THE ROSE-COLORED MOTH

 For years, I hated Vera Harrington, with a fervent, gut-wrenching rage that would have scorched bone if ever unleashed.  Long after we left Tullamaine House Boarding School for Girls in Dublin and went our separate ways, I remembered the day on Killiney Beach when, in a flash of pure spite, she destroyed my hope of ever leaving behind the quagmire of a life that blew up my mother in a British barracks in Belfast, and caused my father to abandon me to half-senile grandparents with no idea how to integrate a resentful ten-year old into the alcoholic daze of their lives.

Friday of that May holiday weekend, Tullamaine House quickly emptied as car after car filled with loving, excited parents swept up to the front steps to whisk away the girls who had everything to begin with - Millicent of the naturally curly hair and two Sunday frocks with lace collars, Dorothea of the diamond pinkie ring and silk underwear, Diana, whose mother was Lady somebody or other.

The dozen or so of us who remained in the echoing building, girls whose families were out of the country, or lived too far away to drive up to Dublin to take them for a mere weekend, or, like mine, came for them only when reminded by an angry phone call from Mother Superior, were promised a trip to Killiney Beach, in consolation, I supposed, for a long weekend with nothing to do.

Saturday morning, Sister Theresa and Sister Agnes, the two nuns assigned to watch us that weekend, lined us up outside the school in preparation for the trek to the Dublin Quays where we would catch the Killiney bus.

Vera and I walked side by side as we traipsed along Leeson Street, third in a short crocodile of paired girls in summer uniforms; white ankle socks, black single strap button shoes, navy pinafore dresses tied around the waist with thin, woven red sashes, white short-sleeved blouses, our bobbed hair pinned tightly back with long hair clips, Sister Theresa up front, Sister Agnes treading along behind.  I imagined we looked like a line of girls from one of the Madeline books except, instead of long, black robes that made them look like penguins, Sister Theresa and Sister Agnes wore neat gray skirts and jackets, white blouses, gray stockings, black shoes.  Their heavy silver crucifixes swung like pendulums across the front of their blouses as we strode along.

Passersby plainly took us for a straggle of orphans and I repressed the urge to stick out my tongue at them, because I knew their smiles concealed relief that they weren’t being asked to take care of us - the less fortunate of the world.

I hated being thought of as unfortunate.  I found it humiliating and upsetting.  Nobody would tell me what my mother was doing in a Northern Ireland barracks when the IRA blew it up, especially since we lived in Dublin.  My grandmother muttered something about a British officer threatening to break my father’s neck if he hit my mother again in one of his drunken rages, but I knew it must be my fault as I was promptly sent away to Tullamaine House.

Winding our way along St. Stephen's Green and down Grafton Street, Vera and I sneaked quick peeks into the windows of the high-class restaurants where lovely women in hats and gloves sat with good-looking men in suits and ties.  We gazed at the displays in Brown Thomas and Switzers; elegant frocks in floral shades of blue and green, smartly styled suits in coral and black linen.  Trailing by Trinity College, our ten-year old eyes flickered over the good-looking young Trinity students lounging about the arched gateway, long navy and red silk scarves wound around their necks, the ends flung imperiously back over their shoulders.  We marched along Westmoreland Street, past the Bank of Ireland with its sweep of marble pillars, on down O'Connell Street, turning left just before the bridge that spanned the Liffey onto the Dublin Quays, where we climbed aboard the Killiney bus.  

As usual, I had to sit next to Vera, who I couldn’t stand. Vera was an albino, declared by the Millicent’s, Dorothea’s and Diana’s to be semi-defective, lacking in intelligence or personality and repulsive because of her pink-rimmed, ice-blue eyes, scraggy white hair, and ashen lips.  They treated her to the same mixture of condescending kindness and edgy superiority with which they treated me, the orphan with the ratty clothes, the badly cut hair, the ugly brown eyes.  I was considered only slightly superior to Vera.

As the bus lurched out of the city, Vera suddenly remarked, in that smug high-pitched voice of hers that came at me like fingers being dragged along a blackboard, "I'm only here, you know, because my parents are in Paris.  Otherwise, they'd have taken me for the weekend."  She looked at me with pink-rimmed eyes cold as ice.  "Why didn't your granny come for you?""She's in Bray, with friends.  There's no room for me.  Their house is too small."  I stared out of the window as the bus slid along the Stillorgan Road towards Sandycove, Blackrock and Dun Laoghaire.Vera announced with satisfaction, "Your granny never comes for you unless Mother Superior makes her.  Is she always in Bray with friends?"I turned my brown eyes to meet her cold ones.  "Who are you to talk?  Why didn't your parents take you to Paris with them?"Vera returned an unblinking gaze.  "My parents travel a lot and my caregiver happens to be on holiday in Wicklow.""Oooh, my caregiver.  Only babies have caregivers.""Caregivers teach you manners.  Mother said you have none, making a pest of yourself running all over the shops when she took you out that one time because she felt sorry for you."Hidden by the bus seat in front of us, I made a fist and punched Vera's upper arm, knowing the blow would leave a spreading, purple bruise on that milk white skin of hers.  "Shut up!"Vera's pale eyes filled with tears and she rubbed her arm, but her lips trembled defiantly.  “When the sales lady spoke to you, you stuck out your tongue.  Mother was really ticked off.""I did not stick out my tongue.  I was licking my lips.""Don't tell lies!""Do you want me to punch you again?" I hissed.I triumphed at the fear in Vera's eyes, but she hissed back, "Then I'll tell!""Oh, you're such a baby.  No wonder you wet your bed every night."I watched her defiance wither away and her wraithlike cheeks burn scarlet.  Most mornings, when Miss Jones, the school matron, checked Vera's bed, she found the bottom sheet clinging wetly to the rubber mattress cover underneath.  Miss Jones would rip the sheet off the mattress and rub the wet spot all over Vera's face while the rest of us watched, but it never made any difference.  Next morning, the sheet would be soaked again.

 For the rest of the ride, I ignored Vera, retreating into the faerie world in which I lived as a princess.  I wore a long white frock scattered with stars.  More stars glittered in my long golden, naturally-curly hair, and my violet eyes shone at the Handsome Prince when he reached down to lift me onto his white horse.

We went on adventures together, the Prince and I.  We met long-bearded wizards, magical swords, evil witches with pointed black hats and hairy chins, shining dragons and delicate, shimmering faeries.  Always, my Handsome Prince smiled proudly at me because he thought of me as gentle, sweet-tempered, intelligent, and beautiful.  

As the bus rolled on down the Dublin coast toward Killiney, I imagined the Handsome Prince riding through a flower-filled meadow, ready to take me away from the baffling world of bombs and booze, the shame of not having anyone in my life care enough to teach me proper manners.  To have that happen, the faerie world had to exist beyond my imagination and I wasn’t sure it did. 

I looked for signs; the shiny, new pair of shoes Miss Jones bought for me because my old ones fell apart and my grandmother said she didn’t have the money for a new pair, my favorite silver hairclip turning up on my bedside table after I thought I’d lost it, my breakfast egg being runny, which I liked, rather than hard and dry, which I hated, even the unexpected letter from my father apologizing for not being to see me, but hoping I was well and happy. 

However, those occurrences could happen to anybody.  I needed a sign so momentous, I couldn’t mistake it, so magical it could only have been sent by the Handsome Prince, a talisman to make my dream life real and offer me a way of escape from a life that continually threatened to blow up in my face.

  My ponderings were brought to an end by the bus's jolting stop and Sister Theresa's cheerful, "Here we are, girls, and what a lovely day.  Come along, now.  Don't dawdle."We clambered from the bus, automatically forming our two by two crocodile and, led by Sister Agnes, proceeded out of the station.  Slipping and slithering in our leather-soled buttoned shoes, we stumbled down the sandy path to Killiney Beach, a long sweep of sand and rock that wound around the Dublin coastline, bordered on the land side by towering black cliffs and on the seaward side by gentle swooshing waves.  Gulls quarreled overhead, a brisk breeze washed us in salt-scented air, the sun blazed down from a flawless sky.There was no question of us swimming.  None of us owned a bathing suit.  Nor was there any question of us taking off our shoes to go paddling.  That would have been unsuitable for Tullamaine House girls.  We dabbled our hands in the rock pools, or crouched on the sand with our skirts tucked tightly around our knees in case anyone, especially a male anyone, caught a glimpse of our knickers.Bored, I began to claw at the beach, digging my fingers in until they found damp sand.  Vera listlessly watched me.  "Well, you could help," I accused her."What are you doing?""I'm digging a hole.""What for?""I just feel like digging a hole."   Infuriated by her querulous challenge, I began to chant as I dug, "Vera's a baby who wets her bed, wets her bed, wets her bed.  Vera's a baby who wets her bed, early in the morning."

It was at that moment, when the breeze momentarily stilled and the sun stood motionless above us, the rose-colored moth spiraled down out of the sky, to come to a fluttering landing in the center of the hole I'd dug.  It trembled as it hunkered in the cool damp sand, tiptoeing about on tiny pink feet, feathery pink antenna quivering.  The creature's wings glowed a deep rosy hue and shimmered with silver faerie dust. 

My heart bumped to a halt.  "Look," I whispered to Vera, pointing to the still trembling pink and silver moth.  "Oh, look at it, Vera.”  I leaned closer to study the rose and silver wings. 

Was this the sign I’d been waiting for, this lovely thing sent by my Handsome Prince to tell me the faerie world was real?  It had to be.  Never in my life had I seen anything so rare and beautiful.

 Vera lowered her eyes to the little creature.  “It’s just a silly moth.”

            The dismissal in her voice infuriated me.  “It’s not silly. Look at it.  Since when have you ever seen a moth that color?  This is a faerie moth.”

The little moth folded its wings and, with great care, I cupped my hands on either side of it to protect it from a gusting wind that flung puffs of loose dry sand about with enough force to sting.

“There’s no such thing as a faerie moth.”  Without warning, Vera scooped up a fistful of wet sand and dropped it straight down between my cupped hands onto the quivering, pink wings.Stunned, I stared at the small hill of sand.  Frantically, I flicked the grains away, uncovering the moth.  It had fallen over, its wings dragging on the wet sand.  Its little pink legs kicked as it tried to right itself.  "You spiteful little witch." I nudged the moth upright, but Vera scooped up a larger handful of sand and threw it on top of the first.Incredulous, I struck her hand away, screaming, "Stop it. You're killing my faerie moth."

I sorted through the pile of sand, easing the grains between my fingers, uncovering bits of the moth, shreds of wings, fractured legs, bent antennas.  Holding the broken bits of my Handsome Prince’s love in my hand, I glanced up and caught the look of satisfaction on Vera's face. 

My lungs collapsed, stopping my heart cold.  Dropping the crumpled moth, I emitted a high howling screech that burst upwards from my bowels.  At the same time, I slashed my hand across Vera's face, knocking her sideways.People picnicking on the beach paused in their eating, children looked up from their sand castles, the other Tullamaine House girls turned their heads, Sister Theresa and Sister Agnes leaped to their feet.

I kicked the prone Vera.  "You killed my faerie moth," I shrieked, seeing my dream of a happily ever after fade away.  “Why?  Why?”

Sister Theresa grabbed me first, yanking me away from the now bawling Vera who curled protectively around herself on the sand.  "Stop that.”  Sister Theresa clamped her arms around me as I aimed another kick at Vera.  "Stop that at once."

Sister Agnes came panting up to where Sister Theresa and I struggled.  “Sweet Mother of God.”  She bent over the prone Vera.  “Sit up, Vera.  Let me see where you’re bleeding.”

“She killed my faerie moth.  I hate her.  I hate her.  You sick-making albino.”

“It’s a sin to say something like that.” Sister Theresa’s grip on me tightened.

“She killed my faerie moth on purpose,” I wailed.  “Now, I’ll never be happy.  I hate her.  I hate everybody.”

“Roisin.”

But I didn’t care.  I didn’t care if I spent the rest of my life on my knees in penance in front of the Sacred Heart altar in Mother Superior’s room.  I would murder Vera Harrington first chance I got, rip her dreams into shreds the way she had mine, leave her stranded, alone and unloved, with no possibility of rescue.

That night in the darkened dormitory, face deep in my pillow, I wept over my beautiful moth.  I wept over the mindless spite with which Vera had destroyed the lovely creature.  I wept over all my ruined dreams.  Why did people like Vera live in the world?

Emptied of grief, I climbed the stairs to the bathroom to wash off my face, glancing out the uncovered window into the clarity of a starlit night.  The moon, a slice of silver, lay on its back.  But what was that?  I leaned closer to the window, breath draining from lifeless lungs. 

 A single, great star hung, like a diamond, from the tip of the moon’s ear.  It pulsed from blue to white, a shining eye winking at me from the vault of black sky, a beautiful, magical sign, well beyond Vera’s reach.  

I stood for a long time in the cold bathroom, looking at the star, then padded to my bed, turned the tear-damp pillow to its dry side, snuggled under the blankets, and began a new adventure with my Handsome Prince.