The Mermaids Singing by Lisa Carey Page A

thought to live there permanently. It was an opportunity for employment and schooling, nothing more. I did not run back to Ireland with my tail between my legs as Grace once suggested. I’d wanted to go back all along; it was my decision.
    Mr. Willoughby was from London originally; he’d come to America for his schooling in law, and worked in a real estate firm in Boston. Mrs. Willoughby was an American. She worked as well, as a clothing designer, and she looked her job, sure. So fashionably dressed I was in dread of spilling something on her whenever I served them their dinner. They lived on Beacon Hill, in a flat that was as large as a mansion. They gave me a cozy little room in the attic, with my own toilet. Sound enough people, they were. Just not much time for their baby boy, so I was happy to help in that area. They were Protestants, but this was America, not Ireland, and they did not mind my being a Catholic, and I treated their religious persuasion with the same respect. On Sundays, they took little Michael to services and I went to Mass at St. Joseph’s alone. When I wrote to my father, I let him assume they were Catholic, because he was not as open-minded as I.
    I spoiled little Michael, and he adored me. It was easy enough to give him attention, there being just himself. At home, before my mother died, I’d been swamped with children and it was enough to get them bathed, dressed, fed, undressed, and bathed again, that I didn’t have the time or even the desire to have a favorite. But Michael and I had each other to ourselves. I sang to him, told him fairy stories when he was ready for bed; even on my day off I’d buy him sweets at the shop. By the end of my first year with them, when Michael was learning to speak, he sometimes called me Mama by accident. Mrs. Willoughby, you can imagine, was not thrilled. She spent a few moments before dinner every night, correcting him.
    â€œI’m Mama,” she’d say, pointing to her jeweled and powdered neck. “That’s Cleeoona,” she’d emphasize, pointing to me at the stove.
    â€œMama!” Michael would call, reaching in my direction.
    â€œNo, no,” she’d say, annoyed. “Ma-ma, Ma-ma,” stabbing her chest with his pudgy little hand. To my relief, Michael eventually relented, calling his mother by her proper title. But he wound up calling me “Ooma,” which was close enough to “Mama” to annoy your woman. Eventually, though, she forgot about it, and sometimes slipped up, calling me Ooma herself.
    They paid me well, and I scrimped, so after eighteen months I had enough money saved to put me through my first semester at the nursing college. When I told the Willoughbys that I would be leaving in the fall, they were desperate.
    â€œYou can’t leave us, Cleeoona,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “How would we get along without you?”
    It’s a bit shocked, I was. I had told them my plans when I’d taken the employment, but somewhere along the way they had forgotten—they’d gotten used to me being there, I suppose.
    â€œWhat about Michael?” Mrs. Willoughby said. “Children his age are very impressionable. You can’t just up and rip yourself away from him, can you?”
    I reminded her that the child would still have his parents. “I want to be a nurse,” I said.
    â€œA nurse!” Mr. Willoughby bellowed. “What the devil for? So you can earn an unfair wage and be treated with disrespect by the entire medical community? Nonsense, Clíona, you’re much moreappreciated here. We need you. I’ll double your wages. You can have half Wednesday off as well.”
    In the end I agreed to stay on another year. With the extra wages I’d be able to save enough for the entire nursing course, plus living expenses. Then I’d be fit to get through school without having to take a job that would interfere with my studies. It wasn’t