“I can’t just leave you behind…” Nadia insisted, taking his hand in her own. That’s when he realized what that pang was all about. He really did feel as if he was losing his other half. It probably didn’t make sense to people who weren’t one of a pair, but Nadia had been by his side from the very beginning. She was closer than a sister, she was a twin. And now Lily, with her big laugh and her handsome features, was going to monopolize his twin’s time. Where did that leave Aidan?
“I’m going to be fine,” he promised her, because the lie was comforting somehow. He didn’t want to feel the way he did. “You might be ready for marriage and mortgages and babies and all that, but there’s no way I’m settling down.”
Aidan gave a toast at their wedding and wished them a lifetime of happiness. He meant it, even. He wanted Nadia and Lily to be happy forever; just not necessarily at the cost of his place in the world. Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if he’d sat down with her after that first date and admitted how scared he was of losing her. What a coward. What a brat.
“You there, Aidan?”
“Sorry, I was thinking.”
Lily had a rich laugh, like milk chocolate. She gently jabbed, “Always the thinker, Aidan.”
“What were you saying?”
“I was wondering if you wanted to come over tonight. I finally got another one of the boxes down from the attic. I thought we could go through it.”
Aidan swallowed hard on a new knot in his throat.
Lily Minor, a woman he’d barely seen grimace, much less cry, before the death of her wife and daughter, had been so stricken at the loss she’d simply hired someone to come and pack everything up and store it away in the attic without even looking at it first. But slowly, as the years passed, every few months she got the energy to pull down a box.
Lily insisted that Aidan join her in going through old letters and trinkets and clothes and pictures. Sitting close to the sister-in-law he’d resented despite himself, touching his dead sister’s things, drowning in his own guilt—it wasn’t what Aidan considered a good time. But could he go home to the phantom smell of Ms. Ashmore’s imported perfume on the clothes he’d washed a million times and the fifty dollars he’d yet to throw out or spend?
Lily let out a long sigh. “So you coming?” She sounded run down. “I know I should handle this on my own and everything, but I’d really like you here, Aidan. Besides, I think Nadia would want us to keep this connection strong. For her.”
Don’t say that, Aidan wanted to beg Lily.
It was exactly the same as standing in front of Ms. Ashmore as she glowed, gushed, flirted, and poured that wine. His heart had pounded say no! but his lips had moved in a yes. Now they did the same.
“Of course. I’ll be there in twenty.”
Chapter Two:
Stepping Stones
A job is a job, is a job. That’s what Patrick’s mother had always said. From sweeping streets to saving lives, it mattered not. If it paid the bills and left a little over for a glass with the lads, then young Patrick wouldn’t be doing too badly at all. In truth, though it wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, he loved his work. And since they’d transferred him from the vast cemetery he’d tended as part of a team of twenty to this familiar, small, secluded cemetery with himself and Arthur as the only groundskeepers, his job satisfaction had increased tenfold.
Keeping the place full of life and loveliness: that’s what it was all about. To Patrick’s mind, death wasn’t an end, a time for sadness; it was a beginning. It was just how he’d been brought up, he supposed. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on Earth… Patrick wasn’t especially religious, but he did believe in something. A happy forever after. And the before? He, like many people, tried not to think too deeply about what it meant to be alive. He was happy-go-lucky, always a smile to share, which wasn’t to say he was never sad. Sometimes he was so very sad, but, as his mam always said, he had bounce-backability. And it was the truth that tending this rest stop in life had given Patrick his bounce back when he needed it most.
There was a way of doing the job with due respect for mourners. Some of the lads he’d worked with before would offer up the excuse that they couldn’t mow such-and-such a sector because there was a burial in progress. Sorry, Jack, there’s too many visiting today. I’ll prune the roses tomorrow. Patrick’s old boss, Jack, would turn the color of a ripe tomato in his endeavor to contain his rage, because taking the sit-on mower out with mourners present was one thing; yelling at a good-for-nothing employee in front of the bereaved was another entirely.
Of course, the work stopped when there was a burial. Or if there were too many visitors, then the men downed tools for a bit. But even on the brightest and best of summer days, when the cemetery was full of so much more life than death—the birds chirping, bees buzzing, visitors to-ing and fro-ing—there was always something Patrick could be getting on with.
The lessons that could be learned from the birds and the bees. The thought, when it occurred to him, always made Patrick chuckle. His mother was a devout Roman Catholic, uprooted from County Tyrone by Patrick’s father, a big, handsome American with blond hair and hazel eyes. The sort of man who appreciated the company of a good-looking woman, and Kathleen was the most beautiful woman in the world.
After Patrick’s father died suddenly in his late thirties of a massive heart attack—which surprised no one, for he ate whatever-the-heck he liked, and he liked everything—Kathleen could have married again, no trouble at all.
But she didn’t. Patrick and Seamus were her life, so they were. So too was she theirs, until that day, seven years ago, when their world stopped spinning.
“Now, Seamus, Patrick, you mustn’t be worryin’, but I have a thing to tell you.”
Seamus, at twenty-one the elder of the two, sat in the chair opposite his mother at the far end of the ancient table that had graced the kitchen of every home they’d made. Patrick, still “the baby” though he was almost nineteen, took his place next to his mother. She grasped his hand and squeezed.
“What is it, Mam?” Seamus asked. He was his father’s son; big, blunt, impatient. Patrick wasn’t as tall but had likewise inherited his father’s powerful frame, but not his coloring. The deep, rich copper curls came from the O’Malley side of the family, as did irises that shone like the most intricately cut emeralds. Today, his mother’s shone more brightly than ever before.
That was the day their mother told them the one and only lie she ever told them: that the doctors could cure her. Patrick stopped and caressed the black marble of her headstone; no tears. A smile for his mammy, just like she’d asked.
Around his feet a few fallen leaves fluttered, sun-bleached and crisp—not yet the swirling spiral of orange, red, yellow and gold that heralded autumn. She liked the autumn, did his mammy. He could almost hear her telling him off for fussing over a couple of leaves; she was never in much of a hurry to sweep away the last of the summer. Good for mulching, she’d told him, and for hedgehogs too. He’d not met one to ask it for himself, of course, but there was time yet, for that trip back to Ireland he and Seamus promised they would make.
Across the verdant expanse with its perfect rows of modern headstones, a lone man braved the rainy afternoon, crouched as if in prayer. People did that all the time, and Patrick rarely paid them heed. But something about the man caught his attention. His clothes were just the sort of thing Patrick might wear himself, if not a little duller—a gray jacket, dark pants…still not “old people’s clothes.” And yet, as the man rose to his feet, he seemed…ancient, as if he had already lived his entire life and was waiting for his time to come.
He trudged along the path toward Patrick, head bowed, his dark hair weighted by the rain and concealing much of his face. Before he reached Patrick’s location, the man veered off in the direction of the gated entrance at the rear of the cemetery—the road where hearses parked once they had delivered the deceased. Patrick squinted through the rain, noting the lone black Honda parked outside t
he railing, and back at the man, who stopped at the gates and took his phone from his pocket, before continuing the rest of the way to the Honda.
“Well, what d’you make of that, Mam?” Patrick asked. He gave her headstone a gentle pat and continued on his way along the row, righting felled vases and urns, pruning out dead flowers and leaves that had turned. For Patrick it was never any trouble and it made a world of difference to the place.
Soon after that he heard the Honda’s engine fire up, followed by the steady crunch of tires on gravel. Patrick rotated where he stood, scanning the entire cemetery until he was sure there were no more visitors. He locked the gates and started on his way back to the office, his thoughts returning to the man who had just left. Curiosity got the better of him.
“Nadia Degas-Minor…twenty-five?” Patrick realized aloud. “The same age I am now.” He shook his head at the tragedy of it. Stepping back from the grave, his gaze drifted, following the path Nadia’s visitor had taken just a few minutes ago. Her husband? The way he had stooped before the stone, the sadness that visibly crushed him, indicated so. Yet the headstone bore no mention of a husband, nor a wife, parents, siblings, children. Indeed, it looked unfinished—just Nadia’s name, her birth and death dates and an expanse of smooth, pristine marble. It made a perfect backdrop for the pink and red carnations freshly placed on her grave.
“Don’t suppose you can tell me who that lovely sad fella was, can you, Nadia?” Patrick asked, pausing as if he really did expect a response. “No? Oh well. I guess I’ll have to find out for myself.”
Chapter Three:
The Roses and the Hairbrush
The rain refused to let up on the drive from the cemetery to the house Lily and Nadia had shared. Aidan listened to the steady swish and squeak of wipers. They needed replacing. The radio was on low, something to break up the monotony of road noise. Aidan was half afraid he would hear another song that would shred his heart, yet half hoped to keep Nadia’s presence with him.
He could imagine her sitting next to him in the passenger seat. He was driving her to the wedding, and she was wearing the dress she’d sewn and embroidered herself. A white sundress. No veil but a garland of dried flowers.
They were nothing like the flowers Aidan had pulled out of the vase. Not dead cemetery flowers but a wreath of flowers picked and woven and dried especially for the occasion. Nadia and Lily were married in the park, under the wisteria pergola. Lily had looked even taller in her white suit. It was perfect, and for that afternoon, Aidan had shut down his emotions because if he had even one jealous thought at his twin’s wedding, he could never have lived with the guilt.
The therapist—back when he was still seeing her—said Aidan cut himself off from his emotions as a way to cope. It probably started before the wedding, but he’d perfected it when they said their vows. He would just go cold to his desires so that he could smile for his sister. And he kept smiling for her for the next three years, until she died.
Aidan blinked. He was standing outside the Degas-Minor house. When had he arrived? When had he parked? He moved nearer Nadia’s prized rosebush, the one she so lovingly cared for season after season. But it was not leafy green and vibrant. He reached out and fingered a wet stem. What had happened to Nadia’s roses? They wouldn’t be Nadia’s anymore if they had to be replanted.
“Aidan, what are you doing?”
Lily had come to the door and stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. One thin eyebrow arched high.
“You’re drenched. Get in here.”
Despite his sopping clothes, Lily gave him a side hug and squeezed his shoulders tightly. “Come on, I’m going to get you a towel and some dry clothes. What were you doing out there anyway?”
“Roses,” Aidan murmured, following dutifully behind his sister-in-law as Lily led the way to the guest bathroom. He caught sight of himself in the large square mirror over the sink—tired gray eyes, colorless face. He drew in his bottom lip; it was cold. He continued to watch in the mirror as Lily unbuttoned his shirt for him. It wasn’t like a lover, but like a parent, impatient with their incorrigible child. “What are you going to do about them?” Aidan asked.
“Huh?” Lily was distracted, hanging the shirt from the shower rod. She pointed at Aidan’s shoes and insisted that he remove them. Socks, too.
“They don’t have blooms. The leaves have black spots on them. They look like they’re dying. Aren’t you going to do something?”
“Well, sure,” Lily agreed, rooting through the closet for a towel. “But it probably won’t do any good. You know what a black thumb I am. I think I went and killed them. Take this. Get those pants off and dry yourself, I’m going to go get you something to wear.”
Aidan complied with that, too, stripping down and drying himself quickly. He thought about stepping into the shower, but the towel around his waist felt nice and he was glad to be dry. He sat down on the toilet lid and waited for Lily to return.
He just couldn’t shake his sadness today. It started with Ms. Ashmore’s invitation last night and then that song. Something about flowers in her hair, and he was lost in the memory of his twin. The drive to the cemetery, sitting beside her with the bouquet, Lily’s phone call, and now the roses. Aidan felt as if he were moving through icy sludge.
He was so disconnected from everything except this sense of loss. Well, maybe not everything. If he’d truly been disconnected from everything, losing his virginity to Ms. Ashmore would have been nothing. A moment in time. Not even a regret. Was that what healing was? Hating yourself for having sex with a woman who paid you?
It had been three years since they lost Nadia. Should he still be grieving this way? Missing her so desperately that he could conjure her up at will? His therapist said people forgot the faces of their loved ones sometimes, and it was perfectly natural. He shouldn’t worry if it happened to him. But Nadia was so clear to him, as if she’d never left him. Was that healthy?
“Aidan.” Lily’s voice was gentle but concerned. “I’ve got some clothes for you to wear. They’re my father’s and they aren’t going to fit well, but we can’t have you going around naked while I’m drying your clothes. I like you. I just don’t like you that much.”
She was hoping he would smile. He could read it on her face.
“Get changed and then come look in the box with me.”
<<< >>>
The living room was just as he remembered it. Clean, minimalistic; a single painting of a rustic old barn in a snowy field hung above the couch. There were pictures on the mantel—the one in the middle was of Nadia and Lily on their wedding day. The box was sitting open on the coffee table, its lid parted so that he could peer inside if he wanted to. Lily may have enjoyed these moments looking through boxes of old skirts and scrapbooks and sewing supplies, but when Aidan picked up, say, a stray button and recognized it as one from a coat Nadia wore, he wanted to throw the button as far from him as he could. Those were the good times. It was worse when he didn’t recognize the object at all.
And that’s what was happening now. Lily sat cross-legged at the low table, Aidan on the couch in Lily’s father’s overly large undershirt and flannel pajama bottoms. She pulled each item out and laid it on the table, smiling as she did, her fingers lingering overly long on a hairbrush that Aidan didn’t recognize.
“Was that hers?”
It was a perfectly ordinary hairbrush. Green plastic with hard brown bristles, but he’d never seen her with it.
“It was her travel hairbrush.”
“Her travel hairbrush?” he repeated.
“The one she took on trips. She had two. The other one had a silver handle and those weird plastic bristles.”
“Oh, you mean Mom’s hairbrush?”
“Was that your mother’s?” Lily looked up at him, for a moment perplexed. “She never told me that.”
“Well, I mean it wasn’t an heirloom or anything.” He shifted uncomfortably on the couch, reaching for the blanket that draped over one arm.
“I think she got it at a garage sale when we were kids.”
Lily smiled and sighed audibly. “Thank goodness. You scared me for a minute.”
“What do you mean? Did you throw it out?”
“Nah, not that. But there’s this girl at work who likes old stuff, like that brush, and so I gave it to her.”
Aidan blinked at his sister-in-law, not really understanding. It was something of Nadia’s and she’d given it away? Just like that? A little rational voice said they’d gone through plenty of Nadia’s things and donated many items that neither could justify keeping. He’d been fine with that. But then again, he’d been involved those times.
This was the silver handled hairbrush. Mom’s hairbrush. When Nadia was a little girl, she would stand at their mother’s full-length oval mirror and brush her hair out just like Mom had and tell him that it was a magic brush for a princess. He’d only remembered that now that it was gone.
“Are you all right?” Lily asked.
“I’m just…surprised.”
Lily frowned, the corners of her mouth turning heavily down. It made her look ugly, or maybe Aidan just had ugly thoughts about her right then.
“I’m sorry if you’re upset. It was the box before last. I called you but you didn’t come.”
He remembered now, Lily’s call, the day after the anniversary of Nadia’s passing, the same day Ms. Ashmore—
“There’s just so much stuff, Aidan. I can’t keep it all.”
Can’t you?
First Nadia’s roses and now Nadia’s hairbrush.
<<< >>>
“Back again?” The florist greeted him with a smile the next afternoon. It had rained that morning, but the sun was finally coming out, sending white streaks through the otherwise cloudy sky. “She must be a tough nut to crack, this one.” The older woman’s banter was light and playful. He smiled awkwardly at her.
Walking over to where a big container of tulips were on sale, he pulled out several that he thought Nadia would like.
Seeds of Tyrone Box Set Page 2
