Take Me Home

by Daniela Sacerdoti

  “No reason. Just making conversation,” I replied.

  “Right. You’re okay, yes?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You seem worried about something.” She knew me too well.

  “No. I’m fine. A friend of mine is up in Aberdeen now, I was just wondering . . .”

  “A friend? As in, a girl?”

  “Brenda. Enough. I’ve got to go.”

  She laughed. “Fine. I’ll find out anyway, you know that, don’t you?”

  Of course she would. And then she’d probably want to knock some sense into Inary.

  I got off the phone and rested my chin on my hand, gazing at the laptop screen, email open. Inary sounded so low, and there was nothing I could do.

  And then there was Sharon. My girlfriend. I couldn’t justify speaking to Inary as much as I had done before all this. I couldn’t justify it to myself. And still I did it.

  To Inary@gmail.com

  From Alex.McIlvenny@hotmail.co.uk

  Dear Inary,

  I remember that dress. It looked like it was made out of foam, and you’d just walked out of the sea . . .

  Lame. I deleted all that, and started again.

  Dear Inary,

  I remember that dress. Emily was so talented, and so are you. You’ll start writing again, of course. You have to be kind to yourself and take your time. I can only imagine how you’re feeling right now . . . I wish I could take away your pain, I really do. I wish I could help more than I do. Sorry for being AWOL. Busy!

  Alex

  I agonised over adding an ‘x’ or not. I didn’t. I pressed ‘send’.

  A few moments later my phone rang again – Sharon’s name flashed on the screen. I was picking it up and pressing the phone to my ear when an email appeared in my inbox: Inary’s.

  “Hey . . .”

  “Hey . . . How are you?”

  “Good, yes. You?”

  Dear Alex,

  No worries. Busy is good sometimes. You help me a lot. Sure you must know that. Your emails always make me smile; I love hearing about Chromatica and your trips . . .

  Sharon sighed. “Alex?”

  “Yes. Sorry. What were you saying?”

  . . . so where are you going next? Your life is so glamorous. All the places you get to see . . . and still, right now, I only want to be here in Glen Avich, where I can feel closer to Emily . . . I have so much to tell you, but I need to get on with some work. More birds, Alex! Remember what I told you about Rowan’s literary novels? Honestly, this one is torture.

  Speak soon,

  Inary x.

  “Alex? Is it a bad time?”

  “No, of course not. Sorry. You were saying about tonight . . .”

  “Not if you have too much on.” She sounded piqued.

  “Of course not. Mine or yours?”

  “Come to mine. I’ll cook dinner. Speak later then. I love you . . .”

  “Yes. Speak later.”

  There was a small silence, and I realised what I had just said. What I hadn’t said. “I love you,” I added quickly, feeling sick to my stomach.

  29

  Separation

  Inary

  I sighed and forced my eyes back to the screen, trying to summon the energy to work, when my phone beeped.

  I’m just outside.

  It was Taylor – we were due to go for a walk in the woods. I stood up and waved at him from the window. He was leaning against his Land Rover, waiting for me. He waved back, breaking into a smile. To my surprise, I spotted Logan walking across the street towards Taylor, his camera around his neck.

  I ran downstairs and stepped out under a pink sky, as soft as a hug. It had just stopped raining, and a few rays of sunshine had broken through the clouds, making everything – the trees, the street, the stony bridge – glimmer with raindrops. The air smelled of after-rain, one of my favourite scents in the world.

  “Coming to take some pics of trees,” Logan said as we settled into the car. “I have something on, a project with textiles for the art gallery,” he explained. “Do you mind me tagging along?”

  I shook my head with a smile.

  Taylor switched the engine on. “So, guys. I was thinking along the shore, past the crannog?”

  I felt the colour drain from my face. We’d be going very close to the loch. But then, I could just avoid the shore.

  We stopped the car in a small opening, safely back from the water. I could see the still, dark loch in the distance, and the silhouette of Ailsa, the isle in the middle of it, but I was far enough not to be afraid. Taylor and I began walking slowly, breathing in the fresh air, while Logan kept stopping to take shots of leaves and roots. We were just walking past a small pebble beach when I gazed briefly to the loch shore. There was a figure on the stones. Terror gripped me for a second, but only for a second – I saw at once that it couldn’t be the girl in the loch. It was a grown woman, a slender shape crowned with wavy hair. Was she a live person or a spirit? I gazed at Taylor quickly – he showed no sign of having seen her, but that didn’t necessarily mean she was a ghost. Maybe he simply hadn’t spotted her. I checked myself – no pins and needles, no soft hum in my ears. But it could just be because I was too far away.

  I stopped and stood still. Taylor stopped too and turned around, looking at me. It was as if he could sense that something uncanny was happening.

  Right at that moment, I had my answer: wet pebbles shimmered through the woman’s feet, and the quiet surface of the loch blurred through her body.

  I left Taylor – I couldn’t have him keeping me on our side of reality, I had to stand alone – and walked a little closer. Her blue dress – her black hair in a long braid down her back – her slight shape – Mary, I called silently.

  I stopped myself from running in case I disturbed her, and instead walked as slowly and quietly as I could, leaving Logan and Taylor behind and advancing alone. My limbs began to prickle gently and my ears started humming, as reality shifted nearly imperceptibly around me. The closer I got to her, the stronger the sensations became.

  And then, all of a sudden, a wall of sadness hit me and made me swoon slightly. It was almost physical. I brought my hands to my chest and held my heart as I stood a few yards from Mary. Mary’s thoughts were grey, dripping with sorrow, and my eyes filled with tears.

  I could hear my brother and Taylor calling me, but I couldn’t force myself to step out of my semi-trance and turn on my heels. I had to know what was happening to her. I stood immobile, my hands still clasped on my heart, staring. Mary had stepped on a flat stone at the edge of the waters. There was something in her hand.

  The loch was now frighteningly near and the idea of stepping closer terrified me. But Mary was so sad . . . I wanted to touch her, I wanted to hold her. I wanted to tell her I was there. I made myself take a step, and then another, and another. The pull towards Mary was stronger than my fear of the water.

  I trod softly on the grass towards the small pebble beach, my eyes fixed on her, until I stood just behind her. I extended my hand . . .

  “What is she doing?” I heard Taylor calling behind me.

  “She saw something. A heron, maybe,” Logan replied quickly. Thanks, Logan, I hazily thought.

  Slowly, as if it pained her, Mary raised a hand and let go of something – a piece of paper – a letter. Then another one, and another. One by one she let the letters go, anger betrayed by the arc of her arm, by the arch of her back, and then she threw a whole bundle in. I followed its flight with my eyes, and then it vanished at the highest point, never touching the water. When my eyes left the pile of letters and returned to Mary I saw that she was vanishing too. Her silky hair, her slender arms, her graceful frame were dissolving into the air, becoming one with the stones and the loch.

  The tingling in my limbs disappeared and there was silence in my mind again, apart from the gentle lapping of the water on the pebbles. But the deep, deep sadness remained. Mary’s gesture had been laden with loss. Something
had happened. She had thrown the letters away, into the water – were they Robert’s letters? Something told me that they were.

  Suddenly, Logan was at my shoulder. He said nothing, but stood very close to me, arm to arm, and touched my hand briefly. He would not put an arm around my shoulder when someone else was there. Very Logan.

  “Is it gone?” Taylor had reached us. I nodded, unable to look away from where Mary had stood. “That’s too bad. It would have made a great shot for you, Logan,” he said, and he sounded like he was reciting a script.

  Taylor suspected something, I realised. I looked at him, eyes wide, and he held my gaze, without giving anything away.

  All of a sudden I remembered how close I was to the loch. I turned around and hurried back inland, followed by my brother and Taylor.

  “So, back for a beer?” called Taylor as we climbed back into the car. He kept looking at me, badly concealed concern in his eyes. I wanted to go home – I wanted to be alone and ponder what had just happened, but I didn’t know what excuse I could find that wouldn’t have them both worried about me.

  It turned out that sitting in the pub with a dram in my hand was the best I could have done, because some of the sorrow I’d felt through Mary drained away with the warmth of the liquor.

  When Logan stepped out to make a call, Taylor took his chance. “Inary . . . What happened there . . . ?” he began once Logan was out of earshot. He glanced to one side, looking for the right words.

  I gazed at him, a host of lies spinning slowly in my mind – which one would I choose? I was used to lying about the Sight, I’d done it whenever I had to.

  “Is it the same kind of thing that happened at the dig?”

  And then my mind went blank. All excuses were gone. I just couldn’t think of anything. I looked away and took another sip of my dram.

  “I hope one day soon you’ll tell me, Inary. Because believe me, it’s freaky.”

  You’re telling me.

  *

  I managed to convince Taylor and Logan that I was tired, that I needed an early night. I wanted Mary to come to me again so that I could find out what had happened. I felt in my bones that she would visit me that night.

  I was right. I was reading under the duvet, my face to the wall, when I felt a weight beside me, like someone had sat on my bed. For a split second I let myself hope it was Emily, but deep down I knew. I turned around and there she was: Mary, sitting so close to me that my legs, bent under the blankets, nearly touched her hip. Her back was hunched as if under an enormous weight, her chin lowered into her neck. Her hands were folded on her lap, something scrunched between her fingers. Like the tide, her mind swept mine, making me gasp softly. Over the low drone in my ears, I could hear her thoughts. It was as if all her vitality and passion for life had gone, sucked away by whatever had happened. She smoothed the piece of paper and looked at it – a gentle sob escaping her lips.

  Dearest Mary,

  I’m sorry. I can’t leave her. Anna is going to have our child – it happened before I met you, and I had no idea, but I still have to stand by them. I’m so sorry, with all that your family has gone through.

  I hate myself, but I’m not strong enough to walk away.

  Please forgive me,

  Robert

  Every word was a stone hitting her, and I could feel every blow. So that’s why she’d thrown his letters away.

  How sad, how cruel it was that Mary and Robert should meet just as the die was rolled, and rolled forever. Like life was mocking them, all three of them.

  Poor Mary, how I wished she hadn’t had to go through what I went through. And in a way, poor Robert too, what a wrench of a choice.

  Still, at least he’d had a choice. Unlike Mary, who could only accept his.

  30

  Miracles

  Inary

  Eilidh and I had taken to meeting at La Piazza every Wednesday morning for coffee and cake. I always looked forward to my Wednesdays; Eilidh and I were the core of our meetings, but there was a constellation of women, with or without children in tow, coming and going around us. I have to confess I had the best time when I could have Eilidh all for myself.

  The appearance of La Piazza had caused much excitement and, at first, a touch of diffidence. The old ladies went first – they checked and reported to friends and families. The place offered some fancy stuff, especially in its lunch menu – couscous and goat’s cheese and pesto and chicken tagine – and it had all sort of coffee-based drinks like caramel espresso, mochaccino and – lo and behold – chai latte. In Glen Avich, yes. But it also served the basics, like tea, scones and toasted teacakes, and the Old Ladies test was passed with flying colours. The rest of the Glen Avich citizens followed suit and were immediately charmed by the lovely Debora, a Scots-Italian woman with black eyes and endless energy.

  “Wonder what potpourri they have today,” Eilidh whispered, leaning towards me.

  Potpourri? I raised my eyebrows.

  “Yep. Have you not noticed? Debora changes the potpourri in the bathroom every week. On rotation. Lavender, peach, berries, rose, lemon . . . Let’s bet on what it is this week. What shall we bet . . . a cream cake, Sorley? Deal?” She shook Sorley’s wee hand playfully, and he squealed in delight from his high chair.

  Lavender, I wrote.

  “Okay. I say peach. Sorley?” Sorley said something between don and won, which we took as lemon.

  “Right. Lavender, peach or lemon. If it’s none of these . . .”

  “Da!” yelped Sorley.

  “He means we’ll have a cream cake anyway. Good man. I’m going in . . .” And she disappeared into the bathroom, under Sorley’s watchful eye.

  “Mna?” he asked. I smiled and stroked his arm, which was my wordless attempt to say Mummy will be back in a second, but in the meantime, you’re safe with me. He smiled back – he’d believed me, and for a moment my heart was made of melted chocolate.

  “Inary, dear . . .” It was Maggie and Liz, Aunt Mhairi’s friends.

  “How are you?” said Liz.

  Fine, I mouthed and smiled.

  “Still no voice. Poor dear. And who’s this lovely baby?” she replied.

  “It couldn’t have been the water already!” laughed Maggie, with Liz joining in mirthfully. I was dumbfounded, then I remembered. The water from St Colman’s well. They thought I should try drinking it to sort out my voice. I felt cold, thinking that Sorley could be mistaken for mine, even in jest. Don’t get me wrong, he was the loveliest baby, but I was miles and miles away from being ready to be a mother.

  Eilidh McCrimmon’s son, I wrote.

  “What’s that?” said Liz, squinting. “I don’t have my glasses.”

  “Wait a minute . . .” Maggie rummaged in her handbag and took out a small zipped case. She slipped her glasses on. “Eilidh Mc . . . oh yes. It’s Eilidh McCrimmon’s son,” she explained to her friend. “Of course you are! I didn’t recognise you there, without your mummy. Hello, cheeky toes! Cheeky cheeky toes!”

  “Aaaaw, he’s gorgeous! You really should try the water, Inary . . .” whispered Liz.

  “Absolutely. You might have some nice side effect!” laughed Maggie. “If you have a young man, of course. How old are you, dear?”

  Nearly 26, I wrote and prayed silently they’d let it be.

  “Twenty six! At your age I had all my three daughters!”

  “And I’d been married for years!”

  I shuddered inside.

  But then, maybe, it was a good plan. The miraculous water of St Colman’s well would cure me and give me a baby, then we could put my story on Facebook and market Glen Avich as a place of miracles.

  “Or go see Father McCroury. He’ll bless your throat,” said Maggie solemnly. I felt my lips curling up before I could stop myself. “You can laugh if you want, young lady, but that’s how my husband was cured when he had gallstones. A blessing.”

  “And Isobel, remember?” Liz reiterated. “Oh, Isobel was terrible with her joint proble
ms. Joint problems,” she repeated and nodded to emphasise her point. “She got a blessing from Father Sartori up in Kinnear, and it was all gone.”

  “Gone. Like they’d never been there,” Maggie echoed.

  I smiled in a manner that I hoped looked grateful more than amused. They meant well. My grandmother believed in the miraculous powers of blessings and holy water, after all. Maybe it was all in the mind.

  “Anyway, my dear. Hopefully they won’t have run out of scones. They always do, on a Wednesday,” said Liz eyeing the counter.

  “It’s the old folk from the sheltered flats. They take them down early on a Wednesday now. They’re like locusts with their scones,” Maggie whispered.

  “Locusts! ” echoed Liz.

  “Lemon! Sorley wins!” Eilidh was back. “Oh hello,” she said to Maggie and Liz.

  “Hello my dear. What a lovely boy you have! And how’s Jamie’s daughter . . . ?”

  “Maisie. She’s great, thank you.”

  “You have two great children there, Eilidh,” said Maggie with real, heartfelt kindness.

  “I do. Thank you.”

  There was a flurry of “take care my dear”, and “look after yourself, love”, and they went to sit at the table by the window, with one last whisper from Liz: try the water!

  “What are they on about?” murmured Eilidh.

  They think the water from the well can cure me.

  “Right. I thought it was only supposed to make you pregnant? I always suspected Peggy slipped some in my tea, because Sorley truly was a miracle. Anyway! The boy gets the cream cake. Oh yes you do!” She tickled Sorley’s little feet and he giggled.

  “Ready to order, girls?” it was Debora, chirpy as always. We managed to secure two muffins and a cream cake – the sheltered houses’ locusts had left that much.

  “Mum!” A little girl’s voice resounded from behind us. I turned around to see that Peggy had come in with Maisie. Eilidh’s face lit up and opened into a smile in seeing them. Eilidh had mentioned to me how much it pleased her that Maisie had taken to doing that. When I was in London I’d seen Janet Heath, Maisie’s birth mother, in the papers and on posters all over the place. Alex was a fan of her work, but not so much of her as a person, after I told him how she’d left Maisie and severed all contact with her. I was so glad to see Maisie and Eilidh so close, so happy – they both deserved it. I watched her slipping an arm around Maisie’s waist, Sorley on her knee, so contented in her little family, and I wondered what the future held for me.