The Island Curse

A Family History

By the time I made it home from school, the twinges in my neck and shoulder had become full blown cramps. My backpack went by the door, there was no way I was lugging it up stairs as I didn't intend to open it again tonight.

Rubbing the sore spots, I walked down the first floor hallway. Portraits lined the walls- starting with paintings and ending with photographs. I'd been so busy I had only given them quick glances as I set up the house.

Fiona and Ian were first, sitting stiff and regal with their newborn child in her arms. In the next was a portrait of the child, Jamie, all grown up and sitting next to a woman with beautiful hair of gold. Thinking of my father's suggestion that Jamie might not be Ian's, I stood on my tiptoes and peered at his face.

There was so much of his mother in him, it was hard to tell. Kind brown eyes, and hair so dark it might've been black, if not for the streaks of auburn. His jaw was strong and square, where Fiona's was a gentle point to the end of her heart shaped face. I compared it to Ian's and found them similar, but not enough to determine paternity.

Jamie's bride was seated beside him, gripping his hands and looking up at him in adoration. Her full, champagne skirts spilled across the wooden floor, and purple flowers were woven through her hair. Could this be the woman who washed up on shore? Dad had never indicated whether or not they'd married, but these two people had either truly loved one another or the painter had taken great artistic license.

I stopped at the next picture, hoping to find a family portrait of Jamie with his children, but instead, I was greeted by his wife, somber faced, sitting beside another man, this one tall and fair, with his father's eyes. A son then, but where was Jamie? Had he died young like so many back then had?

Moving on, the pattern repeated. A wedding portrait, followed by a family portrait. More often than not, the father was missing, his life ended too soon. A few depicted a son alone. But the most haunting thing of all, especially in the photographs where no creative liberties were taken, was the shadow of sadness in every eye, especially the mother's.

The last photo was of my grandfather and father. It looked to have been taken about twenty years ago, putting my dad at around seventeen. He was a carbon copy of Ennis, and they both favored their forefather, Jamie. I traced my finger around their eyes, searching for the spark of compassion that had burned so brightly in those first two portraits, only to find that it had finally burned out, to be replaced by a strange, unwavering determination that made the hairs on my arm stand straight up.

"What are you doing?"

Spooked by my father's sudden appearance, I dropped my hands behind me as though touching the photos was off limits. "Looking for you, actually. Just got home from school."

"I heard the door open about ten minutes ago." He wiped his hands on a kitchen towel and threw it over his shoulder. "What have you been up to since then?"

I gestured at the photos, shrugging as I did so. "Just inspecting the Halloran ancestors."

He moved through the living room, a wistful smile on his lips as he looked at the photo I'd ended on. "That was right after mum died. We moved to the states about six months later."

"I wish I could've met her. Granda told the best stories about her."

"He was a storyteller, for sure."

"Dad," I said, stopping him as he walked away, "you told me about Jamie finding the woman washed up on shore. Is that her in the portrait?"

His back was to me, but through the layers of his t-shirt, I could see his muscles tauten. Slowly, he turned back and passed by me in the corridor, coming to rest in front of the picture of Jamie and his wife. His hands went to both sides of the painting, and he examined it for a long time before speaking.