by James, Ella
She would never get over it.
You’d drown, like her parents.
Those thoughts make me feel like I should really do it.
Take yourself out. Piece of shit. If you can’t do this right, you can’t do anything. You already failed at living real life every time you tried.
I crouch down by the ledge, squeezing my head between my palms. My heart is racing so damn fast. I’m worried I might pass out. Fall before I’m ready.
Oh fuck. Fuck. I rub my eyes till I see golden shapes. I pull my hair. Why does nothing help me? Maybe I’m not meant to be alive.
I see the lines of light above me, feel the cold weight of the water. That’s why I came here. Not for her. I came here to sink myself.
“I can’t go back. I can’t. I can’t…I can’t.”
I cover my mouth with my hand. Sit back with my legs in front of me. I cover my mouth with both hands. I don’t want to leave her. I don’t want to sink like that. I hold my head as tears roll down my cheeks.
I’m so fucked up. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know what it would be like with me.
I scoot closer to the ledge. I can’t feel anything. I just want to be done with this. I don’t want to feel this way. I can’t be fixed. I claw at the ground. I punch the ground, ripping up my knuckles.
Something warm nudges me. Baby presses up against my back and…she won’t move. I look out at the stars, so bright and unreal. My ribcage expands as I breathe. Baby doesn’t move a hoof.
It’s all I need. The crest smooths out. I breathe until my body feels less frenzied. Till my thoughts are coming in a straight line.
Finley. I just need to see her. Just another couple days…so I should take advantage of them.
Baby follows me home. When we get there, I feed her and whisper “thank you” in her velvety ear. Then I climb into the bed that smells like Finley, take some of her potion, and sleep.
Eleven
Finley
Perhaps I’ve got a sinner’s black, blasphemous heart, for I feel no guilt as I step inside the church for Sunday morning mass. I still pray as if I’m one of the lambs. When it’s time to ponder gratitude, I say a silent thank you for him. If the Lord truly knows my soul, he’ll understand.
Will I be cast into the fiery pits? Will I truly? I wonder most of the service. I think perhaps it depends on whether I stay and live the life I committed myself to, the one I always presumed the Lord wanted for me.
But does He, though? What does the Lord want for me? And what of me? What can my heart bear? At this point, that’s the question. Never before—never before Declan—had I given thought to what I needed…much less what I wanted. It simply didn’t dawn on me. I never had a suitor. Never in the schoolhouse. Not for so long.
We don’t want for happiness here. We take what we have and find happiness in it. This applies to all facets of life, and also love.
Am I sinful that I couldn’t do that? That I can’t be happy with my lot? I thought of him before he arrived. Before I even knew his face, I wrote him letters, sealed them up in bottles, tossed them to the sea. It was all quite pitiful. I knew that. Silly.
I suppose I wanted to escape. That was the narrative I knew. Prince Declan. I smile down at my lap as I think of how he behaved that first night I saw him. I was furious—less so with him, more so with my foolish self. And then…
And then.
After mass, I chat with Uncle Ollie for a bit, and then with Mrs. Petunia White. I find, by chance, I wasn’t wrong about the weather. We’re due two days of driving rain, starting this evening.
Father Russo comes to stand by Mrs. White as she asks after Baby. “How is that sweet love?”
“She’s doing wonderfully. I haven’t put her with the others yet, but it’s in her future. Unless she says she doesn’t want to leave me.”
Mrs. White chortles. Father Russo’s gray-black eyebrows scrunch, as if he’s never heard a conversation like ours. Then he smooths his face out, unassuming—comically so. He puts his hand on Mrs. White’s shoulder, but his eyes meet and hold mine.
“Finley. How are you feeling?” Father Russo’s voice is like a bird’s: nasally and so high-pitched it sounds like chirping when he speaks.
“No complaints, sir. How are you?”
“I would be better if I understood why you ceased attending weekday masses.”
My face blazes. I can scarcely form words. “I suppose I have,” I manage.
“Did I do something to offend?”
“Oh, heavens no. I’m sorry to cause…questions, sir. Father,” I correct. “It’s just that without Doctor, I’m more occupied with clinic duties. All of that…it takes up quite a bit of time.”
“Is that so?” His eyes and mouth are round, as if he’s genuinely curious. He’s such an odd duck, I can’t tell if he’s just being odd, or if he’s actually unhappy with me.
“It is so, Father. But I’m sorry to have disappointed you. I’ll do my best to attend mornings again quite soon.”
“I heard your Doctor is returning early.”
My stomach does a slow roll. “Did you then?”
He nods. “I’m ready to see my dear friend again.”
“Oh yes. I’m so eager for that, too.”
As quickly as he stuck his neck into our conversation, he’s gone.
“Dear Father. A bit odd. What a true man of the Lord, though,” Mrs. White murmurs.
“Absolutely.”
I can’t escape the church quickly enough. As I step out, I nearly bump right into Holly, who looks lovely in an apple red dress.
“Finley. You’re just the one I wanted to see.”
I imagine crossing myself, as I would like to. Holly walks me to the clinic residence, yammering the entire while about Dot and Rob Glass.
“I’d quite like to be…enthusiastic, but he’s…simply so…well, old.” Her brows draw sharply together. “He’s like…the apple when the peel part, the outside of it, has gone a bit squishy. It’s still edible—” I’m cringing along with Holly, though for different reasons— “but who would want to eat it? If we’ve enough apples, and the crop has been well, I toss those out whole at times when Mum’s not looking.”
Well, you’re not the lady of the house. You can afford to behave like a school child.
I nod.
“I feel she’d be better off alone.”
I clamp my molars on the inside of my cheek to avoid rolling my eyes. I’m quite sure you would. Though not for Dot’s sake.
Holly needs a sympathetic ear, and never much more. She’s a gabber. Needs to hear her own thoughts to decipher them. By the time we’ve reached my porch, she gives me a small smile.
“Thank you for listening. You’re the best at listening.” She hugs me, and I go collapse on the couch.
Moments after—truly moments—I hear knocking on the clinic door. It’s old Mr. Button with a sliced his finger. Chopping potatoes. It takes me half an hour and three bandages to stop the bleeding. Then I have to explain to him that he ought not to be using large, sharp knives due to his severe tremor. I try never to presume that I’m a strict voice of authority, but Mr. Button cut his thumb severely this past summer, and it’s only a matter of time before it happens again.
He leaves hunched over, looking like a just-kicked puppy. I feel villainous. I hang about another half hour—these Sunday things come in threes—and sure enough, there’s another knock. It’s poor Cindy, looking ill-kempt and quite desolate. I lead her into the residence and spend the next forty minutes talking with her, drinking tea and sharing slightly stale friendship bread.
Having suffered quite intensely in my own life, I can understand her pain—at least a bit. She feels ill like this a bit more often in the fall and winter. Unlike me, she needn’t suffer anything particularly unusual to set her off. It’s simply her body’s weakness. When she leaves, she seems a bit brighter.
“Page me anytime,” I insist. “Day or night. You know how I enjoy talking with you.”
Which brings to mind Father Russo. What was that about? He’s one of Doctor’s closest friends and confidants…but I don’t understand. Eventually, I’m feeling so overwrought that I shut down all my thoughts and focus on the landscape. The way the mist drifts about the volcano’s peak, hiding it from view. The way the grass bends in the breeze.
How could I leave this place?
Focus on the dirt…the grass…your footsteps. No thinking.
And soon I’m at the cottage.
* * *
That night as the rain begins to fall, and thunder claps, and lightning flashes out the window, we lie curled together on our sides beneath the blankets. We’re quiet, kissing at odd moments. His eyes simmer with some unnamed thing. Perhaps I’m simmering as well.
“What do you want for yourself?” I whisper to him. “In the future.”
He shakes his head. His lips press gently together.
“Do you adore baseball?”
He traces a strand of my hair. His lips tilt at the corners. “Yeah.”
“Could you picture yourself playing for a long time?”
“I don’t know.”
“But if it worked out? Injuries…the shoulder. Your team and you seeing eye-to-eye.”
“I could see myself playing.” His eyes move away from mine, then back. “Maybe not in Boston.”
I don’t need to ask why. Why wouldn’t he want to get away—after what happened there?
“Where, then?”
His finger traces my jaw as his eyes hold mine. He shakes his head once. “Seattle? I don’t know.”
“The great Northwest Coast.”
We’re speaking in whispers, even despite the loud rain.
His palm cradles my cheek.
“Is it lush and rainy there? I think I remember talk of rain.”
“It’s rainy there, yeah. Sort of like here.”
His eyes fall away again. I can’t make promises.
I want to say, I know.
“What would your house be like there?”
Now our gazes latch again, and my heart feels warmer.
“Smaller.” His chest sighs, although I don’t hear evidence of it. “Nothing like the one in Boston.”
“What is your home there like?”
“Too big. On a busy street.”
“You want seclusion. Something warm and cozy.”
He swallows.
“Something to remind you of this cottage.”
When he looks back up at me, his face is apathetic, but his eyes—they’re filled with fury. “You said no strings.”
“There are no strings.” And yet my pulse begins to race.
He shakes his head once, his jaw tight.
“You don’t want to take me with you. You think I don’t know it?” I sit up, blinking at the dresser, where Mum’s photo faces down now. “I was drinking, but I still remember. You said nothing.”
He sits up beside me. I refuse to look his way.
“I said I loved you.”
I blink quickly. “Yes. I know.”
“I love you, Finley.” He wraps his arms around me, dragging me close. “Maybe I shouldn’t have ever said it, but how can I keep that to myself?”
Tears spill down my cheeks. “Thank you for saying it.”
“Don’t thank me. I hurt you. And now I have to leave.”
“That’s how it goes. I knew it would be.”
At the start, I didn’t think I would feel this way. Couldn’t fathom I might want to really go with him over the ocean. Now I can’t imagine staying.
“I trust you,” I whisper. “I trust you more than anything. More than I fear those awful waters.”
“I can’t take you with me.”
Fury rises in me. “Why not? Tell me the official reason.”
“You know why.”
“You don’t trust yourself to steer clear of temptation. You think it will hurt me if you don’t.”
“Finley, you’d be way out of your element. You’d need me there.”
“I’d have you,” I whisper.
He shakes his head, and I cover my face. I won’t explain, won’t share my secret with him, even though it’s logical to do so at this moment. I find I simply can’t.
He holds me all that night, folding me against his chest, his strong arms keeping me warm.
“I love you,” I murmur near his ear. “Forever, okay?”
“I love you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. We said never sorry.” I won’t make demands or tug at his heartstrings. “One day, perhaps I’ll find you. And you won’t feel you have to be my watcher.”
I stroke his face. His beloved face. We kiss until I taste my tears. But I don’t think they’re only mine.
When I look out the window and see how much rain is on the ground, it’s nearly a relief. I’ve got to get up to the Patches. We hug at the door, and kiss deeply, and turn back for the bed.
Afterward, I dress for cold and rain. And I bid him goodbye.
Twelve
Finley
Monday morning, there’s a mud slide trapping two sheep and killing three others. I call for help via my repaired radio, and Mayor Acton sends Mike Green. He is, as ever, quiet and helpful. We spend Monday night sleeping in shifts in one of the huts down by the fields. Whoever isn’t sleeping is keeping the sheep away from the thick gulches.
Tuesday, June 20, brings more rain, as well as Benny Smith to help in early afternoon. It’s frigid, and the rain is mixed with sleet. The three of us are miserable as we use sand bags to redirect an overflowing gulch.
As the rain turns to mist, and then a thick fog, I allow myself to think of him. Ten more days. That’s all I have left with him. I feel nothing at the prospect. I suppose I can’t believe it.
We pile into Doctor’s car at half past five. I’m headed toward Mike’s family’s home when Benny says, “I need my bones warmed.”
Mike, in the front passenger’s seat, looks over his shoulder toward Benny, in the back, and then turns to me. “Would you take us to the bar, Finley?”
“I don’t see why not.” Younger lads aren’t meant to indulge, but when it’s quite cold, or on a special day, they sometimes have a toddy.
“You should come in with us,” Benny says. “You never do get out much.”
“Finley doesn’t hit the bottle,” Mike says. “Everyone knows.”
“I do on the rare occasion.”
“It’s a rare one when we lose so many sheep.”
It’s a rare one when I feel as poorly as I do. I can scarcely bear the thought of seeing Declan. My heart is so full—so battered, stretched, and sore—I fear seeing him will only make me ache. And yet, it’s all I want. Perhaps one glass of something wouldn’t hurt so. Only the one. Truth be told, I’ve lost that fear of becoming my father. I’ve become Mum instead.
As we walk to the bar’s front door, where banjo music spills into the cold air, I notice the blinking Christmas lights draped around it and realize it’s solstice—the longest night. How fitting.
There’s a bit of a crowd just inside the doorway, so I’m stopped for a brief moment on the porch. I touch one of the lights and look up—and that’s when I see between Benny and Mike. I see what’s drawn the crowd.
It’s Declan. Wearing dark pants and a pale shirt, he’s whirling Holly to a fast-paced song. He’s been on the bottle. I can see it in his loose movements. In the way he laughs, unencumbered, as his hand grabs her hip and she throws her head back at the song’s end. Just behind them, I spot Dot, her Rob Glass, and Rachel, all smiling and clapping.
Dull weight settles in the hollow of my belly. As Declan and Holly head toward the bar together, the crowd shifts. Mike steps inside
. Benny smiles back at me.
“It’s a bit loud, but it’s—”
I shake my head. That’s all I can manage. Hot pain blazes just beneath my throat—an ache so fierce, I run the entire way back to the clinic, desperate to outpace it. Instead it seems to cleave me deeper. When I round the clinic’s front corner, gasping for breath in the frigid air, my poor heart beating wildly, I nearly run right over Anna, clutching Kayti, who’s wrapped in a blanket.
Anna’s eyes rove up and down me, skeptical and then relieved. “I’m glad you’re back. Kayti’s got a horrid cough.”
Inside, I find this to be true. Kayti’s quite congested, and a peek into her ear canal reveals what seems to be an infection.
“Poor wee dearie. We’ll sort you out…”
I feel Anna’s eyes on my back as I poke about the cabinets, working out the proper medicine for Kayti and the proper dose.
“When did it come on?” I ask.
“Sunday evening.”
“I wish you’d have paged me.”
When I return to the chair Anna’s sat in, bearing the bag with the medication and syringes, I notice the strange look on her face.
“What’s the matter, Anna?”
She purses her lips and sweeps a strand of hair from her face, refusing to meet my eyes.
“I’m afraid I’m a bit confused.”
Her eyes flash to mine. “Sunday night.”
I ignore the tightness in my throat as I say, “I was at the Patches.”
“No you weren’t! Your car was here.”
“I walked—”
“You walked to see him!” Her eyes glitter. “Maura saw you leave there in the early hours! She went for a hill-walk to the ponds.”
Tears spill down Anna’s cheeks. I feel so faint, I grab onto the chair by hers.
“No,” I whisper.
She’s shaking her head. Just shaking it in silence. I can see her lips quiver despite the way they’re pressed together.
“I’m ashamed I didn’t know. The way you spoke of him that day—when we had the wine. Just the barest mention, but it was there in your eyes.” She dashes tears away. “It makes complete sense now. Ever since you returned from that cave, you’ve been someone different entirely. You think I haven’t noticed?”