Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series Book 2)

by Cindy Brandner

  She sat in the ancient walnut rocker that Casey and Pat had been rocked in as babies. Casey had placed it in the room when they’d moved into the house, and had been anticipating the arrival of their own baby. For many long months after she had lost the baby, it had sat still and empty, neither of them with the heart to move it. Now she’d taken to sitting in it to have a cup of tea, or to simply rest from the weariness of painting.

  She stretched her legs out, feeling the pleasant burn of tired muscles relaxing. She nibbled half-heartedly at a cracker taken from a pile she kept handy in case she found an appetite between bouts of nausea. She quickly put it down in disgust. Everything made her queasy. Except, oddly enough, the smell of the paint.

  She closed her eyes; the fatigue of early pregnancy was never far from her and she found herself dozing at odd moments, though sleep eluded her at night. Eluded her to the point that she had given up on it, and had taken to filling her nights with cleaning the house, which then graduated to readying this room for the baby. She’d also picked up her knitting and the wee hours of the morning were filled with the soft rhythmic clicking of her needles, the huffling snores of Finbar and the rumble of the Aga.

  The sound of an expensive motor turning off the lane into their drive broke in on her doze what seemed only a minute later. She glanced at the small clock. She’d been asleep for twenty minutes. She yawned and stood, craning her head to look out the small window.

  Late afternoon sun gleamed off the dark green flanks of Jamie’s Bentley. He was just now rounding the curve beneath the ash tree. She left the room, shutting the door behind her. She didn’t want Jamie seeing the paint and leaping to the obvious conclusion. She was to the landing, midway down the stairs when he called out. “Pamela, are you here?”

  She froze in place; it wasn’t like Jamie to just walk in. The tone of his voice was of a shade she’d never heard before. She understood without another word or sound from him, that he had come bearing bad news.

  She moved to descend the remaining stairs and was swept by a wave of dizziness. She sat down on the top riser and called out weakly, “I’m here on the stairs, Jamie.”

  She wanted to say Casey’s name, to ask the question, but could not utter the two syllables that would destroy what was left of her world.

  Jamie found her there and read her face. “It’s not Casey. It’s Sylvie. She’s been killed in an explosion.”

  “Explosion?” she echoed, not quite understanding.

  “There was a bomb planted under their car. I think it was meant for Pat.”

  “Oh God—is he—”

  “He’s alive,” Jamie said, “but that was all they knew for certain. He was taken to Altnagelvin. I’ve come to take you there. Do you have any notion where Casey is?”

  “But I just saw her three days ago,” she said dazedly, “we had tea. How—how can she be gone?”

  “Pamela, where is Casey?” he asked again.

  “I—I’m afraid I have no idea. He left me over a week ago now.”

  “What? Why on earth would he do that?”

  She met the green eyes that looked at her with both confusion and compassion. “He had his reasons, Jamie. But I really don’t know how to find him. Is—is Pat going to die?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Twice on the trip into the hospital, Jamie had to stop the car so she could get out and throw up in the ditch. She was reeling with shock, and simply wanted to lie down amongst the buttercups that grew wild in the tall grass, and close her eyes for a long time. She had not believed that after Lawrence’s death and Casey’s desertion there was any room left in her for more grief. But there was. An infinite capacity for it, apparently.

  Somewhere under the immediate shock and anguish was relief. Relief that it was not Casey. And guilt that she could feel such a thing at all.

  A doctor met them at the front desk on the ward.

  “He’s concussed, and has a few second degree burns on his hands. Mostly he’s in shock, I think, and can’t hear that well just now. I don’t think there’s permanent damage to his hearing, but we won’t be certain for a few days on that score.”

  A stern-faced RUC officer stood outside Pat’s room. He recognized Pamela, though, and let them in without any fuss.

  Inside the room, it was very quiet. Pat was lying as still as if he were dead, swathed in bandages and with an IV line feeding out from his left arm. His hair was a dark splotch against the starched white linens. Both arms were wrapped in gauze from fingertips to elbow. His face was partially bandaged, the right side exposed. Every bit of visible skin was scraped, bruised and singed looking.

  “Pat?”

  The sound of her own voice seemed unnaturally loud in the terrible hush of the room. From the bed, there was no response, other than the smallest twitch of the index finger on his left hand.

  She was at his bedside in an instant. The one eye that was uncovered stared up at her with a hazy intensity that was equal parts shock and drugs.

  He rasped out a solitary word, “Jamie.”

  “He wants you,” she said.

  Jamie leaned over Pat, close enough that Pat wouldn’t have to exert himself beyond a whisper. He stood there for a long time, the fair head so close to the dark one, like spills of ink against the stark white sheets, one writ in black, the other in dark gold. The story they told one of unutterable grief.

  Finally Jamie nodded, and said something in the affirmative that she couldn’t quite make out.

  He came around the bed and took her arm. “I think we should leave him be for now.”

  Once they were safely outside the door, she spoke the words they were both thinking. “I’m afraid for him.”

  “He’s going to live,” Jamie said bluntly, “only he can decide if that’s a blessing or a curse.”

  IT WAS VERY LATE and Pamela was light-headed with exhaustion. The fluorescent lights were harsh and hurt her eyes, which felt as though they were lined with fine grain sandpaper. She’d come to the waiting room to sit and fight away the worst of the dizziness. The smells of disinfectant and illness, however, were stirring her incipient nausea up again.

  Jamie came and sat beside her. Just his presence allowed her to let go a little of the breath she was holding in. He handed her a paper cup full of tea as well as a plain bun wrapped in a napkin.

  “You’d better eat,” he said, “you’re looking rather pale.”

  “Thank you,” she said, cupping her hands around the heat that radiated through the thin-walled cup.

  “Were you this sick last time?”

  She gasped in shock, and then realized she shouldn’t be surprised by his knowledge. “Damn you, Jamie Kirkpatrick,” she said wearily. “Taken up midwifery in your spare time, have you?”

  “No,” he returned calmly. “I’m just not blind, nor trying to be; besides, you’ve nursery blue paint specks all through your hair. Does Casey know?”

  She shook her head miserably. “No, I barely knew myself before—” she made a futile gesture with her free hand, “all this happened. It hardly seemed the time to tell him,” she said ruefully. “I—I—”

  “Didn’t want him to stay for the wrong reasons.”

  She nodded. “He would have stayed, and then I would always wonder if it was only because of the baby. I don’t want him on those terms. Do you think that’s silly or vain at this point?”

  “No, it’s just who you are, you won’t compromise, even if not compromising breaks your heart. I can sympathize with that.”

  “I may end up raising this child alone as a result, though. I’m a little frightened by that prospect.”

  Jamie looked at her in a straightforward manner. “Even if he doesn’t come back, Pamela, you won’t be alone.”

  Green eyes looked long into their kind and saw something there that had neither beginning nor end, something that would not fail and could be counted upon no matter how hard the outside world was brought to bear.

  She took his hand and squeez
ed it gently. “I know, and I thank you for it. Still, I think Belinda might have a thing or two to say about it.”

  “I rather think Belinda won’t care, all things considered.”

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “She’s gone, jilted me and run off to Italy. She said there was nothing left here to keep her.”

  “What? Why? She was mad for you, Jamie, anyone could see that.”

  He gave a grim smile. “Well, I believe her exact words were that if I’d even once looked at her the way I look at you, it would have been reason to stay. But that as I never had, she wasn’t going to settle for being a poor second fiddle.”

  “Oh Jamie, I’m so sorry,” she said, and found that despite the jealousy she’d often felt for the woman, she really was sorry. Jamie deserved to love and be loved freely. “Are you certain—”

  Jamie shook his head. “No, she was right. I was cheating her by thinking a half cup would be enough to build a life around. I couldn’t give her what she needed, she was wise to go. And I think perhaps it’s time for the cripple to try walking without his sticks. And while I have lost a dear friend and lover, Pat has lost his wife.”

  “What do you mean—wife?”

  “Yes, his wife. They were married on Friday. I think they were going to announce it at lunch today. That’s where they were headed when the car blew up—to my house, for lunch. He told me before they sedated him.”

  “Oh God,” she breathed, the band of grief in her throat winding itself a little tighter, snarling its barbed points through her vocal chords. “Jamie, eventually one of them would have gotten in that car, or if she’d waited a few more minutes to start the ignition, the both of them would have died. It didn’t matter where they were going, because they were never going to get there.”

  Jamie didn’t answer, but the hand that held her own gripped a little harder.

  A throat cleared itself and they looked up, startled. David Kendall stood before them, worry writ large across his face. His fair hair was rumpled, eyes bleak with fear. Traceries of bruises still stained his skin, and there was a scar near his hairline that hadn’t been there a few short weeks ago.

  “Is he hurt?”

  Pamela extended a hand to him and squeezed his fingers. “Not seriously no, but Sylvie—”

  “I know, I heard at the barracks.”

  “It’s perhaps a little risky for you to be here,” Jamie said, and Pamela turned at the tone. He was exchanging an odd look with David that seemed full of unspoken disapproval. David’s face flushed red.

  “I had to know if he was alright.”

  Jamie nodded, but she could still sense that something wasn’t right. He seemed angry.

  “I suppose,” he said, relenting a little, “Pat could use all the friends he has right now.”

  “I’ll take you in if you’d like to see him,” Pamela offered. “He’s with the doctors right now, but we can go back in a few more minutes.”

  David shook his head, hazel eyes sliding away from her own. “No, I won’t bother him just now, I’ll wait until... I’ll just wait,” he finished helplessly. He looked at Pamela again. “Would it be alright if I called you, to check on his progress?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he said, “I’ll be in touch, and if there’s any change you’ll let me know?”

  “I’ll make sure you know right away, if you leave me a number where you can be reached.” He scribbled a number on the back of a scrap of paper that she found in her pocket for him. Jamie remained silent throughout this exchange, though his disapproval was palpable in the air.

  “You weren’t exactly friendly,” she said, as David disappeared down the long corridor. “He has a right to worry.”

  “I just think you need to keep your distance, he’s British Army, and not regular channel Army either, if you take my meaning. I don’t want to be here visiting you, or worse still burying you.”

  “You’re not saying that Pat’s friendship with David had anything to do with the bomb, are you?”

  Jamie sighed. “No, but look at it realistically, Pamela, befriending a British soldier isn’t looked upon kindly in this city, in fact it’s tantamount to suicide. I don’t know what possessed him.”

  “They were meant to be friends, for whatever reason. Sometimes people are just fated that way. Even in Belfast.”

  “In Belfast,” Jamie said, “your friends can get you killed.”

  She looked at him sharply. “You just said you didn’t think he had anything to do with Sylvie being killed.”

  Jamie rubbed his eyes, the vertical crease like a cut on his forehead. “I don’t know, Pamela, you throw a pebble in a pond five months past, and the damn wave can sweep you from the shore today. That’s how this country works.”

  “No one can look down the road every time they as much as say hello to someone. Casey couldn’t have known, when he was a teenager, how his friendship with Robin would end.” She realized the mistake of the words the instant they left her tongue.

  “Indeed,” Jamie said quietly, “and just how did that friendship end?”

  “In death.”

  “By Casey’s hand?”

  “No,” she said, “Robin wanted that, but Casey found he couldn’t and so Robin did it himself.”

  “More’s the pity,” Jamie said. His face was still, but a flicker of something very much like hatred stirred in his eyes.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because in the future, I think Casey may regret not killing the man by his own hand. Some wounds don’t heal well unless cauterized first.”

  “Jamie, you’re scaring me.”

  “Don’t listen to me, I’m rambling.”

  With the tremor of panic had come another swift and engulfing wave of nausea. She bent down, attempting to put her head between her knees. The direct result of this was to make the room swing wildly as a pendulum in front of her.

  “You need to lie down,” Jamie said briskly. She could see he was glad to have even the smallest of tasks to occupy him, however briefly, and so did not have the heart to tell him that she didn’t think she could possibly rest.

  To her surprise, however, once an empty room was located and she lay down on the clean, starchy sheets, exhaustion overtook her. It was only a few minutes before she felt herself drifting, like an autumn leaf borne down through dark and chill winter air.

  “Jamie.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t want to be alone.”

  “You won’t be,” he replied softly.

  SHE AWOKE SOMETIME IN THE WEE HOURS. The lights were off and the door partially shut.

  “Jamie?”

  “Right here,” he said.

  “How’s Pat?”

  “He’s resting now; they gave him a mild sedative and are monitoring him closely. How are you feeling?”

  “Alright,” she said, “the nausea is gone for now.”

  She sat up. Jamie stood by the window, his reflection pale against the glass. His hair was rumpled, shirt half untucked, eyes red-rimmed. It was the first time she’d seen him thus. Defeat and grief had altered the line of him, so that he seemed both terribly young and old at the same time.

  The noises of the hospital were distant, as though a layer of cotton lay between them and the world out there where the swiftly padding feet of nurses were ever bent on errands of mercy. Where alarms cried and ambulances—wailing—came and went.

  She heard Jamie mumur to himself an old poem about the fevered gods of war, taking both maiden and king, without regard to their station. She knew he spoke not for the sake of her ears, but more to his own grief and to the events his mind was trying to make some sort of sense of.

  “Do you think that’s what took Sylvie’s’ life, war?”

  “Yes. To paraphrase a countrywoman of yours—the wrong war, at the wrong place, at the wrong time with the wrong enemy, and yet, nevertheless, a war.”

  “I wish it would end,” she
said, “I can’t make sense of any of it anymore. But I’m not sure anyone here would be comfortable with peace, or know how to make a life without constant pain.”

  “Who would we Irish be, without our unending little war, what would we have left to make us feel special?” His tone was bitter and weary, that of a man who has tried and failed times beyond counting.

  “I wish we’d never come back. I feel somehow if we hadn’t Sylvie would still be alive.”

  “I wish you hadn’t either,” Jamie said, “but not for the same reasons. Things would have spiraled out of control for Pat and Sylvie regardless, but for your own sake, I wish you’d stayed away. Though I suppose such a wish makes me a dreadful hypocrite.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I rather made certain that you married the one man who would always come back to this country, didn’t I? This damnable, demon-haunted land. This is the country of my heart, and yet I don’t see how I can continue to live here.”

  She understood his meaning, for it was a demon-haunted country, laden with spirits—those of failure, those of war and bloodshed and all that they left behind. And then there were the ghosts that were more personal—people you’d known in passing, and those you believed you would know forever. Last, there were the ghosts of one’s own heart—the lost children, the never forgotten lover, the husband who could not forgive you.

  “There are ghosts everywhere, Jamie.”

  “Yes, but only some do we call our own.”

  “And what are we to do with all those ghosts?”

  He turned from the window, eyes a heavy glass green.

  “We take them with us.”

  Chapter Eighty-one

  In Sunlight or in Shadow

  ON EITHER SIDE OF PAT, Pamela and Jamie stood, two sentries guarding against an invisible enemy, backbones stiff against the rain. She could feel it running down her spine where it had leaked inside her collar. Pat seemed oblivious to it, face immobile, dark eyes blank as if he’d drawn into a far place inside from which he’d no wish to emerge. Shock? She didn’t know. Pat wasn’t an easy read at the best of times and since Sylvie’s death he’d said very little, only gone about doing what needed doing with a fierce determination that told her he was holding onto his sanity through sheer dogged will power.