Woman with chocolate ice cream cream

Frances has never ridden in a hearse.

Mr. O'Shea, the gravedigger, drove out onto the road and headed down the North Circular, past the women's wing of Mountjoy Prison and the library on Eglington Street, where she had worked as a librarian for twelve years before retiring. She thanked the noise of the engine and the city for being outside. She tried to keep herself separate from Mr. O'Shea in terms of thoughts.

For a moment, she forgot about the coffin containing the remains of her brother Denis, which was behind her, until the hearse braked on the descent, and she imagined herself smashing through the glass partition and crashing into it. "Are you okay?" asked Mr. O'Shi at the traffic light. "Yes, thank you," she replied. "Is it warm enough for you? Would you like me to turn up the heat?" "I'm fine, thank you," she said. "I'm sorry this happened," she added. "I'm sure you would have much preferred to be alone on the road."

There was a moment of confusion at the hospital morgue when she announced her intention to ride in the hearse.

The coffin had already been loaded, and the paperwork was finished when she and Frank arrived. "Are you ready to go?" Mr. O'Shea said. "I'll ride in the hearse with you," she suddenly said. It came out of nowhere. Mr. O'Shea looked at her, then at Frank, a little unsettled. Without a word, she walked to the passenger door and got into the car. They crossed Liffey in Islandbridge. "I know usually a male family member rides in the hearse," she continued. "Or at least, that's how it used to be. But I can't drive, so if Frank goes with you, there will be no one to take the car home." "That's not a problem at all," Mr. O'Shea said. "And as for traditions, they're constantly changing." He glanced in the rearview mirror. "Frank is close enough behind us. We'll probably split up on the way, but what's the harm - we're all heading to the same place." They passed by Inchicore. An old woman, dragging a wheeled shopper, stopped at the mailbox. "We should be in Kerry by five o'clock, if all goes well," Mr. O'Shea said. The woman struggled to fit a brown parcel into the mailbox, her white hair wildly blowing in the wind. "Do you mind?" Mr. O'Shea asked. "No, no." The more he talks, the harder it is for her to get away from herself.

"The woman who does embalming," he said, a little uncertainly, "will come at half-past six. How will you... how will you be able to bring his clothes to us then? If I'm not there myself, then Anne, my wife, will take them." Denis' suit had been hanging in his wardrobe for decades. He had last worn it at their parents' funeral. He hadn't shown up at their brother Patrick's funeral. "There won't be any problems. Frank will bring them," she thought, what a strange profession for a woman - embalming. She wondered if Mr. O'Shea's wife was helping. Two women stuffing cotton into holes. "Are all bodies embalmed? Is it absolutely necessary?" she asked. "Well... I don't think it's absolutely necessary," Mr. O'Shea said. "Some cultures don't do it, but they bury their dead quickly.

For two weeks, she sat at Denis's bedside in the "Mater" hospital, only leaving after10:00 PM to return to her hotel on Drumcondra Road.

In the last two days, he hadn't spoken or opened his eyes, and his breathing was becoming shallower and shallower. Last night, she felt she should stay longer, but the nurse assured her that he could last a few more days. When she returned to the hospital, it was all over, and he had been moved to a separate room with tea lights, a cross, and a note with information about deceased relatives placed on the side table. They had wrapped his head tightly in a bandage, like a hair tie, to keep his mouth closed. She kissed his hair and touched his cold hands and nose, hoping to feel something. She thought of him as someone who was no longer alive but not yet dead. She whispered his name, but in the silence of the room, it sounded feigned. She tried to summon the past.

Denis and Patrick were twelve years older than Frances. Denis was a fleeting presence in her early childhood. Returning from Dublin for Christmas when she was eight or nine, he brought her a red plastic tea set, six individually wrapped "Jaffa" oranges, and a box of cereal, as cereal was a rare treat back then. Shortly after, he returned for good and rarely left his room. He was already changing right before her eyes. His face had collapsed inward, leaving his nose looking sharp like a bird's beak. His body was dissolving, each cell decaying. His soul had probably already left his body, she thought. Where had it gone - running down Drumcondra Road or along Dorset Street - when it happened, when his blood slowed its flow, and his consciousness slowly faded away? It was easier to trace the exit of the body, she thought, than the exit of the mind. It was unknown what the mind suffers in its final hours and minutes. In the last moments before her mother exhaled her last breath, she opened her eyes with a frightened look, as if she had seen something terrifying, but within twenty-four hours her face became calm, as if all the pain of existence had left her. The nurse came to say that they would soon need to take Denis to the morgue.

Francis went down to the foyer and called Frank. "Denis is gone," she said. She didn't wait for his response. "You’ll call O'Shea to bring him home tomorrow." Frank was silent for a few moments. "I'm sorry, Francis." "And call the priest too." "Should I come over tonight?" he asked. "No, wait until morning."

Every morning for many years, she walked down Drumcondra Road - past the open gates of St. Patrick's College, where Denis had studied to become a teacher a decade ago - on her way to work at the library in Phibsborough.

The journey took forty-five minutes. She arrived an hour before opening and laid out the newspapers and the latest magazines, registered returns, and worked on her computer, checking orders and requests from book clubs. She worked with one, then with another, but never developed a close friendship with any of them. During the summer months, she would sit on the grass in a small park behind the library for lunch, reading her book and eating her sandwich. After lunch, when the school kids arrived, the library became chaotic. She didn't mind the older, diligent ones, but the truth was that she could barely tolerate the children in her library. She didn't like the changes in libraries; she didn't like that some of the large city libraries resembled community centers or daycare centers, given the level of noise and activity. Since when had little ones learned to read? she wanted to know.

After work, she would close up and take the 16A bus home. One fine day, four years ago, the day before his sixtieth birthday, Patrick came in from the field, sat down at the kitchen table, and collapsed. Denis went into the hallway, picked up the phone, and called Frances at the library. "I think Patrick is gone," he said.

After Patrick's death, the neighbor checked on Denis every day, but he couldn't be left alone, so after thirty-nine years of service in the libraries of Dublin, Frances retired and returned home to Kerry. A few months later, Frank also retired, and they sold their house in Whitehall, making the move permanent. Still recovering from the loss of Patrick, she rented the farm to the neighbor and tried to restore the normal life that Denis had always known. She knew how his days went, his preference for simple foods, his need for solitude, and she could provide that. But she couldn't replace Patrick, and although Denis never mentioned him, Frances was sure he missed his twin brother at home. Frank