Healing Tails -
an excerpt

Prologue

Tuesday, November 6, 1984: Cathedral of St. Mary of the Assumption

Flan sat watching her father, Rupert O’Neil as he sat looking out at the flower-draped coffin that held his wife. Father Harrigan droned on but the words did not penetrate Rusty’s grief as he sat in the front pew with his children along beside him. Soon it would be over – this ritual of dying, and this gruesome ordeal would be ended. A part of Flan was furious at her mother for leaving them but most of her cried out silently as she sat and stared at the broken remains of her father.

“Damn it, Pammie, ‘tis a rotten shame” Rusty thought as he glanced along the pew at his brood. Next to him sat Katie, the youngest at 9, then came Maura Elise, 10, and the spitting image of her mother. Sean Michael came next, his gangling body betraying the onset of puberty of his thirteenth year. His eldest boy, Patrick Brendan, 15 sat with his arm around his sister, Rusty’s oldest girl, Flannery Catherine who had just turned 14 and was staring back at him with sad green eyes.

Sounds of sobbing came from the row behind as Rusty’s aged mother (Rosie) and his sister, Rose Marie cried into their handkerchiefs. Pam’s father, Rory O’Neil sat beside them, turning his fedora around and around in his hands as he stole glances at his granddaughters with a tight stricken face. This was not the first funeral he’d been to – but he dreaded to think that it wouldn’t be his last. On his lapel was a small looped pink-ribbon that he had worn daily since laying his own wife in the ground. Now he sat at the funeral of his own daughter, dead of the same horrible disease. “When,” he thought, “would they find a cure?”

The priest led the mourners in a prayer while the click of rosary beads was heard along with several blown noses. Father Harrigan looked out over the pews, many filled with the dark blue uniforms of the City’s finest – all come to pay their respects to a fellow officer’s family. The wives and sweethearts leaned close to their men, as if to reassure themselves that this event had nothing to do with them.

The service ended and all eyes turned towards Rusty and his family as they stood and filed out of the church, following the priest out to the line of black limos that waited to take them to the cemetery. Arriving, Flan helped her father and siblings step out of the strange black car where they stood about awkwardly until Pat and Flan shepherded them over to the rim of the dark hole that loomed some distance before them. A pile of dirt rested off to one side under an astroturf covering. The many wreaths and displays of flowers s drooped and dripped in the foggy dew of this San Francisco morning.

People with solemn faces watched as pallbearers carried Pam’s casket over to the newly dug grave and placed it on a set of straps, stepped back and stood at attention. Flan brushed tears off of her face with a harsh gesture as Father Harrigan said a few words to put a close on Pamela O’Neil’s life. Then the casket was lowered gently into the ground. The priest nodded to Rusty, who was summoned back from his thoughts by Flan’s gentle nudge. Compressing his lips to hold back his scream the stocky man led his children up to the edge of the hole where the casket now lay. He bent, wincing with the pain from an old injury and took a handful of dark loam and threw it on top of the casket. An attendant handed him a bouquet of white roses and he and the children tossed them, one by one into the dark hole where they landed on the polished mahogany.

For some time the only sounds in the gray mist were quiet murmuring and the hollow thumps of dirt clods hitting the coffin as people came and said their goodbyes. Eventually everyone had paid their last respects to a fine woman, a proud wife, and a constant helpmate in the work of their church. Pamela Rosemary O’Malley O’Neil would be sorely missed.

Later, at the wake, the women of the parish watched Flannery as she picked up the duties of ‘woman of the house.’ Flan’s small grim face was ashen as she picked up empty dishes, refilled the bowls on the table, or reprimanded a child. “I hate this,” she thought as she forced herself not to break down, “I absolutely hate this.” She vented her frustration upon Katie and Sean who were racing through the kitchen. Both began to react to Flan’s bossing but were quietly hushed and moved out of the room by some nearby adults, some of which moved in to give Flan a hand.

As the guests left, many giving each of the children a hug as they made their way out, they all sent prayers of gratitude heavenward, grateful that it wasn’t their man or their wife who had died. All were worried about Rusty for he hadn’t been the same since his partner had been killed, and for Rusty, the road to recovery has been a hard one. With Pam’s cancer diagnosis following shortly after his return to duty Rusty’s family had been under siege for a very long time, and there had been rumors of more than the occasional drink by the veteran patrolman, now widower.

The last to go was Pam’s father. He spoke quietly to four of the children and to Rusty, but it was Flan that he pulled to his breast and hugged. “Darlin,’ you’re to call me if you need anything, is that clear? I don’t want your schoolwork to be suffering. I’ll be stopping by every couple of days to see how you’re doing. You’ll let me know about the boys won’t you? Don’t let ‘em drink. You keep an eye on Katie, Maura can take care of her self.” He looked her in the eye, “You call me, promise?”

Flan nodded, received another hug and watched her grandfather walk down the steps and out to the street. Turning she saw her father sitting in the kitchen, a glass of russet liquid in his right hand. She decided to leave the remaining dishes until the morning and went upstairs.
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Chapter One

- SHOCK -

Seventeen months ago

“Ahhhh, quit it!” Flan grabbed the quilted shower curtain, pulled it back and stuck her tongue out at the ruddy man standing before her. His water-warmed skin was pink where he had scrubbed at it with the thick white towel he was holding. Freckles spattered over his creamy skin and his bright red hair lay matted against his muscled body and close against his well-formed head.

“Fintan John Cullin Donnohue, you leave me alone. Quit your pinching!”

“Ah, get ‘outta the shower lassie, you’ll be meltin’ away. Come here and let me run this towel over your fine body,” the man said with a wicked leer.

“Go on wi’ cha, you big brute, I’ll come out when I’m good and ready!” With that the petite woman popped back into the shower, finished rinsing her hair and turned off the steaming water. She ran her small square hands over her breasts and down her sides. Frowning she re-ran a hand down her left breast, raised the other and pressed at the soft tissue with her fingers.

For several minutes she stood frozen, fingers still unconsciously prodding the small hard lump. As her fingers moved, her mind reached out to recall her gran with fear; gran who had died so young and deprived her grandfather of the love of his life, leaving him to cope with his two small children, alone. Her thoughts raced back to her mother’s funeral such a short time ago, and then touched briefly upon her ruined father. As the water poured down over her body her head slumped onto the hard tile and her hands pounded the wall in silent, helpless frustration; her tears merging with the jets from the showerhead.

“Flan, come on! I’ve got to get going!”

Startled back to the present, Flan flung the shower curtain aside, snatched a towel off the rack and streaked out of the bath, leaving small wet prints down the wooden hallway.

“Darlin’ wait! I’m sorry, what?”

“Leave me alone!” Flan slammed the door and ran into her closet. She ran to the far end and threw herself into clothes, stuffing a sleeve from a sweater into her mouth to stifle her screams.

Fintan stood looking down the hall, his face frozen in shock at Flan’s display.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what now?” Finn tucked the towel about his waist and went to see what this sudden mood was about. Flan had been tired recently, and for a short time they thought that she might be pregnant. When it turned out otherwise, Finn has assumed that it was just from an increased workload. Now, a small fear itched at the back of his throat.

“Flan? Darlin?” He walked into their gracious bedroom, it’s mahogany four-poster bed rumpled from their morning’s activity. He walked past the matching wardrobe and up to the large walk-in closet’s door. “Flan, you in here?” Finn pushed open the door and saw the love of his heart clutching a batch of sweaters like her life depended on them. Her small shoulders heaved, but in spite of this upset, Finn couldn’t help but smile at her bare butt, the cutest he’d ever seen.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong? He said as he touched her gently on the shoulder.

“I’m dead,” Flan sobbed as she turned and buried her face into his broad chest.