by Luanne Rice
Casey sat on the top step of his house, playing his mandolin. The notes were from the song I’d heard in the clearing. I slowed my approach, to listen a little longer, but he turned toward my footsteps.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi,” I said. “It’s …” I wanted so badly to say “Emily.”
“Lizzie,” he said. “I know.”
“I don’t want to interrupt you playing.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “C’mon, have a seat.”
I sat beside him. He was so tall and lanky, his legs went on for a mile. In spite of the cold air, the sleeves of his faded blue corduroy shirt were rolled up, his forearms taut with lean muscles. His face was narrow, with sharp cheekbones and a long nose. He watched me with those turquoise eyes.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked. “Your mom said you were sick; that’s why you haven’t been to school yet.”
“Yes, I’m fine,” I said. “It was … nothing really serious. What’s that song?”
“It’s called ‘Take Me Back,’” he said.
“It’s beautiful,” I said. My mouth was dry. I couldn’t tell him I’d been singing it to myself since I’d heard it, that it had helped me survive the trip to Black Hall. “Who wrote it?”
“I did,” he said. “You’ve heard it before, right? When my band played it?”
“How did you know I was there?” Chloe and I had been hiding, and even if we hadn’t been, how could he see us? Then I felt embarrassed—it seemed impolite to assume anything about his vision, even though Mrs. Porter never failed to mention it.
“I heard you,” he said. “You and Chloe, behind the trees.”
“What were we saying?” I asked, trying to remember, sliding a glance toward the Porters’ house, half hoping he’d heard the truth.
“I couldn’t make out the words,” he said. “You were too far away. But I recognized the tone of your voice. From talking to you at the cider mill.”
I held my real thoughts inside, knowing Mrs. Porter was watching.
“Well, your music is beautiful. You write amazing songs,” I said at last, meaning it.
“Thanks,” he said.
“I wish I could write.” I held back the part about how there was nothing like being kidnapped to give you writer’s block.
“My mom said everyone has a talent. It’s just a matter of finding yours.”
“I agree with her,” I said. “She must be proud of your music.”
“She’s not here anymore,” he said. His face turned red, the blush starting in his neck, spreading into his cheeks and forehead. His mouth tightened into a straight line. “She passed away,” he said.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, feeling disingenuous because I already knew. Loss shimmered between us. I wanted to spill everything to him, missing my family, my best friend—Lizzie—dying. But I stopped myself: I was Lizzie now. “What was your mother’s name?” I asked.
“Sinead,” he said.
My heart leapt. “Irish?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “As Irish as they come. Grew up in a house ten miles from any town in County Kerry. My dad comes from Dublin. Urban boy and country girl. He played rock on Grafton Street; she worked on her family’s farm and played traditional music in the west. They met at a music festival in Dingle—his band was headlining, and she was selling honey at the fairground. They got married a month later. He loved her so much, he never went back to Dublin. He gave up the city, and they had me.”
“How did they wind up in Maine?” I asked.
“Long story,” he said, “but she inherited this house from a distant aunt. My dad figured the States were a good place to hit the big time with his music, and she thought …” He paused. “There’d be better medical care for me here than the rural place they lived. She knew she could keep bees anywhere.”
“Medical care?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
“What’s your full name?” I asked, feeling so soothed by the Irish family connection, and before I thought about it, the rest of my reckless question spilled out. “Confirmation name and all?”
He laughed. “Patrick O’Casey Anthony Donoghue. O’Casey was my mother’s maiden name, so Casey’s what they always called me.”
“My brother is named Patrick,” I blurted out, then clapped my hand over my mouth.
“A brother?” he asked. “I thought it was just you and Chloe.”
“I’m kidding,” I said, blushing with panic. “Anthony’s your confirmation name?”
“Yeah. For the saint who restores sight to the blind. I took it to make my mother happy; she never stopped hoping I’d be able to see better someday. She made sure I had the best doctors, but her real faith was in St. Anthony. When things got rough here—financially, I mean—she wanted us to move back to her hometown.”
“You said Kerry?” I asked.
“Yes, she lived near Slea Head, this really remote and rugged area. Cliffs over the sea. Her grandmother tended the clocháns—these small ancient stone huts built in the shape of beehives.”
“Like those?” I asked, pointing across his yard.
“Yes,” he said. “Only big enough for the hermit monks who lived there, probably starting in the twelfth century. And shaped differently. The traditional way in Ireland was to use skeps, curved like parabolas. But that style,” he said, pointing, “is more modern, makes honey collection easier.”
We stood up and walked over, looked at the ten-inch square boxes.
“That’s where the frames go? Where the bees build their honeycombs?” I asked.
“You know about how that works?” he asked, a touch of curiosity in his voice.
“From my old school,” I said. “We had an apiary there.”
“Cool,” he said. “Bees were a big part of our family’s life, both in Kerry and here. My mom’s family made a living tending the hives, selling the honey. My mother learned when she was a girl. My dad’s band had one big hit, but after that, well, music is a very competitive business, and the money stopped coming in. My mom supported us with the honey.”
I thought of how much that sounded like love to me. Mrs. Porter had said Casey had had a bad mother; then again, she’d said the same thing about my mother, too.
“Did she have a stand here at the house?” I asked.
“Yes,” Casey said. “I’d help her collect the honey after school, take turns running the shop with her.”
“You have one of those beekeeping suits?” I asked. Mr. Vibbert was our school beekeeper, and I pictured him in the white jumpsuit that reminded me of an astronaut, with elbow-length leather gloves and a broad-brimmed hat with a veil.
“I did,” Casey said. “But I haven’t worn it in a long time. The bees went away. She died in September of last year, and they left just before winter.”
Those words hung in the air. I pictured the bees flying out of the hive in a swarm, a thousand workers leaving with their queen. Perhaps scouts had flown ahead, to find a new location, perhaps a hollow tree, to start their new settlement.
“St. Anthony must have heard her prayers after all,” I said, hearing the sadness in his voice. “To allow you to see well enough to work in the hives, not get stung.”
“I guess he did.” Casey paused. “I have some vision,” he added. “From what I understand from friends, it’s kind of like seeing shadows. No colors. Some shapes—enough so I don’t walk into a tree.” He paused again, and smiled. His teeth were crooked, a fact that tugged my heart a little more. “I don’t think I can miss what I have never seen,” he went on. “I see fine. Missing my mother, that’s different. She was real. She was the best.”
I thought about that. I’d tamped down my feelings so hard, but hearing his words made me feel like a geyser, about to boil over with missing everyone I loved.
“So, you sound like you’re Catholic, too. What’s your confirmation name?” Casey asked me.
“Emily,” I heard myself say—a lie, because it was really Ba
rtholomea. But I found myself wanting him to know at least a vestige of the truth, of who I really was.
“That’s pretty,” he said. “I’ll have to write a song about an Emily.”
I nodded, my palms sweating and my heart skittering.
“Well, I’d better get back,” I said, hoping he didn’t hear my voice quavering.
“I’ll see you soon,” Casey said.
I turned to leave, then stopped and faced him. “Where did the bees go that winter?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Casey said. “Somewhere warm, I hope. A wildflower field. Hives kept by someone who loves them.”
He picked up the mandolin, and as I ran through the yards between his house and the Porters’, I heard him strumming and plucking a happy, skipping tune, singing these words:
Hey, Emily,
You talked to me,
And now you’ve walked away.
Hey, Emily,
Come back to me
And sit again someday.
I stopped under a sycamore tree, its trunk scrappy with bark that looked like torn paper. I listened to him play, amazed that he could write those words so quickly, waiting to hear the next verse. But there was only an instrumental; he must have been working the lyrics out in his mind.
Mrs. Porter stood in the kitchen door, watching me. I forced myself to wave and I started to run again, as if I actually wanted to get back “home.”
Home. I realized that Thanksgiving was coming, and the following Monday I would go to school. It would be my first Thanksgiving without my family.
I wondered how I could possibly find anything to feel thankful about.
Before I entered the Porters’ house, I glanced back toward the beehives. They had reminded Casey’s mother of home; she had brought a little Kerry here to Maine. She’d taught Casey the skill she’d learned as a young girl, and Casey didn’t have to tell me that the reason the bees went away was that she had died. I knew, from the way he talked, how close he and his mom had been.
That’s how family was supposed to be: closeness and caring no matter what.
My throat ached, and I tried to swallow past the huge, choking lump of tears. I had never felt so far away—from my family, my home, myself. I could barely catch my breath.
I wondered what had happened to Casey’s mom, how she had died.
Then I pictured the bees wafting through warm air, in a sunlit wildflower field filled with daisies and asters, brambles heavy with raspberries, clumps of wild sage and mint, with a beekeeper in a big white hat and veil, a soft Irish voice with a Kerry accent, and I could breathe again.
In an odd way, thinking about the bees, about Casey and his mother, gave me something to feel thankful about.
Going to school used to be the most normal thing in the world. Just like writing your name, tying your shoe, riding your bike: After a while, you don’t even think about it. But preparing to start at Royston High reminded me of my first day of freshman year. Then I had worried: Would I fit in? Would I make a mistake? Would people like me? Only now my worries were slightly different. What if someone figured out I was an impostor? What if I let something slip and Mrs. Porter killed my mother?
Looking through Lizzie’s closet, trying to figure out what I should wear, panicked me. I was overwhelmed by the dark and chic wardrobe. I wanted to look like myself, my actual colorful and dorky self.
“Quirky,” Lizzie would have corrected me. “Don’t put yourself down by saying ‘dorky.’”
“I mean it as a compliment!” I’d say.
“Trust me, it’s not,” she’d say.
And while I’d feel grateful that she saw me as cooler than I really was, I also felt a little offended. Most of my clothes were hand-me-downs from my sisters and in some cases brothers, but I had my own style. I assembled my outfits with care and pride. I loved to wear my cherry-print shirtwaist dress with a white patent leather belt, dark green tights, red Chucks, a baggy hand-knit Irish sweater, and a Red Sox cap.
Today, as Lizzie, I wore cropped black wool pants, a gray turtleneck, and a midnight-blue jacket with a big brass diagonal zipper. Everything was too body-hugging. Lizzie’s wardrobe didn’t include items that were not form-fitting, that were baggy enough for my comfort level.
Staring at myself in the mirror—the black hair, green contacts, and the little birthmark and perfect eyebrows—I knew I was wearing a costume. And not one that I would have ever in a million years chosen myself.
“You look lovely, sweetie,” Mrs. Porter said when I sat down at the kitchen table.
“Thanks,” I said, staring at my plate of scrambled eggs.
“Eat up,” Chloe said. “It’s a big day!”
I nearly laughed. I heard the sarcasm in her voice, but I was sure her parents didn’t. It was a sibling thing, being able to detect undercurrents. As much as I wanted my own sisters and brothers, I had to admit it was comforting at least to have Chloe.
“I’m actually not hungry,” I said at last.
“Everyone’s nervous the first day at a new school,” Mrs. Porter said. “But you need a good breakfast to keep you centered.”
To not lose it, she meant. To not forget who you’re supposed to be.
“She’s right,” Mr. Porter said. “You’ve got to be ready to rock and roll, to be as excellent as you always are.”
He so rarely said anything to me. From the very beginning, I’d figured having me here wasn’t something he even wanted. It was pretty obvious he was just going along with his wife. When I glanced over at him now, I saw a glimmer of encouragement in his eyes. Was he talking to Lizzie or Emily? Referring to her excellence or mine? Since those first few days, he never called me by name. Either way, I reluctantly welcomed his encouragement.
I forced myself to eat a few bites of eggs before Chloe jumped up and grabbed her backpack. She threw me a glance, then handed me the black leather satchel Lizzie had always carried to school.
“Come on, we’ve got to catch the bus,” she said.
“Now listen,” Mrs. Porter said, standing in front of me, holding my face between her hands. “I thought about driving you but decided it’s important you blend in right away. We’re in a rural area, and everyone takes the bus. Don’t disappoint me, promise?”
“I promise.” Did I have another choice?
“I might take a ride past school throughout the day, just to make sure you’re settling in. I wouldn’t want to see … well, anything out of the ordinary. Police cars, for example.”
“You won’t,” I said quickly.
She kissed my forehead. “I know. I trust you. I shouldn’t have even mentioned it. Now, have a great day, sweetie! I’ll be waiting right here at 3:30.”
Chloe and I walked out the front door, across the front yard, and down the narrow, twisting country road. I looked for Casey, but he wasn’t at the bus stop. He wasn’t aboard when we climbed on, but I noticed the bearded boy from his band sitting behind the driver. Chloe squeezed my hand, then hurried to the back of the bus to sit with some kids I hadn’t seen before. I sat alone, about midway back, feeling everyone’s eyes on me. No one said hi, but their faces looked friendly.
The bus ride twisted along roads I’d never seen before. I pressed my face to the glass, looking at farms and barns, rocky hills, glimpses of blue saltwater bays, just like a tourist. At the next stop, a girl my age got on and plunked herself down in the seat beside me.
I glanced over. She had dark brown skin and big brown eyes. She was studying me.
“You’re new!” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“We never get anyone new. This is great. I’m Carole.”
My voice caught in my throat. Besides Casey, I hadn’t spoken to anyone but the Porters in over a month. She was a total stranger, and I wanted to grab her by the lapels and start pouring my heart out. My whole body was shaking.
“I’m …” My teeth were chattering as I forced myself to say the name. “Lizzie.”
“Oh, yeah,
now I’ve got it. You’re the world traveler. Been all through Europe.”
I couldn’t speak. Mrs. Porter had mapped out a whole, lovely lie for me to tell, and she’d spread it around, and all I had to do was carry it forth.
“Yes, I just got back.” The words sounded so phony, I nearly gagged.
“Are you feeling better?” Carole asked.
“Better?” I asked, my mouth dry.
“It must have been awful to be so sick, far from home.”
“Oh, you knew about that?”
“There are no secrets in this town. Everybody knows everything,” Carole said.
“Really?” I asked, thinking if only she knew.
Carole’s glistening black hair was twisted up into a knot. She wore a maroon down jacket, navy leggings, and pale blue Uggs with little grosgrain bows lacing up the back. “Sophomore, right?” she asked me.
“Yes,” I said. “But starting two months late.”
“I’m in your class. I’ll help you out if you need it.” She pulled out her iPhone. “Let me text you so you’ll have my number.”
“I forgot my phone,” I said quickly. This could be a major problem. How could I tell people I didn’t have a cell phone? Everyone had phones. It was killing me that I didn’t have mine.
“Here you go,” Carole said, writing her info down in her notebook, tearing out the page, and handing it to me. Carole Dean. She was so open, so friendly, and I was such a liar. I was a complete fake, not a real person at all. I couldn’t even look her in the eye as I accepted the paper with her phone number on it.
The bus pulled into a circular driveway in front of an old stone Gothic-looking mansion-type building. The doors opened and we all got off. Carole walked ahead of me, toward the wide, curving granite steps of the school. I followed her, but Chloe caught up and grabbed my arm.
“You okay?” she asked.
“I think so,” I said.
“Carole’s nice,” Chloe said. “And her mom’s our doctor. Mom had to make an excuse about why they didn’t take you to her when you had your ‘virus.’”
“What’s the excuse, in case she asks?”
“That Uncle Jim treated you.”
