I'm almost thinking this might work as the opening. It references volume two...and I have accepted that volume three of APoS will never be a stand-alone story--hell, none of them will--so...
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It's morning in America, according to some Irishman who's been elected president. An actor, I'm told, though I've seen nothing he was in. But his fans are rabid in their devotion, and I suppose I could see why. He knew how to deliver a speech, as any actor would. Not that it mattered. He had nothing to do with me, for I was headed home.
To a place I could no longer call home.
To see my mother, brothers and sister, who were no longer my mother, brothers and sister in an area of the world I was from, but wasn't.
My name is Brendan Kinsella, but it is not. I was born in Derry, twenty-five years ago, last month, but I was not. To all who knew me in Derry, I'm thought dead, though I am not. And that's Londonderry, Northern Ireland, for those who cannot be bothered to know the city's true name. Alleviate at least one aspect of the confusion. If possible. How can one even think to make sense from such a situation?
I've lived in Houston, Texas for more than eight years, even though I haven't, and tried to rebuild a life that wasn't mine. It really belonged to some lad named Brennan McGabbhinn, of Letterkenny in the Republic, who'd died as an infant. Except he hadn't, because all of my immigration papers were in that name. The American government is satisfied with that being my name. Those I've met call me by that name, as do my cousins. The only proof I now have that I am not who that name says I am is my memory, which is patchy, at best.
I can understand the willingness to accept me as someone I am not. It's simple. Easy. Uncomplicated. That's what it said on your visa. That's what it says on your passport. That's what it says on your Green Card. If those papers all agree, why cause trouble when none is at hand?
And why believe a once-mad-lad who might claim otherwise?
Now I have received indications that the British are not yet certain I am who I am not, despite no evidence to the contrary, but I think that is due only to their own bureaucratic stubbornness. Somewhere, somehow they decided they need to speak with this Brendan Kinsella about a bombing he was caught in, and naught can change their vague focus on that.
It's insane, but I can think of no way to reconcile all of this madness except to accept it as it is and do as I always have--as I pleased. Which has led me to both great difficulty and amazing joy.
And sorrow.
In truth, I do not want to return to Derry. It's a city of ghosts, to me. Some of whom I knew. But familial duty has its demands, and despite what people have said against the once-was-me, I honor my duties. So here I am, in my room, packing for the journey.
What can you say about returning to a home that never was? And yet, was. I suppose to a child, anywhere you live is your home. A simplistic view of it, yes, but also true. Perhaps that's why I never honestly felt completely right, in Houston. It was as if I were visiting. Residing. Here but not here. One of her people, but not. As I had been shown, more than once.
More than eight years in this city and I still felt that way.
Near eight years since I'd finally allowed myself to return to myself...to find I wasn't myself. Leave behind that mental and emotional limbo that had surrounded me for a world that welcomed and repelled me.
I was in the same attic space as I'd been in when I first came back from my catatonia, with gable windows looking down on a pool and back yard that were in need of tending. And would still need, long I'd left. My aunt and uncle had drifted into a sort of casual malaise that neither seemed willing to let go of. Perhaps my departure would change that.
A friend of my Aunt Mari’s worked at American Express in The Galleria, so she had set me up to fly out of Intercontinental on B-Cal via Gatwick. Then on to Glasgow, where I'd catch a short-hopper to Derry’s Airport on Logan Air. It was neither fast nor easy nor cheap, but from the moment I'd heard Ma had cancer I'd been saving harder than usual so had more than enough to cover it all. And I was even assured it would be comfortable enough to catch some sleep on the long haul across the water.
My Uncle Sean offered to pay the ticket, he was so glad to be quit of me. Hell, he could barely hold back a smile as he oh-so-deliberately made his offer in front of my aunt. Which grated on me; he knew full well I wanted nothing from him. In the more than four years since my sister, Mairead's visit and the catastrophe that followed, I'd found any polite excuse I could to leave when he entered the room.
Aunt Mari had noticed, for little escaped her sharp eyes, but had said nothing. I'd like to think it's because she thought this anger between us would pass, but to be honest with myself, I half-believed she knew his blackmail was the reason I'm their trained dog, and she had chosen to ignore it for fear I might make an issue of it. How much else she knew didn't matter, to me, for there was naught I could do to change what had happened, had I even wanted to. It was she wed to him, not me...and she had chosen husband over blood.
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