Take Me Home

by Daniela Sacerdoti

  “Working on a project?” asked Taylor, looking at a little pile of scribbled sheets.

  Oh, yes, it’s just about this ghost I see, I considered replying. But of course I couldn’t. I thought quickly. It’s for a book. About a girl who used to live here, I wrote on my purple notebook.

  “Cool! Logan said you write. Can I read it?”

  I smiled. Nobody reads my books.

  “Right. So what do you write them for?”

  He had a point. I shrugged. I’m waiting for the right time.

  “Oh, okay. Well, while you wait, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  Oh. Suddenly, I had an idea. I wanted to find out more about Mary, and Aunt Mhairi’s suggestion to visit the Heritage Collection in Kinnear sounded promising. I’d been there for a project when I was at high school, and I remembered them having parish archives from Glen Avich and the surrounding villages. Maybe I could find out something there. The problem was . . . I couldn’t leave Glen Avich, not without being able to speak. I just didn’t feel ready. In Glen Avich everybody knew me, but in Kinnear it would be so much harder. I just found the idea of going alone very hard. Impossible, really. But, with Taylor maybe . . .

  I sat up and scribbled quickly.

  There is something . . .

  “Fire away,” he said, taking a sip of his tea.

  Would you come with me to the library in Kinnear? Research for my book. I just don’t feel like going by myself, without being able to speak . . .

  I looked down. I suppose I was embarrassed. I never thought I’d have to ask someone to come with me to the bloody library. But just the idea of standing in front of strangers, and having to write down everything, and miming, and nodding . . . I wasn’t ready.

  “Sure. Now a good time?”

  I smiled. You sure you’re not busy?

  “Not today, otherwise I wouldn’t be here, but I will be all next week, so perfect timing. Let’s go.”

  I grabbed my notebooks and pens, threw on my jacket and followed him outside. I hadn’t left Glen Avich in weeks. It was strange. I felt a bit dizzy – as if I’d been somewhere shady and sheltered, and I was now blinking in bright sunlight.

  As I got into his car, a flower of anxiety bloomed in my chest. Would I be able to keep the pretence up, that I was researching a book? Would he think that there was something strange going on? I hardly knew Taylor, after all. And suddenly, he was helping me with something so important, so precious.

  The Aberdeenshire countryside flew past us as we drove on the rural lanes between Glen Avich and Kilronan, and then on the road to Kinnear. Glen Avich and Kinnear were only half an hour away from each other, but they were like two different worlds. I often thought that Glen Avich seemed frozen in time, in spite of the Chinese takeaway and the new fancy coffee shop – it still felt a bit remote, just like it had when I was growing up. Kinnear, with its grey sandstone buildings and even its little suburbs, was very much part of modern Scotland.

  We’d arrived in no time. “So, do you want me to do the talking?” Taylor said. “Oh, of course. Sorry.” He gave a light laugh.

  I couldn’t help laughing too. I gestured for him to wait, took out my notebook and pen, and scribbled a summary of what I was trying to find out.

  Mary

  Probably lived in St Colman’s Way, Glen Avich

  Probably turn of the century?

  “Mary . . . probably lived . . . okay. How did you find all that out?”

  Good old Google, I lied.

  “Okay . . . So, in this library . . . do they have archives or something?”

  They should have old parish archives from the area. They all go under the name Heritage Collection.

  “Cool. Let’s see what they say. Ready?”

  I nodded. We stepped out of the car and walked up a small hill, towards the community library. I was a bit nervous, and frustrated that I couldn’t do all this myself, that my confidence had taken such a blow, I needed someone to speak for me.

  Behind the counter there was a girl with her hair piled on top of her head and bright-red lipstick, looking at a computer screen. She was about Emily’s age, I thought.

  “Hello,” said Taylor, smiling brightly. The librarian looked up and brightened visibly as she saw him. “Maybe you can help us. We’re doing some research for a novel . . .”

  “Oh, that’s exciting! Are you a writer?” she squealed.

  “No, she is . . .”

  I smiled a tentative smile. I could feel my cheeks burning.

  “Oh, wow! So what is this book about? How can I help?” She seemed really sweet. I allowed myself to relax a little.

  “We’re looking for information from the Heritage Collection. About someone called Mary . . .”

  “Half the women in the Heritage Collection are called Mary,” she said cheerily. “But don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll find her. Follow me . . .”

  We trailed after her, behind the counter and through a back door. It was a high-ceilinged room, covered wall to wall in bookshelves, with filing cabinets filling every free corner. It would take us days to go through all that – no, weeks . . .

  “We’re a bit short of space, but the stuff is all in order. So, this Mary. Where did she live?”

  “Glen . . .” Taylor began, but I put a hand on his arm. I wanted to speak. This was my thing.

  I looked at Taylor and gestured to my throat, and then at the librarian. Taylor got my hint.

  “She can’t speak. She writes instead,” he explained.

  The librarian looked bewildered for a moment, then she recovered herself.

  “Oh, okay. No problem. Handy that you’re a writer, then?” she said kindly.

  I smiled. I could do this. Voice or not, I could do this. I took a deep breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Taylor looking at me with something very similar to pride. I opened my notebook at the page where I’d written what I knew about Mary, and I showed it to the girl.

  “I see. Glen Avich . . . this section. Right. The address is no use for now because the parish archives go by dates of birth and death. Do you have an idea about the time . . . Oh I see. Turn of the century . . .”

  I did a quick calculation. In my visions, Mary looked about twenty. I took the notebook from the librarian, gently, and scribbled: Probably from around 1880 to 1890 or so.

  “Smashing. Well. It’s all in here.” She gestured at a small row of computers, sitting on desks against the opposite wall. “Everything has been scanned and catalogued. It’s on microfilm, and on PDF as well. The PDFs are handier.”

  My vision of us sifting through fragile yellowed papers dissolved. It was all shaping up to be a bit easier than I thought.

  “Thank you . . .” Taylor began.

  “Lucy,” said the librarian. Had I imagined it, or was she blushing?

  “Thank you, Lucy.”

  She cast her eyes quickly around the room, and finally her gaze rested on us. “So, I’ll leave you to it. No coffee or tea allowed in this room, but if you want a break just come through. My mum made cupcakes yesterday,” she added, looking straight at Taylor, and she was gone.

  “Okay. Let’s do this thing, then,” said Taylor cheerily, and he sat at the desk, folding his long legs under it.

  Thank you, I mouthed, taking my place beside him.

  “Well, when I have something ultra-boring to do at the excavation, I know who to call for help. Once I logged and classified seven hundred and twenty-two pebbles. It took me six weeks.”

  I laughed. I felt a weight had gone from my chest. I’d left Glen Avich and negotiated my way with the librarian. Yes, I’d had Taylor’s help, but I’d done my bit.

  I was still me. Still Inary. Without my voice, but still me.

  I started studying the records, one by one. The librarian wasn’t joking when she said that half the women in there were called Mary. There were also a lot of Annes, Catherines, Elizabeths, Margarets and a few Floras. Their lives, otherwise forgotten, were on
the screen in front of me. And still, even if they weren’t individually remembered, their blood flowed in the veins of Glen Avich. There were so many names I recognised – Monteith, my own surname, and then Watson, Buchanan, Walker, Duff. I’d gone to school with these women’s descendants – these women were us, all of us. And so many McCrimmons . . .

  Anne McCrimmon, dead at twenty-three of tuberculosis . . . Emily’s age.

  Morag McCrimmon, dead at eighty-nine. After nine children, five of whom had died before three years of age.

  Elizabeth McCrimmon, born in Glen Avich and, said a wee note beside her name, dead at thirty-eight in Nova Scotia . . .

  Had any of them had the Sight, I wondered? I felt them around me. I could hear them whispering . . .

  I was beginning to feel quite strange – light-headed, and the hairs on the back of my head were rising. My hands were tingling too. I kept looking around, but I couldn’t see any spirits. It was probably their stories, having that strange effect on me. I was beginning to lose my concentration and felt drained by the weight of those weird feelings.

  “You look a bit pale. Are you cold?” Taylor rested a hand on mine. “You’re freezing! Maybe we should continue another time . . .”

  Do you want to go? I wrote.

  “I’m happy to stay. Just you don’t seem to be feeling well . . .”

  A little bit more. There weren’t many birth certificates left to go. I was sure that I would find her.

  And I did. At last. The low drone in my ears announced it – and there she was.

  Mary Gibson, Born in Glen Avich, St Colman’s Way, the 1st October 1895.

  As I saw her name, my heart started beating faster and for a second I felt like I was floating. It was like a shift in the atmosphere, an echo of voices and sounds taking physical form and sweeping my body from head to toe . . .

  “Inary?” Taylor turned towards me. I just pointed at my screen. “Mary Gibson . . . Do you think that’s her?”

  I’m sure, I scribbled quickly, my hand shaking.

  “How can you be sure?”

  Because I feel it in my bones, I could have said, but I didn’t – Everything fits, I wrote instead.

  And then I heard them, the whispered words – a warm breath on my cheek, as if somebody’s face was right against mine, a woman’s mouth against my ear.

  Find her.

  I gasped and stood up so quickly that my chair fell backwards. Taylor wrapped an arm around my waist, steadying me, his face full of alarm.

  “Inary? What’s wrong?”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t say.

  “Sorry guys, it’s closing time . . . Everything okay, yes?” The librarian came in, holding her jacket and handbag.

  “Sure, all fine,” said Taylor, and I nodded feebly.

  I took hold of my notebook and pen and leaned on the desk. I found what I was looking for. Thank you. I tried to smile.

  “You sure you’re okay? Would you like a glass of water?”

  I shook my head.

  “We’ll just go. Thank you . . .” Taylor intervened.

  “I’m in every day. Come back whenever you want,” she said, giving Taylor a red-lipped smile.

  “Yeah. Will do . . .”

  Once in the car, I rubbed my face with my hands to try to dispel the light-headedness. Find her. It had been Mary’s voice, I was sure – but who was she talking about?

  “So you found your Mary. Mary Gibson. Will she end up in your book?” said Taylor, starting the car.

  I nodded. We drove in companionable silence, until he stopped in front of my house.

  “When should we go back? I’m not free until next week . . .”

  I can come here by myself. I feel fine about it now.

  “Oh.” He seemed deflated.

  I don’t want to inconvenience you . . . I wrote quickly. It was true. I was happy to have company, but I was sure he had better things to do than accompany me to the library to find out about a ghost. I mean, wouldn’t you?

  “I enjoyed today, Inary. I’d love to come back. I guess I can be kind of your writing partner – intern-assistant,” he laughed. “Seriously, it’s cool. How about next Thursday?”

  I had to give in. I nodded, smiling.

  “In the meantime . . . maybe we could go for a drink, just you and me?”

  Uh-oh. Just what I needed. More complications.

  I poised the pen to write – something like I’m so busy this week . . . and then I sighed and put the pen down. I gazed at him.

  His handsome face broke into a smile. “Right. Right. I think that’s a no . . .”

  I have a lot on, Taylor, I started writing as he was watching over my shoulder, I just can’t get into this kind of thing now . . . I’m sorry if I gave you ideas, I didn’t mean . . .

  He put a hand flat on my notebook, interrupting my writing. I looked up, alarmed – but he was smiling.

  “Hey, it’s okay. Honestly. Look, I like you. I can’t lie. But I can see it’s not the right time . . . Maybe there’s someone else?” he asked kindly.

  I went to deny it, but I couldn’t. I nodded.

  “In London?”

  I took a deep breath and nodded again.

  “An awful long way away . . .”

  I looked down.

  “Well, lucky dude,” he said with a sigh.

  I studied his face. He looked a bit deflated, but not entirely crushed.

  You sure you want to come back to the library with me? You don’t have to. I mean, I would understand . . .

  “Of course I want to.” He smiled again and looked me straight in the eye. He meant it. Thank goodness. I breathed deeply. I couldn’t have coped with more tricky situations. And I enjoyed his friendship; I didn’t want it to end.

  *

  “So . . . you and Taylor seeing each other then?” my brother said during dinner, pretending to study the label on the back of a bottle of HP sauce.

  I shook my head, eyes wide.

  “Right. Good.”

  I grabbed my notebook. What do you mean by ‘Good’?

  “Nothing,” he shrugged. “He told me he liked you, but he doesn’t seem your type much.”

  How do you know my type? My brother, the relationship expert.

  “Keep your hair on. Just saying.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Sorry, forget I ever spoke.”

  Logan didn’t look good at all. He was pushing his food around the plate. I was sure he’d lost weight. I had tried to suggest he go and see Dr Nicholson many times, but he kept putting it off.

  I had to find another way. Sort of make him go without him realising he was actually going.

  I’m very worried about my voice, I wrote. It was true, of course.

  “So am I, Inary,” he said, gazing at me. His face was full of concern. Bingo, I thought. Push the ‘looking after’ button, and with Logan you’ll get results.

  I’d like to go and ask Dr Nicholson again, see what she says . . .

  “You should.”

  Actually no, better not.

  “Why? You really should.”

  Don’t know, too stressful.

  “She could have some advice . . .”

  I’ll ask Aunt Mhairi to ask for me.

  “Aunt Mhairi? You crazy? Bless her, you know the way she is!”

  Yes. Let’s just forget about it, I wrote.

  Logan didn’t reply, but I saw from his face that my plan had a good chance of working.

  25

  Tomorrow

  Logan

  I’d only closed the shop for a few days, when Emily was dying and then over the funeral and the immediate aftermath. It was better for me to be busy. I knew Inary would be working from up here, but I thought she might need some extra money and something to do, so I asked her to help.

  I didn’t mind having her around, I must admit.

  I’d left Inary and the usual shop assistant in the Welly, and walked down to see Dr Nicholson. I didn’t tell my sister whe
re I was going; I didn’t want her to know that I was looking for advice about her.

  I sat, leafing through the pages of a medical magazine. The photographs were horrifically graphic. I started browsing the leaflets: diabetes, high blood pressure, flu and all its complications. Alopecia, depression, asthma, arthritis. Suddenly I was sore everywhere. I left the leaflets alone.

  It was strange to be in the surgery without Emily. I couldn’t remember the last time it had happened – doctors are not really my thing. They always seem to give bad news, or so it worked with Emily. But I had to go – I was worried about Inary. Her voice was showing no sign of coming back, and it broke my heart to see her writing in that notebook. I knew she was just trying to work her way out of what had happened, but it had been a long time now. She hadn’t said a word for weeks. Not one. I tried not to show her how anxious I was, just be with her the way I’d always been, but she could probably guess.

  “Logan? Hello, come on in.” Dr Nicholson waved me into her office and gestured to the chair. “Have a seat. How can I help you?”

  I took a breath. “It’s Inary. She’s still not speaking at all. Not even a whisper.”

  Dr Nicholson looked at me thoughtfully. “And how is she feeling?”

  “She seems okay. She’s upset, no wonder, with all that happened . . . But she’s bearing up. She’s working, she’s helping me in the shop . . . I make sure she eats, of course.”

  “And who makes sure you eat?” Dr Nicholson said quietly.

  I was taken aback; I was there to talk about Inary, not myself. I never went to the doctor for myself. For a moment I felt completely exposed, and I just wanted out.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You know, when someone you love is ill you dedicate all your energy to them. It happens quite often that carers need nearly as much attention from me than the people they care for do . . .”

  “So how can I help Inary?” I said sharply. I refused to be dragged into a conversation about me. It annoyed me to see the concern in Dr Nicholson’s eyes as she looked at me. One of my sisters was dead, the other couldn’t speak – and there we were, talking about me. It made no sense.