckles. He rolled his eyes at her. "So have I. And yet." He lifted the bottle to his parched lips again, then hesitated. "Then again, maybe I shouldn't."

"Told ya' so." They smiled at each other. "Wanna' dance?" She held out her sooty hand to him. He took it.

Three weeks later, they were married. Barely seventeen, the both of them, and already in love.

"Dad, have you gotten your suitcase ready?" Liam jumped up suddenly, remembering that his suitcase was still not full. "Five minutes, please!" He called out in his thick Irish accent that his daughter had immediately dropped the moment she entered her kindergarten class. Crossing the creaky wooden floor, he strained to open the heavy lid to his big dresser that stood in the corner of his room, still half full.

What to bring, what to bring? Liam wondered to himself, lifting clothes and peering into corners.

His hands rested on a few odds and ends; an old carrousel ticket from his first date with his late wife; a dusty china teacup from his mother, long gone now, resting in the family graveyard in Ireland; an old blue tie Ruby had given him for their tenth wedding anniversary. Once nothing but sweet sentimentals, now beloved treasures from the past, almost forgotten by now. He carefully placed these things into his growing suitcase. He looked at old business suits from his first interview for a real job back in the twenties; a jar of pennies he had saved up during the Great Depression; a birthday invitation his daughter had given him when she turned seven. So much to bring, and not enough space, he thought sadly. He decided to leave behind most of the suits and a few old pairs of shoes he had bought over time. He chuckled to think of how different fashion was now then it had been back when he was still just a boy.

"Back in my day, women never wore pants." He always told Bridget, who just rolled her eyes in annoyance.

"Dad, times are changing," she replied. "women can do almost anything they want now, including wearing pants and voting. You're so old-fashioned."

Liam considered this comment now. So, maybe he was a bit old-fashioned, but it was just hard to adapt and fit into a world that always seemed to be moving without him, making him run to catch up with it.

He looked in the last drawer, the knob breaking off as he pulled it. Swearing under his breath, he used his fingernails to pry it open and peered inside. A small box sat inside, covered in layers of dust, forgotten for ages.

Slowly, Liam took it out and gently pulled off the lid, revealing a neat stack of old, black-and-white photographs of--oh, could it be? Liam gave a cry of delight and his eyes filled with tears, for inside were photographs of his mother. Oh, his mother. How he loved and missed her every single day. How beautiful she was--long, silky red hair and sparkling blue eyes that shone with the sorrow of an Irish and the beauty of a woman. She was wearing a long, dusty, high-necked dress with deep, sewn-in pockets that overflowed with her kisses that she blew to him every day, coming back from the fields where he had started working at a very young age. Oh, how he treasured those kisses. He could remember how they used to make the world seem a little bit brighter, life a little bit more worth living.

Then he saw his father, and his heart immediately filled with shame, anger, and disappointment.

How he hated his father, who left his mother to toil every day in order to support a whole family. Who drank himself asleep every night in a pub ten miles from home, then made his mother rise in the middle of the night to spend their few precious coins on a cart and horse for their trip home, only to be beaten because the cart was always too slow and she was too lazy. Who hit him every time he didn't work hard enough, or was late coming home, or wasted a sip of water on a hot summer afternoon in the field. He could remember the bruises on his mother's throat and arms, and then the breaking point. He could remember the funeral, where no one, not even his own mother, bothered to come. He had only come because of the cool breeze blowing on the moor that day. He remembered the smile that appeared more and more often on his mother's face after he died. Then he remembered the lines of worry that became clear after a few days. The clear loss of coins in the jar on the kitchen table. The house slowly withering into nothing but dust and stones. Then the decision.

Liam could remember crying, sobbing, great big tears that made even his strong, determined mother cry.

He could remember the strong hands of the village men, pushing him onto a wagon headed for the coast, where a ship carrying his fate awaited him. He could remember the kiss his mother had blown him as they dragged him off, how he had caught it, held it close, then blew it back to her, and she had smiled.

A sad, beautiful, lonely smile. A smile that carried the secrecy of the French, and the love of an Irishwoman.

A smile that had gotten him through the violent waves of the Atlantic and through the long lines, questioning, and prodding of Ellis Island.

Liam flipped through the photographs, each containing a valuable memory from his young life, then closed the box, blew off the dust, and placed it snug inside his suitcase.

"Dad, are you alright?" He heard Bridget ask him from the doorway. Wiping away his tears, he nodded and stood up. "I do believe I'm ready to go." Bridget smiled and held out her sweaty hand, just like Ruby had done all those years ago. He took it, and in that moment, he said goodbye to his dear wife, now resting in peace all the way up in Heaven, forever. He said goodbye to his life in New York City, to the nearby markets and the pickles that could once be found in barrels throughout the streets.

He was ready to return to his beloved Ireland. To his homeland, his birthplace. His true home, forever.

There was no steamship awaiting them that day, only a plane. There were no questions, only kind smiles and tired sighs. Not unlike Ellis Island, Liam remarked to himself.

"Where are you headed today, sir?" A young TSA officer asked him cheerfully.

Liam took a long, deep breath before answering, "Ireland."