Thin Places Read online

  I said.

  This is my other special place

  where I reconnect.

  You do a lot of reconnecting.

  I need to in order to survive.

  It gets lonely

  very lonely.

  Why?

  Not yet

  she said.

  Not yet.

  Research

  The voice was gone.

  She was gone.

  The images

  however

  were burned into my memory.

  I went home

  and got online

  hoping to track down those images.

  I started with beaches.

  Do you know how many beaches there are in the world?

  A lot. And no one knows the exact number

  but some crazy math guy posted what he believes to be

  the number of grains of sand in all the world’s beaches

  which is 5,000 billion billion

  or 5 sextillion.

  Now you know.

  But I digress.

  I looked at what seemed like

  a thousand

  internet images of beaches

  but nothing like what I had seen.

  All I could figure out from memory

  was that it was not a tropical beach

  or an arctic beach

  or a desert beach

  which still left a lot of beaches.

  So I gave up on that.

  Boy on a Mission

  I figured I’d run into the same thing

  if I went looking for mountains

  so instead, I decided

  to look for

  piles of rocks.

  And

  lo and behold

  I saw a pile of rocks

  like the one I had seen in my head.

  A huge pile of rocks

  the size of a building

  that was man-made

  and it had a name.

  The pile of rocks

  was called a cairn.

  Not Just a Pile of Rocks

  In ancient times in some parts of the world

  people were buried on hilltops or in fields

  under a pile of rocks.

  Guess it seemed like the thing to do

  around 6,000 years ago.

  In parts of Europe, the cairns were built with passages

  portals to the spiritual world

  for the dead.

  I saw pictures of them in England

  and Scotland and France

  and then Ireland.

  And then I remembered

  an old family photo

  of my crazy Uncle Seamus

  with my grandfather

  standing beside a tall pile of rocks

  not like the one in my head

  but a pile of rocks nonetheless.

  Uncle Seamus Remembered

  He was my mother’s brother

  and he didn’t have Skype or internet

  or anything like that

  but he did have a phone.

  I’d been close to him when I was a kid.

  Crazy Uncle Seamus, my father called him.

  He’d moved here from the west coast of Ireland

  to try living in North America

  but he didn’t like it:

  too crowded

  too fast

  too North American

  bad beer

  everything was metal and plastic.

  I likes sea and sky

  and empty fields

  he said

  and not much else.

  He told me that I should stay in touch

  with my Irish heritage.

  You are the only son

  of an only son

  of an only son

  of an only son

  and that

  makes you special.

  I didn’t really know why

  but I got the point.

  Just always remember

  Declan

  It’s your adventure

  so you be the hero.

  He and my father didn’t get along even though my father had grown up near Seamus in County Sligo, Ireland. My mother was from there as well, of course. We were an all-Irish family but my father rejected everything about the place and swore it was behind him and he — or any of us — would never go back.

  I was sad when Seamus moved back

  to his old stone house in Ballyconnell

  near the city of Sligo in Ireland.

  And then we lost touch

  and he just seemed like someone

  living in another world.

  The Phone Call

  I had to look up how to call Ireland

  and finally got it right.

  Dial 011 and then 353.

  It was 10 o’clock at night here

  and I wasn’t thinking about time zones.

  Holy Mother of God

  he answered.

  Who would be calling me

  at two o’clock in the morning?

  I didn’t know what to say at first.

  It’s me

  I finally blurted out.

  Me? Who is me?

  If you’re not the Pope

  or Saint Patrick himself

  then I don’t want to talk to ya.

  Uncle Seamus, it’s me.

  What?

  Declan.

  Jesus, boy. Declan.

  Is something wrong?

  No. Not really.

  There was some coughing and throat clearing.

  Well, then.

  How are things?

  And Then Something Strange Happened

  Before I could say anything

  I suddenly felt very

  very

  strange.

  I wanted to try to fill in the time

  the years

  since Uncle Seamus had left.

  But I didn’t know where to begin.

  It was like all my life I was a stranger

  living among strangers

  an observer watching me go through the motions

  from a great distance.

  Hello?

  Seamus said.

  Declan, you there?

  The fog began to clear.

  I saw the mountaintop again.

  Sorry

  I said.

  It’s just that

  Just what?

  I didn’t know what I had to say

  or why I was even calling him

  so I reported the only thing

  that was now sweeping through my mind.

  I think I’m in love.

  Well then

  he said.

  It was worth

  waking up for

  after all.

  The Story So Far

  I told Seamus everything:

  the voice

  the girl

  the sea

  the beach

  the mountaintop

  and the pile of rocks — the cairn

  The problem is

  I said

  now that she’s found me

  I feel less connected to

  anything here.

  Not even my own life.

  I feel like I don’t

  belong here.

  I took a gulp of air.

  And worse yet

  she’s just a voice

  an image in my head.

  I can’t be with her

  or touch her.

 
I can’t …

  Hold your horses

  Uncle Seamus said.

  Describe

  that pile of rocks.

  So I did.

  Knocknarea

  he said suddenly.

  Queen Maeve’s tomb.

  You’ll need to get over here

  as quickly as you can.

  There’s no way around it.

  My Parents’ Ireland

  My mother knew everything

  there was to know about her old home

  old Irish beliefs and superstitions

  stones that had magic powers

  Irish saints and the ancient people.

  But my father on the other hand

  seemed to hate and reject everything

  about the country

  he was born in.

  I grew up in poverty

  he said.

  We were held back

  trapped by silly beliefs

  and religion

  and tradition

  and ridiculous stories

  and stupid songs

  and fiddle players

  and drink.

  The only thing that can save Ireland

  is science.

  And maybe even science

  can’t save those bloody bumpkins.

  And that’s what he had to say about Ireland.

  My Irish Blood

  My father wouldn’t allow books about Ireland in the house

  and Uncle Seamus (while he was here)

  was an embarrassment

  until he abandoned us for the stone house in Ballyconnell

  and I couldn’t see why being the single son of a single son, etc.

  was important.

  And it probably wasn’t.

  My father said all the single son stuff

  about him and me

  was “bollocks and shite.”

  But I wondered sometimes when I was young

  what life would have been like for me

  if I’d grown up in Ireland.

  And now it was in my head again

  because she was in my head.

  And if the cairn made any sense

  if Uncle Seamus made any sense

  then Rebecca

  was Irish

  and if she was Irish, I wondered

  does that mean she is real?

  And if she is real

  then …

  Then what?

  Eight Things Not to Do in Ireland

  (Learned from an unreliable source on the internet late at night.)

  1. Don’t claim to be Irish if you didn’t grow up there.

  2. Don’t fake an Irish accent.

  3. Don’t ask about leprechauns.

  4. Don’t ask about “the Troubles.”

  (I had to look up what the Troubles were and

  oh boy, they were definitely troubles.)

  5. Don’t ever try to sing “Danny Boy.”

  6. Don’t kiss the Blarney Stone.

  (Locals pee on it at night when the tourists aren’t around.)

  7. Don’t ask for corned beef and cabbage.

  8. Don’t ask anyone for directions.

  (Unless you are prepared to hear their life story.)

  One Thing To Do in Ireland

  Go visit “thin places.”

  (Learned later that night after falling asleep

  and waking up to the voice of Rebecca

  in my head.)

  Girl in My Bedroom

  I had fallen asleep

  yes at my computer

  and she woke me up.

  I was in my underwear

  as I heard her voice

  and began to see her come into focus

  (as the whole room seemed to go out of focus).

  Yikes

  I said out loud.

  What?

  she said

  You think I’ve never seen a boy

  in boxer shorts?

  I felt my face go red

  and scrambled around the room

  to find my pants.

  You’re from Ireland

  I said

  not from some other planet.

  Are you disappointed?

  No. It’s just …

  Just what?

  Well, if you are from Ireland

  and you were trying to contact me

  why didn’t you just jump on a plane

  and come meet me?

  I can’t do that.

  Why?

  I’m different

  she said it firmly

  and didn’t explain

  so I didn’t ask.

  Tell me about thin places

  I said.

  Her face lit up and her eyes widened.

  These are places where they say

  the spirit world and the physical world

  are close together.

  Sacred places

  ancient burial sites.

  Like mountaintops with cairns?

  You’ve been doing your homework.

  I told her about my conversation with Uncle Seamus.

  You called Ireland?

  On the phone. I forgot about time zones.

  Time zones are interesting.

  If you understand time zones

  you’ll eventually figure out there are

  other kinds of “zones” as well.

  Now I’m a little scared.

  Don’t be.

  Hey.

  Hey what?

  Why don’t you tell me your phone number

  I said

  and I’ll call you.

  Then we can really talk.

  I don’t have a phone.

  Skype?

  No.

  Email?

  No.

  You’re a little behind with your technology.

  (Maybe I was thinking of my dad’s version of Ireland.)

  Just the opposite

  she said.

  I’m way ahead.

  You can hear me, right?

  See me?

  That’s true.

  Then who needs smartphones or email?

  Travel

  I want you to close your eyes

  she said.

  I’m going to take you somewhere else.

  So I closed my eyes

  and suddenly felt like I was falling down a dark endless shaft.

  Don’t be scared

  Rebecca said.

  That feeling will go away.

  And it did.

  Now open your eyes

  but don’t really open your eyes.

  Strangely, that made sense.

  And with my open eyes but eyes still shut

  I saw

  a little old stone cottage

  Where am I?

  Shush. Just look and listen.

  The stone cottage was by a rocky shoreline

  on a small cove of some sort.

  There was a funny little boat by the shore

  and there were fishnets drying on rocks.

  The sun was hidden by cloud

  and it was drizzling a little

  and I heard gulls and lapping waves

  and smelled something funny

  something burning.

  Must have been the smoke from the chimney.

  Just then

  a man opened the door of the cottage and stepped out

  a youngish man smoking a pipe

  and he looked up at the sky

  as if expecting something.

&n
bsp; I noticed then there were no other cottages

  no other people

  nothing

  but grey drippy sky and grey choppy sea

  and stone

  and then a boy

  of about eight

  came out of the house

  and stood beside the man

  who must have been his father.

  I waited.

  I thought there might be a wife

  a mother

  but there was no one else.

  And then the man turned toward me

  as if he knew I was watching.

  His eyes were very blue, very intense

  and his face

  was filled with sadness

  as he put his hand

  on his son’s shoulder.

  The boy did not turn toward me

  but the man’s face

  told me a story:

  here was the loneliest man

  in the world.

  Loneliness Squared

  When I woke up the next morning

  nothing felt right.

  Everything seemed wrong:

  my thoughts

  the room around me

  the sky outside my window.

  I looked at my hands

  like I’d never seen them before.

  What was happening to me?

  More than ever, I felt

  I didn’t belong here

  only now it was amplified, multiplied

  to a point I cannot describe.

  I felt like I had somehow been infected

  by the loneliness of the man I had seen by the shoreline.

  Rebecca had done this to me.

  Why?

  I had no answers.

  The loneliness I now felt

  seemed worse because she was not here with me.

  Was this some bizarre kind of witchcraft?

  Was she a witch?

  I didn’t believe in witches.

  Rebecca

  I silently begged.

  Save me from this

  this feeling.

  English Class

  I tried to shake the loneliness

  by talking to kids at school

  but I wasn’t good at it.

  I kept saying stupid things

  and kids gave me looks

  so I gave up

  trying to communicate

  with them.

  Rebecca didn’t return until English

  in the middle of Mr. Frye reading

  from Julius Caesar by Shakespeare.

  “Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.”