Hollow Sight

by Kristie Pierce

  The lower we descend in the sky, I notice that the city is quite congested. Many of the buildings look like they’re very old, but the architecture is exquisite. I could easily get lost in all the history and art here. But that unfortunately will have to wait. I’m here to do a job, even though Liam and I are the only ones who know that. To anyone else, we’re on a leisurely holiday vacation. I’ll have to try and stay focused until what I’ve traveled so far to do is done. I shudder involuntarily when I realize just how close I am to doing just that.

  The plane fast approaches the long landing strip and then grounds with a rapid thud as I involuntarily lean forward in my seat as the brakes swiftly halt. The roar of the air protesting and catching against the wings is deafening after the hours of quiet. Everyone in the cabin starts to clap when it’s clear we’ve landed safely and I’m just happy to be on the ground. I’ve reluctantly put my head in between my knees, and am now breathing deeply through my mouth to try and quiet some of the nausea.

  “Breckin, love, should I get more of that medicine for you?” I can hear the worry and slight hysteria in Liam’s voice, but I just wave my hand at him – it won’t work now anyway.

  The plane taxies in at a lolly-gagged pace and I manage to sit up. I notice that there doesn’t appear to be any snow on the ground, but I know that doesn’t mean much. After living my entire life in a tricky climate – snow and wind one day to sun and spring-like temps the next – I don’t let the sight of missing fluffy white stuff fool me.

  “Is it cold, do you think?” I ask as we wait to exit the plane. Was that proper grammar?

  “Most likely. And it looks like rain as usual.” Liam answers as he peers out the small window to my side. He takes advantage of the close proximity to kiss my cheek.

  “Great,” I say in an off-hand tone.

  We’re the first to get off the plane just as we’d been the first to board. After retrieving my carry-on from me, Liam grabs my hand and hurries us from the gate toward the baggage claim. I struggle to keep pace with him, but it’s difficult due to the fact my body hasn’t woken up yet and my stomach is still settling. I have to stop him once though, I can’t help it.

  “Liam,” I murmur as I tug on his hand. I feel like a small child in the grasp of an impatient parent. “Um, I need to use the bathroom.”

  He stops abruptly and blinks. “Oh sure, that’s probably a good idea actually.”

  He weaves our bodies in and out of the tight crowds of travelers and airport personal. An oversized golf cart zooms by us with a load of tired looking vacationers all piled practically on top of each other. As Liam directs us expertly through all the chaos I notice that if we need to come to a stop or if the mass of people becomes too grand, he always maneuvers his body protectively in front of me. It’s as if he were ready to attack if called for. I idly wonder why he’s so on edge. Eventually we make it to the restrooms – hallelujah, I’m about to burst – but he’s hesitant to let go of my hand.

  “I’ll be right here,” he says to me as I begin toward the entrance.

  “Okay,” I nod. “Aren't you going to, um, you know...” I say now as I eye the men’s restroom across from the ladies.

  “Guaranteed I'm out before you are,” he answers smugly. But he’s right; there’s always a semi-permanent line for the women’s restroom.

  When I come back to meet him, I find that Liam has perched himself against the opposite wall just outside the ladies room as he stands with one foot crossed over the other, keeping his head up but looking off into the distance. A few young women – probably in their late teens or early twenties – walk out behind me, and of course ogle after him. I hear one of them gasp as she stops short to very unsubtly admire him, and the rest of her group plows into her back like a freeway pile up. He has his arms tightly crossed over his chest, causing those taut muscles and tendons I love so much to bulge beneath his skin, and his jaw is hard set. He looks like a model posing for a clothing ad. I lick my dry lips, secretly wishing for my chapstick and announce myself when he doesn’t see me. He looks up to me with soft eyes but the line of his mouth has formed into a hard thin line to match his rigged jaw. I want to ask what’s wrong, but I don’t have time before he scoops my hand up and heads us down the long corridor of the airport once more.

  “You had some admirers back there.” I say, hoping to distract him from whatever he’s thinking about.

  “What’s that?”

  “You nearly caused a traffic jam, but with young women.” I laugh.

  He seems confused.

  “Oh for God’s sakes. You had some girls back there practically drooling over you. You’re too handsome for your own good.”

  Liam rolls his eyes and seems unaffected by my sort-of compliment.

  We reach your destination of the baggage claim area before the luggage is ready to be retrieved. Liam holds me tight to his side but his body feels tense against me and the expression he continues to hold worries me further. His perfect features are contoured in a way that makes him look almost angry and I can't understand what reasons he would have to feel that way.

  “Liam, what’s wrong?” I finally get to ask in a voice still thick with sleep.

  He looks down to me as I am leaning into his chest and his expression has turned softer upon meeting my eyes. He kisses my forehead.

  “Nothing. I’m fine. Just anxious to get on the road.”

  “You’re excited to see your family,” I muse.

  He hesitates but then answers, “Yes.”

  I was going to ask why the uncertainty, but the loud buzzing of the luggage belt blares interrupting my thoughts. Luck seems to be with us; our suitcases are one of the first few to come out from under the long black vinyl slits separating us from the loading dock. I insist on toting my own bag this time. Liam tries to take it from me – twice – but I playfully slap his hand away each time he reaches for it. I can’t however, make him give up my carry-on. He’s thrown it over his shoulder and tightened the strap making it next to impossible to get my arm under it. He’s impatient at the customs counter and I think at any minute he’ll start tapping his foot. We wait our turn and get a green light to go through without a baggage search which is, I feel, a good thing being that Liam’s agitation and intolerance continues to grow with each passing minute. His hurried behavior makes me edgy – he’s always so patient with me – and this new sense of agitation has me flustered as a reaction. After donning our winter gear, Liam heads us toward the glass double doors to the long row of road meant for cars to park and pick up travelers.

  He glances over the rows of cars waiting for vacationers and people making the trip back home. He then spots who he must’ve been looking for. “This way,” he orders, taking my hand.

  I follow more quickly now. The cold whoosh of air that hit my skin when we came outside has woken me up entirely. Liam leads us to a sleek black luxury type car with darkly tinted windows. Standing next to it is an elderly man, wearing a dark suit with laugh lines expressing his kind face and has thick gray hair that billows softly in the chilly air. Liam wheels his suitcase to the trunk of the car and takes mine so quickly that I don’t get a chance to complain about it. I open my mouth to mutter a sulky remark, but Liam’s eyes silence me. He’s in no mood for banter. The man standing next to the car comes around and opens the trunk.

  “Mr. Francis, welcome home.” He says in voice sounding both professional and paternal.

  “Thank you, Andrew. This is Breckin, my girlfriend. She’ll be staying with us for the duration of my stay.”

  I smile hugely, but for two reasons. The first, to be polite in my introduction. The second, because this is the first time I’ve heard Liam use the word “girlfriend” to describe me. I reach out my hand to shake Andrew’s and he returns the gesture with a warm eye-crinkling smile.

  “It’s a pleasure, Miss Breckin,” he says in a voice that reminds me of a grandfather’s.

  “For I as well.” What was that? Why I am I being so formal? I
half-expect myself to curtsy next. Maybe it’s the historic atmosphere or perhaps the way in which Liam and Andrew speak. I’m used to Liam’s exceptional grammar, but being surrounded in the eloquent ambiance of England and its people, perhaps it rubbing off on me a bit, and I’m only at the bloody airport.

  We all load into the car next. Andrew in the driver’s seat, Liam and I taking the back. We begin driving on the opposite side of the road and it feels odder than it had when I had to sit on the differing side of Liam’s car. I try not to look to the road in front of us.

  I’m shaking slightly from the damp, cool air. My skin feels as if it’s been layered in a soggy covering of moisture. It’s definitely cold here, but the air around is almost clammy. Liam notices my quivering and pulls me tightly to his body.

  “You’re freezing,” he notes as he firmly rubs his hand against my arm.

  “It’s cold.” I say, stating the obvious.

  “It isn’t as cold as you think it is. It’s wetter here than you’re used to, so it seems colder.”

  “Oh.”

  “Ready to meet my family?”

  “Oh,” I say again, although it sounds like I’m choking. I haven’t thought about that really. I had been too preoccupied with the gut churning thought of running to meet a ghost that doesn’t know he’s dead and that likes to bring unyielding pain my way. I hadn’t made room for the nerves that are now creeping up inside my stomach to the prospect of meeting Liam’s family. Butterflies are knocking around inside my abdomen, but instead of making me feel excited, I’m nauseous again. I feel any little bump in the road we now travel upon may just cause me to throw up. I groan and lean down to put my head between my knees again.

  “Is Andrew family?” I ask in a small voice.

  “No,” Liam answers. “Andrew is our driver. Breckin, what’s wrong?”

  I ignore him. “You have a driver?”

  “Mm-hmm,” he responds although the worry is adamant in his voice. “He's been with us as long as I can remember. I suppose he's a bit like family in that way, being he's put up with us for so long.”

  Good grief just how… fancy is his family? As I remain embarrassingly tucked between my knees, I begin to catch up in my head as to just what I do know of Liam and his family. If one really thinks about it, he and I have had sort of a whirlwind romance and the day we’d spent together in my room – the day filled with never ending questions – I realize now that he remained vague whenever the subject of family was brought up.

  Okay, first is most obviously his car. Liam has a very nice vehicle that had been customized and that probably took quite a bit of money. And, too, his mother had allowed him to have it shipped overseas. Plus the motorcycle that scared me to death. I couldn’t even begin to think of the money expended sending both of those in the mail. I also think of Liam’s clothes. Sure, I noticed that he always dressed extremely well, but more so is the quality of his clothes. They’re different than those most of the kids our age wear and even most of the adults, too. At first I thought maybe it was just the difference in cultures, but maybe I was wrong. I really didn't think British culture could be that much different that American society. Interest piques then, and I sit up to reach over to his shirt collar and pull at the fabric at his neck to read the tag.

  “What are you doing?” he asks in surprise, automatically tucking his chin for me.

  Uh-huh. Just what I thought. The label is nothing I know. Okay, that’s not saying much being I’m not exactly much for fashion, but it isn’t even in English.

  “I just wondered who made this. I really like it on you.” I say off-handedly. I don’t want to admit my minor detective work. He’ll think I’m being ridiculous.

  “Oh, thanks,” he says in a voice that makes me think he’s on to me.

  “Just curious.” I reassure.

  “I see. My sister sent it to me from Paris.”

  Ah-ha! Paris. Okay, expensive lavish car with a motorcycle on the side: check. Designer clothes: check. A personal chauffeur: check. Two tickets for an international flight in first-class seating: check. I suddenly remember that I had glanced absently into his wallet when he’d paid for our coffees at the airport and can recall seeing more than a few twenty dollar bills, some fifties and maybe even a couple of one-hundred dollar bills. What kind of teenager carries that much money? Hmm. My bracelet catches my eye then, as a small ray of sunlight showing through a large gray cloud bounces off the charm sending little specks of light and illumination shining like little stars. I study the dainty charm that now hangs from it, turning it over and over with my fingers.

  “Is this an antique?” I ask him as I play with the deft trinket. The charm looks far too delicate and elegant to be one that has been designed in my life time or even my mother’s. Jewelry just doesn’t seem to be made like this anymore. And I can’t believe that I hadn’t noticed before – probably from the lack of light when I had unwrapped it – but there are two small diamonds embedded next to the inscription. One small crystal on top and the other to the bottom of the elegant script.

  Liam peers down to my wrist and smiles in appreciation. “Yes.”

  “My grandmother collected antiques when she was alive, and she had a few baubles when it came to jewelry.” I explain aloud. Those memories of going to her house and helping her catalog her findings also helped me to recognize the old-fashioned theme the charm seems to embrace. I remembered her saying how much some of the talismans would be worth if they were all to be sold and depending how rare the item, they all would sell for a very large price.

  “That’s the last one of its kind actually,” he says then as if echoing my thoughts. “There are others similar, but that particular charm is unique.”

  I sit in awe. Not just to the rarity of the golden amulet dangling from my wrist, but to the fact that I’ve been so blind and naïve to fail to see that Liam is… wealthy. There’s no other explanation that I can come up with. For now, I’ll settle for that, being he’s never really said much in the way of specifics when it comes to his family.

  “Where did you get it?” I ask. “You say it’s the last of its kind. Did you dive down to the bottom of the ocean and retrieve it from a shipwreck or something?”

  “Breckin my love, it doesn’t matter how or where I got it. All that matters is that you like it and that it’s yours now.” His voice is like melted butter.

  “But I just don’t understand how…” I trail off.

  “How I was able to get it so fast?” he says, finishing my sentence.

  I nod.

  “Well, I admit that I tend to get ahead of myself sometimes,” he laughs. “I’ve had that charm for a while now. I acquired it before you and I had even confessed our feelings for one another. But I knew that I’d have the chance to give it to you, much like I’ve known all along that you were meant to be with me.”

  “So how could you have known that… before we…” I can’t come up with the words. My mind is reeling too fast for coherent thought, but I feel like he’s hiding something. Liam is looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to finish, but I can’t. I decide to let it drop for now. I’ll bring it up again later, when we’re alone. And after I've had time to think about it.

  The rest of the drive Liam spends describing the lavish scene outside the car window. He explains how the Thames River turned into the Isis River in Oxford, but assures me that it is the same body of water. We pass big-name buildings - ones that I had always wanted to see in person - and some marvelous architecture, but to be honest, I’m not paying a lick of attention. I still feel nauseous and I can’t concentrate. It’s overcast, giving the day a gloomy appearance, but the ancient and exquisite buildings far outshine the clouds even though they pass in an unfocused blur. He points out a couple of historical homes too, all made of aged stone and lightly colored brick. He must’ve picked up on my lack of interest because once the buildings begin to sparse to rolling hills that fan out in front of us, brown and dull from winter, Liam stops the vaca
tioner’s tour and becomes silent. I feel bad being this is the first time since the airport he’s seemed to relax and show some enthusiasm, but my nerves are getting the best of me. As we become closer to our destination, and the more nervous I become, I resort back to the head-between-the-knees position. I mostly can’t stop thinking about the upcoming first impression I’ll make with his parents.

  It’s almost an hour later before I notice us pulling into a drive that’s protected by a large and lavish stoned wall gated by a big wrought-iron door. The drive to the house isn’t as long as I’d expected it to be; somehow with the elegant gate I pictured in my head a long and winding drive to the house. The car stops directly in front of the Francis home and I suck in a big breath.

  “Ready?” Liam asks me , squeezing my hand.

  “Yes.” No.

  “C’mon,” he murmurs after kissing my hand. “You’re beautiful, they’ll love you, relax.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Liam smiles crookedly and steps out of the car with a grace that makes me feel clumsy just sitting here. He walks around to my door and holds out his hand for mine. I clasp it shakily and when I exit the car, I better take in the grand house in front of me. With a nervous stomach, I look to Liam. He gives me my favorite wink and we start for the front door.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Francis’ house could’ve been bunched in with one of the many extravagant and exquisite houses Liam had pointed out in our journey; although some I noted were mid-evil looking.

  Theirs is not.

  There are three stories to the house and the massive front matches the gray stone décor of the gate lining the property as it’s made up of multiple gray colored brick from top to bottom. It rests atop a slight hill full of what I imagine as beautiful green grass in the summer, and has a pebble stoned walkway leading to the front entryway. The house is quite wide and there is an abundant amount of large windows to each story – old paned glass setting the feel of a senescent English home. There are dark green shrubberies lining both the house and the cobble path we walk upon. As we approach the numerous wide steps leading up to the house, I can see that the front door is made of thick, heavy wood and it, too, has large windows taking up the expanse of the door. Liam stops us before he opens it.