Sean smiled. Menstruation? Sex? Mr. Girardi was in for a surprise. "Well, that's a very reasonable concern," he said. "Some guys wouldn't know how to handle it. For myself, a good portion of my career has been in poverty-stricken areas, working with refugees from natural disasters and wars. I've treated and counseled girls dealing with terrible trauma. Rape and childbirth complications are common, unfortunately. So I'd be pretty comfortable talking about tampons and STDs. I think when you're comfortable, the patient feels better about opening up."

"Huh," said Mr. Girardi, practically wheezing now. "You've got a point there." After a laborious sigh, he conceded. "Well, I suppose we should get you in here ASAP."

Arrangements were made for an interview the following morning. Sean hung up knowing he'd better have very good answers to all of their questions. He booted up Deirdre's laptop and surfed nursing sites on pediatrics and working in schools, jotting down notes on whatever he needed to brush up on.

Every half hour or so he'd check his e-mail. Oh, let's be honest, he thought, it's more like every five minutes. So far Rebecca hadn't responded. It was Thursday, and she'd be at work, he told himself. But like an allergic sneeze or a facial tic, the checking felt beyond his control.

He wanted more information about Yasmin's clinic and sent off a note to the e-mail address she'd included in her letter. Maybe there was something particularly appealing about it. Maybe they used massage for the really traumatized patients.

Unlikely. But it was worth a try.

The next day an enormous box arrived.

"What's in it? Where'd it come from?" Kevin was dying to know.

"It's a surprise," said Sean. "We'll open it when I get back from an appointment I have."

"What appointment?"

"Nothing. Just something I have to do." He didn't want Kevin to get his hopes up about the sub nurse position, especially after talking with the less-than-enthusiastic Mr. Girardi.

"Why is everything a secret?" Kevin whined.

"Because it is. Now go walk the dog, and I'll be back in an hour."

Sean drove over to the middle school with his pile of notes on the passenger seat. At stoplights he glanced over them and gave them one last look-through in the parking lot.

There were two people waiting for him in the main office. One was Mr. Girardi, who was about a head shorter than Sean and had a torso like a beach ball. His thick glasses needed a good wipe.

"This is Penny Coyne," he said, indicating a tiny woman with short black hair and a sharp beak of a nose. "She'll be taking the lead nurse position while Kelly Krasmus is out on medical leave. When Kelly comes back, Penny will return to the part-time position we're hiring for now."

The interview proceeded through Sean's qualifications and experience. Penny was particularly interested in his work with refugees, asking about how he'd dealt with the emotional trauma of his patients. The depth and thoughtfulness of her questions were impressive, given that she'd never worked anywhere but suburban Boston.

Mr. Girardi checked his watch several times. "Penny, I think we should move on to talking about Mr. Doran's knowledge of school populations."

"Just one more thing," she said. "Why do you want this job?"

Sean had prepared a response to this very question that involved his respect for the important work of school nurses, blah, blah blah . . . But he liked Penny, and he didn't want to dish off some brown-nose baloney. So he told her about Kevin not having parents around, needing moral support for the transition to middle school. He also mentioned his plan to go to Haiti. "Kevin should be pretty well settled by October. The timing's perfect."

They discussed the job, which appeared to consist of an extra set of hands for Penny, who would be doing all the administrative work. Sean wouldn't even have access to computer files. As far as he could see, he just had to show up, help triage the real medical issues from the get-out-of-class scams, apply common sense and the occasional ice pack to each, and keep his hands washed. A heck of a lot easier than remembering the "extra hot" at the end of "half-caf skinny latte, shot of sugar-free caramel, two Splendas."

On his way home, he stopped by the Confectionary and picked up Mr. McGrath, Cormac's father. They had a job to do.

"What's in it?" Kevin begged as the three of them carried the enormous box around to the backyard. "What is this thing? Tell me!"

"It's a trampoline," said Sean, grinning at him.

"No. Way."

"Way."

They dropped the box in the desired spot just in time for Kevin to do a goofy little happy dance. "I love those!" he yelled.

It was no small task setting it up, and Sean was grateful for Mr. McGrath's savantlike expertise at assembly, even if it did come with a bit of under-breath muttering of "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" After a lot of sorting pieces, attaching things, hoisting this, and holding that for Mr. McGrath, Sean and Kevin took the trampoline for a test bounce.

"THIS . . . IS . . . SO . . . AWESOME!" Kevin sang out, one bounce to every word. Sean didn't think he'd ever heard the boy be so loud. "Come on, Mr. McGrath, you have to try it!"

Sean wasn't sure of the wisdom of this, but Mr. McGrath was apparently unencumbered by such concerns. In moments he was climbing the short ladder and sliding in through the slit in the net. He was careful at first but then caught his stride, a wide grin gracing his face as his round belly shifted up and down with each bounce. "Good-bye gravity!" he called out.

After a little while Mr. McGrath got tired and Sean drove him home. On his way back he was thinking about Kevin screaming on the trampoline and smiling to himself. So satisfying. Such joy. And it was a relief to discover that even when you felt heartbroken and raw, the joy of someone you loved could still make you feel almost okay.

As he passed back through Belham Center he saw her car parked in front of the hardware store. He slowed to look at it, Rebecca's car, imbued with Rebecca-ness, and narrowly avoided slamming into the pickup stopped in front of him at the light. When he turned back, Rebecca was coming out of the store with a bag in her arms. The door was being held from behind, and then a man emerged carrying a can of paint. Medium height, light brown hair. And smiling, the bastard.

Sean was pretty sure he had a minor stroke at that moment because the whole way home his brain felt like it was melting. The rest of him just felt numb. He wasn't entirely sure how he got back, but when he did, Kevin was still bouncing and Sean slumped down onto the garden bench to watch him. Kevin entertained him with different poses for each jump, his skinny limbs curling up or striking out with wanton grace, and Sean could feel his vitals starting to normalize a little. The boy's unabashed grin made him look much younger. Sean could imagine a three-year-old Kevin beaming just as happily when his father threw him into the air.

Look, Hugh. Sean sent the thought out to the cosmos. I found a way to toss him.

At least he had that.

Later that evening Sean checked his e-mail and found one message in his in-box. The sender was Rebecca Feingold.

Hi Sean, Thanks for letting me know about your trip. I think it's great that you're going, and I'm glad Kevin likes his grandfather. Have a wonderful time.

Rebecca No love.

CHAPTER 48.

The flight to Ireland felt strange to Sean. He'd never sat on an airplane with anyone he actually knew before. He'd always loved the idea of flying-that you could get so quickly to a location that was radically different from the one you just left. He was not a souvenir guy, never kept anything from one experience to bring to the new one. There was enormous freedom in that.

Kevin had never been on a plane before, and was completely enthralled by the spaciousness of the terminal and the cacophony of color pulsing from the shops and food stalls. But once they were on board, he started to get that irritated look.

"I can't sit here," he murmured to Sean. "It's too squished." He was wedged between Sean in the aisle seat and Da by the window. Sean switched with him. But when people started brushing by him he didn't like that, either. The flight attendant's cart was the last straw. They switched again, putting him by the window and Sean in the middle.

It was an overnight flight, and Sean hoped the boy would fall asleep, but he was too distracted. "It smells so bad in here," he kept telling Sean. "Like plastic and metal and old rugs."

"Well, basically, that's what it is." This did not help matters.

When someone nearby began to eat something that smelled like a dead animal-Sean guessed liverwurst-Kevin panicked. "I have to get out!" he muttered furtively. Sean grabbed a bag of honeyed peanuts the flight attendants had delivered. "Smell these," he said.

"I'm not gonna stick my nose in a snack bag for the whole trip!"

They took walks, which helped, but neither of them got any sleep. After watching the sun rise through the tiny window of one of the hatches, they returned to see that Da had taken the window seat. "I want to see my home from the air," he said. A skirmish ensued.

"Da," Sean said wearily, "please just give me a break here." With thirty minutes left to the flight, the boy finally fell asleep, his grandfather leaning across him to look out the window.

Da was teary, Kevin was cranky, and Sean was wondering what the hell he'd been thinking as they went to find their rental car. But once they'd left the airport and made their way past Limerick and onto the N-21, Kevin conked out again and Da busied himself with serving as navigator. He marveled at the spread of the towns and the wind turbines that now spiked the ridges of Stack's Mountains. As they passed on to the Dingle Peninsula, there was a shift in Da, a skittishness as he neared the land of his boyhood. He muttered things Sean couldn't understand. Then he let out a groan. "I've lost it," he said.

"What?"

"The Irish. I can read it-there, that one?" He pointed to a road sign that said ToG GO BOG e. "That says 'Take it easy.' Not a bad suggestion, by the way. You're driving awful fast." He sighed. "But I don't know if I can make conversation."

Da had chosen the Beiginis Bed & Breakfast in Dunquin for its proximity to the Blasket Ferry and for a note on its Web site: Failte faoi Leith roimh Gaeilgeoiri. He'd proudly translated this for Sean: "Irish speakers particularly welcome." But now he wasn't so certain he qualified.

"Well, I'm sure you don't have to speak Irish," Sean reassured him.

"It's a matter of pride!"

For Sean it was only a matter of not driving off the side of the narrow mountainous road. He didn't care if they spoke Martian when he got there, as long as he could sleep for a couple of hours. He was just grateful to keep his wits about him and remember to drive on the left.

Da had fully given up on navigating by the time they hit Ventry. He couldn't take his eyes off the landscape, head swinging back and forth like a metronome, trying to absorb every detail. "All so different," he mumbled intermittently with, "That's just as I remember it."

Mount Eagle rose brown and bare on their left as they traveled down into the town of Dunquin. A twinkle of light, like a flash from a signal mirror, made Da cry out, "Stop!" Sean hit the brakes. With no cars in sight, there was no reason not to stop right there in the middle of the road. Then he realized that what he saw was the sunlight glinting off water in the distance.

"There!" said Da. "That's the island."

Sean squinted his sleep-starved eyes. "Oh, yes," he said, only because he knew the old man so desperately needed him to. He let the car move forward again. Kevin stirred in the back.

"Are we there?" he yawned.

"Very soon, cuisle mo chroi."

"What's 'cushla macree'?"

"Just an endearment," Da explained. He pointed things out to them: that shuttered building had been a pub; the small house over there had been a store.

"A store?" said Kevin.

"Well, not a Stop and Shop, lad. It was just a place for supplies."

"Like a convenience store?"

"Exactly like!" Da laughed. "Except it only carried about ten items-and from the island, wasn't terribly convenient!"

In another minute they were pulling onto a smaller uphill road and then into a driveway. The house was a mustard yellow in color, tidily kept with flower boxes adorning the front windows. When they got out of the car and turned to look downhill, their eyes followed squares of pastures in differing shades of green out to the glinting iron blue of the sea. They stared at the several islands that rose out of the waves. Kevin murmured, "Which one?"

"The biggest," said Da. "That's where I was born."

"There was a hospital out there?"

"Not even a doctor. That was the way of it."

"Are you coming in, at all?" asked a voice with a smile in it. They turned to see a woman in the doorway, dark hair striated with gray, extra padding under the chin. "You're the Dorans?"

They assured her that they were and hauled their bags out of the car. Orla Dunleavy introduced herself as the proprietress and showed them in.

"Dunleavy?" said Da. "Are you an islander?"

"Oh, yes," said Orla. "Well, I never lived there, of course. By the time I came along, my people had moved here to Dunquin." Sean could sense his father's disappointment immediately. "Were your people islanders?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "I am. We were evacuated in fifty-three."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, opening a door to a room with a twin bed and a set of bunks. A soft stream of words came out of her mouth, none of which made the least bit of sense to Sean. All that made sense to him was the horizontal surface of the lower bunk. The bags were dropped and he mumbled something about taking a little rest. The door closed and he was asleep in moments.

When Sean woke it was late afternoon, and the three of them strolled down to the Blasket Island Ferry. There was a little wooden shed with times posted for crossings. They walked down toward the boat landing, to where the steep cement walkway took a hairpin turn, and from there the view of the islands was panoramic, the tiny village on Great Blasket Island just visible in the waning light. Then the clouds on the horizon churned closer, cloaking it in shadow.

"Ah, the rain." Da chuckled to himself. "Sweet Mary, I'd almost forgotten."

They went to Kruger's Pub on Orla's advice. "It's the furthest west you can go in Europe to get a meal and a pint. You shouldn't miss it." There were several families and couples eating at the polished wooden tables. One loud bunch was clearly American. New York, Sean guessed.

"Oh, my gawd, Jimmy, just eat it," said the mother to one of the boys. "We're not stopping again for you."

"I want a Happy Meal," he said sulkily.

"Here's your meal," she said, nudging the plate closer to him. "Be happy, already."

At the bar, three or four older men nursed their pints while a young couple smiled secret smiles, their faces close, murmuring to each other. It hit Sean like an anvil. Rebecca had smiled up at him in just that way, reflecting back his own contentment, her face telling his story.

He looked away. "Here's a table," he said, and took the seat facing the window.

The waitress came over. Da greeted her with "Dia dhuit," and Kevin echoed a sloppy but well-meaning "Dee-a wit."

"Nicely done!" she told him. "You'll soon be speaking Irish as well as your older brother here!" Da let out a guffaw and slapped the table.

Kevin looked confused. "He's my grandfather."

"You don't say!" She murmured something to Da, and he nodded, though his smile dimmed just a little. They ordered their drinks, ginger ale all around.

"What did she say?" Sean asked.

"Something about teaching the next generation, I think." He shook his head. "It's not coming back as I thought it would. Bits and pieces, but not the whole pie."

"Be patient," Sean told him. "In a month you'll be having pie a la mode."