Suzanne Beecher

Dear Reader,

The quality of writing in the Write a DearReader Contest was outstanding. Today's Honorable Mention piece was written by Diane O'Neill. Thank you very much Diane, for sharing your story with us.

Bloody Hand O’Neill
 
My most famous ancestor is probably Bloody Hand O'Neill.
 
Never heard of him? Google our family crest. Red hand, smack in the middle.
 
My ancestor's hand.
 
That, according to legend, he chopped off himself. To become an Irish king.
 
I'm not sure how Bloody Hand and I could be related in any way whatsoever. I had blood drawn this morning, and I sang Christmas carols under my breath to get through the prick. I kept thinking of the egg breakfast I'd treat myself to, afterwards.
 
I don't do needles well.
 
Swords? Are you kidding?
 
But ol' Bloody Hand wasn't a wimp like his descendant here.
 
Here's the story, as told me by my father...
 
A bunch of Celts were on their way to Ireland in old-time boats, the kind you rowed with oars. The deal was that the first person whose flesh touched Irish soil would be king.
 
My ancestor must have had fierce royal ambitions. No ordinary peasant would he be. He wanted crown and scepter and whatever kings wore back then. He would never accept anything short of victory.
 
But he didn't have the best of luck. Just as he approached the ol' sod, his oar broke.
 
Me? I would have sighed and figured there were worse things than being a peasant.
 
Wait, let me be honest. I'd have grumbled quite a bit and descended into furious self-pity, and friends and family would have been tempted to toss me out of the boat.
 
But not ol' Bloody Hand!
 
My ancestor drew his sword-- and CUT OFF HIS HAND-- and threw it to Irish soil.
 
Presto! He won! He became king.
 
Um... yeah, still thinking I would have preferred the peasant route. (Or grumbling and annoying loved ones.)
 
Is this story true? Google suggests it may be myth, and there are alternate versions.
 
But if it were true... and considering it's lived on this long, perhaps the heart of it is...
 
What would O'Neill's life have been like, afterwards?
 
I'm sure he heard many Team O'Neill cheers. But in the quiet, alone... Did he ever regret his choice?
 
Sure, centuries later, he's honored on the family crest. I'm writing to you about him right now. He's remembered.
 
But did he ever look down, where his hand was supposed to be?
 
I'm not a chip off the ol' sword. I'm not very brave, and I'm wimpy about physical pain. But are there ways I'm like him?
 
I admire his drive. He didn't let anything stand in his way. He refused to see a broken oar as an obstacle. That perseverance is something to emulate (although drawing line at removing body parts).
 
But do I injure myself needlessly? Do I, too, have an unhealthy desire for rank, attention, other people's admiration?
 
I think I did as a child and teen. After my third grade teacher praised me for writing a story, I became hooked on praise. Grades started to matter, maybe because the only praise I received was from teachers for schoolwork. That attention nourished me.
 
But there was a negative side to that focus. When my class rank dipped two points in high school, I became depressed. I felt worthless.
 
I was hard on myself-- cutting off, not a hand, but something.
 
It's a shame my high school self wasn't able to shrug and say, "Oh well, I did my best. Onward."
 
Likewise, it's a shame O'Neill hadn't valued himself whole enough to say, "Oh well, I did my best" when his oar broke.
 
I've been lucky to find my people, who love me, just because. Which helps me value myself, just because.
 
I hope my ancestor eventually was able to sit by some peat moss fire with his circle, too, people who loved him just because, to heck with royalty. Who loved him for himself, bloody hand and all.

– Diane O’Neill

Honorable Mention, 2024 Write a DearReader Contest

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@firstlookbookclub.com

P. S. This week we're giving away 10 copies of the book Promise Me Sunshine by Cara Bastone. Click here to enter for your chance to win. 

(continued from Wednesday)

Chapter Two

Little-known fact: the Staten Island Ferry is the city's only twenty-four-hour bar. It goes back and forth all night and they never kick you off. Which is extremely useful whenever

I can't face going home.

I didn't see Miles again before this Harper person came to relieve me. I had to be back at work in just six hours, and let's just say the commute all the way out to Brooklyn and back was the reason I chose to call the Staten Island Ferry my home for the night.

Let's ignore the fact that even in the best of circumstances I avoid my apartment at all costs. It's a mausoleum and the physics of time and space do not make sense in there. I can step into my apartment and three days will pass with nothing but a box of cereal to eat and nary a shower.

So these days I prefer to sleep anywhere but my own bed. Which is why at twelve-forty-five at night I find myself washing my face in the ferry's bathroom and admitting that this Miles guy might be right about my appearance. I've got raccoon eyes and messy hair—far too long and scraggly-tied back haphazardly. My skin is dry, no makeup. My (once beloved) eyebrow piercing looks depressingly like a mistake in this lighting. My clothes are rumpled from the day and it's clear I've lost way too much weight way too fast.

Just because he's right about the way I look doesn't make him less of an asshole. Because he blamed it on alcoholism or a drug addiction, which is dickish to disparage in the first place. But what am I supposed to do, wear a sign? Not strung out, just having a debilitating mental health crisis while navigating the most excruciating chapter of my life.

That should go over well at the babysitting gigs.

All of the peppy laughter and encouraging creativity I dug up for Ainsley evaporates as I look at my dripping face in the mirror. All I've got left is the suffocating, impending fog of the night, trying desperately to find sleep that will definitely not come.

I find a secluded area and prop my backpack behind my head. Hey, who turned on the waterworks. All the tears I didn't cry in front of Ainsley start sliding down my face.

Maybe I sleep. Hard to tell, really, but at five-thirty a.m. a businesswoman in pumps clacks past and I jolt back to full consciousness. I'm a symphony of creaky joints and yawns as I head to the other side of the ferry to wait for dry land.

Disembarking in Manhattan, I start the ascent back to Reese and Ainsley's. When I make it to the Upper West Side, I reach into my pocket and search out the little laminated slip of paper I carry with me everywhere I go. The corners, once sharp, are softened with relentless worrying from my fingers. It reminds me that all I have to do is get my shit together long enough to hang out with this awesome kid. I can do that much.

Once I'm on their elevator, I slide my hand off the laminated paper. By the time I step onto their floor, I've fully gathered myself for work.

Of course Miles is the first person I see, waiting outside the door to their apartment for Harper to come let him in. "Oh. Hi," I say.

He grunts and stares at the closed door.

He's clearly not going to provide any chitchat to fill the silence. Because he's a ghoul. But in my former life, I was actually quite a lovely person and apparently old habits die hard even when macheted. "How was your night?" I hear myself ask.

He turns and glances at me from head to toe. I'm sure I look like a Monster Mash loyalist.

"Restful," he says, and I swear there's a world buried in that word.

"How lucky," I reply, and Harper swings the door open.

"Come in! Come in." She's bent over, one finger slid into the back of the high heel she's hopping her way into. She's wearing an Ally McBeal–style skirt suit and absolutely devouring the look. A year ago, in my former life, I'd probably have demanded she write down what kind of shampoo she uses. Her eyes catch on Miles. "Oh. Miles. Reese mentioned you'd probably be here."

Miles scratches the back of his head and slightly lifts his chin.

That's it. That's the whole greeting.

Harper's brow comes down, but she turns back to me, clearly inured to him. "Ainsley is already up, but she hasn't had breakfast yet. See you around nine tonight, Lenny?"

"Sure! Great. Have a good day at work." I flash her a double thumbs- up and she grins and flashes one back to me.

And then she's off toward the elevator and I just manage to shoulder my way into the front door an inch before Miles. "So," he says behind me, but then Ainsley slides into the hallway in socks, Risky Business style. "Hey, Lenny, come see what I made."

I follow her into the living room and even though there's a cartoon playing on the TV, Ainsley's got her back to it. All the stuffies from her bed have been carted out and they're organized in a formation. I drop to my knees next to her to better observe. There's a tie-dye bear on a little pedestal of books, facing all the other stuffies, who have been carefully arranged to sit shoulder to shoulder in a big square.

"They're at a concert," Ainsley informs me solemnly.

Of course! I love it. "Ah," I reply, just as solemn. "But where are their tickets?"

"Oh! I didn't think of that "

I quickly jump up and head out to the drawing room to grab supplies and come back with some paper, colored pencils, and scissors. "I'll be back to check your tickets in a few minutes, okay?" I'm addressing the stuffed-animal attendees with my hands on my hips. "Anyone who hasn't got a ticket is going to get the boot."

"What's 'the boot'?" Ainsley asks.

I choose a sacrifice. It's a stuffed hippo with little wire glasses sewn on. I toss him in the air and then kick him to the other side of the room. "That's the boot."

Ainsley bursts into laughter.

I go to collect the hippo. "Sorry, sir. Ma'am. Esteemed peer. You were just an example of what happens to freeloaders."

Ainsley scrambles to start making tickets. "I'm gonna make some breakfast, okay?"

She nods, already engrossed in the task. "Egg over easy and lox on toast, please."

Her mother already informed me that Ainsley has this for breakfast every single morning, rain or shine. But even so, I'm thoroughly charmed. I can't name a single other sevenyear-old who voluntarily opts for smoked fish and runny eggs.

I'm just entering back into the email her mom sent me, explaining exactly how to prepare said breakfast, when I hear Ainsley pipe up from the living room.

"Oh! Hi, Miles. You're here again?"

"I just . . . came over," he says in that low voice that's so hard to hear.

"Why?" she persists, and I choke back a laugh. Children have a way of identifying the heart of the matter and giving it a sunburn.

Yes, Miles. Why the hell are you here?

He clears his throat. "I just thought I'd . . . come hang out."

It's not an actual answer, but Ainsley seems to accept it because there are no more questions.

I'm not an over-easy-lox-on-toast girl myself, but I'm just so dang curious that I make two portions. I sprinkle the final flourish of capers and red onion and turn to set our breakfasts on the kitchen table. I startle when I see Miles lurking there, frowning down at the coffee maker. He squints, frowns more, and then accidentally presses two buttons at once. It makes a sad little beep.

I slide the food onto the table and set myself in front of the coffee maker with a sigh.

He steps back and looks past me, eyes narrowing in on the plates.

I almost justify myself: 'Reese and I agreed that I can eat whatever I want while I'm here, okay? It's customary to feed your babysitter when she's working all day, okay?' But I choose to let him stew in his ridiculous judgments instead, getting the coffee percolating in less than forty seconds and then stepping back into the living room.

As soon as Ainsley spots me I put my hands on my hips and affect a hard-line expression. "I'm here to take some tickets."

There're scraps of paper strewn in a wide arc. She's on her knees, bouncing on her butt she's so excited. "Check the tickets!"

At first I think she's just excited to show me the tickets she carefully cut out for each stuffie. But then I realize her excitement is actually because she's only distributed tickets to half the stuffies. She wants me to give the other half the boot. I gleefully roust the ticketless stuffies, kicking them across the room and making Ainsley scream with laughter. She does a few herself and then decides she's too hungry to go on. We leave the mess behind and head into the kitchen. Miles is posted at the other end of the table with a frown and a cup of coffee. My stomach sinks. Apparently he intends to have a front-row seat to everything Ainsley and I do.

An idea occurs. "Hey."

Ainsley turns to look at me as she gulps orange juice with two hands.

"Should we be super fancy today?" I ask her. "What do you mean?"

"I'll show you after breakfast."

(continued on Friday)

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