The feeling of being watched came again, in the form of pinpricks up my arms. I turned, scanning the yard. Nothing. I stood against the door, my heart pounding. I wanted to run as fast as I could to my temporary home. But I must do this. I must get inside. And yet, I stood, immobile from fear, the pulse at my neck rapid. I shivered and clamped my mouth closed so my teeth wouldn’t clatter together.
A high-pitched call from the sky above me brought me out of my frozen stance. I looked up. A peregrine. He swooped low, caught a small bird in his claws and soared high once again. A wanderer, the man at the rest area told me. A wanderer like me, he said. Yes. I was a wanderer. An adventurer. Wanderers were brave. Bold. They would not shrink from fear. I must get into the house.
I shuffled through tall grass to the back of the house. An empty, cracked swimming pool, with beautiful blue tiles along the top the only hint of its former splendor, covered much of the yard. Boards shielded all the windows at the back of the house as well, except for a long, skinny decorative window along the side of the back door’s handle. The wooden door didn’t budge. I pressed my nose against the dirty glass window but could not see inside. The next thing I did—I still can’t believe I had it in me—surprised me to my core. There was no vodka to blame. No, it was all me. Sober me. Bold me. Idaho me. I turned from the door and scanned the yard for a rock, locating one under a rose bush. Grabbing it, I turned it around in my hands. Would it work? How hard would I have to hit? The rock, slightly larger than my hand, had a point on one end. I would use it, I decided. I slammed it against the window. It cracked. I did it again, this time with more force than I thought I possessed. The glass cracked further. I kicked it next, with the heel of my left foot. The glass crumpled into itself like tinfoil and then fell into pieces. Wiping sweat from my eyes, I reached through the empty space and unlocked the door. Then, feeling like a child stealing a candy bar, I walked inside to a mudroom with a stone floor and cabinets, smelling musty and of mildew—the smell of yesterday. Taking a deep breath, I shut the door behind me and moved farther into the house, finding the kitchen. It had once been splendid. White cabinets, green granite counters, and stainless steel appliances all hinted at the splendor decay and rust had extinguished. I thought about Finn here in this space. Had he spent many hours here? Did he cook? Were there ever parties held here? I might have been here with him had I taken the other road. I would know the answers to those questions. I opened a cabinet, and dust floated in the air. Dishes were stacked neatly, like someone still lived here. Why hadn’t Riona cleared things out? Why had she left all the items of the house untouched?
I wandered into the great room, my heart still pounding from my boldness and fear. Once tastefully decorated, the faded furniture betrayed their neglect. The clean stone fireplace held no trace of any recent fires. A television hung on one of the walls. Finn’s stereo took up one corner of the room. I walked out of the great room and down a hallway with four doors, all closed. Feeling strange, I opened the first door—a bathroom. Towels hung on metal rods. A cracked bar of soap, like the face of an old woman who spent most of her life in the sun and wind, remained in a white dish. Opening the second door, I found a bedroom with simple furnishings, cobwebs hanging from the ceilings. The bed still contained its cover and decorative pillows. This had been the guest room, I guessed, as there were no personal items, almost like a hotel room.
I shivered as I opened the third door. Clearly this had been the master bedroom. A dark blue cover and decorative pillows covered a king size bed, dingy with dust. Thick curtains covered the windows. A guitar case perched against the end of the bed. The dresser, made with the same cherry wood of the bed, displayed framed photos, all covered with a layer of dust. I peered at the photos, mostly family shots: the Lanigan brothers in younger days, photos of Rori when she was little, a black and white of a young Riona, and a wedding photo of Riona and Edward. It startled me to see how much Kevan looked like this young version of his father. Next, a photo of Finn and Kevan caught my eye. Despite my initial resolve to leave everything untouched, I picked it up and dusted off the glass with my hand. They were seven and ten, I guessed, around the same age as my girls now. Grinning at the camera with their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders told the story of how close they’d once been. They had loved like only siblings can. It was the way I loved my sister. This made me want to sink into the lounge chair by the draped window and weep for the little boys in the photo and the future they could not have known then.
Books were stacked on the bedside table, including several spy novels, a book on early American music, and several on the environment. A half-dozen scientific publications about the Pacific Northwest made up another pile. What had Kevan called him? A tree-hugger. I suppose he was in the same mindset as my mother, worried about global climate change and perhaps old growth forests. I couldn’t remember him mentioning much about it when I knew him. As we grow older most of us become more conscious of the world around us instead of thinking so much about our own personal concerns. I felt that same pang that followed me around since I’d heard of Finn’s death—how I wished I had the privilege of knowing him these last thirteen years, how he’d changed and grown, what was on his mind, what he loved and hated. But it was not to be. I had made sure of that.
With that hollow feeling in the middle of my chest, I went across the hall and opened the fourth door, to an office complete with a wide desk that held only a lamp and an empty vase. No computer. Riona must have taken that, which was odd, considering everything else was left to rot in the solitude. Folk music memorabilia, including a T-shirt of the folk festival we’d attended together behind a glass display case, decorated the walls. I immediately felt the tears start at the sight of it and put my fingers lightly against the glass case, remembering like it was yesterday when we’d both purchased them. I don’t know what happened to mine.
That moment, I heard a crash. I gasped and turned toward the noise. On a small table near the display case, a photo lay face down. Had it fallen over? But from what? There were no open windows. No movement in the room but me. I picked it up, dusting the glass with my fingertips. It was a family photograph of the Lanigan clan, all of them gathered around the outside table in Kevan’s yard. Looking at Rori’s age, I guessed that it was taken shortly before Edward’s death four years ago. There was no mistaking the awkward fourteen-year-old girl stage, complete with acne and slouched shoulders. The brothers looked about the same as they did now, dressed in summer slacks and silky-looking shirts. Their sister, Teagan, tall, slim, and with a head of red curls just as Ardan had described, held a baby of about eighteen months on her hip. Meredith must have taken the photograph because she was the only one not represented. Kevan had said to me, My father hated Meredith. Was she so hated she wasn’t allowed in family portraits? My attention turned to Riona and Edward. They sat next to one another in the middle of the photograph, with their children all around them. I removed a smudge my fingers had left on the glass to get a better look at Edward.
That was when I saw it. But how could it be? I dropped the photograph and stepped back from the display case, my heart pounding. Then I picked up the frame again and stretched out my arm as far as it would go to get a better look. I needed my reading glasses to see better, I thought, absently. Was I seeing what I thought I saw? Upon further observation, I had to admit my first reaction was correct. Edward and the man at the rest stop when I’d first seen the peregrine falcon—they were the same man. They had the same thick, white hair, the same piercing eyes. Kevan’s eyes. Eyes like the peregrine. In the photo he wore a summer linen suit instead of the black one he’d worn the day I saw him, but there was no mistake. It was Edward Lanigan that I’d met that day in the park. But how? Edward Lanigan had been dead for four years.
I sat in the chair behind the desk, shaking. How was it possible that Edward had been at the park? I shivered, violently. Had I seen a ghost? If so, how? If so, why? I remembered how he’d been there one second and gone the
next. Dammit, where was Moonstone when I needed her?
I opened a drawer. Paperclips, a stapler, tape—all items to bind things together—filled the drawer. Files lined the large bottom drawer, neatly alphabetized by subject. One caught my eye immediately, titled, “Rori.” I picked it up and opened it, expecting photos. Empty. But in the far right hand corner in Finn’s handwriting was this: 062401BLH. It took me a moment to realize why the notation stood out to me. It was a date, and the letters were my maiden name initials. Blythe Louise Heywood.
Finn knew my initials. It must be a code of some sort. And the date? It was the date we met. June 24, 2001. Why would this be written in a file with Rori’s name?
I sat there for a long moment, my mind racing. Why? What did it mean? Like a lightning bolt it hit me. The T-shirt in the glass case. Was there something hidden in it that he didn’t want anyone else to know about?
I went to the glass case and opened it. Several pins tacked the T-shirt into the wood. I tugged at the tacks; they easily pulled out and the T-shirt went limp in my hands. Taped to the back of the case was an envelope. I tore it off and opened it: two email printouts, both written to Finn from [email protected].
BSloane? Was this Blake? No, Kevan had said Blake’s father’s name was Barry. It had to be him since I couldn’t imagine Blake would address Finn by his first name.
Finn,
Rori is your biological child. Meredith knew the baby was yours. I covered it up for her when the baby was born. She was not early but right on time. But there’s every reason to uncover it, if you won’t meet my demands.
If you won’t, I will expose the truth of Rori’s paternity to Kevan. I know you’ll want to protect everyone involved, most especially yourself, because that’s how the Lanigan boys conduct themselves.
B
The second email was dated two weeks later, with no subject title.
I warned you.
I stood there for I don’t know how long, shaking. Rori was Finn’s child? And Meredith had known? Kevan had mentioned that Rori came early. But she hadn’t really. Fortunately for Meredith, Rori had been on the small side for a full-term newborn, otherwise Kevan might not have believed it. But now it was obvious to me. Meredith had been pregnant before she was with Kevan. I put everything back in the drawer and then flipped through the rest of the files, looking for anything else that might give me a clue as to what Doctor Sloane wanted. The files were benign: taxes from various years, warranties to appliances, credit card statements. But there was one, at the very back of the drawer, with no title, just a pink heart where the name of the file was usually written. I opened it with shaking hands. A photo of me from our weekend and a letter in an envelope were nestled together. It was not addressed except for my name: Lou.
January 11, 2002
Dear Lou,
This is a letter I won’t ever send but my therapist said it was a good idea for me to write to you, that it would allow me to say some things and have closure. I don’t know how it will bring me closure, exactly, but I’m trying to trust in this idea of therapy and I’m at such a loss the last several months that I have no other choice. Ardan, my middle brother, always says things happen for a reason but he’s a man of sublime faith. I don’t know if all things happen for a reason. It seems to me that a lot of awful things happen to really good people and there seems no reason for it.
I do know this. It is never the wrong choice to love, no matter if it’s reciprocated or not. I can’t say exactly how I know this but I believe that only good comes from loving someone as much as I love you, even if you could not or would not choose to give us the chance to spend a lifetime together.
All that said, the best I can hope for at this point is acceptance, which I’m struggling with even after all these months. I know you went through with the wedding, obviously, or I would’ve heard from you. I knew when you left that you would probably do the right thing, or what we all have grown accustomed to thinking of as the “right thing.” Especially women, it seems, so often choose the path that is the most beneficial to others (in this case, Michael) as opposed to themselves. I know that makes me sound like a pompous ass, and I’m sorry for that, but I know you would be better with me than any other man on the planet. No one could love you more than I do. I know it’s crazy—you said it enough times during our time together that I understand your stance—and, yes, it is crazy but I am someone who will always follow my heart and not my head, no matter if it seems ludicrous or even dangerous to others. I loved you from the moment I first laid eyes upon you. I believed in love at first sight but I never thought it would happen to me until you. I guess that’s the difference between you and me and is what ultimately meant we could not be together. You could not fathom blowing up your life after knowing someone for three days. Yet, I would have blown up everything in my life to have you.
You live so contained, Lou, instead of the wanderer you really are. I know your mother’s lack of commitment to you caused you to want to be safe and sure of things but that isn’t how the world works. We must learn to lean into the mystery. Not everything can be explained.
I look out at the Idaho sky right now and it is the bright blue of midafternoon and I wonder, had you stayed would it have changed you, made you more expansive, more willing to take a risk and choose the path not taken?
Anyway, I pray for peace for myself. I pray for your happiness. That’s the good part of me. The selfish part still hopes I hear from you someday.
Yours, always,
Finn
I put the letter back in the envelope. I examined the photo of me, searching for the girl I once was, wondering if it was possible that I was still the same person. My tears dropped into the dust that covered the table, making miniature mud puddles. Then, I stuck the letter and photo back in the file. I would not take it with me. I left the T-shirt as well. They all belonged in this house of decay and ghosts.
I took the emails and the “Rori” file.
I held the file in my sweaty fingers as I ran fast back to the house, pushing myself. My lungs stung from the exertion but my legs felt impervious. I pounded my feet against that Idaho ground, thinking of Kevan and Rori, of what I’d learned. It was noon by the time I arrived back at my temporary home. I peeled off my soaked running clothes and got into the shower. The hot water ran down my back while my mind buzzed with this tumbleweed of new information. All I knew with certainty was that I must tell Kevan the truth. Trust runs both ways. He needed to know.
I dressed and went to the main house to look for Kevan. I knocked but it was silent. I walked out to the barn, wondering, somewhat absently, if Rori still slept. Stepping inside the barn, I halted for a moment so my eyes could adjust to the dim light. Shakespeare slept in a ball on a bale of hay. He opened one eye and then both, leaping to his feet and loping toward me. His whole body wriggled from the force of his wagging tail. I scratched behind his ears and allowed him to give me a wet kiss on my arm. “Hiding from Riona, buddy?” He kissed me again in answer, then followed me as I made my way past Boo’s stall and then Peep’s. Kevan was with Buttercup, brushing her coat. He smiled when he saw me, that way that looked like a half-dozen crescent moons and made my heart turn over. “Is everything all right?” His brow wrinkled and he tossed the brush onto the shelf behind Buttercup, coming to stand beside me.
“I’m fine. I slept late and then took a long run. Can you meet me at the guesthouse when you’re done?” I smiled in an attempt to hide my nervousness. No reason to make him worried before I told him what I’d discovered.
“Of course. I’m almost done. I could use a shower but I’ll meet you in an hour or so?”
“That’d be good. Thanks.” I pecked him on the cheek and made my way back to my rooms with a heavy heart. How does one devastate someone they love with one sentence? Rori is not your child.
For the first time in as long as I could remember, I said a silent prayer to a God I wasn’t sure existed. Please help me love him through this.
***
I paced the floor of the guesthouse during the hour I waited for him. Nearing two by the time he knocked on the door, he arrived with wet hair and smelled so good all I wanted to do was put my mouth on his neck and close my eyes, breathing in all that he was. But instead I went to the couch and sat, patting the cushion next to me. “Sit by me?”
I told him then, as he watched me with that hawk-like stare, about my run and discovering Finn’s house, along with confessing that I broke in. After I finished, I picked up the file and held it for a moment, my hands shaking. “He left something he’d hidden for me, in case I ever came back, I think. I mean, I know it sounds crazy, but that he left me clues on purpose is the only explanation.” I breathed deeply, trying to control the shaking, but my voice trembled as I spoke the words out loud. “There’s a threatening email from Doctor Sloane printed out in here. You need to read it.” I handed him the file. He took it, reading the two notes quickly. The papers shook in his hands. Finally, he looked up at me, his eyes wild. The thick vein that ran down his neck pulsated. “This can’t be true.”
“You said Rori was early?”
“Yes.” He stared at me but I knew he was without sight just then. His mind must be turning, stacking up this information and trying to make sense of it. “How can this be?”
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