by James, Ella
I laugh—a small, soft sound—and hug him.
That was…bliss. It was the greatest thing I’ve ever felt.
His arms around me tighten. As he strokes his hands down my back, I can feel the shaking in his fingers.
“How’re you feeling?” It’s a whisper.
He runs a hand over my hair, smoothing the tresses down against my nape the way he often does. I can sense the answer in the way his fingers hesitate before he says, “I’m okay.”
I want to tell him I can’t get the medicine he needs. That I tried and failed. But I decide against the mention of it. I’ve only ever craved sweets…and Mum, but when I’m wanting something badly, mention of it hurts.
I stroke a hand down his back. I’ve closed my eyes, and I’m working on discerning whether I can feel his thickness pressed against my hip when he murmurs, “You should go first.”
I swallow as my eyes well. My heart aches with too much want for a body to manage. I feel so satiated in his arms. Once I step away from the anchor of him, I’ll be lost again.
I feel as if I’m stepping out of myself as I step back. Our gazes hold. His face is leaner. Sharper. I can see it plainly, and it makes my heart bleed.
My throat stings as I rasp, “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
There’s a certain sweetness on his face, a gentle boyishness about his small smile. Imagine if I’d met him in the schoolhouse. The thought hurts, so I wipe it away, giving him a tremulous smile before I push back through the door.
Twenty-Five
Finley
There’s only five of us at morning mass: old Mr. Button, Mrs. Adams with the poodle hair, Mrs. Dillon on the organ, Father Barnard, and myself. Father Barnard wears his purple Lenten vestment with the small stain on the left sleeve and blows his nose four times on a kerchief.
I wear a mint-green dress that snags a few times on a rough spot on the pew. The dress is one of those we received last year in a mass order. The green was my size; I look fair in green, so I bid for it. Many of the dresses were for smaller girls…like Holly. I won’t think of her now. Not in church.
I clutch my favorite rosary—the one with ocean blue glass beads that belonged to Gammy’s mum—and steer my inner monologue so it flows from the blessing to dismissal to my silent prayers after I’ve bid everyone goodbye.
O my Jesus, forgive us of our sins. Save us from the fires of hell. Lead all souls into heaven, especially those most in need of thy mercy.
I can whip through the rosary more quickly than an auctioneer, but I work through the prayers slowly as I trek from Upper Lane to Lower in the soft, blue morning. The words are like an incantation, warding off all thought, obstructing sorrow. I don’t notice until I reach the clinic that the morning’s oddly quiet and cold enough to numb my ears and mouth and nose.
I slip the key into the lock on the door of the residence, and I hear Baby’s hooves click. When I step inside, her warm, wee body presses to my stockings.
“Hi there, fluffins.”
She peers up at me with her sheepy eyes, and I crouch down beside her.
“There’s my wee ewe.” I stroke her soft head, and she presses against my dress. “Did you miss your Mummy?”
She peers up at me, and I think she looks happy.
If nothing else, I still have Baby. I’ve made her a leash and collar out of a bit of red canvas I fashioned for her at the sewing machine. I attached a pink and red hair bow to the collar last night after my crying jag was over. It was mine when Mummy was still here. I laugh every time I look at Baby in her collar.
I spent the remainder of the night baking. Now I pack it all into a woven wood basket. I spend some time poking through the bathroom cabinet as Baby rubs her fluffy self against the coolness of the tub.
“You silly ewe, you.”
We emerge with several of my favorite oils and tinctures. In the kitchen, with Baby pressed snugly against my legs, I write out instructions for my favorite vodka-based sleeping tincture, which includes a bit of skull cap, ashwagandha, chamomile, hops, and rhodiola root. I label a bottle of capsules filled with valerian, and two others containing B-vitamin and magnesium supplements (both being good for the mind). Then I’ve got a bit of passionflower. I toss in some melatonin and Unisom for good measure, along with a note explaining he ought not use all the remedies at once.
After that, I walk into the bedroom, where at the bottom of the quilt-clad bed there is a purple velvet blanket folded into a large square. I scoop it up and hug it to me as Baby looks on.
“This is Mummy’s special blanket. Gammy made it for me with the weight inside it long ago, and recently I re-covered it with this fabric.” It smells of lavender and feels like home.
Biting my lip, I roll the blanket tightly, bind it with a strand of white ribbon I braid into my hair for weddings and receptions, and wedge it into the picnic basket alongside soup, breads, and cookies. I pack in a jug of my honeyed green tea and load it into Doctor’s white Land Rover. It had been with Gregory Green, who was patching an oil leak, but I got it back late yesterday evening.
With the passenger’s seat scooted back and Baby standing like a fluffin princess in the floorboard, I drive up to Gammy’s cottage. His Land Rover is there—of course it would be—but I don’t let that deter me. I walk to the small porch, set the basket down, and ring the doorbell once. Then I drive off.
He’ll take us from here. If he doesn’t reach out—and I doubt he will, based on history—it’s quite possible I might never speak to him again.
* * *
I start making bargains with myself. I didn’t see him yesterday after I dropped the basket off. If I don’t see him today—Thursday—and I likely won’t, as I’m working through appointments at the clinic—I’ll build on that; I won’t seek him out tomorrow. I won’t even walk near where they’re digging.
If I don’t see him either day, I’ll tell myself it’s well and truly over—for the best.
What happened in the closet was a moment of shameful weakness. For us both. He’s still poorly. I’m the only one who knows about his suffering. I’ve soothed him before. And I’m that sort, besides.
There’s a reason I became Doctor’s assistant and de facto nurse. There’s a reason I’m here cooing at a lamb clad in a diaper and a bow-bedazzled collar. I’m a nurturer. I remember pasting a Band-Aid onto Mummy’s finger once, and she said, “You’ll be like Gammy.”
“How so?” I asked.
She smiled. “A healer.”
Shortly after Mum and my father were lost, the island hired a licensed physician to live here fulltime, working on a two-year contract. As we cycled through doctors Ahuja, King, and Greer—who stayed for two “terms”—Gammy used her healing powers less and less, except to teach me tincture-making. But a healer she was. Mrs. White told me that way back when, she would take the mental cases and see to the infants. Gammy doctored wounds and sprains, crushed fingers and concussions and the like.
I feel warm, remembering my Gammy as I wait for Mrs. Glass to arrive at the clinic. She rings the bell, and I pull the door open to her radiant smile. Fluffy, fading red hair falls around her face. I look down and see that in the hand that’s not propped on her cane, she’s holding a Tupperware box.
“You didn’t!”
“Well, you know I certainly did.”
“Mrs. Glass.” I tsk, then take the box of berry muffins as she coos at Baby, whom I pick up to ensure Mrs. Glass’ safe passage through the waiting area and over to the first of the clinic beds. She’s got something neurological that flares at times—something that resembles multiple sclerosis—but she won’t leave the island for treatment. Not at her advanced age, she says, though she’s only sixty-three.
She asks all about Baby as I conduct her monthly neurological exam, checking boxes off a photo-copied list on my clip-board for each question I should ask, each small test I should do. Doctor wrote it out for me before he left.
“I’d say you’re as good as l
ast time, at least your reflexes appear to be. Your eyes are holding strong, I believe. Tell me how you’ve been feeling?”
I listen as she discusses toileting and her numb toes.
“Mr. Glass has been massaging them as you suggested,” she reports. “I believe that does help.”
“Lovely of him.”
She smiles proudly. “I did well.”
“Mr. Glass is quite a fellow, that’s true. What’s he writing now?”
“A story for the younger boys, Asher and Josh.” It’s Jacob, but I don’t correct her. “It’s about a rogue penguin.”
“That sounds delightful.”
We work through the rest of her vitals, and she talks of winning a bag of freeze-dried strawberries at bingo and “that poor dear” Sarah, who styled her hair a bit wrong last week at the salon.
“I quite hope my cousin can instruct her a bit more before retiring.”
“How has she been—Cindy? I last talked to her a few days back.”
“You know how she is. Not a thing wrong with her,” Mrs. Glass huffs.
“That’s not true, though,” I say gently. Cindy Glass has always suffered with depression.
“Mind over matter, as I see it.”
“For Cindy it’s more difficult, I believe.”
She pats her hair, sighing. “Evidently.”
And that’s all that’s spoken about that.
“How are you feeling?” she asks. “I can scarcely believe what happened with you and that Homer Carnegie. I heard he moved the boulders one by one until he cleared a path for those wide shoulders.” She winks, and I feel a flush creep up my neck.
“We dug out at last. We were thrilled to see the sky.”
“Oh, I’d imagine. He’s not hard on the eyes, though, so I suppose the alternate view was near as good. A bit sinful perhaps, but quite memorable.”
“Mrs. Glass.” I tsk again as I pull the blood pressure cuff off her arm. “You’re too naughty for me.”
“How is Dr. Daniels? How’s he faring?”
I update her on Doctor, who’s away visiting his ill father.
“You must be exhausted. Ready for his return.”
“Certainly so. But I’m faring quite nicely for the moment.”
“It’s a bit of pressure, I suppose. Bearing the responsibility for so many poorlys.”
I laugh, and she smiles quite charmingly, and that’s a person for you, I think—any person. Bits of good and bits of not-so-lovely. I’ve learned to take the bad with the good. It’s all that one can ever really do. I find other people quite foreign—especially after years of silence—but there’s almost always something to love.
I send Mrs. Glass away with a freeze-dried pack of strawberries Mayor Acton’s sister gave me when she came by for assistance with an ingrown toenail.
As she starts toward her home, across the lane and two doors down, I hold Baby’s hoof up in a wave. Mrs. Glass chortles.
A few moments after I step back into the clinic, I hear a soft thump outside. With a vision of dear Mrs. Glass tripping on the ramp, I yank the door open and nearly suffer heart arrhythmia.
Declan.
He’s leaning over, his long arms bracing against the wooden rail beside the stairs. As I watch, wide-eyed, he turns his head toward me and straightens.
“Hi.” A soft smile curves the corners of his mouth. His hair is messy, dimple showing. I realize he’s wearing sport clothing and breathing like he’s just been jogging.
“Hi.” I can’t help smiling, even as I realize with some horror it’s the first time I’ve seen him since the closet.
He brings his hands together in front of him, and for a moment, I feel he looks perhaps a bit bashful. “Thank you for the basket.”
My cheeks burn. I nod. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you found it.”
Something warm pushes at my calves.
“Baby.” I scoop her up, holding her against my frantic heart. “She’s a wee rascallian.”
He grins. “She’s what?”
“A wee rascallian.” Now I’m blushing.
“What’s a rascallian?” He look so smug, I’d like to pop him.
“I don’t know. It’s like a rascal I suppose.” I pet Baby’s head, then stroke her soft nose. “Your people created duck face.” I smile up at him. “So don’t you say a word.”
His easy smile widens. “What’s duck face?”
“You know…duck face.”
“Show me.” He smirks.
I give him my best ridiculous pout, and both his dimples show. “I scarcely noticed them inside the burrow.” I nod at him.
His hand runs over his wild hair. “What?”
“The dimples. That one’s deeper.” I point to his left cheek.
He flattens his mouth and smooths his face out, giving me an exaggerated, “o”-lipped face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says without moving his mouth.
I roll my eyes. “As if there’s not a fan club for your dimples.”
“What?” He looks a bit puzzled.
“Women adore dimples. It’s a known fact.”
“Is it?”
“Don’t be a duck, Declan.”
“I’m Declan again now?” He leans against the railing with a faint smile.
“Only because your surname is so tedious.”
“Tedious?” I love the way his face lights up when I’ve surprised him. “You think so?” He’s grinning now.
“That’s what I said, I believe.”
Baby squirms in my arms, and I set her down. She blinks up at Declan.
“Hey there.” He kneels down beside her. I watch as he holds his palm to her face. “God, they have the softest noses.” His eyes close a moment. Then he runs his hand over her head. “She glad to have you back?” He’s looking up at me now.
“Over the moon. You, she’s not so sure of.”
He remains crouching there on the stoop. My eyes sweep his shoulders and my body warms uncomfortably.
“To what do we owe this honor?”
He stands, pulling something from his pocket. It’s a small black packet. He holds it out, and I squint.
“Pop Rocks…” I take it from him. “What are Pop Rocks?”
He lifts his dark brows. “Guess you’ll have to open them and see.”
“Something edible?”
His dimple deepens. “Open them.”
I tear along the top of the packet and peer inside at a pile of tiny, pink-red rocks.
“Here.” He takes the packet, holds my gaze with his blue-gray one. “Hold your palm out, Siren.” I do, and he shakes some of the candy pebbles into it.
“Now put those in your mouth.”
I laugh. “I don’t want to.”
“Do it.” He grins brilliantly.
“Is it going to hurt?”
“You think I would hurt you, Siren?” The seriousness on his face makes my neck flush. When I stare skeptically down at the Pop Rocks, he pours some into his palm. “Here.”
He puts them in his mouth and opens it wide—and I hear popping.
I laugh. “What?”
“C’mon…”
“Witchcraft!”
He closes his mouth, making a funny, smirky face, and I hear the pop-hiss of the candy.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pop my small handful into my mouth, and gape as they sizzle and fizz. “Stone the cows!” I say around them.
He laughs. “What?”
We stand there laughing in the damp air. When I swallow, I say, “Stone the cows. It’s a perfectly valid expression.”
“Is it?” He makes a skeptical face, and I notice he looks a bit strange. A bit pale, perhaps, and there’s something about his eyes…
“What?” His lips twist in a not-quite-smile and I realize something. “You look poorly. Tired,” I add gently.
“Nah.”
But he does. He’s paler than he was mere moments ago.
“You’re a hopeless liar, Carnegie. And anyway, don’t
lie to me.”
His eyebrows notch as he shakes his head, raising his hand to his hair as he does when he feels uneasy. “I’m okay.”
“Did you use my remedies?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you afraid to try my funny tinctures?”
He gives me a strained smile. “I’ll use them. Did you make them?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks for sending them.”
I want to scream at him to just act normal—how we did inside the burrow. But that wasn’t normal, was it? And I’m not acting that way myself, besides.
What you really need is for him to leave.
I hear myself say, “Come inside.”
His eyes widen a bit, and I open the clinic door. “I never got a chance to check you over. Step inside and I’ll do something speedy.”
I hold my hand out for his. He doesn’t take it, but he follows me into the entry area, where there are two small love seats angled ’round a wooden table stacked with old magazines.
“Wait here for a moment.” I point to the mauve love seat and go fetch a few things from the cabinets and counters. I return to find him sitting with his head in his hands. Baby stands at his feet like a guard dog.
I sit beside him, speaking softly: “Take your shirt off, Sailor.”
That makes his lips twitch. He removes his shirt, and I feel tingly at the sight of so much heavy muscle. I try to take a deep breath, but my face feels hot, and my heart starts to race.
I press the stethoscope to his chest. Chills cover his warm, smooth skin. I check a few spots on his chest and move to his broad back. His muscles flex as he shifts under the bell of the stethoscope.
“A bit fast,” I murmur.
He rubs his face. As if he’s avoiding my eyes?
“Let me get your blood pressure.”
He holds his arm out, staring ahead as I work the cuff up his forearm. It scarcely fits over his bicep. When I get it there, I realize I’ll need to change it. His muscle is simply too thick for the usual size. While I do that, he avoids looking at me, and I wonder why. Is he embarrassed? Irritated? Perhaps I erred in urging him inside.
