by James, Ella
“What?” I murmur.
“Your Gammy—I believe she wanted your mum to go. She liked that Mr. Carnegie. In fact, I helped her stitch your mother’s wedding gown. We designed it secretly to be befitting of a New York lady.”
I start sobbing then and never do quite get a handle on myself. Anna comes to fetch me from the kitchen sometime later, taking me to bid farewell to…well, to everyone I know.
Dot hugs my neck a long time. “I wish you the very best, my friend. No one deserves happiness more than you do.”
Holly says, “I’m green with envy.” She gives me a red-lipsticked smile. “Have the grandest time. And do send postcards.”
Rachel’s eyes fill with tears. “It’s my dream as well,” she whispers, so softly no one but I can hear her.
I’m standing for hours as I hug everyone I’ve ever known.
Mrs. Petunia White assures me, “I’ll manage nicely till the next physician arrives. Mike Green has agreed to help me.”
Mrs. Dillon presses something into my hand. A bank note. I frown, and she smiles kindly. “Some of us pitched in for you, dearie. Give it to that Mr. Carnegie. He’ll turn it to the proper currency.”
“The dollar.” I note the amount and nearly pass out. “Nine hundred pounds! That’s a fortune.”
“Oh, that’s pocket money. In America, you’ll sell your gorgeous pottery. This is just a token of our well wishes. After all you’ve been through, my dear…” She hugs me close. “You know I adored your mum. She’d be so proud.”
There’s one person I haven’t seen, and he appears as I stand near the coat rack, wincing at my aching feet.
“Father Russo.”
At first I think he’s looking at my feet as well. When he finally lifts his eyes to mine, I realize he’d been avoiding my gaze. I’m near stunned when his arms wrap around me. “Finley Evans—I’m so very sorry!”
For a moment, I fear perhaps he’s weeping, but he pulls away, his eyes squeezed shut, shaking his head as if he’s quite disgusted. When he opens them, they’re brimming with tears.
“I am…so remorseful.” He covers his face with a kerchief, shaking his head before pulling it away, revealing a grooved frown. “I’m not sure what to say. I was blind to what was there before my eyes. So foolish. And so arrogant in my assessments. You have suffered greatly for my errors. And now what I’ve done…” He rubs his lips together, shaking his head once more. “Simply devastated over the young Mr. Carnegie. And…what happened with Daniels…it’s on my soul.”
I can’t find the proper words. Father Russo hugs me again, and I pat his back. I find as we embrace that my heart feels…softer. As if something’s shaken loose.
“What happened in the boat was merely tragic, Father. Not intentional nor your fault. Thank you,” I say softly. “I forgive you.”
And I do. I find I truly do.
Later in the afternoon, Mr. Carnegie comes to me and gives me his small smile, and offers me a plastic water bottle.
“We’ll need to be leaving soon.”
I nod.
“I’m told by the crew that the waves are picking up again.”
“I understand.”
And still…it’s near impossible to imagine what fate awaits me.
At half past three, nearly the entire village gathers outside the café to shout goodbye. I’m fighting tears and losing as Anna and Kayti, Freddy, Holly, and Dot walk Charles Carnegie and I to the dock, where we find Mark Glass waiting with three trunks of my belongings—and dear Baby. She’s wearing a lappy, her bow collar, and a leash. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a sight more beautiful.
I can’t help weeping as I squish wee Kayti and inhale her lovely baby scent. I was there when she was born. Now I’ll miss most of her life. Anna’s eyes well as I pass sweet Kayti back into her arms.
I hug Holly again. “Don’t forget to write me,” she says.
“I’ll send all sorts of trinkets,” I promise.
Freddy and Mark Glass load my trunks into the largest of the island’s fishing boats. Anna steps in, followed by Dot and Charles Carnegie. He holds his arms out for Baby, and I smile a bit as I hand her over. Then I’m in a padded seat. I’m holding Baby as Mark fires the motors up, and soon we’re off.
It’s a large boat. Perfectly safe, I tell myself. I stroke Baby’s soft head as my belly quivers with each swell that lifts the boat up toward the white sky. Dot rubs my back, and Anna smiles like a doting mum. After all that’s happened, she seems genuinely pleased for me—which brings me enormous peace.
My eyes well again as my yellow and blue chariot comes into clearer view.
“Someday I’ll come get you in a plane and take you to get tacos.”
“You can’t land a plane here. There’s no air strip.”
“Not all planes need landing strips.”
“I want a glimpse inside,” Dot says to Anna.
The odd contraption’s called an Albatross. I’m told it floats like a boat and flies like a plane. When I first spoke to Mr. Carnegie by phone last week, he explained we won’t be making any stops en route to Cape Town. We’ll be airborne for some four hours and twenty minutes. I don’t think of what will occur after. One thing at a time for me, beginning with the tethering of our fishing boat to the sleek Albatross.
A door on the plane’s side opens, and, with great care, we file inside. It smells like leather and fine things and flowers, and it looks like something from a magazine. I spot bunk beds carved into one of the walls, a table sporting a yellow bouquet with an anchored vase, and a sleek screen displaying urban images as crisp as those on Declan’s phone. The floor is short, tan carpet. Hanging from the ceiling is a lamp that looks as if it’s made of crystal.
Two female crewmembers emerge from a dark hall-like space. They’re wearing crisp, navy blue uniforms and high-heels that draw Dot’s eye.
“Welcome aboard,” one says.
“Which one of you is Finley?”
I raise my hand, and from there they’re fussing over Baby and me, and I’m saying more goodbyes.
“Call immediately—the moment you land in America,” Dot murmurs.
“I demand a call tonight,” Anna says. “The very moment you reach Cape Town. I know you’ll fly out again nearly immediately, but please do call.” Anna’s face crumples, and that’s all it takes. I’m weeping as I cling to Baby, and slowly—and too quickly—the Albatross clears out.
Mr. Carnegie—Charles, he keeps insisting—offers me a tissue, and I wipe my eyes and try to smile kindly at the crewmembers. He shows me to the bottom bunk bed, and I find it’s piled high with pink pillows and soft-looking blankets. There’s a glossy screen in the wall beside it and a bucket of what’s perhaps snacks perched in a corner. I sit on the bed’s edge, and he hands me a bottle of water and a small pill.
I frown at it, and he gives me Declan’s smile, sans dimples. “It will only last a few hours. He wouldn’t hear of you being uncomfortable.”
Charles tells me how to work the TV and what movies it plays, but I don’t start a show. After we’re finished talking—he’s assured me I’m safe and the pill will only make me sleepy—I swallow it and curl over on my side. Baby hunkers down beside me. I cross myself, pull the soft covers over my shoulders, and before the plane leaves the water, my eyes close.
Nineteen
Finley
I awaken feeling…soft. And a bit thirsty. When I blink around the small, pastel-colored space, I feel a muted jolt of shock. I note the dull sound of an engine, and the way my bed bumps a small bit, and my belly clenches with fear.
Oh, what have I done?
Something presses at my ankles, and I realize with relief that it’s Baby.
“Hi there…” I sit up and rub her head and check her lappy—all well—and one of the plane’s employees appears.
She has long, brown hair and looks perhaps ten years my senior. “Hey there, Finley. How are you feeling?”
I yawn. Still quite tired, although I say, “
Quite well.” I look around the luxuriously appointed space, but I don’t see an uncovered window. “May I ask…where are we?”
“We’re approaching Cape Town.”
I laugh in disbelief. “Are we?”
She nods, smiling. “You slept through most of the flight. Completely understandable, by the way. Would you like some dinner? We’ve got everything from all-American cheeseburgers to Wagyu ribeye.”
When I frown, her eyes widen solicitously. “I can do an all-green smoothie…every kind of sandwich.” She reaches behind her, turning to me with a booklet. “Here you are. This is our menu.”
In the end, I have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, one small orange, and water that’s been flavored slightly minty, and watch out a window as the glittering carpet of South Africa begins to creep across the dark landscape below us. The lights are so numerous, I can’t begin to count them. I believe I’m seeing lanes between them—large, dark veins of no light. Some of them look red and white. Perhaps from hundreds or even thousands of automobiles?
I ask Mr. Carnegie—Charles, he reminds me—and he confirms it. Those lights are from automobiles.
Unbelievable.
He sits by me as the plane descends, explaining what to do to fix my ears, and telling me about the sounds the plane is making so I won’t be frightened.
I sweat a bit as the plane’s wheels come down, making a grinding sound, and we bump onto the airstrip, but then I feel a rush because we made it. We step off the plane, and I smell…something odd. I catch Charles looking at me. He smiles as I meet his eye.
“What does it smell like to you?”
“Automobile exhaust…bread…” I sniff again, laughing myself now. “Dirt, I do believe. It’s…an absence of water.”
From then on, I can feel Charles watching me for my reactions, though I don’t have time for many as two large men and one of the women shuttle us into a sort of wall-less car—a golf cart, Charles offers—and we’re ridden across a smooth, paved road to a new plane. This one is bigger.
I forego the bed and sit in a seat by a window. Baby frolics all about as I watch all the people. Through the window, I see people servicing the other planes, and some at our plane. I’ve been counting since we exited the Albatross; I’ve counted no fewer than twenty-nine people—all here moving about the airplanes! Oh, and that doesn’t count our crew.
Before we take off, the men—Steven and Hans—introduce themselves as bodyguards.
Like that movie, I wonder, but I don’t ask.
“We’re just here to help get you and Charlie make it to Seattle without any trouble.”
I chew my lip. “There could be trouble?”
They laugh, but it’s not unkind. “Some people use a bodyguard to clear the way for them when they go somewhere. Sometimes we’ll drive for Charlie or get him breakfast. Not because there’s trouble.”
“We’re just gophers, basically,” says the one called Hans.
I smile, though I’m a bit puzzled. “That sounds lovely then.”
Charles appears, raising his brows. It tugs at my heart, for he looks so much like Declan. “What are you two saying about me?”
“Just explaining what we do, boss man.”
Soon we’re all in seats and buckled. Baby’s in my lap again, and I’m experiencing my first coherent liftoff. It’s…quite frightening. But then it’s better as we stabilize. I realize after we’re in the sky that I never called Anna, but Charles says he spoke with Mayor Acton and he’d promised to update the entire island. My eyes tear a bit at that, and Charles passes me a tissue.
When it’s seatbelts-off time and our wee crew has dispersed about the cabin, Charles invites me over to a table, and the woman with the brown hair serves us eggs, bacon, and toast.
“It’s ten-thirty your time,” he says. “Maybe after this, you’ll want to sleep.”
I nod. Unlikely.
After a brief silence, he looks at me cautiously, and I can sense he’s working out a way to say something.
“You know…I hope this doesn’t seem presumptuous. But I’m hoping you might see me as a father figure…over time. Someone who wants to look out for you. Help you when I can.” He glances down briefly before meeting my eyes. “Your mother was the best thing in my life. Brief though it was.”
As it turns out, I don’t sleep until after we stop for a re-fueling in Amsterdam.
I listen with a tissue pressed perpetually to my eyes as he talks about his time with Mummy, answering my questions frankly—when at last I’m bold enough to ask them—and with tact and kindness. I learn they kissed beneath the arches that trapped Declan and I in the burrow. He begged her daily to return to New York with him.
“So…why didn’t she?” It’s perhaps my biggest question.
He smiles sadly. “I think she was scared. Too scared to leave her mother. And then the more we talked about it, through letters—” I arch my brows at that, because I’ve got them in my crates— “she felt more comfortable. But by then she knew I had a family setup for marriage. Like being promised to someone.” He adds, “To Declan’s mother, Katherine.”
“Oh.” I nod slowly.
I see him swallow. It’s a brief thing, but I know the contours of his face so oddly well, for they’re so like my Declan’s. It’s a bit of pain leftover…lasted decades.
He lifts his brows. “Your mom didn’t want to interfere.” After a moment of silence, he says, “I think she was too aware of the differences…in our economic situations. It was probably my fault. I talked so much about what I could give her. Trying to court her, you know?” He smiles wistfully. “I think it intimidated her.”
He’s so kind, talking through the entire situation with me when we both should be sleeping. I confess I read some of the letters.
“You were coming for us, weren’t you? You and Declan.”
He hesitates before he confirms what I knew to be true. “We were going to take the two of you back to New York. Whether the powers that be agreed with it or not. Your mom was married, but that shouldn’t make someone a prisoner.”
“The laws are archaic. They’ve been changed now. I think they were never meant to be a chain. Or so I was told…after.”
He nods. “That’s good.”
We drink tea and talk until my throat is tired. We talk of Declan…of his mother. How she left when he was four, and nannies cared for him while his father worked long hours, pining for my mum. I ask how Declan’s mum passed and am floored to learn she died by suicide. She jumped off a building in Manhattan following years of alcoholism and addiction struggles.
All the things he didn’t tell me…
“I’m so sorry.”
His lips press together. “Declan was at Carogue. It was New Year’s Eve. She texted him before. It was 2005. Newly 2005. After that…” He shakes his head. “Everything was harder for him after.”
Charles says Declan wouldn’t speak of it with him—not ever.
“He wanted to pretend that he was…less affected than he really was. I don’t know why. Sending him to Carogue was a mistake, I think now. We left Tristan and I never even took him back home.” His face twists, and for a moment, his hand tunnels into his hair. He meets my eyes, and I see his are desolate. “I couldn’t go home without—” He shakes his head, and I know he means my mum. “So I took him to Carogue. I told myself at the time that he’d be better off there.”
“Perhaps he was.”
He shakes his head. “The staff there ignored a lot of problems. With the kids. Drugs…and drinking. One of Declan’s friends—he died, and I think Declan found him. Actually, I know he did.” I think of Nate. “That was after I found out he had been having problems himself. Using…downers, for anxiety—or partying. Who knows. But I think it really affected him…what happened to his friend. After Nathan passed away, I don’t think he was the same kid. Declan. And I didn’t do a good enough job after his mom died. I was flying over when they told him—someone at the school. So he didn’t even
hear it from me.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
He throws his head back laughing, and chills prickle my arms. “You don’t need to reassure me. I should be alleviating your fears. What can I tell you about America?”
“He would always do that same thing,” I say softly. “The surprised laugh.” I add, “I don’t want to hear about America. I want to hear about Declan.”
And so he tells me. Things I don’t know, like how my Carnegie potty-trained in two days— “That kid was determined. I think it was the superhero underwear. ” How he fared quite decently when his mum left because already, he was mostly watched by nannies anyway.
“She loved him,” Charles tells me. “She just had her problems. As he got a little older, I think he knew that.”
Somehow, he mentions Declan’s favorite restaurant in New York.
“Is it tacos?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Un Romance Con Tacos.”
A romance—or a love affair, perhaps—with tacos.
Every shred of information he doles out, I snap up and file away. Declan’s favorites: tacos, motorcycles, fast cars, swimming, learning to fly airplanes, scaling massive mountains, baseball, soccer (football), parties with his thousands of dear friends (I was correct—it seems he’s obnoxiously well-liked), roller coasters at “theme” parks, reading, foot rubs, saunas, yachts, Scotch whiskey…and, from his father’s perspective, anything that can be snorted, swallowed, or injected.
I’m pleased to see that Charles seems to understand it, though—that addiction is a sickness much more than a choice.
“I could tell he was really trying,” he says. “For a long time.”
“I think that’s true.”
By the time I fall asleep a wee bit later, watching the screen by my bed as it shows the European light grid below us, I feel as if I’ve gained a friend—someone to help me through this odd new life. And my heart bleeds with wanting Declan.
Twenty
Finley