by James, Ella
“It is so, Father. But I’m sorry to have disappointed you. I’ll do my best to attend mornings again quite soon.”
“I heard your Doctor is returning early.”
My stomach does a slow roll. “Did you then?”
He nods. “I’m ready to see my dear friend again.”
“Oh yes. I’m so eager for that, too.”
As quickly as he stuck his neck into our conversation, he’s gone.
“Dear Father. A bit odd. What a true man of the Lord, though,” Mrs. White murmurs.
“Absolutely.”
I can’t escape the church quickly enough. As I step out, I nearly bump right into Holly, who looks lovely in an apple red dress.
“Finley. You’re just the one I wanted to see.”
I imagine crossing myself, as I would like to. Holly walks me to the clinic residence, yammering the entire while about Dot and Rob Glass.
“I’d quite like to be…enthusiastic, but he’s…simply so…well, old.” Her brows draw sharply together. “He’s like…the apple when the peel part, the outside of it, has gone a bit squishy. It’s still edible—” I’m cringing along with Holly, though for different reasons— “but who would want to eat it? If we’ve enough apples, and the crop has been well, I toss those out whole at times when Mum’s not looking.”
Well, you’re not the lady of the house. You can afford to behave like a school child.
I nod.
“I feel she’d be better off alone.”
I clamp my molars on the inside of my cheek to avoid rolling my eyes. I’m quite sure you would. Though not for Dot’s sake.
Holly needs a sympathetic ear, and never much more. She’s a gabber. Needs to hear her own thoughts to decipher them. By the time we’ve reached my porch, she gives me a small smile.
“Thank you for listening. You’re the best at listening.” She hugs me, and I go collapse on the couch.
Moments after—truly moments—I hear knocking on the clinic door. It’s old Mr. Button with a sliced his finger. Chopping potatoes. It takes me half an hour and three bandages to stop the bleeding. Then I have to explain to him that he ought not to be using large, sharp knives due to his severe tremor. I try never to presume that I’m a strict voice of authority, but Mr. Button cut his thumb severely this past summer, and it’s only a matter of time before it happens again.
He leaves hunched over, looking like a just-kicked puppy. I feel villainous. I hang about another half hour—these Sunday things come in threes—and sure enough, there’s another knock. It’s poor Cindy, looking ill-kempt and quite desolate. I lead her into the residence and spend the next forty minutes talking with her, drinking tea and sharing slightly stale friendship bread.
Having suffered quite intensely in my own life, I can understand her pain—at least a bit. She feels ill like this a bit more often in the fall and winter. Unlike me, she needn’t suffer anything particularly unusual to set her off. It’s simply her body’s weakness. When she leaves, she seems a bit brighter.
“Page me anytime,” I insist. “Day or night. You know how I enjoy talking with you.”
Thankfully, there’s no third patient. Twenty minutes later, I’m out the door. I walk toward the Patches, then cut up into the hillside and back toward Gammy’s cottage. It adds nearly half an hour to my trek, but lately I’ve been feeling more frightened of being found.
Which brings to mind Father Russo. What was that about? He’s one of Doctor’s closest friends and confidants…but I don’t understand. Eventually, I’m feeling so overwrought that I shut down all my thoughts and focus on the landscape. The way the mist drifts about the volcano’s peak, hiding it from view. The way the grass bends in the breeze.
How could I leave this place?
Focus on the dirt…the grass…your footsteps. No thinking.
And soon I’m at the cottage.
* * *
That night as the rain begins to fall, and thunder claps, and lightning flashes out the window, we lie curled together on our sides beneath the blankets. We’re quiet, kissing at odd moments. His eyes simmer with some unnamed thing. Perhaps I’m simmering as well.
“What do you want for yourself?” I whisper to him. “In the future.”
He shakes his head. His lips press gently together.
“Do you adore baseball?”
He traces a strand of my hair. His lips tilt at the corners. “Yeah.”
“Could you picture yourself playing for a long time?”
“I don’t know.”
“But if it worked out? Injuries…the shoulder. Your team and you seeing eye-to-eye.”
“I could see myself playing.” His eyes move away from mine, then back. “Maybe not in Boston.”
I don’t need to ask why. Why wouldn’t he want to get away—after what happened there?
“Where, then?”
His finger traces my jaw as his eyes hold mine. He shakes his head once. “Seattle? I don’t know.”
“The great Northwest Coast.”
We’re speaking in whispers, even despite the loud rain.
His palm cradles my cheek.
“Is it lush and rainy there? I think I remember talk of rain.”
“It’s rainy there, yeah. Sort of like here.”
His eyes fall away again. I can’t make promises.
I want to say, I know.
“What would your house be like there?”
Now our gazes latch again, and my heart feels warmer.
“Smaller.” His chest sighs, although I don’t hear evidence of it. “Nothing like the one in Boston.”
“What is your home there like?”
“Too big. On a busy street.”
“You want seclusion. Something warm and cozy.”
He swallows.
“Something to remind you of this cottage.”
When he looks back up at me, his face is apathetic, but his eyes—they’re filled with fury. “You said no strings.”
“There are no strings.” And yet my pulse begins to race.
He shakes his head once, his jaw tight.
“You don’t want to take me with you. You think I don’t know it?” I sit up, blinking at the dresser, where Mum’s photo faces down now. “I was drinking, but I still remember. You said nothing.”
He sits up beside me. I refuse to look his way.
“I said I loved you.”
I blink quickly. “Yes. I know.”
“I love you, Finley.” He wraps his arms around me, dragging me close. “Maybe I shouldn’t have ever said it, but how can I keep that to myself?”
Tears spill down my cheeks. “Thank you for saying it.”
“Don’t thank me. I hurt you. And now I have to leave.”
“That’s how it goes. I knew it would be.”
At the start, I didn’t think I would feel this way. Couldn’t fathom I might want to really go with him over the ocean. Now I can’t imagine staying.
“I trust you,” I whisper. “I trust you more than anything. More than I fear those awful waters.”
“I can’t take you with me.”
Fury rises in me. “Why not? Tell me the official reason.”
“You know why.”
“You don’t trust yourself to steer clear of temptation. You think it will hurt me if you don’t.”
“Finley, you’d be way out of your element. You’d need me there.”
“I’d have you,” I whisper.
He shakes his head, and I cover my face. I won’t explain, won’t share my secret with him, even though it’s logical to do so at this moment. I find I simply can’t.
He holds me all that night, folding me against his chest, his strong arms keeping me warm.
“I love you,” I murmur near his ear. “Forever, okay?”
“I love you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. We said never sorry.” I won’t make demands or tug at his heartstrings. “One day, perhaps I’ll find you. And you won’t feel
you have to be my watcher.”
I stroke his face. His beloved face. We kiss until I taste my tears. But I don’t think they’re only mine.
When I look out the window and see how much rain is on the ground, it’s nearly a relief. I’ve got to get up to the Patches. We hug at the door, and kiss deeply, and turn back for the bed.
Afterward, I dress for cold and rain. And I bid him goodbye.
Chapter Forty
Finley
Monday morning, there’s a mud slide trapping two sheep and killing three others. I call for help via my repaired radio, and Mayor Acton sends Mike Green. He is, as ever, quiet and helpful. We spend Monday night sleeping in shifts in one of the huts down by the fields. Whoever isn’t sleeping is keeping the sheep away from the thick gulches.
Tuesday, June 20, brings more rain, as well as Benny Smith to help in early afternoon. It’s frigid, and the rain is mixed with sleet. The three of us are miserable as we use sand bags to redirect an overflowing gulch.
As the rain turns to mist, and then a thick fog, I allow myself to think of him. Ten more days. That’s all I have left with him. I feel nothing at the prospect. I suppose I can’t believe it.
We pile into Doctor’s car at half past five. I’m headed toward Mike’s family’s home when Benny says, “I need my bones warmed.”
Mike, in the front passenger’s seat, looks over his shoulder toward Benny, in the back, and then turns to me. “Would you take us to the bar, Finley?”
“I don’t see why not.” Younger lads aren’t meant to indulge, but when it’s quite cold, or on a special day, they sometimes have a toddy.
“You should come in with us,” Benny says. “You never do get out much.”
“Finley doesn’t hit the bottle,” Mike says. “Everyone knows.”
“I do on the rare occasion.”
“It’s a rare one when we lose so many sheep.”
It’s a rare one when I feel as poorly as I do. I can scarcely bear the thought of seeing Declan. My heart is so full—so battered, stretched, and sore—I fear seeing him will only make me ache. And yet, it’s all I want. Perhaps one glass of something wouldn’t hurt so. Only the one. Truth be told, I’ve lost that fear of becoming my father. I’ve become Mum instead.
As we walk to the bar’s front door, where banjo music spills into the cold air, I notice the blinking Christmas lights draped around it and realize it’s solstice—the longest night. How fitting.
There’s a bit of a crowd just inside the doorway, so I’m stopped for a brief moment on the porch. I touch one of the lights and look up—and that’s when I see between Benny and Mike. I see what’s drawn the crowd.
It’s Declan. Wearing dark pants and a pale shirt, he’s whirling Holly to a fast-paced song. He’s been on the bottle. I can see it in his loose movements. In the way he laughs, unencumbered, as his hand grabs her hip and she throws her head back at the song’s end. Just behind them, I spot Dot, her Rob Glass, and Rachel, all smiling and clapping.
Dull weight settles in the hollow of my belly. As Declan and Holly head toward the bar together, the crowd shifts. Mike steps inside. Benny smiles back at me.
“It’s a bit loud, but it’s—”
I shake my head. That’s all I can manage. Hot pain blazes just beneath my throat—an ache so fierce, I run the entire way back to the clinic, desperate to outpace it. Instead it seems to cleave me deeper. When I round the clinic’s front corner, gasping for breath in the frigid air, my poor heart beating wildly, I nearly run right over Anna, clutching Kayti, who’s wrapped in a blanket.
Anna’s eyes rove up and down me, skeptical and then relieved. “I’m glad you’re back. Kayti’s got a horrid cough.”
Inside, I find this to be true. Kayti’s quite congested, and a peek into her ear canal reveals what seems to be an infection.
“Poor wee dearie. We’ll sort you out…”
I feel Anna’s eyes on my back as I poke about the cabinets, working out the proper medicine for Kayti and the proper dose.
“When did it come on?” I ask.
“Sunday evening.”
“I wish you’d have paged me.”
When I return to the chair Anna’s sat in, bearing the bag with the medication and syringes, I notice the strange look on her face.
“What’s the matter, Anna?”
She purses her lips and sweeps a strand of hair from her face, refusing to meet my eyes.
“I’m afraid I’m a bit confused.”
Her eyes flash to mine. “Sunday night.”
I ignore the tightness in my throat as I say, “I was at the Patches.”
“No you weren’t! Your car was here.”
“I walked—”
“You walked to see him!” Her eyes glitter. “Maura saw you leave there in the early hours! She went for a hill-walk to the ponds.”
Tears spill down Anna’s cheeks. I feel so faint, I grab onto the chair by hers.
“No,” I whisper.
She’s shaking her head. Just shaking it in silence. I can see her lips quiver despite the way they’re pressed together.
“I’m ashamed I didn’t know. The way you spoke of him that day—when we had the wine. Just the barest mention, but it was there in your eyes.” She dashes tears away. “It makes complete sense now. Ever since you returned from that cave, you’ve been someone different entirely. You think I haven’t noticed?”
“I was trapped below ground!”
“You’re a liar!”
Kayti starts to cry.
My throat feels as if it’s turned inside out. I try to appear casual but end up whisper-hissing, “I was there to get measuring spoons.”
Anna jumps to her feet. Kayti’s eyes pop open. “Have you lost your marbles? What’s possessed you, Finley?”
I think of Declan whirling Holly. Hot tears sting my eyes. “Nothing! He’s gone in ten days! Nothing possessed me! I needed spoons!”
Kayti’s rooting about Anna’s coat. With one hand, Anna opens several buttons. She sits back in the chair stiffly, pushing her shirt up, and Kayti lifts her head, mouth open. I’m stricken by that sight: Anna shaking her head, her jaw tight with fury, as wee Kayti latches to her breast.
“I know it wasn’t a love match, but are you purely mad? You should be chaste! Waiting! You’ll be judged for this, God save you. I can’t say I know you. Where is that girl? I don’t know!”
Tears spill down my cheeks, and Anna shuts her gaping mouth. Her eyes soften despite her shaking her head. “How did it—”
I shake my head, pressing my trembling lips flat as I inhale deeply through my nose.
Her lips purse tightly, and her narrow shoulders tauten.
“Anna, please! Don’t tell a living soul, especially Holly! I could…you know what could happen. Please tell Maura it was spoons!”
Anna juts her chin up. I can see her pulse in her throat. “If they find out, Finley, it won’t be from me!”
She whirls from me, grabbing Kayti’s blanket off a chair before she snatches the bag of medication from my hand and flies out the door. Good thing Kayti’s dose is unchanged from her last infection; I never did tell Anna how much. I stand at the door for a few moments, breathing in great tugs, wiping my face.
Then I turn the lock, flip the lights out, and walk numbly into the living quarters. I should eat, perhaps. It’s been near twelve hours. I pull out a round, white plate that was my Mum’s, a loaf of bread, some jam and peanut butter. I stare at the plate’s edge.
“Why use that plate for a simple sandwich? It’s quite larger than the sandwich will be. Bit of wasted space.”
I flinch at the voice in my head. It’s been so long…I suppose I don’t expect to hear him narrating my actions—no more. Once my brain is compromised, though, he won’t hush up. Memories play like a record as my shaking hands assemble the sandwich.
“Why are you making that damnable soup again? Who asked for tumeric soup?”
“I’ve had a long day. Shouldn’t my fo
od be waiting? Or do you cook simply when you feel the urge?”
I stare down at the sandwich as it blurs about the edges. It looks perfectly nice despite the extra space on the plate. There’s nothing wrong with how I make a sandwich. Just as there was nothing wrong with Mummy.
I set the plate down and walk woodenly into the bedroom, where I slip my shoes off, lie down in the bed, and pull the covers over myself. I haven’t slept here regularly in so long, the sheets smell stale and odd. Beneath my pillow, I find my old, brown rosary—the one I got in girlhood.
I don’t pray the rosary, but simply clutch it as I lie on my back, rigid as a corpse.
Please help me. Oh, please. Please help me. Please help me. Tears roll into my ears, and I whisper the word aloud, half chanting. “Please. Please. Please.” Each time I say it, my eyelids feel heavier.
* * *
Knocking wakes me. I’m aware of knocking, and my racing heart. The quiet house. I wonder if I dreamed the knock, and then I hear it again: two more raps, delivered with a heavy hand. A male hand.
Terror rolls through me. I never checked the ship schedule…
I sit up. Take a thorough breath. The knocking comes again, less rhythmic this time. I slip on my shoes and drift into the clinic. It’s all dark inside. Through the closed blinds, slits of white moonlight. I can’t see the clock on the far wall, so I’ve no idea what time it is. Trepidation trills through me with every step toward the door.
I don’t know why I’m so sure it’s going to be him. Sometimes I get pulled into another place. Something happens, I’m flashed back to the past…delivered to the clutches of my old, familiar fears.
Were you as damaged as me, Mummy?
You deserved more.
If we are nothing but the flesh and motion summation of our DNA, then I am her—extended. In my bones I know I’m certainly no more. I’m like a bird I once saw flapping its wings just atop the rocks near Hidden Cove. On first glimpse, I couldn’t understand how it could flap its wings so fiercely and remain motionless, not taking flight. Then I moved nearer and saw its foot caught in some moss.
