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“Martha and I knew—” He swallows. “Each other from St. Malachy’s. We’ve been goin’ to the same mass for years. I’m the one took care of her legal doin’s, power of attorney, final wishes, and such.” A sheen of tears brightens his eyes when he says final wishes. One small droplet meanders down the length of his long, straight nose before he wipes it away.

“It’s been three months. You could have called or emailed.”

The lawyer wrings his hands then dabs his chin with a knuckle. “It took a bit of doing to finalize all Martha’s wishes.” He nods at the wall of French doors that lead into the apartment and stammers. “All I had was the phone for your place. When no one returned my calls, I checked with the hotel, and they said you’d be by today to clear out.”

From under his herringbone wool overcoat, the lawyer produces a bulging manila envelope and holds it out to me. “This explains the particulars of how Martha wanted things to go.”

I stare at my name printed on the front of the envelope for a beat, baffled at what “particulars” wait for me inside before taking it from him. There’s an awkward pause as if he’s waiting for me to open it. I force a smile. “Today isn’t a good day to tackle this.” I nod at the envelope. “Is there a way to get in touch with you if I have questions?”

His smile is warmer than mine. “Aye…yes. I’ve left my card inside.”

“Thank you.” I really can’t deal with legal crap right now. My emotional energy reserves are occupied with leaving the only home I’ve ever known.

Timothy Yew fusses with his coat, peeking at me through his lashes and waiting for me to add to the conversation. When I don’t, he straightens. “I’ll say my goodbyes then.” He heads down the row but pauses to turn back. “I’m woefully sorry for your loss. Martha was a special person.” Respecting my obvious unease, he retreats down the row. The click of the odd farmer/lawyer’s Sunday shoes against the floor grows faint as he reaches the elevator.

As soon as the doors close and I’m alone, I clutch the envelope of secrets to my chest. A thought punches through the riot in my head. Is there anything in here about my parents? Maybe the latest failed DNA test isn’t my dead end.

I hurry to the apartment and step inside. Instead of the familiar aroma of Máthair’s baking, all I smell is dust. It’s a gut punch not to see a cream-colored linen napkin with a border of green and gold harps beneath an expertly stacked pyramid of soda bread cookies on the dining table. My eyes land on the watercolor of a fox floating in a burst of colorful splatters, leaning against the tower of cardboard boxes near the French door entrance. It’s an ugly thing. I fell in love with it at a street fair in SoHo so my grandmother bought it for me.

Sorrow stabs my chest then radiates through my body. I’ll never go to a street fair with her or taste my grandmother’s lovely soda bread cookies again.

Will the packet from Timothy Yew bring comfort? My throat feels as rough as rope when I swallow. If memories of her cookies drive me to the brink of collapse, who knows what the contents of the lawyer’s envelope will do? I suck it up, hit the light switch, and unwind the string from around the tab on the back of the packet.

Inside the oversized envelope are three smaller ones. I shake them onto the table. Two are document-sized, but it’s the tiny one I tear open first. A simple silver band slides onto the tabletop. It’s the ring Máthair never took off her left hand.

I raise the silver band to the Waterford crystal light fixture hanging above me. Etched in the metal are two words. Strange. I’d always thought the marks were a pattern or design. The second word looks like orm, but the first word is hard to make out. It could be teach. Damn, it’s probably in Irish. I curse myself for not being more diligent in practicing past the rudimentary knowledge of the language I’ve needed in my work. Máthair spoke Irish to me my whole life in bits and pieces, but the words on this ring are elusive. I pull out the coin I found in the greenhouse and hold it next to the ring. They go well together.

I slip the band onto the ring finger of my right hand and kiss it. “I’ll never take you off.” I close my fingers around the disk Máthair lost among her plants. “You neither.” I’ll turn it into a necklace. Máthair’s ring and coin. My treasures.

The next envelope bulges enough to rip part of the side seam. A passport slides out. I wrestle the packet of papers wedged in the envelope free, the culprits of the tear. A letterhead from my grandmother’s bank is on a statement of accounts. I shove it aside to peruse other secrets Timothy Yew and my grandmother kept from me.

I sweep a finger over the documents and stop under the name.

Eala Duir

“Wait. What?”

These aren’t mine. Timothy Yew screwed up. I flip open the passport. Next to a picture of me, there’s my address in Kennard Park and that name again.

Eala Duir

Digging and sifting through the pile of papers on the table doesn’t turn up a single item with Ella O’Dwyer on it. I grab one document so quickly; it slices the pad of my finger. While sticking it in my mouth to avoid bleeding over everything, I gape at another piece in this tangle of what the hell. It’s a birth certificate for Eala Duir. Martha O’Dwyer is listed as my adoptive parent—no hint of the two who made me.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes as if that will erase the weirdness strewn across the table. When I look again, nothing changes. A ball of ice grows in my stomach.

I open the last envelope to get the freak show over with. A ticket to Ireland spills out, a note folded over it. On the front is my name, my real name, Ella, in Máthair’s swoopy cursive.

Ella,

If you’re reading my letter, I’ve passed on but not my love for you, a stór. Forgive me for leaving you without saying things you should be knowing. Your true name is Eala Duir. I took it from you when I made you mine, and now I’m giving it back. Free your spirit, my darling Eala. A glorious life beyond our rooftop or your bitty school town awaits. I’ll be asking one final favor of you. Follow the inscription on the ring I’ve left you. When you do, you’ll understand why you must. Go to Ireland. Go and ye will be found.

All my love in this world and the next,

Your Máthair

“Free my spirit?” I smack the note on the table and howl at the crystal above me. “I don’t want a glorious life.”

My fingers grip the edge of the table and the paper cut bleeds.