I gasp, urgently trying to shove the thought away, but it comes anyway. Sam’s parents are… his parents are also…
Sam is kneeling next to me now, tears shining in his eyes as I stare at him desperately.
“I can’t, Sam, I can’t…” The shudder pushes its way up my spine, into my arms, down my legs. Shaking uncontrollably, I’m helpless as Sam pushes me into sitting position, sliding next to me. I’m aware of Stacy’s now-awake warmth pressing from my other side, cocooned in the safety of two pairs of arms, safe to let the sound out, the one that’s been trying to escape.
With the sound comes the grief that I’ve held at bay since that first day, when I could only think to go to Sam. Bob, at my knee, matches my grief with his own howling.
Chapter 23
Sam
I’m relieved that Niahm finally let herself cry over the loss of her parents last night. She hasn’t cried since she first came to my place three days prior, wrapped in a silent, impenetrable wall. This morning she actually let Stacy pull her up off the couch, and get her into the shower. After she had fallen back asleep last night, sleeping peacefully for the first time since this had begun, Stacy informed me today was the day we needed to force her to make some decisions.
Niahm is escorted from her bedroom, hair damp, face clean, dressed in a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, pulling a matching gray jacket on. She looks tired, grief etching deep grooves on her forehead and at the corners of her mouth. My heart thuds with dread. I’d give anything to not have to add to her distress.
She sits on the couch and eats half the sandwich Stacy’s made for her. When she’s finished, Stacy shoots me a look over her head, letting me know it’s time.
Stacy takes Niahm’s hand, and I take the other. She grasps both ours tightly, as if holding onto a lifeline—a complete turnaround from the limp hands we’ve been holding for four days now. In those contacts, the only thing I had been able to read was darkness, hiding from the truth that lurked beneath the haze.
“Vee,” Stacy begins, a slight hitch in her voice. Niahm turns her way, more response than we’ve had, but disinterested and vague anyway. “Sweetie, we need to make some… arrangements. Today,” she adds firmly.
The only indication that she’s even heard is in the slight tightening of her hand in mine, and I can feel her terror begin to rise. I squeeze her hand back and she turns to me, panic in the back of her unusual eyes.
“Niahm, it’s going to be okay. I promise.” I try to send her the sincerity in my words and she seems to believe me, giving a tiny nod before turning to Stacy again.
“Vee, your parents’ bod—” she cuts herself off, dropping her eyes. I can feel that Niahm knows inside what she’d been about to say, but refuses to consciously acknowledge it. Stacy takes a deep breath, and begins again, “I mean, your parents are going to be here in two days.”
Niahm’s hand tightens on mine once again, and she turns my way, confusion darkening her eyes. I slide down to the floor, moving to sit in front of her near Stacy.
“But…” she trails off and I can feel the hope begin to rise in her mind. “But I thought that they were.…” When the hope becomes more visible, hope that she’s somehow misunderstood what she’s been told about them, I know I have to stop her now.
“Niahm.” Her eyes come to mine, and I feel her surge of feeling for me, practically knocking me back in surprise. It nearly stays my words, only I know that not speaking them won’t change the truth. “Your parents are going to need a proper burial.” She jerks at the words, the darkness beginning to pervade her mind again.
“No!” I command, giving her hand a tug. She’s shaking her head, tears gathering, but I can’t let her go back to that place. “Niahm, you need to stay with me. You’re their daughter. You need to do this for them.”
As she processes my words, the darkness recedes and I feel the strength of will pushing through.
“Vee, I know how hard this is,” Stacy reclaims her attention. “We have to do this—for them. And we will—all three of us. Okay?”
A shudder ripples through Niahm’s body, tears spilling silently down her cheeks, but she nods.
“We need to go see Mr. Thompson,” Niahm says, shocking both of us with her words.
“Yes, that’s right,” Stacy confirms, trying not to look as surprised as I know she is. “We can go today.”
“Now.”
Stacy’s mouth drops open at Niahm’s abrupt announcement. Lucky that Niahm is looking my way. I’d seen her determination rising, and had been a little more prepared than Stacy.
“Okay,” I confirm, my relief palpable at the tiny smile that turns up one side of her mouth.
“Okay,” Stacy reiterates, “I guess we’ll go now.” She seems to understand Niahm’s strength better than even I do while cheating, because she stands, pulling Niahm up with her, Niahm’s hand slipping from my own as she does. Stacy pulls Niahm into a quick hug, which Niahm returns fully, releasing her before Niahm can fall apart again at the gesture.
Stacy leads her to the door, putting Niahm’s coat on her as if she were a child, Niahm not complaining at the gesture. Stacy puts her own coat on and, as she’s leading Niahm through the door, turns back and says, “You coming?” Without waiting for a reply, she drags Niahm from the house, leaving me to hurry after them with a smile. I can see now why the two get along so well.
Over the next couple of days, Niahm becomes a cleaning, cooking, baking flurry of activity, in spite of my protests. Finally Stacy pulls me aside.
“Let her go, Sam. This is how she copes. It’s keeping her sane while we wait.”
And she’s right. Niahm is calm as long as she keeps busy. The animals had been cared for by neighbors while she lived in her fog, but now she’s up and has the chores finished before they can get over. There’s food enough to feed the three of us, as well as several of the neighbors. Stacy finally calls and informs Mrs. Harris to immediately tell everyone who had been asked to stop their own preparations for the post-funeral luncheon and instead to bring their groceries to Niahm’s. This begins a steady flow of groceries being brought until there’s nowhere else to put them, and a new stream begins to take the food to their own homes for storage.
On the day of the funeral, Niahm is up even earlier than usual. She’s sleeping in her own bed again, Stacy next to her, while I huddle on the too-short couch. I hear the back door closing behind her, and follow her out into the cold morning air. Without words, I take a pitchfork next to her to begin tossing hay.
She glances at me, pale in the morning’s dimness, face gaunt and troubled. She turns back to her work, shoulders tense. Silently, together, we complete the chores. When we finish, we head back inside and I sit at the table as she prepares a breakfast that would feed a dozen hungry men. I don’t speak still, sensing that words will be her undoing.
Stacy wanders in, glancing at me questioningly. I shake my head and she comes to sit next to me.
“Good morning,” she murmurs, though her words sound booming in the quiet.
“‘Morning,” I answer.
“Sleep well?”
“Fine. You?”
“Fine, thanks.”
Silence reigns again, and in that same silence Niahm serves us, sitting to push her own food around on her plate, not taking a single bite. For the first time, Stacy doesn’t comment on her lack of appetite, allowing her to keep up the pretense.
When we finish, Niahm rises to gather the plates, but Stacy catches her by the hand.
“Vee, it’s time to shower and get ready,” she tells Niahm firmly.
Niahm glances at me, and I give her a small smile. She nods at Stacy, and allows herself to be led from the room. I clean up breakfast, then put on the suit that Shane brought over for me the night before.
Stacy and Niahm descend the stairs as I let Shane into the house, who has arrived in a hired limousine. It’s the only limo in town, driven by Thom James, who also drives the sin
gle school bus in town. I look up at Niahm, beautiful even in her tragic state, and wish I could tell her so.
We walk outside, Niahm not commenting on the car as she slides into the surprisingly luxurious interior. Stacy and I bookend her once again, each of us taking one of her hands, me pushing away the images that try to invade my mind. This day I feel she deserves absolute privacy with her thoughts.
The church is packed; it seems everyone in town has come to say goodbye. The two ornate caskets beneath the pew wrench my heart. Though their loss doesn’t mean nearly as much to me as to Niahm, I will nonetheless miss the new friendship I had begun with the eccentric Jonas and Beth, his devoted wife.
Stacy and I had gone with Niahm to the mortuary when her parents’ bodies had arrived. She had been counseled strongly to not view them as there had been fire and much bodily damage. I was grateful when she followed the counsel. I have seen horrors in my lifetime that I wish I could erase from memory, but which always remain. I don’t want Niahm to have those images of her parents.
Rather than an organized service, Niahm has elected to open it up to allow anyone who wants to stand and recount their memories of Jonas and Beth. I don’t think she knew that that would include nearly everyone. Many of the stories are humorous, all of them touching, and my heart swells with pride at the strength Niahm shows, standing to hug each person silently after their speech.
Four hours later we climb back into the car for the short drive to the cemetery outside of town. A prayer is given, dedicating the grave, and then Niahm—who’s kept her eyes locked on the two coffins—is given a hug and words of love and support from those who are in attendance. Throughout all of this, she keeps Stacy and me by her side, holding onto one or the other of us the entire time.
The luncheon is attended by all, and Niahm manages to smile and laugh with her lifelong friends, though I can see the stress lines around her eyes. It’s dark before the final person exits, leaving Niahm alone with Stacy and me once again. Niahm looks momentarily confused as she glances around. The house is spotless, having been cleaned up and re-organized by many of the women who had been in attendance.
Niahm stands, hands wringing, and Stacy and I both take a step toward her at the same time. Niahm jumps involuntarily, and moves toward the back door.
“I’m going out to see Sheila.” She quickly exits the house, and Stacy shrugs in my direction.
“Guess I’ll go shower, then,” is her only response as she walks up the stairs, leaving me staring after Niahm. There is no hesitation in my decision to follow her.
She stands in the barn, forehead pressed to her mares. She doesn’t look my way as I enter, but continues to stroke the side of Sheila’s neck. I stop next to her, desperately wanting to take her hand. As if hearing my thoughts, she suddenly reaches a hand toward me, not changing position other than this. I hesitate for a nano-second, my conscience warring. I take her hand, but close my mind to hers.
“I want you to kiss me now.”
Her words are spoken low, quietly, tremulously.
“Niahm,” I say, giving her hand a tug. She turns my way, releasing the mare, stepping into my space, her face a mask of anguish. I take a breath, knowing I’m treading on thin, emotional ground here. “I won’t let your first kiss be tied up with the memory of this day.”
Rejection shades her face, but she covers it quickly.
“It won’t, Sam. It will replace the memory of this day.” She pauses, turns pleading eyes on me, “Please.”
“Ni—” before I finish her name, she pushes up against me, reaching up with both arms to pull my face to hers, awkward, urgent.
I move my head to the side, fighting the overwhelming urge to give her what she asks for. I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close to me, leaning down so her head is level with mine, cheek to cheek.
“There isn’t anything,” I say into her ear, “that will erase the memories of this day.”
She remains still against me, and finally I lean back to peer into her face. She refuses to look at me, and even in the dim light I can see the high color in her cheeks.
“I’m a fool,” she whispers, self-recrimination in her voice.
“No, you’re not,” my voice is urgent. I sit on a nearby hay bale and urge her down next to me. Not letting her escape my gaze, I cup her face and force her to look at me. “You’re grieving. You’ve just lost the two most important people in the world to you. You’re desperate for some kind of relief from that. You certainly would not be the first person to want to use physical contact in that manner.”
Tears shimmer in her eyes, and she gives her head a small shake.
“How did you survive it, Sam?” she whispers.
I’m well aware that she believes the loss of my parents is recent, has no idea that it’s been over 400 years since they died. She also doesn’t know that I remember full well the sharp pain that came as I stood watch over them during the wake: first my mother, only a short three months later, my father, and then buried them in the ground in crude wooden boxes. At the time of their deaths, they believed me to be their grandson, son of myself.
“You just do.” Not a good answer, but I can hardly tell her what I really did after their deaths. “Life goes on, even when you think it shouldn’t.” Memories of the first Niahm slam into my mind, and I quickly push them away, wincing with the effort. “In the morning, the sun will come up, no matter how hard you wish for it to stay down. Bessie will need to be milked, your chickens will need feed, and everyone else in the world will get up and go about their days as if nothing has changed. You will probably be angry at everyone for going on, and that’s normal.” One tear slides down her cheek, and I wipe it away with my thumb. I lean down, holding her eyes with mine. “I promise, Niahm, that every day it will get easier. You won’t think it is, won’t notice it, but one day you’ll realize that though you still ache for them, they are a happy memory instead of a painful one.”
Niahm nods, taking a deep breath and blowing it out. “Okay.”
Her acceptance of my words surprises me. I expected more tears, arguing.
“Niahm.” She looks up at me, and I give her a wry smile. “You have no idea how much I want to kiss you.”
She smiles tremulously, her slight hiccupping laugh leading to a gasp as the tears begin again. I pull her against me, holding her tight, wishing I could convey to her how very true the words are.
Chapter 24
Niahm
Bob slurps a long tongued lick into my dangling hand, pulling me out of the fantasy of Sam finally kissing me. Or rather, almost kissing me. Since I’ve never been kissed, I really can’t get beyond the vision of him moving in before the image dissolves. Very frustrating, but losing myself in my unreal world keeps me from facing the pain of my all-too-real world.
I’m still humiliated by my gawky attempt to kiss him in the barn three nights ago. He hasn’t mentioned it. I’m not sure if that makes it better…or worse. Of course I told Stacy about it, who had the good grace to not laugh at me, though I could see her biting the inside of her cheek, something she does whenever she’s trying to keep herself from laughing or keep her mouth shut when she really wants to say something inappropriate.
Bob jumps to his feet, a low growl in his throat. This is something new he’s begun since the day…I close my eyes against the image of my parents’ coffins hovering precariously above the dark holes in the ground, balanced on thin straps of canvas. I couldn’t concentrate as their graves were dedicated, unable to look away. I was afraid if I did the straps would snap, sending my parents plummeting into the dark depths. Bob growls again, reminding me that someone is here. I figure he’s responding to some vibe I’m giving off.
The doorbell rings, and Stacy practically jogs in from the kitchen where she’d been sitting with Shane and her mom. I’m surprised she’s willing to pull herself from his exalted presence long enough to answer the door, but she’s been acting like an over-protective guardian dog herself.
&nb
sp; She opens the door to two women, neither of whom looks familiar to me. One is an older woman, hair silver above an almost unlined face that seems much too young for the aged hair. Her slacks and flower-print shirt seems almost contrived to make her look older. She seems nervous.
The other woman is younger, in a crisp business suit, hair pulled up into a professional bun, the file grasped in her hand and spectacles completing the picture of a woman with a mission.
“Nee-uhm Parker?” she says, thrusting a stern hand toward Stacy.
“No,” Stacy says at the same time the older woman says, “Niahm,” in correction.
My eyes widen in surprise as I stand, though Stacy doesn’t remark on the woman’s correction. She doesn’t realize how very rare it is for someone to know the correct pronunciation of my name. The older woman’s gaze come to rest on me, and I’m suddenly uncomfortable, as if I need to escape before she can do or say whatever it is that is going to change my world yet again.
“Oh, um, well,” the professional woman stutters, “is Niahm here, then?” Her corrected use of my name is punctuated.
“Depends. Who’s asking?” Stacy demands, folding her arms in defiance.
Stacy’s mom comes into the room at the same time that I’m getting ready to bolt. The professional woman glances in, sees me, and asks, “I assume you’re Niahm Parker, then?”
“She is,” Stacy’s mom answers for me. “May I ask who you are?”
“May we please come in?” the woman asks, her tone letting us know that denying her is not an option. “We have something very important to discuss with her.”
Stacy holds her position for long moments, until her mom says, “Stacy!” in a tone that brooks no defiance. Reluctantly, and with a glare of warning, Stacy steps aside to allow them to come in. My panic ratchets up at her capitulation, and the urge to run becomes stronger. Sam is outside, and I want to run to him, hide behind him. Vaguely, I wonder where Shane is.
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