Pieces of Hope

by Carter, Carolyn

  “This is amazing!” I said, ignoring a second shiver. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” We coasted past a white steepled church. “How big is the town?”

  “I think it has about six hundred people. It used to be a big copper mining town in the eighteen hundreds.” He pointed directly in front of us toward several sloping mounds, covered in grass and strewn with big boulders. “That’s Knockgour Mountain. Compared to the Cascades, it looks more like a big hill, doesn’t it? And over there”—his arm shifted to the south—“is Ballydonegan Bay.”

  I moved my head slowly in that direction, fearful that I might fly headfirst off the handlebars and land splat on the asphalt. In the living realm, I was super-coordinated. Not the slightest bit klutzy. And had we actually been there rather than Somewhere, I’m sure I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But here—?

  I suppose it all boiled down to the fact that I didn’t trust what Creesie had told me. Was I truly immune to pain because I’d separated from my body? How was I supposed to make my brain believe that when I’d lived for seventeen years experiencing the effects of gravity? And one of the key reasons I didn’t believe her at this precise moment had to do with the fact that certain delicate parts of me had begun to go numb. I scooted that part a little on the handlebars, and groaned in silent relief.

  “Hey! Is that an ocean?” Beyond the gray rocks that dotted the loping hillside, I could see a massive body of water. “Why are we here?”

  “It’s part two of your surprise,” he said as the mist got heavier.

  “What was part one?” I asked, confused. Ethan jiggled the handlebars, reminding me of my gift. “Easy . . .” I said roughly over my shoulder. “Can’t you give me a hint?”

  “Take a guess.” He flashed the effortless smile I’d imagined him wearing seconds before. Looking sideways at him, I rested my chin on my shoulder.

  “I’m a lousy guesser,” I begged off, unable to look away.

  His expression turned to disbelief. “You guessed it right the last time, blindfolded, and in the middle of nowhere. I think you’re better at this than you know.”

  I shrugged. The outdoor concert was a fluke. The blindfold, rather than hindering, actually helped. Looking at Ethan was not the same as listening to him. Gazing into those golden-green orbs greatly upped the level of difficulty. But his tone was so encouraging, I resigned myself to attempt it, no matter how lame the outcome.

  “Okay,” I relented. “But you’ll have to give me a hint. Even Einstein couldn’t get this one.” He stifled a laugh, which I pretended not to hear. We’d rolled beyond the main drag now, the houses were farther apart, and expansive meadows began to stretch before us. “What are those?” I asked. “Sheep? Who in the world keeps sheep?”

  “That’s good,” he encouraged. “You’re getting warmer now . . .”

  “Back in town, we passed O’Neill’s Bar. Was that another hint?”

  “Definitely a hint. You’re getting hotter.” He laughed a little, and it took me a second to make the connection. “And I didn’t even think that was possible.”

  I refrained from looking in his direction, but I couldn’t have wiped the smile from my face if I’d tried. There was a lot to love about this game. We continued to roll beyond the town, the houses spreading thinner and thinner and, after a while, we stopped in front of a small, stone house. Wildflowers dotted the little yard and roses scented the air. A low fence and a cobblestone path led to the front door. I felt like I was coming home.

  My hands, and other parts, had gone numb from sitting on them, but my feet still worked. It wasn’t exactly a graceful landing, but I did manage to get off the bike without breaking anything. I looked expectantly at Ethan, ready to tell him where we were and, more importantly, why we were here, but he seemed determined to speak first.

  “Here goes nothing.” He sounded almost apologetic. “Ní breac é go mbíonn sé ar an bport.”

  “That’s it?” I laughed, staring up into his face. “That was my hint? ‘It isn’t a trout until it’s on the bank?’ Let me guess who taught you that!”

  “Supposedly it’s their version of ‘don’t count your chickens till they’re hatched.’” He eyed me with suspicion. “Hey, how do you know what I just said?”

  “Oh, that,” I muttered. “I have a few talents in my new form. I’ll explain later.”

  We stood on the worn stone step outside the small arched door. Ethan didn’t take his eyes from mine and I stared back into his, lost in their depths. Several seconds ticked by before I realized he was awaiting my guess. His pale glow was playing tricks on me.

  I adopted my best Einstein-ian expression, resting my thumb beneath my chin and my pointer finger below my lips. “Hmmm . . . based on the size of the house, the shape of the door, the perfect setting absent of all people—I’d have to say we landed somewhere in the middle of the Shire.”

  “The what?” Ethan shook his head. I suppressed a grin.

  “You know . . . the Shire. Where’d you put all the little hobbits? Is Bilbo Baggins around here somewhere?” As I lifted up the straw doormat, Ethan laughed freely.

  “You really are a terrible guesser,” he finally said.

  I wanted to kiss him then, but I was afraid I might not stop ever. It was partly the way he was looking at me, and partly the way he looked. His dark hair was moving in the slight breeze, his eyes were glistening golden-green, and even in a plain black T-shirt, he was stunning. I sighed. He definitely didn’t have to try too hard.

  “Are you okay?” Ethan stroked my cheek with the back of his hand.

  “No.” Irritated now, I turned my cheek away. “It’s not fair, you know . . .”

  Looking slightly confused, he hesitated for a moment before opening the door and ushering me inside. Soft white walls and a dark slate floor made the tiny space seem larger than it actually was, which wasn’t saying much. From where we stood, I could see a cozy kitchen with painted cabinets and a two-person table not more than a dozen steps away. To our left, a steep, narrow staircase led to an overhead loft. A bedroom, maybe? To our right, arranged in a rectangular shape, four armchairs squatted before a massive stone fireplace. Overall, the home looked quite lovely, quite little, and oh-so-cheery. Hobbits most definitely could have lived here.

  “By the way, what’s not fair?” Ethan eventually asked after I’d plopped into one of the white chairs beside the fireplace and he’d dropped down onto the arm beside me.

  “It’s difficult to explain. Even I don’t understand it.” I was wondering how to best describe my tsunami-sized emotions without sounding like a complete idiot.

  “Please try. I understand more than you might realize . . .” As he stroked my cheek, his fingers lingering at the hollow of my throat, I lost all resolve to keep it to myself.

  I closed my eyes, drawing on limited reserves of dignity. Besides, it was easier to speak when I wasn’t looking at him.

  “I don’t normally act like such an idiot,” I admitted grudgingly, and it stung me to acknowledge such things. “I mean, half the time I say too much and the other half I say too little. And it’s likely I’ve developed a heart condition recently—one that seems to act up only around you. There are moments when it feels like it’s beating fast enough for three people, fast enough to run a local power plant, maybe . . . possibly even a third-world country!”

  I hesitantly opened one eye, then the other. Ethan was wearing a little smile.

  “Anyway, every time that happens, it feels like the very air is being sucked from my lungs, and I’ve somehow forgotten how to breathe. And then sometimes I can’t breathe at all!” I groaned again, annoyed with myself. “See, I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

  Ethan said nothing, still wearing that self-contented grin.

  “Say it! I’m talking too much, aren’t I? Could you say something, please?”

  “That’s quite a lot to deal with, isn’t it?”

  “Tell me about it!” I reached up and pretended to strang
le myself.

  What sounded like a low chuckle escaped him. Ignoring my evil glare, he scooped me up in his arms, slid into the seat I had just vacated, and sat me sideways across his lap. My legs dangled over the arm of the chair, facing the fireplace. I refused to look at him.

  “I’m not laughing at you, Hope.”

  Glaring at the fireplace, I grumbled, “Let me guess. You’re laughing with me.”

  “I’m laughing because you make me feel the same way.” His fingers brushed my chin, gently turning my face in his direction.

  “Now you’re being condescending,” I said, more hurt than angry. “There’s no need to lie to me.”

  “I’m not,” he politely insisted. “I’m a lousy liar. My left eye twitches whenever I try. It’s a dead giveaway.” He waited a moment. My expression didn’t alter. “I’ll prove it to you. Ask me something. Ask me anything.”

  I decided to indulge his request merely to appease him. The tricky part was asking him a question that I already knew the answer to. Otherwise, there would be no way to tell the difference. The one catch, of course, would be if he could make his eye twitch at will, but that had to be almost impossible. The eyes were very telling, windows to your soul and all. They often gave people away when they weren’t even aware of it.

  I thought back on the stories he’d told me. Rearranging myself so that I could face him better, I narrowed my eyes and looked squarely into his. A wide ray of sunlight from one of two large windows shone directly on his face. No way would I miss the slightest jiggle.

  In my best interrogative tone, I said, “Did your grandfather really get you a yacht for your tenth birthday?”

  “No, that was a lie.” As he spoke, I watched his left eye twitch ever so slightly.

  Ethan must have guessed I wasn’t entirely convinced. Possibly a fluke.

  “Ask me something harder,” he pressed. “Ask me how I feel about you.”

  Pretending that this was an insignificant question, I said offhandedly, “All right, I see where we’re going . . . yes, not a bad one.” Then my breath caught. “How do you feel—?”

  He leaned into me, his face softening. I pressed my hand against his chest to keep him in viewing distance and felt his heart hammering beneath it, causing mine to respond in the same way. He gazed into my eyes with uncompromising directness.

  In a voice that was the softest of whispers, he uttered, “I’m. Wild. About. You.”

  Tingles of what felt like electricity pulsed up my arm. But I forced myself to focus. Seconds passed, then several more. His left eye didn’t budge a centimeter.

  “Believe me now?” he whispered, placing his hand over mine.

  All I could do was nod.

  “My mother always said I was difficult to read. Of course, the first time she said that I was only five-years-old, and I had no idea what she was talking about.” He lifted a lock of my hair and inhaled. “It smells like your skin. Vanilla, and maybe a hint of . . .” He inhaled again. “. . . . blueberries? You realize I won’t be able to associate that scent with anything or anyone but you?” My stomach fluttered when he dipped his head and sniffed my neck, then moaned like it made him hungry.

  “But you shouldn’t have to guess how I feel about you,” he went on, his eyes locked on mine. “You should always know how very wanted you are.” Something in my stomach responded, a hollow aching. He wanted me? Ethan leaned back, resting his dark head on the white slipcover. “I’m going to make a concerted effort to let you in to my thoughts. Would you like that?”

  I nodded vacantly, shocked at this sudden baring of his soul.

  He sprang from the chair with me in his arms, resting me lightly on the slate floor. “I didn’t bring you here just to see Poppy’s place, but I knew you’d love it. Madeline wanted to tear it down after he died and start over from scratch, but for once, Dad and I outvoted her. It almost feels like the old guy’s still here.”

  Ethan picked up a picture from the mantle and handed it to me. In a plain wooden frame I smiled at the sight of a brown-haired boy with an intense gaze, standing beside a red-haired man who was slightly shorter than he was. The older man had one arm looped around the little boy’s shoulders.

  “That was his favorite picture of us,” Ethan said, though I couldn’t see why. The picture was slightly blurry, the scenery wasn’t anything special, and neither of them was smiling. “I was only eight, and already I was two inches taller than Poppy. For some reason, he found that funny. The old guy was always laughing about something.”

  I set the picture back on the mantle and scanned the other photos. There were a few of Ethan’s parents, several of a pretty girl with black hair. And in the last frame, what looked to be the same woman (only much older) with Poppy beside her.

  Without any explanation, Ethan took my hand and pulled me outside. Rounding the back of the house, we connected with another cobblestone path that tumbled between two meadows. Several hundred feet ahead, I could see flowers. Planted around an oversized pond, they grew in every size, shape, and color imaginable. There were bushes, trees, and freestanding flowers everywhere. We ran to the pond, then onto a small rickety dock with an old, wide rowboat beside it. Ethan yanked a weathered tarp from the boat and tossed it in a heap on the other side of the dock.

  As we stood there catching our breath, the breeze picked up. Whispery-soft petals began to litter the air like pale pink snow, carpeting the ground, the path, my hair. Several were also in Ethan’s hair. I made an effort to brush them away, but Ethan had other ideas. Locking his fingers in mine, he bent one arm gently behind my back, and pressing our bodies together in a long, smooth line, he kissed me.

  I was still perched blissfully on the tips of my toes, my back arched slightly when Ethan said softly, his lips lingering near mine, “Impressed?”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” I murmured, still reeling. “That was some kiss.”

  He laughed near my ear. “Hope, I was talking about the apple blossoms.”

  Now resting flat on my feet, I followed his gaze to a long row of pink-blossomed, scraggly-looking trees. There were easily a couple dozen of them.

  “Oh.” Though I knew I’d turned twelve shades of red, I was growing accustomed to it. Being bodiless and overwrought seemed to go hand in hand. Besides, I could tell it amused my violet-glowing boyfriend.

  “They aren’t supposed to grow here,” Ethan announced, “but Gram had cousins in Armagh who grew them and I think that it was love at first sight for her. It amazed all of us that they took off the way they did, even with Gram’s green thumb. My theory is they grew because they sensed how much she loved them, and in spite of the rough conditions, they flourished for that reason alone.”

  There seemed to be something unspoken in the way he’d expressed it—as if every living thing should experience a love like that. In that instant, I realized how big his heart was, and wondered how it was that I’d missed it. It was the equivalent of overlooking the Grand Canyon.

  “This was Poppy and Gram’s special place,” he said, his voice drifting easily into those softer tones that made my insides turn to jelly. “On July 18th, 1937, just after Gram turned seventeen, Padraic Reid asked Nessa Riley to marry him on this very spot.”

  “You . . .” The significance of this visit, and Ethan’s reasons for bringing me here were just beginning to sink in. “I—I’m honored that you brought me here.”

  “This is just a warm-up,” he said, pausing a little too long. And it was slight, but I thought I detected anxiety in his tone. “After you wake up, I plan to kidnap you and take you here for real.”

  A spasm of what felt like guilt jabbed me in the stomach, but when Ethan smiled back at me, it faded.

  The breeze picked up again, and the old boat rocked against the rickety dock. I’d only glanced at it earlier, but after a more deliberate look, I could see that the bottom of it was also scattered with petals—in every color imaginable, and far too many to have been an accident of the wind.

  “Ethan
, this is too much. I can’t believe you’re doing this for me. I can’t—” As I looked into his eyes, I began to feel that familiar, terrible loss of air. “I—can’t—breeeeathe!” I doubled-over and Ethan rubbed my back, but that only made it worse. I could tell he was sticking to his “concerted effort” promise, granting me free access to his emotions. It was like I’d dipped my little toe inside of him. The force of it was startling.

  “If you could . . . feel what I . . . feel,” I panted, hands on my knees. “If you could see . . . what I see, I’d be giving you CPR right about now!” Now breathing more evenly, I stood up. Ethan arched his eyebrows, as if this sounded intriguing—me giving him CPR—then dismissed it.

  “Hope, I see myself every day,” he said casually. “Just another face as far as I’m concerned.” He was completely serious.

  I shook my head in disbelief. “But here, in this realm, Ethan—you—you glow!”

  “In your eyes, maybe,” he agreed with a half-hearted shrug.

  “No, you literally glow!” I argued, trying to wipe that smirk off his face. “It’s like someone took a purple crayon and drew a line around you.”

  “Purple?” He didn’t pause. “Never in a million years.”

  “Well, pale purple . . .” I muttered. “Almost violet, really.” He wasn’t going for it; that much was obvious. And that’s when it came to me. I pulled him off the dock. “Come to the water’s edge! I’ll show you!”

  We knelt down side by side, and as I brushed away the floating petals, I noticed that that stern look of skepticism never left his flawless face.

  “There!” I pointed at the cleared surface. “Get ready to eat your words!”

  His expression was easy to read. It was the same patronizing look I sent Brody’s way whenever he tried my patience. He was holding back a smile, definitely a smug one, but I didn’t care. The seconds ticked by in my head. At last, he looked down.

  “See!” I announced in a know-it-all tone as he studied his reflection. “You see it, don’t you?” I anxiously awaited my vindication.