Sandcastles

by Luanne Rice

  “But you know what she was talking about, don’t you?” Brendan asked quietly.

  “No,” John said. “I don’t.”

  “She said she dreams…that she killed someone.”

  John shook his head. “She didn’t. I did.”

  “In her dreams, she saw him him going after you—and then she killed him.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” John said, his heart pounding.

  Brendan’s blue eyes glinted in the dim light coming through the blinds covering the station house windows. John saw something familiar there—a flash of knowledge, cutting through to the core—that reminded him of Tom Kelly.

  “You know what, Mr. Sullivan? I can tell you’re a good father—I see the way your girls feel about you, and right now I can hear how much you want to protect Regis.”

  John’s shoulders tensed up, and just as in so many of Tom’s preambles, he knew that there was a “but” coming. “She’s my daughter,” he said. “Of course I want to protect her.”

  “Then tell her the truth.”

  “Hey,” John started.

  “Kids always figure out when their parents are lying to them,” Brendan said.

  John glared at him—how dare this kid he barely knew say such a thing? But even as his anger rose, it washed away. There was something in Brendan’s eyes—a compassion that seemed too deep and old for his years—that made John listen.

  “For me, it started when they said Paddy had the flu. I knew it was more than that, because he didn’t come home from the hospital. Then he did come home, and they had to tell me that he had leukemia….”

  “I’m sorry,” John said.

  Brendan nodded, hurrying on, letting John know that that wasn’t the point. “They told me his chemo would work. I kept waiting for that to happen. But Paddy kept getting sicker. He couldn’t play anymore. They said he was just tired from the treatment. He got these terrible mouth sores—he’d cry, and the salt from his tears made it worse. They told him to think of the fishing trip we were all going to take when he got better.”

  “Did he like fishing?”

  Brendan nodded. “It was his favorite thing. We had a rowboat in the creek, over behind Paradise Ice Cream. We used to go out when the snapper blues were running and catch so many we thought we’d sink the boat.”

  “Maybe your parents were just trying to ease his pain,” John said. “Give Paddy something happy to think about, and look forward to.”

  “I know,” Brendan said. “But they lied to me, too. They kept telling me we’d get to fish together again. When I knew we’d never make it back to the creek, back to the Sound.”

  “Did you—”

  Brendan shook his head. “Nope. Never fished with him ever again. He just kept getting sicker. My parents just kept saying it was the chemo. The strong drugs, making Paddy sick. They said he’d turn the corner…. I got mad at the doctor, because Paddy never got to that corner.”

  “Don’t blame your parents, Brendan,” John said quietly, thinking of how he might act if one of his girls were that ill. “They were doing the best they could.”

  “I know,” Brendan said. “They were crazed, they really were. They loved Paddy so much. We all did. I found out about a kid at school whose brother was saved by a bone marrow transplant. I told my parents I wanted to do that for Paddy, and they told me I was too young.”

  “Were you?”

  Brendan shrugged. “I don’t know. It was beside the point. The real reason I couldn’t donate my marrow was because I was adopted.”

  “And you didn’t know?”

  Brendan shook his head. “Nope. I had no idea. They never even gave me a straight answer—I had to ask my aunt. She’s the one who told me. It was after Paddy died, and by then my parents weren’t in the mood to answer any questions. She told me they couldn’t conceive, so they adopted me. But then, a few years later, my mother got pregnant. And Paddy was born…. My parents won’t talk about it.”

  “Brendan, parents love adopted kids as much as if they were their birth children,” John said. “So much so, they might not think the truth, the details, matter.”

  “But the truth and details do matter,” Brendan said softly. “Just the way they matter to Regis.”

  John was seized with memories and images. The silver-green hills of West Cork, turning black under storm clouds. The sharp cliffs of Ballincastle, waves smashing the rocks down below. Rain coming down sideways, his sculpture teetering on the brink, the ruined tower looming over everything. Greg White insane, attacking his work, screaming that John owed him money.

  “If only she hadn’t come onto the bluff,” he heard himself say now.

  “You owe her the truth,” Brendan said.

  “I’ve never lied to her,” John said, his throat closing up. Even as he spoke, he realized that he was lying right now.

  “You took the blame,” Brendan said. “You rewrote history, just so Regis wouldn’t have to face the truth—and she lost her father for six years.”

  John couldn’t speak. He looked over at the young man—he couldn’t be any older than twenty-four, but he had such sorrow and wisdom in his eyes.

  “She’s haunted,” Brendan said, “in her dreams.”

  “Where is she? Where did she go?”

  “That I don’t know,” Brendan said.

  Just then the two detectives walked into the room. Detective Gaffney beckoned Brendan to go with him, and Detective Cavanagh held the door for John to precede her into a small anteroom.

  He looked around, finding it hard not to relive the initial questioning at the garda station in Ireland. Brendan’s words were ringing in his ears; he thought of what he had said about lies, about a person deserving the truth, and as he spun back six years, to his state of mind and what he wanted, needed, for Regis, he wondered whether he’d made the worst mistake of his life.

  “Mr. Sullivan,” Detective Cavanagh said, motioning for him to take a seat. He did, and she sat opposite him, at a small desk. She was in her early forties, dressed in dark pants and a crisp white shirt, with sun-streaked light brown hair. Behind a genuinely kind smile, she had a stern steadiness that reminded him of the officers he’d encountered at Ballincastle.

  “I need to find my daughter,” he said.

  She nodded, gazing at him with silent appraisal.

  “She’s…going through a lot,” he said, stumbling over the words. If only he could appeal to the detective’s kindness—which he had seen at the grotto, and felt now—he could convince her to get out there, look for Regis, and let him do the same.

  “What do you mean, ‘a lot’?”

  John paused. This was the instant he should ask for a lawyer; that’s where he’d made his big mistake in Ireland. Trying to protect Regis, he had given a statement, and they’d used it against him. A barrister might have been able to mitigate the impact in court without involving her.

  He should clamp down, shut up, refuse to answer anything without calling a lawyer now. He could call Tom—the Kellys had more lawyers in their family in Hartford than there were stones in the Academy walls. These were heavy hitters—lawyers who represented the archdiocese and insurance companies. The chief prosecutor was a second cousin; half the assistant DAs in the state had Kelly blood. The public defender was named for Francis X. himself.

  The pro bono league, lawyers known for taking on long shots and last chances, were all found at Kelly family reunions each summer. John knew all he had to do was exercise his constitutional right to counsel, and a Kelly would be at his side within the hour.

  But he was innocent right now, and he was notoriously pigheaded, and he believed that this detective was a human being who would understand that he loved his daughter and had to get out of here to help her.

  “She’s twenty,” he said. “She’s engaged, but I think she’s rethinking that. She was in Ireland with me when—when…”

  “When you were arrested for manslaughter,” Detective Cavanagh finished for him, looking through
a sheaf of papers that made John’s heart skip; why would they have his arrest file from Ireland?

  “Yes,” he said. “And I’ve just come home. Our family has always been close; we’ve just come back together. It will take some adjustment.”

  “What do you know about the vandalism at the Academy?”

  The transition shook John; had he misjudged Cavanagh? He thought she looked as if she cared, but here she was worried about words scratched into stone instead of Regis.

  “Look,” he said, “I know that’s why my sister called you initially, but I think there’s something much more important to deal with—my daughter. She’s not someone who just runs away, disappears—she’s never taken off before. Her mother and I are worried….”

  “I can appreciate that, Mr. Sullivan,” the detective said. “We’re trying to sort it all out, figure out whether your daughter’s decision to go away has anything to do with what happened in the grotto.”

  “What happened in the grotto?” he asked, leaping up, nearly exploding. “That’s just someone trying, I don’t know, to get their message across. A vandal, or a religious fanatic, or who knows what? Never mind that—I thought you cared about finding Regis!”

  “Sit down,” she ordered.

  John buried his face in his hands, unable to believe this was happening—time passing while Regis was out there, needing him more than ever now. He kept thinking of Brendan, of what he’d said about her dreams. Was Brendan talking to Detective Gaffney, telling him what Regis had talked about to him?

  “Last night,” Detective Cavanagh said, reading, “Regis behaved very erratically at Hubbard’s Point, physically assaulting a man. She was screaming, ‘Don’t hurt my father.’”

  “She didn’t assault him. She was a little out of control, yes.”

  “One person said she was defending you from a verbal attack.”

  John knew then. That’s how she’d found out about his record; last night, when the police had been called at Hubbard’s Point, someone had told them about him. He shook his head now.

  “Look, Detective. It’s between her and me. Can you just believe that, and let me go find her?”

  “It would really help if you’d tell me what happened.”

  “With a name like Cavanagh, you know how the Irish are. My daughter has the soul of a poet.” He struggled, knowing he had to sound convincing so she’d let him go. “She feels things very deeply. That was her future father-in-law last night. She thought he was being too hard on me, that’s all. It hurt her feelings.”

  “That’s interesting,” Detective Cavanagh said, reading from the original sheaf—the papers that even from across the desk John could see bore the stamp of the Irish court. “Were her feelings hurt in Ireland, too?”

  “No,” John said, his heart falling, knowing what was coming next.

  “Because the initial report filed by the gardai at Ballincastle, where you were arrested for killing Gregory White, says that when they arrived on the scene Regis was crying uncontrollably, repeating one phrase over and over: ‘Don’t hurt my father.’ And then she went silent, and didn’t speak to the police again. Ever.”

  John’s heart thudded. They did have the investigation report from Ireland. Peter’s parents must have given it to them.

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “She’s sensitive. Wouldn’t you be, if you saw a man die? It was terrible for her.”

  “I’ll bet it was,” the detective said, pushing something out on the table in front of him. It was Regis’s letter, the one that Honor had handed the police back at the Blue Grotto. John glanced down, didn’t even have to read it….

  Dear everyone,

  Dad tried to take the blame, but I can’t let him do that anymore.

  I thought being grown up meant getting married, and that’s what I wanted to do. I was missing the most important part.

  It means taking responsibility for myself.

  You’ve all taught me so much.

  Unfortunately, one of the things our family does best is keep secrets. The letter Aunt Bernie had from Mom proves that beyond any doubt.

  I have to think. I want to do the right thing.

  Please don’t try to stop me; you couldn’t if you tried, anyway.

  I love you all—

  Regis

  John sat back in his chair. He stared out the window. Traffic sped by on Shore Road; through the glass and over the hum of the air-conditioning, he could hear the muffled sound of cars passing, taking people to and from the beach, their boats, their families. He thought of how worried Honor must be about their daughter, and gripped the arms of his chair to keep himself from shouting at the detective.

  “What does she mean,” the detective asked, “when she says she wants to take responsibility for herself?”

  John just kept staring out the window.

  “And here,” the detective pointed at the last paragraph, “when she says she wants to do the right thing?”

  “I would like a lawyer,” he said quietly, knowing it was more for Regis than himself.

  Twenty-six

  As Bernadette walked through the convent, she stopped and looked out the window—there was Tom, still standing by Brendan’s car, no doubt staring at the picture of the sea monster. Even from here she could see Tom’s eyes burning bright, as if all their secrets were fueling him.

  Knowing what lay ahead of her just now, she straightened her veil, brushed the dirt off the front of her skirt, from where she’d knelt in the grotto, and headed toward the cloister. Clasping her hands, she tried to stop them from shaking. It was nearly none, the two o’clock office, and the sisters had gathered in the cloister chapel.

  Bernie walked in. She bypassed her usual spot in the last choir stall in the first row, stood right in front of the altar. The sisters remained silent, in private prayer. Several kneeled; most sat.

  “In the name of the Father,” Bernie began, blessing herself; all the other sisters followed. She caught some of their expressions—surprise that she was standing up here. Normally she just took her seat, a sister among sisters. She ran the place, but that was just administration. When it came to prayer life, they were all equal.

  “I’d like to ask you all to pray for a special intention,” she said. “For my niece, Regis Sullivan. Please…” She stood tall and steady, but her voice trembled. “Please pray that she finds her way.”

  The sisters bowed their heads, and Bernie led them in the rosary. She heard beads clicking. Bernie held the crystal beads her grandmother had given her when she made her First Communion. She thought of the connection, strong women all related to each other. Regis was a woman after Bernie’s grandmother’s heart, brave and loving and adventurous.

  After all the Hail Marys, Our Fathers, and Glory bes, she finished with the Memorare. It had been Tom’s grandmother’s favorite prayer, imported straight from Ireland. Bernie remembered the first time she heard it. It had seemed almost incantatory, calling for the power of Mary. When Bernie had gone through her darkest time, months after returning from Dublin with Tom, the Memorare was the prayer that had led her into the convent:

  Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thy intercession, was left unaided. Inspired with this confidence, I fly unto thee, O Virgin of virgins, my Mother! To thee I come; before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in thy mercy hear and answer me. Amen.

  The sisters bowed their heads; Bernie looked out over them. She loved her community of nuns so much, just as she loved Regis, the girl for whom they prayed.

  Bernie’s heart ached, and she prayed her niece wouldn’t do anything crazy, anything to harm herself.

  Agnes and Cece walked the grounds, looking in all of Regis’s secret places. The tunnels, of course, and the pine barrens; the formal gardens behind the convent, originally planted in the 1920s, for the wedding of Francis X. Kelly’s daug
hter; the Blue Grotto, which now bore the chilly reality of a crime scene, the chalky words with their dark meaning scratched into the granite; the marsh and the creek; and all along the winding stone wall.

  Agnes wondered whether the stones had actual magical or spiritual power—like the dolmens or standing stones her family had seen near Ballincastle. They must have, she thought now, walking along, looking for Regis, feeling electricity bouncing off the wall. Every single stone, each rock, had been lifted and placed by one of her ancestors.

  “Regis!” Cece yelled now. “Come out! We’re looking for you!”

  “She won’t come out,” Agnes said, feeling the truth in her bones.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She doesn’t want us to find her.”

  “But why? She can’t want us to worry about her.”

  “She’s not thinking of that,” Agnes said. “There’s something she has to do before we find her….”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know Regis,” Agnes said.

  And it was true. Although they were three sisters, and had lived much of their lives as a unit of three, Agnes and Regis had been a twosome for five years before Cece was born, and were forever bonded. Agnes remembered looking out from her crib as an infant, seeing Regis’s face smiling in; she remembered Regis giving her a bottle.

  Agnes thought of the nights Regis had cried in her sleep. She had mumbled words, and now Agnes swore they were the same ones Regis had called out that night at Hubbard’s Point. Don’t hurt my father. How could she not have known what Regis was saying? What good were sisters if they couldn’t help translate the language of each other’s dreams?

  “Sisela,” Cece said.

  Agnes saw her then, the old white cat—older than both Agnes and Cece. She lay curled on the wall up ahead, gazing at them with emerald green eyes.

  “Maybe she’ll lead us to Regis,” Cece said.

  “I think that only happens in the movies,” Agnes said.

  “But look,” Cece said as the cat stretched, white fur seeming to glow—beyond the sunlight streaming down.

  “What’s she doing?” Agnes asked as Sisela looked back over her shoulder, as if to make sure the girls were following.