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This story is a continuation of A Question of Balance. Thus far: Three women, centuries old and practitioners of Draihoidel, the old arts, had come along side a girl in desperate need of understanding and encouragement. Each had taken the form of mortals to influence three souls close to the girl. The fourth member of the group, the girl’s brother had been a practitioner of the old arts for only a few days. The women have returned to help the family once again, along with others that need the healing that only love can provide...

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Previously...Graceland Park Cemetery.....

Paul stood and looked down at the ground. A simple plaque with roses on each corner lay at his feet.

“Alice Katherine McGowan Giambrone - My Rose 1979-2006”

“Happy Birthday, honey, I miss you so much.”

It had started to rain, and the drops mixed with his tears and fell off his face onto the flowers he had laid next to her grave. He put his head down; the grief, while bearable, still pierced his heart like a spear even after nine years. He felt something on his shoulder as a nearly invisible woman whispered in strange but soothing words unheard by ear but heard by heart. Fiona smiled as the man put his hand to his face and wept harder, but in some strange sense of peace and relief.

Late that afternoon...

“Hey...Paul...thanks for leaving me such a nice present this morning,” Dave tossed the text on the desk.

“I thought you’d like it.” Paul hadn’t planned it; the assigned reading involving gender issues was just the next chapter in line for review. Dave grinned.

“Well, I’m really not up on that gender stuff, so we just talked about the Celtics game last night.”

“I’m not surprised, Dave, but you’d learn more if you actually read the material. I’m sorry about dumping that in your lap; I had a personal matter to attend to. I’ll pick it up next class.”

“You missed something really strange. You know Mike McCarthy?”

Who didn’t? Mike was popular, even before the whole gender thing with his sister, Paul remembered. And Paul remembered Mike for another reason; he was well meaning, polite, kind, and altogether coasting through his last year in school. He was smart enough to get into college, but was settling on the local county school. Two year schools are great for kids with limited resources, especially when they’re discovering what they want to do. Mike could probably do anything he put his mind to, if only he was motivated.

“Something happen in class?” Paul turned his head sideways and winced at the odd grin on Dave’s face.

“You might say that. He and some kid showed up wearing dresses...dresses...” He laughed, but Paul didn’t follow his lead.

“I know.” Paul leaned back in his chair and smiled. “They asked me if they could and I said yes.”

“You know? And what the...you said yes??” Dave shook his head.

“Yeah...something to do with the Constitution.” Paul tried not to, but his shoulders shook a bit as he laughed softly.

“Seriously, the new boy, Petey? He came to me last Friday afternoon; apparently he’s a transfer, and he feels the need to express himself. I didn’t see anything wrong with it. I didn’t know that Mike was going to follow his lead until I read a note yesterday that he left under my door. Seems the two of them want to support Diane.”

“Oh, shit, no. You mean she’s behind this?” Dave said, looking out the window of the office door.

“Well, two things, Dave... First, no, she’s not behind this. It was the boys’ idea. And second, you should be proud of yourself.” Paul laughed softly and shook his head in wonder and just a little bit of relief.

“Why should I be proud of myself?”

“You just referred to Diane as ‘she.’ See, there’s hope for you yet. Welcome to the Twenty-First Century.”

“Well, Mr. Politically-Correct. You probably won’t like the fact that Phyllis Jenkins wants to see you and me and the boys in her office tomorrow afternoon. An impromptu parent-teacher conference that she called for; she’s pissed at you, at me...at the boys, and probably everybody else in school, considering that Marion is back next Friday and Phyllis goes back to being Assistant-Principal.”

“Temporary power corrupts temporarily?” Paul sighed.

“Anyway, it looks like this whole gender thing just hit the fan, and as far as I’m concerned, I’m keeping my head out of the way... and you’d better, too.” Dave noticed the frown on Paul’s face and continued.

“Look, I know you and she are friends and all, but when push comes to shove, it may mean your job. Are you willing to risk that over friendship?”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do.” He shook his head and half-smiled before fixing his gaze on the photo on his desk. The woman in the picture was smiling at him; almost as if she was approving of what he had just said. He smiled back before finishing,

“Some things are worth risking everything, Dave.”

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At the McCarthy home later that afternoon....

“What do you mean; I’ve got to go to a conference?” Breena looked at the two boys and frowned.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Breena...but we sorta got into trouble for....” Mike pointed to their clothing. His mother Siobhan, rather Janey in her mortal form, interrupted.

“It’s the plan, dear sister. Now you know that things are going to work out alright, don’t you?” Even understanding that the Draehoidel way was working for the good in the family, standing next to her erstwhile late but entirely animated sister still was difficult for Breena to get used to.

“Yes...I suppose. And this little one here? I’m supposed to be takin’ care of him and all, but he’s really not a kid, is he?”

“I’m not even a he,” Petey said, assuming the voice of Calleigh, the matriarch of sorts of the Women. Orla and Fiona were off influencing their charges, leaving her and Janey to work with the family.

“This is on behalf of this family, dear sister, and I know you trust me, even if it seems a bit...odd?” Janey smiled, leaving Breena only slightly encouraged.

“They want you down at school tomorrow afternoon to...discuss why your nephew is wearing girls’ clothes to school. And they sorta think you’re watchin’ out for Petey here since his mother isn’t available.”

“A fine thing...as if takin’ care of a marginally motivated nephew and a fairly new niece wasn’t enough? Well, fine. Just point me in the right direction and tell me what to say.” Breena shook her head.

“Well, that’s just it, sister mine. I’m not telling you a thing to say. In that, you’re on your own. You go to the school, and you’ll know what to say. I’ve every confidence in you that by the time the conference is over, everybody will know what’s what and who’s who and just how things should work out for all the McCarthy’s, aye?” Petey, rather Calleigh, nodded in approval as Breena shook her head once more before retreating into the kitchen, but not before saying,

“I expect that since you’re here, you two will be stayin’ for supper? You eat food, don’t you?” Janey turned to the others before turning back toward Breena, who stood with her hands on her hips in the kitchen doorway.

“I may be only recently deceased and Calleigh here may be centuries old, but we both still do so appreciate a fine meal, sister dear.”

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Dave's apartment that evening...

Dave sat at his kitchen table, eating yet another meal by himself. He was anxious about the meeting the next day, and was barely able to finish dinner. He thought about what Paul had said about risk. He had nothing to risk because apart from his possessions, he really had nothing. His mother had died years ago and his father? Things hadn’t been right for a long time; not since his brother died. He was alone; or rather he felt alone. Orla was sitting, unseen, at the table with him. She held his hand, even though he felt nothing, and she prayed for wisdom.

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Paul's townhouse that evening...

Paul sat quietly in the living room; the lights were turned off and the sound of Dervish came softly from the CD player. It had been a long day, and he was revisiting the grief of the morning as he closed his eyes; ’s face filled his memory and he heard her soft voice singing as if she were sitting beside him. Fiona sat on the couch next to him, unseen. She had wondered if her actions were manipulative until she remembered a note she had found that afternoon in a book on Paul’s shelf at work.

“Be happy and find someone who’s as cute as I am,” Kate had written.

“You and I will have plenty of time to catch up, but for now, live your life, okay? I love you very much. I know I won’t ever need to remind you to remember me, Paul....Just remember to remember yourself, okay. Till we meet again. Katherine”

Fiona smiled at the thought of just how many souls would be crowded into Phyllis’ office tomorrow and she laughed loudly. She put her hand over her mouth to stifle the laughter until she remembered that Paul could neither see nor hear her, causing her to laugh even louder.

For the stranger's land may be bright and fair,
And rich in its treasures golden.
But you'll pine, I know, for the long, long ago
And the love that is never olden.

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Phyllis' condo that evening....

Phyllis Jenkins sat in her apartment, her home aglow with light as played just low enough not to upset her neighbor. She was thankful for the corner apartment. She held the picture in her hands tenderly; an uncharacteristic gesture for anyone who didn’t know her. The boy in the picture was fourteen and the girl was only slightly older by a few minutes. The girl wore jeans and a knit purple top, nearly duplicated with the boy’s lavender top... her twin brother. She recalled the day the picture was taken.

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“Listen, Eddie...I’ll do the talking, okay...you just stand behind me and crouch. They won’t know what hit them.”

“I hope so...I don’t know what I’d do if they got angry...you think this is okay?” The boy’s face was a mask of fear.

“Sure...Mommy and Daddy love us...What can they say? Trust me...it’ll be fine.” The girl patted her twin on the back.

It wasn’t fine.

“What the hell, Phyllis? Are you crazy? This is the stupidest thing you two have ever pulled,” the father said. She began to cry, matching the sad sounds coming from the boy on the couch beside her, who was weeping from the figurative and literal slap in the face from only moments before.

“Get up...get into the bathroom and take that shit off. No son of mine is going to act this way.” He faced the twins once more before turning his attention to their mother.

“This is your fault...you indulge him like...well you’re just too easy...”

The sound of breaking glass woke Phyllis as the picture fell to the floor. She stared at the photo and remembered the day after the picture was taken.

“Phyllis...honey...sit down....” Her mother had grabbed her by the hands as she walked in the door after school. She had barely gotten settled when her father walked into the living room, his face a mask of grief mixed with rage. He stood in front of them and glared before speaking.

“This is your fault...the two of you!” He stormed off as Phyllis turned to her mother in confusion.

“Honey....I....Eddie....he....” She collapsed in her daughter’s arms and wept. No need for explanation; the details of his death would follow soon enough. The family died that day. A father who left his family even while remaining as a rageful alcoholic. A mother who grieved for a dead son while neglecting her daughter. A twin who died in fear and hopelessness, leaving a sister who felt abandoned to a life of misplaced guilt and shame. And a girl who grew up feeling that she had to see things were done the right way...so that no one would ever feel the grief and shame and loss that she felt on her fifteenth birthday.

She looked again at the photo, twisted a bit from the broken frame, but still straight enough to display the smiles of two loving girls; frozen in time as nearly identical twins with two different futures. One brief and filled with doubt and rejection; the other long and painful while also filled with doubt and rejection. Phyllis reached down and picked up the photo from the floor and held it close to her chest and wept. And Calleigh put her hand on the woman’s right over her heart, her own eyes filled with tears as well, but tears of renewal and hope and love.

A Stá³r Mo Chroá­, when the evening's mist
Over mountain and sea is falling,
won't you turn away from the throng
And maybe you'll hear me calling.
For the sound of a voice that is surely missed
For somebody's quick returning.
A ruin, a ruin, oh won't you come back soon
To the ones who will always love you.

Next: Replacing the Irreplaceable

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A Stor Mo Chroi
Words by Brian O'Higgins
Traditional Irish Melody
as performed by Dervish
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oARdc1EqhWE