“Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling this badly at the house?” Erin turned to Beckett. “She had a little spell earlier.”
Beckett gazed up at me as I righted my stained skirt. “You’ve felt like this all night?”
“It’s nothing. Just a little under the weather. No big deal.” I wanted to go home. I wanted to go to bed, pull the covers over my head, wake up on a brand-new day. One where I did things right.
“Why didn’t you say something?” Beckett asked.
“I’m okay.” How many times did I have to say that? “Let’s go back out and dance. That’s what we’re here for.” My voice sounded a bit too snappish, so I countered it with a smile and held out my hand to Beckett. “Besides, I didn’t get my whole dance.”
“No way,” he said. “Erin, you and Joshua go on. I’m going to sit here with Finley.”
Joshua offered his arm to Erin. “I do a mean pop and lock. Want to see?”
Erin hesitated. “Finley, I don’t know . . . Can I talk to you for a second?”
“Go.” I waved toward the dance floor. “I’m fine. Orla, you go too.”
Beckett and I watched Joshua lead a worried Erin to the center of the crowd, with Orla and her date beside them. I knew they were talking about me.
“Erin will be watching you all night,” Beckett said.
The ice in my glass clinked as I took a sip of Diet Coke. “She has no reason to be concerned. She’s just so kindhearted.” And I hoped her kindness extended to refraining from telling her mom about my little episode. Though I knew I couldn’t count on that. Panic coursed through my nerves as I thought of all the possibilities for fallout.
Beckett pulled his chair closer until his legs touched mine. “You’d tell me if something was going on, right?”
His eyes looked at me so directly, I feared he could see straight into my mind, where my every lie, every truth scrolled by. “Yes. I’m sorry I ruined your night.”
“Except for nearly having a heart attack, I’ve had fun.” Beckett rubbed my hands in his, as if trying to transfer some of his heat. “Now I can say I’ve been to a village dance. Check it off the list.”
I pushed past the weariness and the fog in my head and tried to focus on his eyes on mine, his gentle hand covering my fingers, his comforting nearness. Tomorrow I’d eat more. Erin was right. I couldn’t keep doing this. “I didn’t know there was a list.”
“Look at your arms. You’ve got goose bumps all over you.” Before I could protest, he peeled off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. I was instantly surrounded by his warmth and the smell that was only Beckett Rush. I wanted to remain in this safe cocoon, but when I got home, there would be Erin to answer to.
“I just came up with a list,” he said. “Things I’ve missed out on.”
“Like what?” I watched a couple clear the table beside us.
“School. Senior trips. Holidays.” He ran his finger over my hand. “Fin, you swear you’d talk to me if there was more to this, right? You’ve just been . . . different lately.”
Him too? “Of course I’m behaving differently. I’m going to lose my mind before this audition.”
“I know you’re working really hard on it, but—”
I moved in closer, hoping to distract him. “What else is on that list?”
“List?”
“The things you haven’t gotten to do.”
He blinked at the topic change, but let it go. Then smiled.
“Kissing a girl under the stars.”
“Too bad we’re inside.”
He looked up, pointed to a web of fairy lights above us. “Looks like they found us anyway.”
I rested my forehead against his chin, wishing I could stay there forever. “People are looking.”
“In my life, someone’s always looking.”
I smiled, despite the sad note in his voice. “Sometimes it’s worth doing anyway.”
His grin returned. “You are worth it, Flossie. You are definitely worth it.” And as the band played, my friends danced, and my knee burned, Beckett Rush covered my lips with his, and I felt my head spin once again.
Chapter Thirty
From: [email protected]
Subject: Checking in
We haven’t talked in a while, and your mother
thought you could use an ear. I called your
number, but it went straight to voice mail.
Miss Sinclair, you’re wanted in the counselor’s office.” Mrs. Campbell folded up the note from a student aid and handed it to me on Monday morning. I read the summons, a message scribbled in blue ink on recycled paper with old vocab tests printed on the back.
As I stood up and walked out of the English class, I was positive if I turned around I would find all twenty-five girls in the room staring at me. Whispering about me. That’s the girl who passed out at the dance. That’s the one who dates Beckett Rush? What on earth does he see in her?
By the time I got to the counselor’s office, it was a wonder my knees could hold me.
Yesterday was so strained and tedious, dragging on forever. Beckett had to film, and I went to church with the O’Callaghans. Erin was quiet, pensive, and not her usual bubbly self. I knew she was thinking about Saturday night, whether to tell her mom or not. I kept watching Nora, expecting her to pull me aside and talk to me, to ask me a million questions about passing out. I waited upstairs in my room most of the day, playing Will’s song over and over until I broke a string and had to put the violin away.
In all these things, I am more than victorious . . .
I said rushed prayers under my breath and knocked on the counselor’s door.
“Come in.”
Walking inside, my stomach dropped to the floor. There sat Mrs. Mawby, the counselor, in front of her file-stacked desk. Nora O’Callaghan occupied a chair next to her.
And there was my mother’s Skyped-in face on the computer screen behind them both. Watching us all.
“Shut the door behind you, Finley.” Mrs. Mawby gestured to a maroon cloth chair. “Take a seat please.”
It was worse than I thought.
“Hey, Mom.” My smile felt plastic and brittle on my face.
“Hello, sweetie. Mrs. Mawby thought we should all have a chat.”
The counselor cleared her throat. “About your health.”
No.
No, no, no.
I looked to my mother at once. “I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong. I promise.”
“It’s my understanding you fainted Saturday night,” Mrs. Mawby said.
I cast a sheepish glance at Nora. “Erin told you?”
She shook her head. “No. Mrs. Mawby just called me.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” My mother’s voice sounded tired, as if this were a song she’d heard on repeat every day for the last two years.
“Finley, a concerned friend came in to talk to me today.” Mrs.
Mawby crossed her legs and propped an elbow on her messy desk.
“She witnessed your spell at the festival and is quite worried, so.”
The walls of the small office seemed to shift, as if moving at once to the center, closing me in. “And who is this friend of mine?”
“Beatrice Plummer.”
“That’s your informant?” Nora asked. “The same girl who got Finley accused of cheating? And who bullies my daughter? I thought this information was from a reliable source.”
My mother cut right to it. “Finley, did you pass out?”
My head moved in an awkward nod. “Yes.”
“Has this happened before?” Nora asked. “Since you got here?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Actually Beatrice overheard Erin mention you had a dizzy spell at home before the festivities.” Thin red glasses slid down Mrs. Mawby’s nose, and she peered over them with big, owlish eyes that blinked too much. “True?”
“I . . . sometimes I get stressed and I think my blood sugar drops.” Like when I skippe
d meals.
“And what had you eaten Saturday?” Mom asked.
“Not enough,” I said casually, as if it was just a silly thing I let slip by. “We were so busy with getting our hair fixed, and I’m still working on my audition piece. But I ate at the dance. I did.”
“A full meal?” Nora asked. “She’s been eating like a wee bird almost since she arrived. I thought nothing of it at first, but now . . .”
“I had fish, some fries. The fries were good.” I sounded ridiculous. They were staring at me like I was someone they didn’t know what to do with. Like I had some big bad secret in my closet, and they wanted me to be the one to drag it out.
God, what is wrong with me? Why am I here—in this situation? Why can’t everyone leave me alone and let me deal with problems my way?
“Miss Sinclair.” Mrs. Mawby drew out my name, a nasally sound that was in need of tuning. “No matter Beatrice’s intentions, I do believe she has stumbled upon something that we need to have a care with. Mrs. O’Callaghan, the school nurse, and I were all informed of your . . . previous difficulties.”
“My depression? My year of therapy? Wouldn’t you have been sad?” My voice snapped like twigs in a flame. “My brother died. Murdered.”
“That’s enough,” my mother warned.
Mrs. Mawby continued. “I had hoped that if you had felt any of those same feelings coming on, heard any of those old negative thoughts, you would stop in so we could talk.”
I had an audition in a week. Did they honestly expect me to care about any of this? I had too much to do before then. Couldn’t we deal with this later?
“Beatrice is out to get me. She told me that. She specifically said I needed to watch my back. She’s angry—that I became friends with Beckett Rush, that I’m his assistant, and that I’m the new girl who instantly made friends and she wasn’t one of them. She’s jealous and bitter and mean.” Tears clogged my throat, but I kept going. “Nora, she arranged it so every boy Erin might even think about asking to the dance would turn her down. She had a whole plan. And all because she wanted to get back at me.”
“That part is true,” Nora said. “She’s always been a challenge to Erin, and I was never so glad when my daughter got out of her circle.”
“But I think we’ve established you did indeed faint at the dance,” my mother said. “And you felt ill earlier that day.”
In all these things, I am more than victorious . . .
“I’m not sick. Why can’t you trust me?”
“Finley,” my mother said. “This isn’t a matter of trust. It’s a matter of your health, your life. You’ve been very . . . fragile since Will died. Your father and I debated letting you go to Abbeyglen, but we’d seen such improvement. What if your grief is just showing itself in a different way?”
“I have this under control. Please,” I pleaded. “Have faith in me. I’ve overcome so much to be here, to be able to do this program. On day one of being at this school, I got assigned a project involving a dying woman. Me! After the last two years I’ve had? And then Beatrice came after me with a vengeance. I bombed my first audition for the Conservatory. And now . . . this.” I pushed my hair from my face. “This has not been easy for me, but I’m trying. I am. Just give me credit for that. And trust me to know if I feel all dark and broody like I did when you sent me to that therapist. I’m fine.”
“Sometimes she’ll go out for a run morning and night,” Nora said.
“I’m stressed.” I grabbed a tissue from Mrs. Mawby’s desk and blotted at my eyes. “And that’s what I do to unwind. My counselor told me to do that. Would you rather I binge eat or drink or do drugs? I thought it was healthy. I have a lot going on. Doesn’t anyone get that?” The way they were looking at me. I couldn’t stand it. Like I was already tried and condemned. Like my mother didn’t know what to do for her sick daughter. Well, I wasn’t sick. I could change this today if I wanted to.
“I think you have too much going on,” my mother said. “You don’t even look like you’re sleeping.”
“Och, she practices in all hours of the night, she does,” Nora said. “The sound barely reaches us, but she can’t be getting any rest. And the closer it gets to time for her to leave for New York, the more she plays.” Nora patted my hand. “We’re just worried and—”
“Mom, you know how serious I am about my music. My chance at this school is everything.”
“What I know is that you do everything to the extreme. Always have. From your music, even to your season of rebellion after your brother’s death. Your counselor talked to us about your perfectionist—”
“Just stop.” I covered my ears and shook my head. Everything was so messed up, this tangled ball of string that I couldn’t fix, couldn’t unwind. “My audition is in nine days. Then you can look at me yourself and know that it’s just been stress. And when I play that final note for the committee, I know I’ll be myself again. I know it.” I would let Will go. My future would be set.
Mother rubbed her hand over her bare lips. “Finley, I love you. After all we’ve been through, I just want you to be able to talk to me. To tell me what you’re feeling.”
“And I have.”
She let out a breath, and her bangs fluttered against her forehead. “I want you to take it easy. That audition isn’t worth getting so upset.”
“Trust. Me.” Angry tears melted down my cheeks. “You told me before I came to Ireland that you were giving me my freedom, that you were trusting me to take care of myself. Now let me do that.”
“And this is nothing more than audition anxiety?”
“Yes.” My voice begged with her to let this go. “Yes.”
“Maybe it is nothing,” Mom said. “I hope and pray it is. But all I have to go on is what these ladies are telling me. And the fact that you passed out Saturday is frightening. I want to see you in person, hug you, and know that you are safe and okay.”
And if you’re not, I’ ll bring you home. She didn’t say it, but it was there. An unspoken promise.
My mom didn’t believe me. None of them did.
“And you will. Next week.” I shook my head as the panic spiraled with the force of a tornado. “I have to get back to class.”
“Give us a hug.” Nora stood up and held out her arms. “We care about you. I want Abbeyglen to be a peaceful place for you. I want to see you happy.”
“And I will be.” Please let her believe me. “Soon.”
“But I couldn’t live with myself if we didn’t make sure we were doing everything to help you, love. You’ve become like my own daughter.”
Guilt. Grief. Humiliation. It choked me until I was coughing. “I have to go.” I flung open the door and stumbled into the hall on rubbery legs.
God, they’re so wrong. Like I needed one more thing to deal with. Where are you? Why don’t you hear me? Why don’t you speak to me?
Finding the first water fountain, I leaned over it and let the cool water fall over my lips and slide down my throat.
I’d had it. I was done with God’s silence.
Running down the hall, not caring who I passed or that I had tracks of mascara streaking down my face, not even concerned that I was expected back in class, I got to the music room and ripped open the door.
I sat at the piano, pressed my feet to the pedals, placed my shaking fingers on the chipped keys.
And played.
Tears fell unchecked as Will’s song flooded the room. I put every bit of anger, every ounce of fear into the notes, closing my eyes and letting the melody saturate and wrap around my heart like a bandage.
And then I got to the end.
And stopped.
The song just died. Why couldn’t I simply write a few measures and be done? Why hadn’t anything worked?
What if there was no end?
What if it was bottomless as my grief? That it just . . . never stopped.
“God, you’ve taken so much from me,” I said into the deafening silence. “Why? And every ti
me I turn to you, I just feel more alone. Where are you when I call? Where were you when my brother died? Why won’t you talk to me?”
“Because you’re not truly listening.”
I turned, dashing my tears, my cheeks blushing scarlet. “Sister Maria.”
She walked down the aisle like a mighty avenger and sat beside me on the piano bench. “Bad day?” She reached into her pocket and handed me a tissue.
I just nodded. And burst into tears again. “I can’t do this. I don’t know how to . . . just live a normal day.”
“So your normal got changed. You will survive this.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then tell me.”
How? “I’ve done some stupid things. And I thought I had it under control. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, just to fix things. To make it all okay. To make this black feeling go away once and for all. But it hasn’t. And I don’t think it ever will.”
“You’re still convinced God doesn’t hear you?”
“Would my life be such a mess if he did?”
“If you’re doing it all your way, yes.” Sister Maria propped her elbow on some keys and gave me a small smile. “Didn’t a fellow named Peter once walk on water? We’re all asked to do this throughout our lives. It just looks different for each one of us.” Her bony fingers gripped my wrist. “Right now, this is your time. And Jesus has been waiting . . . hands out, saying, ‘Eyes on me. I’ve got you.’”
“Like it’s that easy. Like I haven’t been trying.”
“To truly try means to accept God’s love, his healing, to accept the world can be ugly, but your heart doesn’t have to be. It takes courage, Finley the warrior. You haven’t held on to your anger and bitterness in search of healing, but as a banner of your hurt. Because it’s real and visible and strong,” she said. “But so is God’s love and so are those arms he’s holding out for you.”
“I read my Bible and I see nothing. And when I pray, I feel . . . nothing. I’m so sick of that. That . . . emptiness.”
“And yet it becomes like an addiction, doesn’t it?” Sister Maria’s crystal-blue eyes seared into mine. “Because it’s something you’ve come to know and trust. Closing your heart to God and the rest of the world won’t fill those raw places. It just makes more room for Satan to settle in your heart. Makes his lies easier to believe—that you’re not worthy, that God doesn’t truly care. That he didn’t care about your brother, your family, or you. Finley, you can’t hear the Lord’s voice over all that distraction, even over the sounds of your own pretty music.”
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