Excerpt from Trouble the Living by Francesca McDonnell Capossela, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

As she drove, I watched the fields and towns go by, Ma occasionally raising her hand when we passed a house whose family she knew. They couldn't see her; she just wanted to signal that she knew who they were, like a queen bestowing dignity with the slightest movement of her wrist. They were her friends from the parish hall, women she gossiped with over a cup of tea. One day, I thought, I would be one of those women, ushering my children to chapel on a Sunday. Playing bingo or swing dancing at the weekend. The banal a contrast to the horrific as marriage gossip was swapped with tales of car bombs and police raids.

At Saint Patrick's, we found a seat in the back, letting local worshippers take the front rows. I found it difficult to listen to the priest. The church was so large and grand, so different from our own. It felt luxurious and illicit. Its high white arches, its golden chandeliers. I kept thinking about Ina, how she was like this church—arresting, overdone. Why did she have to be so difficult? Why did my mother allow it? I felt uneasy as I remembered what Ina had said in the bath.

After Communion, we returned to our pew as the rest of the worshippers filed out. I wasn't sure what exactly Ma wanted. She lowered herself back onto her knees and, head down, began to pray again. Her eyes were screwed up tight so that she looked not like a godly woman in prayer but like a criminal facing her sentence.

"Bríd?" Ma was looking up at me, her knees still planted on the wooden plank. I had been staring out at the stained glass, thinking.

"Aye?"

"Would you not promise me something?"

At the back of my throat, I felt the softness of guilt or shame, like I had eaten too much sugar and was rotting with the sweetness.

"Sure, Ma," I said, knowing there was no other answer I could give my mother.

"Would you promise me you'll watch out for Ina?"

I was quiet for a moment. I did not know what she meant, asking that. Of course I would watch out for Ina; I always did. I heard again the clinking of the glass bottles—like the tap of cruet on chalice as the priest poured the wine—imagined the arc of a throw, like the line of a border.

Our eyes met. "Sure," I said. "I promise."

Excerpted from Trouble the Living by Francesca McDonnell Capossela. Copyright © 2023 by Francesca McDonnell Capossela. Excerpted by permission of Lake Union Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.