Tess was stunned. Her eyes glossed. She was usually quick to respond but not now; now she was speechless. Iris was grateful her friend didn’t rush in to fill the silence with platitudes. She’d heard so many of them down through the years. “You’re so lucky you didn’t have to go through morning sickness!” Or, “You didn’t have to go through the pain of childbirth—you don’t know how lucky you are!” To all such comments from well-meaning mothers, Iris simply and slowly nodded.

There were tears in Tess’s eyes when she finally spoke. “Iris Bowen, you’re the most natural mother I know.”

Just then L had returned. “This way, Mrs. Bowen. Please follow me.” The nurse held the door open. “I think you’ll be fine, Mrs. Bowen. Really. And,” she smiled, “it’s nice to see you again, too.”

A different nurse helped her up onto the examination bed and checked her name and birth date and the file. She patted Iris on the arm. The door opened and a woman dressed in heels and a dark skirt and white coat walked in.

“Hello, Mrs. Bowen, I’m Dr. Browne. I’ll be performing the ultrasound.” The nurse prepared Iris’s breast with gel, then stood by Iris’s side and held her hand. The light from the monitor shined on the doctor’s young face. Dr. Browne took the probe and rolled it over Iris’s left breast with one hand. She stopped and clicked with the other on the keyboard. “Don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Bowen, just taking pictures.” She stopped the probe, centering in on what Iris imagined must be the distortion, and clicked some more.

Even though the probe was cold, Iris felt as if she were being ironed. The doctor pressed hard and rolled the probe back and forth across her left breast. It hurt. Iris tried to imagine all the badness being pressed out of her, like wrinkles in her blue linen dress being steam cleaned, and all the crinkles and creases, corrugations and distortions being ironed away into faultless perfection. A terrifying few moments ensued as the doctor rolled and stopped and clicked. Iris shivered.

“Just want to make absolutely sure. These architectural distortions can be tricky things.” The doctor said nothing for the next little while and looked at the monitor. She replaced the probe and stepped back. She nodded to the nurse, who wiped Iris’s breast clear of the gel and helped her sit up. The doctor waited while Iris adjusted the cape and moved to the edge of the examination table. “Let’s keep an eye on that left breast.” She placed a hand on Iris’s arm. “You’ve got some very busy breast tissue, Mrs Bowen.”

Iris began to cry.

“There’s a lot going on in there.”

It seemed an age before the doctor added, “But I’m happy with what I see. You’ll be fine.”

Iris looked at her. Then she called out: “Tess! Tess!” And without anyone’s say-so, Tess burst into the room.

“Tell her,” Iris said to the doctor. “Tell her what you just said.”

And because Iris Bowen was not, on that day, someone you could deny, Dr. Browne said again: “She has some very busy breast tissue.”

“A lot going on in there,” Iris said.

“A lot going on in there,” repeated the doctor, nodding. “Yes.”

“But…” Tess said.

“But she’ll be fine.”

“But I’ll be fine.” Iris looked to Tess, who was coming to embrace her.

Iris dressed and on the way out of the clinic’s waiting room, passing the half dozen anxious women awaiting their turn, she met L and smiled and went on through the door. As they headed along the hospital’s wide corridor with its framed artwork on freshly painted honey-yellow walls, Iris said to Tess, “Hold on,” and Iris hurried back. She peeked in the door of the outer examination room. L was getting the next blue cape ready. “I’m sorry, but, may I ask? What is your name? It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Latara. My name is Latara.”

“Nice to meet you.” And for no reason she could quite explain she grabbed Latara with the magenta streak. “Thank you,” she whispered. Iris released her hold and was off and out of the clinic so fast, Tess had to skip to keep up with her.

Sixteen

Rose arrives back home on Thursday. With Conor. She approaches through the gate and up the path that leads to the front door, but her mother doesn’t rush to meet her as she expects. Only the cat does.

“Where is she?”

“Your mum?”

“You’d think she’d be here,” says Rose, turning the key. “Her car’s here.” She stops at the door and looks around.

“Not being nosy or anything, but did you tell her what time you were coming back? Did you tell her about me—”

“No.” Rose looks at Conor with narrowed eyes. It’s a look that stops him, but only for a moment. They walk into the kitchen. Iris’s blue Wellies are neatly paired by the back door and propped against a tall vase of flowers on the counter is a note. As Rose begins to read, her face changes.

“What is it?”

“Her appointment. She’s gone to the Breast Clinic with Tess. I didn’t know it was today.”

Conor studies her. Then he waves her hair over her shoulder and leaves his hand on her back. He draws her toward him and she folds into his arms and buries her head. Rose and Conor have been together four days and three nights, but already they are so comfortable in each other’s company that anyone seeing them would think they’d been together for years. Conor sits on the sofa in the kitchen and watches her now. “It’ll be all right, Rosie girl.”

“Yeah,” she says, and she walks back the way they came in and opens the door for the cat. She lifts and holds him. “You want some milk, don’t you, Cicero? Yes, you do. Yes, you do.” The cat tries to climb onto her shoulder while she pours out milk. Rose lets him drink from a saucer on the counter and plays with his tail.

“Breast cancer is really treatable these days, you know. My aunt Fran had it and came through fine. Healthy as a horse now.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Sure. No problem.” He shrugs his shoulders, smiles, pushes back the wooly hat. “But you know—”

“Conor!”

“Right. Got it.” He folds his arms. “The girl knows her own mind,” he says to Cicero when the cat finishes the milk and jumps down to rub himself against Conor’s legs.

Rose says nothing. It’s like there’s a still, airless place inside her and she’s retreated. She tries Iris’s phone but it goes directly to voice mail. She doesn’t leave a message.

Cicero makes his way to the door and Rose follows and lets him out. Conor rises and reaches in his pocket for his keys. “I think maybe I should get going.”

She turns and looks at him. Her eyes are tearful.

“All right,” he says, “you’ve persuaded me, I’ll stay.”

*   *   *

In the late afternoon light in the Ashwood garden, bathed in a half dozen hues of green, sploshes of color punctuate here and there. Red poppies. Spires of blue. White daisies with bright yellow centers. At the bottom of the garden a bush with long blooms of purple is covered in butterflies. Clouds come slowly from the west, drawing across the sky like a silver wave rolling in.

Rose is awfully worried about her mother, but Conor succeeds in distracting her. He asks her if she will play her fiddle.

“You mean my violin,” she says.

“No. I mean your fiddle. The master class was a great success and all, but you’re back in Ireland now, girl. We plays da fiddle here, you know.”

After a brief pause, she laughs and says, “My dad would have liked you.”

He beams, knows it’s the best thing she could have said. “I know you didn’t want me to say anything but I’m telling you now for nothing—you played brilliantly! You really nailed it.”

Rose picks up her fiddle, her bow, and starts tuning.

“You know, Kiwi Surfer Dude isn’t a surfer?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Nope. He’s not.”

“Really? What’s with the poster, then?”

“Just for show.” Conor picks up his fiddle.