Take Me Home

by Daniela Sacerdoti

  Here’s the first of the Glen Avich owl family. A.

  Sellotaped on the statuette was a tiny Polish flag, glued on a toothpick and coloured in with felt-tip pens.

  A tiny, uncertain smile made its way from my heart to my lips.

  From Inary@gmail.com

  To Alex.McIlvenny@hotmail.co.uk

  Dear Alex,

  I got your owl! Thank you so much. It sits on my desk in my old room. Also, thank you for your email with the links about what’s wrong with me. Calling it psychogenic dysphonia makes it sound quite scary. I saw the doctor, but she said there’s nothing I can do. To just wait. I’ll be staying here for a while. Rowan will send me work. Everything feels strange these days . . . I deleted all my stories, I don’t even know why. It’s like I’m in a bubble. I miss Lesley and I . . .

  . . . I miss you, I wanted to write. But I decided against it. It just wouldn’t be fair on him.

  I shouldn’t be writing to him at all – I had promised myself I would not keep doing this to him, I would not play with his feelings.

  . . . I’m having weird dreams.

  Can I tell Alex about the Sight? Would he understand?

  . . . I mean, visions about the past. I see the past. As in, dead people.

  Nobody but my family knew the true extent of my gift. My family, and Lewis. Who’d been completely freaked out. He said it scared him, and it made him wonder what was going through my head. Code for ‘it made him wonder if I was mad’. I suppose you don’t get to be brought up by two bigots for nothing – Anabel would have thought I was possessed by the devil.

  I didn’t think Alex was like that, but I was still wary. I deleted the whole sentence.

  . . . I miss Lesley, and I’m trying to help Logan through this. I hope you’re well, and thank you again for the info on lost voices. Weird. It’s the kind of thing that always happens to someone else, until it happens to you . . .

  Inary x

  My fingers hovered above the keyboard. I was opening the conversation between us again, and the way things worked between Alex and me, soon we’d be emailing every day, and we’d be back in the same situation we were in before.

  I went to press ‘discard’.

  Instead, I pressed ‘send’. Obviously.

  I was so angry with myself, and still so relieved to keep speaking to him . . . the usual Alex-induced chaotic feelings. I got up and paced the room until I heard the laptop beeping again.

  From Alex.McIlvenny@hotmail.co.uk

  To Inary@gmail.com

  Inary,

  You deleted your stories? That’s pretty radical . . . but then, all your life has changed now, and it’s not like you to stay still. You made room for the new. There’s so much inside you just waiting to come out, and it will.

  Take care,

  Alex

  He always had all the right words.

  Strange, I thought. I’d done my best to lock my heart, and I’d done such a good job I couldn’t find the key any more. And a locked heart can feel very heavy.

  I slipped into Emily’s room, and I opened her wardrobe. A dull ache filled me as her scent enveloped me – something between Miss Dior, her favourite perfume, and her own, individual Emily scent. I closed the wardrobe at once – if I opened it, her scent would be lost in the air, I could never, ever smell it again. It would just disappear. And would I be able to recall it? Next week, next month, yes – but next year? In ten years? Would I be able to recall the exact chemistry of my sister’s skin, of her breath?

  A sob escaped my lips. It was inevitable. It would happen. Even if I kept her wardrobe closed forever her scent would fade anyway, the memories would fade, until one day I’d be gone too, and Logan. And everybody in this village, this whole generation.

  But before that happened, I was here, I was alive, and I was remembering my sister. I slowly opened the wardrobe door again, and stroked the rows of dresses and shirts and jackets, until I noticed a flash of light green. There it was: her college graduation dress.

  I lifted it out of the wardrobe and buried my face in it, my eyes closed.

  I would wear Emily’s dress. Inside me, Emily was alive.

  *

  That night my skin was prickling again, and there was a soft, low drone in my ears. I wasn’t surprised when in the middle of the night, in the darkest hour, some inner ripple woke me, and Mary was by my window again. I lay still with my eyes wide open, perfectly awake; I didn’t move, I didn’t make a sound, I even held my breath as long as I could, in case she disappeared. It was as if a light was shining on her, or from inside her, because I could see her clearly. Her hair was down around her shoulders in dark, silky waves, and she looked so young and fresh and radiant. I could see she was happy. Her lips were moving; she was talking, but I couldn’t hear her . . . and then, as I became attuned to her presence, I began to make out her words. She was talking to someone, a black, shapeless shadow that I couldn’t quite make out.

  “I never thought I could feel that way about anyone,” she was saying. “It seems forever I have to wait for him to come back. I know he has to speak to her, sort everything out, but I can’t wait. I just want him here with me.” A pause as the other shadow spoke – a low murmur that I couldn’t unravel. “I think my mum knows, yes. I never told her, of course, she wouldn’t approve, but you know the way things work here. You just can’t have secrets. I will tell her myself as soon as he’s free from his engagement. She won’t be able to say anything against him then. And Robert will win her over anyway.”

  I felt utterly intrigued. Mary’s life was being revealed to me bit by bit. I couldn’t wait to see what happened next. But with my disappointment, I saw she was starting to vanish slowly already. She was still talking, but her voice was fading, her words lost to me. I wanted her to stay just a little longer, but I couldn’t stop her.

  A few minutes after she’d gone, I was already falling back to sleep, a thought whirling again and again in my mind – would Robert keep his promise and return to Mary? But my heart went also to the woman on the other side of all this, the woman he was engaged to. I was sure it was the lovely-looking woman at his side in the vision I’d had of his and Mary’s first meeting.

  I knew how she’d feel when he told her.

  20

  Remedies

  Inary

  Aunt Mhairi’s tablet was heavenly, just like everything else she made. I was attacking a second square and sipping a cup of tea. We were sitting at her kitchen table, a notebook, already littered with conversations, ready beside my mug.

  I’d figured that Aunt Mhairi might know who Mary was – her clothes and hairstyle told me that she would have lived in Glen Avich in the late nineteenth century, which was her grandmother, my great-grandmother’s, generation. Aunt Mhairi might have stories about Glen Avich from when her gran was a little girl. Maybe some about Mary herself? I was going to try and find out something about her without explaining why I wanted to know. Aunt Mhairi had no reason to know about the Sight – being my father’s sister, it didn’t run in her family.

  I brought the conversation on to my parents’ house – some work to the roof was needed – it was an old house – it’s been in our family for generations . . . I saw my chance.

  Was there ever a Mary living there?

  “Mary? Let me think. Well, it’s an old house, and Mary used to be a very common name . . . Why do you ask?”

  I dished out the excuse I had prepared. Researching a book.

  “Oh, a book, that’s nice.” She adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose and stirred her tea.

  I quickly scrawled: Do you have any stories about a Mary living in Glen Avich from when your gran was young?

  “Well, I don’t know how much help I can be, dear. My granny passed away when I was wee, and your grandfather never talked about his childhood much. Why don’t you go and have a look in the Heritage Collection in Kinnear? Sheila Ramsay swears by it, you know she’s big into family trees and all that.” I nodded – i
t was a good idea. “Inary, now listen, love. Don’t take this the wrong way, but about your voice, dearie . . .”

  I sighed. Another remedy? Because nearly everyone seemed to have one, and I’d tried them all. Milk and honey, peppermint tea, mint tea, ice-cold water or near-scalding water, warm compresses on my chest, an ice pack on my throat, anchovies. Yes, anchovies. Apparently they work wonders at keeping singers’ voices strong and clear. So maybe my voice would return and I would start a singing career . . . but all that those anchovies had done was stink out our fridge and make me drink a gallon of water.

  I plastered a smile on my face, waiting for Aunt Mhairi’s suggestion. Dried ground newt to be taken on the night of a full moon, maybe?

  “Well, you see, Maggie and Liz, you know my friends . . .”

  Oh yes, the funeral experts.

  “They were wondering if maybe the well . . . St Colman’s well. It’s supposed to perform miracles . . .”

  I laughed. It’s supposed to help women have babies!

  “Yes, well, I know, but these are exceptional circumstances. St Colman will know what you need. I would ask Father McCroury to see what he thinks, but you know he’s not fond of all that, the well, the people who come drinking . . .”

  With my luck, if I drank the water I’d still be mute, and pregnant.

  Thank you. Tell Maggie and Liz I’ll think about it, I wrote and stood to go.

  “You going already? Wait till I wrap up some of this tablet for Logan . . .”

  I took the tinfoil-wrapped tablet obediently and I held Aunt Mhairi tight. She was the closest thing to a parent I had left. In her own clumsy way, she tried to look out for us, and I was grateful. She reciprocated the hug, murmuring dear, dear Inary – and I knew she was thinking of what we’d lost. Thank you, I mouthed.

  “No worries, dearie . . . And think about the water from the well. You never know . . .”

  I stifled a smile and nodded. It would be better than anchovies anyway.

  I stepped out of the cottage in the lilac light of dusk, the soft scent of water enveloping me. A fine mist was gathering on the loch and I wanted to be home quickly. I didn’t like being too close to it at the best of times, let alone when the fog crept in.

  I headed away from the cottage, leaving the hazy loch behind me with relief. I kept thinking about Mary as I walked on, a chill breeze in my hair and night closing fast around me. I hoped with all my heart that she’d come back to me soon, that she would keep telling me her story.

  I couldn’t see Emily, even if I kept calling to her; for some reason, it’d been Mary who had come instead. I could only accept the way things were, try to live with the constant yearning for my sister and unravel Mary’s secrets. She’d come to me for a reason, I realised as I stepped onto the small stony bridge across the River Avich. She wasn’t just a momentary apparition, shimmering through time like a reflection on running water. I leaned against the parapet and watched the water flow below. So many precious things have been taken away from me – my parents, my sister, my own voice – Mary was something to hold on to.

  *

  As I was approaching my house, I saw that there was someone standing in front of our door – a man. Tall, slightly built, a mop of caramel-coloured hair . . . He turned around all of a sudden, and I could see his face. Taylor.

  I stopped in my tracks and considered turning away, but he saw me.

  “Inary!” he called with an open smile. I couldn’t help but smile back. He looked so . . . untroubled. His face was as cheerful and open as a blue sky.

  “Hello, just passing by . . .”

  Hello, I mouthed, and let him in.

  “Hi . . . oh, hi Taylor,” Logan greeted us. “Cup of coffee? I’ve got to warn you, though, Inary made a cake earlier. Have some . . . What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” said Logan, taking my tiramisu out of the fridge.

  Very funny. Okay, it came out a bit liquidy, but still tasty. You just needed a spoon, that was all. I’d bought a Nigella book online and I was going through it, one recipe at a time. Or to say it like Logan, I was butchering it one recipe at a time.

  “Yes to the cake, please. No to the coffee. I don’t drink caffeine.”

  How do you stay awake? I scribbled quickly. I was addicted to coffee. Less than three cups a morning and I’d get the shakes.

  “My energy levels are a lot higher, actually, than when I used to drink coffee,” he said vehemently, like he was announcing something miraculous. I smiled to myself.

  “I’ll pour you a drink, then,” said Logan, taking out two spirit glasses from the cupboard. My heart sank.

  “No, not for me. Not on a Monday night,” laughed Taylor, putting his hands up. Logan hesitated, but then he poured himself one.

  “I guess I’m going to have to drink alone, then.” He shrugged.

  Taylor dug into my cake. “Mmmm. Inary. This is . . .”

  “Ghastly,” Logan interrupted him.

  “Of course not! It’s good. Just the consistency . . . maybe . . . a bit . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence. I simply went to the cupboard and passed him a packet of Hobnobs.

  We chatted for a while, mainly about outdoors stuff, but soon I lost the thread of the conversation. My head was somewhere else. I kept thinking about last night. About Mary. About Emily.

  “. . . so, what do you say?”

  I realised that Taylor had just told me something, and I had no idea what it was.

  I frowned and shook my head, mouthing sorry. I felt myself blushing.

  “I was wondering if you wanted to come and see the site tomorrow. The crannog excavation. My office, in other words!” he laughed.

  Really, was there any other choice than to say yes? Unless I tried to explain that I was scared of the loch . . . obviously I couldn’t tell him the real reason for my fear. I’d have to make up some excuse, like not being able to swim, or some phobia of water, when actually I was a good swimmer and had no phobias whatsoever (except for alligators, after I saw a documentary as a wee girl, but you don’t see many of those in Scotland). It would be so humiliating to say I couldn’t swim, for someone born and bred a few hundred yards from the loch shore.

  Maybe it was time to get over my fear. After all, it had happened thirteen years ago.

  I nodded.

  “Great!” He ran a hand through his thick, wavy hair and I read something in his gesture. A tiny, near-invisible touch of shyness that I hadn’t thought could exist side by side with his larger-than-life personality.

  “You sure you’re not up for a drink, guys?” Logan asked.

  I shook my head and brought my hand to my forehead, mimicking a headache – forget about the writing, all this miming was going to land me an acting job sooner or later.

  “Are you okay?” asked Logan.

  Bit of a sore head, that’s all, I wrote. I waved goodbye to Taylor briefly, and ran upstairs to my room.

  So, it looked like I was going onto the loch with Taylor. I already regretted saying yes, but it was too late. Anyway – no more agonising over American lads or ghosts from long ago; I slipped my glasses on and sat in front of the computer. I had psyched myself up for it all day: I was going to start writing again. I had no idea what, Cassandra having been given the boot (to both my relief and dismay). But I had to try. It had only been a short while without writing, but I missed it already.

  I had been writing since before I could remember, on school jotters and notebooks, on my dad’s computer and then my own. When I wasn’t writing, I was reading anything I could get my hands on. I ate words. I still found time to go out and have fun – Logan was the solitary one in the family – but I always returned to my books. Books were home.

  I’d written heaps of stories and poems that nobody read but Emily. As an editor, I knew how many people wrote in, sent manuscripts for consideration and were rejected. Very, very few succeeded; most had to deal with disappointment, and still they kept trying and trying. I admired them because, unlike me, they had
guts. I never showed my work to anyone in the industry; not even Rowan and the rest of the editorial team at Rosewood had ever read anything of mine. Because it’s not good enough, a voice in my head kept saying, and I always believed that voice, though it hurt me. I never believed that what I was writing was quite ready. The next story would be. But not this one. I could never satisfy myself.

  Now that Emily was gone, who would read my stories? Funny, how multifaceted grief is: like a prism, casting its tear-born rainbows all over your life. I choked back tears again.

  Not being able to stand it any longer, I switched the laptop on and opened a Word document.

  I stared at it for a few minutes.

  And then I got up and brushed my hair, then I sat down again, and stared some more.

  I got up and sorted my underwear drawer. I wrote a few words – a possible title, a possible plot – then deleted them.

  I looked around. I had to put a washing on. And my bookcase needed tidied. And I had to shave my legs, and look at those cobwebs! Suddenly, I had developed an unhealthy and entirely out of character interest in housework . . .

  I sighed. I was getting a headache for real. The screen was very white and very empty, and my mind was blank. I looked at my watch. Forty minutes I’d been at the computer, and two words had been written: Chapter One. That was it. Next it’d be it was a dark and stormy night.

  I switched the laptop off, exhausted from doing nothing. I just hoped Mary wouldn’t come. I couldn’t cope with otherworldly encounters, that night; the world of the living was complicated enough.

  21

  Take me home

  Inary

  The next day there I was, back at the laptop, but this time editing yet another book written by someone else, someone brave enough to let her work see the light of day. Someone who had written a literary novel so intensely boring I was losing the will to live: the nearly autobiographical story of a woman who really, really loved crows. I was wrestling with a sentence with a lot of birds dotted through it – birds flying, birds pecking, birds perched on branches – when there was a knock at the door, immediately followed by Logan walking in, waving his phone.