13
the countertop and dotted mounds of chopped onion turned a
ghastly shade of pink.
“Willa, leave now,” Nick ordered.
Paddy reached out his free hand and sTuee]ed my wrist. Da
and Nick could glance at the door as much as they wanted but I
wasn’t leaving Paddy’s side.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I reassured Paddy.
“Dammit! This is the last thing we need.” Da swept a shaky
hand through his copper hair, a dash of white sprouting above
his ears. The entire MacCarthy family—with the red hair, deep
brown eyes, and sprinkling of freckles across the nose—was the
spitting image of our Da and his long line of Irish ancestors.
Paddy continued to gulp the whiskey. Small rivers of the
brown liquid slid down over his lips and neck.
ȊDa, alcohol won’t fix his hand,ȋ I said over the strains of the
banjo as the band worked its way into a stirring version of “Rocky
Road to Dublin.”
I turned back to Paddy. His skin was clammy. His pupils wid-
ened with each of his strangled gasps. If we didn’t act quick, he
was going to faint.
“We need to get him to a doctor!” Ignoring their frantic pacing
and graying pallor, I pulled another rag off the bar, tore the cloth
in half, and moved to Paddy’s side.
I’d never admit this to anyone except God, but Paddy was my
saving grace in this family. Just a year younger than Nick, Paddy
was the only one who didn’t give me a murderous stare when
he caught me with my medical books. The one who taught me
how to hide them under the loose floorboard in my room so Mam
wouldn’t catch me with them. What good was all my reading if I
couldn’t help him now?
