Take Me Home

by Daniela Sacerdoti

  “You can’t do anything more than what you’ve been doing already. Grief takes its natural course. But if it doesn’t get better, we might need to support her further . . .”

  Support her further? How? “What do you mean?”

  “I mean give her some psychological help. Maybe look into medication, certainly refer her on. What she has is called dysphonia. It’s caused by stressful or traumatic events. It usually corrects itself over time, with help, but sometimes it might need professional guidance. I explained all this to her when she came to see me. But there’s nothing I can do if Inary doesn’t come to me again. Herself.”

  “She won’t.”

  “Why, do you think?”

  “I’ve had this conversation with her. She doesn’t think you can help.”

  “Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s something she needs to find her own way out of. But if you feel things are getting too much for her . . . if her voice doesn’t come back in a reasonable time . . . she might need some extra help.”

  “It’s not that straightforward. I could never tell Inary what to do.”

  “Quite a lot of people are like that, around here,” Dr Nicholson said with a smile. I looked away.

  “Thank you, then,” I said quickly, and I dived out of the door.

  “Logan . . .” Her voice reached me through reception.

  “Yes?”

  “Take care.”

  I’d take care of Inary, yes. Like I used to take care of Emily.

  “I will.” I just wanted out of that place. I’d spent too much time in there. And there was nothing to report to Inary, anyway, apart from ‘you need help’. What was I hoping for, anyway? That Dr Nicholson would suggest some miracle cure? Maybe she knew a way to stop drinking until it made you sick.

  I rushed back to the shop and busied myself, trying not to think of anything.

  26

  You couldn’t have come at a better time

  Inary

  I’d spent all morning in Logan’s shop – he’d asked me to help out once in a while, and I thought it was a good way to keep an eye on him. My brother had been AWOL for over an hour on some mysterious errand in the village, and as soon as he’d got back he’d disappeared into the stock cupboard without a word.

  My worry about him hadn’t subsided. Just the opposite. I worried about him pretty much constantly. But what could I do to take his sadness away?

  Just be there for him. It was all I could do.

  I sighed and looked outside. It was a sunny, cold, pure winter day; from the window I could see a tantalising square of blue sky, and the hills were beckoning. I wanted to be out in the frigid sunshine . . .

  The door opened, with the soft chime of the bells above it filling the place.

  “Do you have wellies?” a woman’s voice said all of a sudden.

  I turned around to see who thought it was okay to walk into a shop and not even say hello. A woman was standing in front of me, frowning and holding a bright-red welly in her hand. Instinctively, I looked down at her feet; she was bare-footed, her toenails painted a bright turquoise. I must have gaped, because she said, her face hard and unsmiling: “Taking pictures in the loch, got a great shot, fell in. My camera is now swimming.”

  Only then I noticed that her long hair, the colour of dark chocolate, was dripping wet, and she was shivering. Oh, so that was the reason for the bad mood.

  “Sorry. Cameras aren’t cheap,” called Logan from the cupboard.

  “No they aren’t. Anyway, I lost a welly. Need a new pair . . .” She looked around. She had a west coast accent. Probably Glasgow.

  “No prob—” Logan started, then turned around “—lem.” He’d seen her. I couldn’t help grinning as Logan stared. He stared because she was barefooted and dripping wet, and because she was so pretty, standing there like a selkie who’d just come out of the loch.

  He coughed. Then coughed again. Then recovered himself. “Do you need somewhere to get dry? My house is just up the road. My sister—” he pointed to me “—can go with you . . .” he mumbled, so she wouldn’t think he was a perv luring her to his house. I nodded emphatically – said sister was willing to take the mysterious girl home to get dry.

  She smiled, and her face brightened up a bit, the frown between her eyebrows smoothing. “That’s kind of you, thanks . . . But I’m okay. I’m just staying at the Green Hat round the corner. Only the shop was on the way and I thought I’d stop to put something on my feet. They’re sore. And cold.”

  Logan gaped. He’d just seen her toes. “Did you walk all the way from the loch to here on bare feet?”

  “Well, with one welly,” she said, lifting up the surviving red boot. “So humiliating.” She rolled her eyes.

  “I’m sure nobody noticed,” my brother replied in his earnest way. He wouldn’t notice, no. Anybody else would.

  “Oh yes, I’m sure nobody spotted the tourist hopping through the streets on one welly. Dripping wet,” she said, her mouth curling up in the beginning of a smile. My thoughts exactly.

  “Anyway, what size?” Logan disappeared into the stock cupboard again.

  “Five!” She called.

  “Let’s see . . . Oh, look. Red, like yours. Here, take these ones,” he said. The girl extended her hand to take the wellies from him, but Logan placed them on the counter – no doubt to avoid the risk of their fingers touching. I knew my brother.

  “They’re perfect, thank you. How much do I owe you?”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’ve had a bad day. Just take them.”

  She shook her wet head and started rummaging in the bag she carried across the shoulder. “I can’t accept . . .”

  “Well, I’m not taking your money, so you have to accept,” he said simply.

  “Oh . . . thank you. I don’t know what to say. Look, I still have the right one, I only need a left . . .” she stopped for a moment, then burst out laughing. “No, that wouldn’t work!”

  “Unless a pirate came in. You know, one wooden leg . . .” He attempted a joke, examining an invisible dent in the counter. He likes her, I thought.

  “Oh well, you never know!” she laughed again. “No seriously, thank you.”

  “You just lost your equipment. If I lost my camera, I’d be in pieces.”

  I offered her the stool I was sitting on, and she sat in my place with a whispered cheers.

  “Wait! There,” Logan said, fishing a pair of new, dry socks from a basket and throwing them to her. Honestly, throwing stuff! She’s not radioactive . . .

  “Oh, thank you! Mine are also soaking,” she replied, slipping her hand in her pocket and taking out what had once been a pair of stripy socks, and was now a muddy, waterlogged ball of wool. She started putting her socks and wellies on. I really loved her nail polish. I made a mental note to buy the same, as soon as I could muster the courage to go shopping in Kinnear.

  “Oh, did you take these?” the girl asked Logan, looking at the rows of framed photographs on the shop walls.

  “Yep.”

  “You’re a photographer!” she exclaimed, like she’d found another member of some secret society.

  “Well, not a professional photographer . . .”

  “Wow, I love this one.” She had noticed my favourite picture: Glen Avich on a day that had somehow managed to be snowy and sunny at the same time, land and sky glittering like the inside of a snowball. “It’s just beautiful.”

  “That’s kind of you,” my brother said bashfully. His cheeks were scarlet. “You probably see much better every day . . .”

  “Don’t,” she smiled.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Underestimate yourself.”

  Logan smiled back, embarrassed. This girl had a strange knack for reading him instantly, I thought.

  “I’m Aisling, by the way.”

  “Aisling,” he repeated, like tasting the word. “I’m Logan. And this is my sister Inary. She can’t speak.”

  Cheers, Logan. That was pretty blunt. I s
miled and held out my hand. Aisling shook it; she had a strong, warm grip.

  I liked her.

  “Nice meeting you. And thanks for these,” she said, wiggling a foot and then looking straight into Logan’s eyes, a smile brightening her face.

  “No worries. So . . . you here for work?”

  “Yes. I’m a photojournalist, taking shots of a digging site. I live in Aberdeen, but I’m originally from Dublin.” My infallible instinct for accents again. “Oh, by the way, I’d love a copy of that picture . . . Are they for sale?”

  “Yes . . . I use that one for display, but I should have a couple of copies done soon.”

  “I’ll give you my number; call me when they’re ready. I’ll be around for a while anyway,” she said with a smile to melt ice, and she walked over to the counter. I handed her my pen and a piece of paper to write her number on.

  “So let me know,” she said, sliding the paper towards him.

  “Sure,” he replied, turning around to pin the number on the corkboard over the counter.

  He won’t call, I thought sadly as I watched her walking out of the shop and down the street, her red wellies a splash of colour against the steel-grey pavement.

  27

  Love remains

  Inary

  I was sitting at my laptop, in a haze of sleepiness, editing another unbelievably boring book – about birds. Again. And this was worse than the first. Wings Like Souls was about a man who lived alone on an island for a year, to study a colony of Arctic terns. It was the chronicle of eleven months watching birds under the pouring rain (most of the time), pondering the human condition (all the time), his mental state deteriorating slowly (no wonder). In the end, he threw himself off a cliff. Quite understandable. Rowan’s choices of books to publish had been so gloomy, recently – I prayed for a bit of romance, a bit of action. A bit of anything that wasn’t birds.

  Mary. Mary and Robert, I doodled idly in my notebook.

  I hadn’t seen or felt any sign of Mary since she’d whispered those words to me in the library. I missed her. It was strange how fond I’d grown of her, how much I was looking forward to her presence, even if she’d come instead of my sister. And I had no idea what could have happened. I longed to see her, and to know more of her story.

  But it still felt strange, and cruel, that it should be Mary coming to me, and not my sister, given my shattering desire to see Emily again. I called to Emily every night, hoping that sooner or later she’d hear me, that sooner or later she’d return from wherever she was, even if just once, just for a moment. I had resolved not to go out and look for Emily again . . . not for a while, anyway. It was too heartbreaking, and my heart was in pieces already. Any more mangling and I’d have to do without a heart at all.

  Maybe Emily was somewhere else already. I often asked myself why some spirits remained and some didn’t, or only stayed for a while. Maybe because they had something left to do, something left to say. Sometimes, though, I had the overwhelming feeling that what I was seeing wasn’t a ghost as such, but a memory – the memory of something that had happened. Spirits and memories were somehow subtly different in the way they presented themselves to me.

  With Emily, I had neither. Her spirit was gone, and the memories were only in my heart. But still, I’d look for her until I knew for sure.

  I sat at my desk and gazed out the window. The sky was clear and dotted with stars, and the view of the pine-covered hills was so lovely that I leaned my chin on my hand, letting the splendour envelop me and sink into me. I had missed this wide, endless sky so much – how had I never realised it? Alex would love the colours streaking through those clouds, purple and blue and a shade between grey and pink that has no name . . . I thought about emailing him. He hadn’t written back to me, and I had so much to tell him. But maybe he’d read my email and he preferred silence . . .

  I was about to switch the computer off when I registered that something was moving in the street below, and my eyes were drawn to it. It was a lonely figure, right in front of my door. It seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, out of the darkness. Logan? He’d gone to the pub; maybe he was back. No, it was a woman. Someone visiting at – I looked at my watch – half past eleven at night?

  I narrowed my eyes. A slender-framed woman hovered in front of our door for a few seconds, and then . . . she walked in.

  She’d got into the house.

  I jumped up and ran downstairs, wishing I could call out Who’s there? And wondering who’d walk in without making herself known, or at least knocking; doors were nearly always unlocked in Glen Avich, but you still didn’t walk into people’s houses like that. My hands were shaking a little on the banister as I reached the last step, and all of a sudden, the tingling in my limbs and the low buzz in my ears began. Of course. I recognised her now – Mary.

  She was taking her coat and gloves off, and her face was twisted with anguish. I stood still as she ran towards me, through me, and up the stairs – a sudden feeling of nausea hit me, making me heave slightly. It’s difficult to explain what having somebody walk through you feels like. I turned quickly to see her running up the stairs, and then it happened again – something walked through me, and the feeling of nausea returned, though not as strong. There was somebody else. Emily?

  I leaned heavily on the banister for a second, trying to get my bearings. I’d been walked through. Twice. Ugh. I shivered, and all of a sudden I realised I was chilled to the bone. I shook myself and followed Mary and the second spirit upstairs, taking each step slowly, as my head was still spinning. I allowed myself to hope: please, please, please, let the second spirit be Emily . . .

  As I staggered onto the landing, I saw Mary disappearing into my room. I stepped in. The room was in darkness, apart from the computer screen on my desk. Mary was sitting on my bed, and the second spirit – still blurred, its features impossible to make out – was beside her.

  “We’ll never see her again,” she whispered between her tears, as the second shape began solidifying, becoming more visible. I focused on her, looking for her mind, and finally I touched the edges of her consciousness. I felt despair, endless, icy sorrow, strong enough to make me hold my breath. At that moment I saw her, but only for a second – it was Mary’s mother, the woman who looked so much like my own mum – and then they both started waning away as they cried together. Already their shapes had lost consistency, and I could see my pillows and duvet through them.

  They’d nearly completely vanished, now. The prickling was gone, and so was the faint drone in my ears. My head had stopped spinning and I was steady on my feet again.

  They were so full of sadness, crying like their hearts had broken – and those words, We’ll never see her again. What were they talking about? Who were they talking about?

  That night I couldn’t sleep. Everything felt wrong, like my organs had swapped places with each other, like my skin once again was too tight. Emily’s absence tore me apart.

  I waited and hoped in vain that Mary would come back to me and keep me company, but she didn’t. Where are ghosts when you need them?

  I opened the curtains and lay awake, looking out of the window. There was a world of difference between Mary and me. She was so much in love with Robert, while I had closed the door to vulnerability . . .

  And the message, Find her. Who was she talking about? And why were they crying? Who would they never see again?

  I tossed and turned half the night, my mind working, working. If only I could tell Alex everything. If only I could tell him about the Sight, about Mary . . .

  I kept wondering what Alex was doing. Of all the thoughts I had, there was one that I tried to silence repeatedly, but that kept coming back: I’d never felt a peace so great as when I’d been in Alex’s arms. Snippets of our night together flashed before my closed eyes, each one tender, each one digging the knife further into my wounded conscience.

  He’d stroked the hair off my face and placed a kiss on my eyes, my forehead, my nose, and then, f
inally my lips. He’d looked into my eyes and said you’re so precious to me . . . and other memories that I can never share, memories so sweet they shattered me. I tried to convince myself they would fade, but I knew they wouldn’t.

  Finally, at first light, I couldn’t take it any more and I got up. Five in the morning. It was going to be a long day.

  To Alex.McIlvenny@hotmail.co.uk

  From Inary@gmail.com

  Dear Alex,

  How are things with you? I haven’t heard from you in a while.

  I’m okay. Sort of. You know, before she fell ill, Emily was making a shirt. She was so good at designing and sewing clothes . . . Remember my white dress, the one I wore to your birthday party a few months ago? She made it for me. God, was it only a few months ago? It seems a lifetime. So much has happened.

  So there’s this shirt, and it’s unfinished. I can’t bring myself to take it out of the sewing machine; it’s still there, with the needle in.

  The house is so empty without her. Every time I walk in front of her room, I think I can hear her voice. Her perfume is still in the air, everywhere.

  I’m doing some work for Rosewood and helping Logan in the shop, but nothing really seems to hold my attention much. I don’t seem to be able to write. I tried, but nothing comes out. I think I’m empty . . .

  But Mary had come to me. And I needed to find out more about her, and I went to the library in Kinnear and . . .

  I wished I could tell him.

  But I was afraid.

  . . . Anyway, better go. Speak soon?

  Inary x

  28

  A flying thought

  Alex

  “So, a cold spell, you say?”

  Brenda, my eldest sister, laughed. “Yes. Why are you so interested in the weather in Scotland, all of a sudden?”