by Hadley Finn
Clara puts her one finger over her mouth and her eyes bug out as she tiptoes in footed pajamas to the sink and then flies down the hall. The sugar is coming!
I transfer the dishes to the dishwasher and wipe down the counters and the table.
I’m killing time, I know. I just know she’s pissed. I did it; her mom was killed because of me. Not by choice or by contract, but just being myself. I’m responsible.
And I can’t lose her.
After rinsing out the sink and starting the coffee, finding nothing else I can do in the kitchen, I wander to what was once Sirona’s room before she moved into the master at New Year’s. I knock lightly and wait.
Nothing.
Again, I knock.
I’m met with silence and, having nothing to say that I haven’t already, I head to the bedroom and get dressed. Today’s going to be a chilly day.
Around lunch the bedroom door is still closed. I text Sirona.
Me: Lunch is ready.
No response
Me: Baby. Need to know you’re okay.
Still nothing.
Me: Don’t make me use the big guns.
Her: …
The bubbles come and go. They return and disappear. This is torture. It’s worse than no response at all.
“Clara, go grab your momma and tell her we’re having lunch”
“Okey-dokey!” Away she runs.
“Poppa, she says she’s not hungry and that she’s going to take a nap.”
So this is how this is going to be?
“Well, precious girl, looks like it’s just me and you. Wanna be my date?”
“Yes!” I’m not discounting that her exuberance is half sugar, but I’ll take it. Can’t have both of them mad at me.
We have lunch and we watch Frozen.
Again.
I don’t know whether it’s a mistake or not, but I recommend Moana.
So it begins.
That night, nothing has changed. Sirona never comes out.
No breakfast that I can see. No lunch. No dinner. No sounds.
No … anything.
The next day things aren’t much different except that she leaves the room when I’m not around. I can tell by dishes in the dishwasher that she’s had breakfast before I wake. Little things are amiss when I return from Killian’s.
She’s basically living in the house when I’m not and hiding when I’m there.
If I speak, she makes no acknowledgement.
My knocking does nothing.
At first, I’m worried, but as the day goes on, I get pissed.
By day three, Sirona is firmly encased in a shell. Clara is noticing it, too, and that won’t do.
They’re mine and they’re mine to protect.
But how do I protect them from myself?
“Clara? Want to go see if we can find the Loch Ness Monster?” I know that’s in Scotland, but Clara doesn’t and, quite frankly, I’m desperate.
“I don’t like monsters!”
“What do you want to do then?”
“Go look for mermaids in the ocean?” Again with the question.
“Sounds good to me. Think your momma wants to go?”
“I’ll ask her!”
After knocking and a few quiet murmurings, my girl comes back, head hanging, spring in her step missing.
“We can’t. Momma says we need to go somewhere, just the two of us.”
“Where’s that, love?”
“I don’t know. I want to go look for mermaids, Poppa!”
“We can do it tomorrow. Promise.”
“Then why does Momma have suitcases?”
“I don’t know, love. Let me go see.”
I march down the hall, tamping back my anger. I have been wholly honest with Sirona, wholly vulnerable. She knows my secrets. I accepted her and thought I had the same in return.
Knock knock.
Nothing.
Knock knock.
Nothing.
“Sirona?”
Silence.
I twist the knob, but it’s locked.
“Clara and I are going to search for mermaids.” The faint pounding of feet and clapping of hands accompanies a “Yippee!” from down the hall. “Want to go with us?”
The lock clicks and the door swings wide. Sirona’s wild anger has replaced her quiet meekness.
She whisper-shouts while wagging her finger at my chest, “Don’t you dare try to take my child from me. I know everything I need to know about you to have you put away for life. Don’t. Fucking. Test. Me.”
This is new. And if she weren’t making wild accusations that piss me the fuck off, I might be turned on right now.
“I would never!” I return sternly but quietly, jaw set.
“She and I are leaving. Leaving this country. Leaving this god-awful, fucked-up situation and leaving you!”
“No!”
“No? Fuck you!”
She grabs the door to slam it shut in my face, but I grab it, forcing it open where she can look me in the eye. My expression must say something I don’t want it to say because fear reaches her eyes. I blink, schooling my features.
“You can’t. Not yet.”
“And why the fuck not?”
“Because I have to know that you two will be safe. I love you and I love her and I’m not going to throw you to the wolves. I need you safe. And you” —I point to her and then toward the living room— “wouldn’t put her in harm’s way if you could help it. And you can help it.”
“I won’t have another situation where I’m at the mercy of any man. First my father, then Enzo, then Rocco, and… now you.” She might as well spit out the last word.
I turn to walk away, but stop and do an about-face a foot down the hall.
I look at the floor and ask the scariest question of my life, “What do you want?”
“What?”
“What do you need to know you’re not ‘at my mercy’?”
“I don’t get it.”
“What makes you equal? What makes you safe?”
“Money and freedom.”
I nod.
But my heart breaks.
I’m losing her, or I’ve already lost her, and I have no clue how to make it right.
“Give me a few days—”
“No way. I—”
“Give me a few days to do more research. I need to know you’ll be safe. You need to know you’ll be safe. You can have all the money you want. And”—I swallow tightly so my voice won’t break— “and you can be free of me, since that’s what you want. I won’t stop you.”
That last part was a lie; the only one I’ve ever told her. She’s mine and I’m not letting her go. Clara is my daughter, legally, if not biologically. They are my family.
They are mine to protect.
Mine to love.
Sirona will forgive me. I just have to find a reason for her to trust me again. I don’t know what that looks like but it’s my new mission starting today.
I turn and stride down the hall as I hear the door close and a muffled sob from behind it.
“Clara Bell? Fifteen minutes until we go searching for mermaids,” I call.
That should give me enough time to find my man card and stop this emotional shit.
Two days later, little has changed. Sirona is still icy, but she moves around the house. Her bravado enters the room ahead of her. She knows she has me by the balls and that, at any time, she can pull the rug out from under my world.
I get a call from an attorney’s office in Athlone about finalizing Clara’s adoption papers. I thought that was all done, but with Bobby’s death, I guess we missed something.
The paperwork is still coming in from his firm and it seems to never end.
I’ll go tomorrow to Athlone and it’ll be done.
I avoid telling Sirona. I won’t fight her for custody.
It will break me if she takes that ray of sunshine from my life. Can’t believe how much I love that little girl. But
, legally, if anything were ever to happen to Sirona, Clara needs the safety net. She will always be my little girl and, seeing her or not, I want the best for her, today and forever.
I’m angry and sad, frustrated and despondent, clueless and miserable. I waver between putting my fist through a wall and wanting to scream.
And loving Sirona and losing her? Unthinkable.
I run and think.
I have no clue how to fix this.
I keep trying.
I keep failing.
The next morning, I run. Still nothing.
I drink my coffee and kiss the top of Clara’s head as I head to the car.
“Have a good day, princess!”
“You too, Poppa!”
“I love you.
“I love you, too!”
Sirona stands like a deer in the headlights at our exchange. I walk past her, rubbing my hand down her arm to her hand and lean in and kiss her cheek.
Her small flinch kills.
“Have a good day, love.”
She simply nods and goes to her daughter, who now happily sings along with Moana.
Forty-One
Killian
The front door to my cottage swings wide and in flies Clara, chest heaving. She waives a bouquet of flowers in my direction. “Look, PawPaw. Aren’t these flowers pretty?”
What’s she doing here? I look down at a bouquet of pink blooms.
“Whatcha got there, lass?” I ask, fighting to keep the panic out of my voice.
“Daisies!”
“Did your da get those for you?”
“Nope. A man came to the door and said they were for me! Yay!”
I stand and begin to pace, trying not to hover over her.
“Yeah? Tell me everything, lassie.” Dangerous statement but something’s bang out of order.
“Well…”
“Rabbit on.”
“Huh?”
“Get on with it, lass.”
“Well… I was at the house and playing with Hagrid and we heard a knock on the door. And Mommy said I should go see who it was. I thought it was you.” She pauses like I have all day.
I swirl my hand to say “go on.”
“And there was a man there, he looked like a leprechaun. But he didn’t have a green suit. His suit was black.”
“What made you think of a leprechaun? The pot o’ gold?”
“No, PawPaw. He had a red face and red hair and red eyebrows.”
“Someone you know from the village?”
“I don’t think so.” She pauses, staring at the bouquet in her hand and playing with one of the thin petals. “He didn’t talk like people here. He talked like people in America.”
I’m on high alert now. That’s just wrong.
“And where’s your poppa?”
“He went to the city this morning. Mommy says someone called him to come visit. Anyway…” She drags out the word for so long I’m going to lose my mind.
“Mommy said I should come see you and run as fast I can to show you my pretty pink flowers.”
“They are beautiful!”
“The man tried to take them back and grabbed at my dress, but Mommy kept saying ‘run to PawPaw’ so I ran all the way to show you.”
I grab for my pocket and the stupid cell phone Sirona insisted I have. I thumb through all three contacts I have and get to his.
Four rings and voicemail. Take two. Three more rings before “Killian?”
“Get home. Now, lad!”
“What is it?”
“Your daughter has a bouquet of pink daisies in her hands.”
“Fuck!”
“Yes. See you after.”
“On my way! FUCK!!”
I slide the phone back into my pocket and stare down at Clara.
“Can I have some water, PawPaw?”
“Little lass, sit tight, all right?”
“Where are you going?”
“Gonna go meet this leprechaun. Stay here and make sure Winkles has company.”
“Okay. I’ll go find him now.” Down goes the bouquet on my kitchen table and Clara is off to search for my cat.
I run as fast as I can through the wet, spring slush. The cold mud pulls my shoes in as I go. The hollow, sucking followed by the pop of my shoes sets the rhythm.
I’ve got to give up the cigarettes. I’ll be lucky to make it to the house before my chest collapses.
Instead of barging in the front door, I sneak in through the mudroom and down the hall. The muddy, wet sound of my shoes surely would give me away, except they can’t be heard over the grunting and groaning of a man, the keening tears of a woman, and the continual whining and barking of a dog.
When I peek my head around the corner toward the living room, the sight before me turns my blood cold. Sirona is trapped below the man Clara described—wrestling, kicking. Brave lass is fighting and her face looks more determined than afraid. But she is struggling and vulnerable.
He straddles her waist, trying to pin her hands to stop them from wailing on him. She’s gotten in a couple of licks… but so has he. Blood covers both of them. There are splatters on the floor, on Hagrid.
He has one of her kitchen knives in his left hand. Her fighting means he can’t get a clean shot, but she’s getting nicked in the process. The glint on the knife is enough to make me come unstuck. A guillotine might as well be poised above her head.
He punches her with his right, just above the eye and that’s when a roar rips from my chest and I barrel toward them both, bowling into him down low.
My knee hits bone—I don’t know whose— as I roll him to his back, pinning him below me. All my rage comes through my fists as I wail on him.
“Get…”
“What…”
“You…”
“Fecking…”
“Deserve…”
The chill that rushes through the room clears my mind just enough that when I hear the word STOP bellowed, I do.
How is Sean here already?
I’ve lost time. No clue how long it’s been, but the leprechaun doesn’t look good. I bet I don’t either, covered in his blood. I slide off, pulling my hand down my face, and fighting to clear my head.
I see the knife, but have no time to react as it hits me.
Feck!
Forty-Two
Sean
“Are you okay?”
Sirona shakes her head no, but keeps mumbling yes over and over again. Her keening wail comes just as Killian groans and topples over, clutching his chest.
“Killian!” Sirona’s shriek shakes me out of my daze and I move to the assailant and look down. He smiles with a mouth full of blood, before he coughs more up over his face.
Hal fucking Staunchley!
My first reaction is childish, but I go with it, because he deserves it. A swift kick to the ribs buys me a few seconds as he folds into himself gasping for breath.
I grab the closest chair I can in our kitchen and then the first things my hands land on in the junk drawer, kitchen twine and an extension cord.
I prop Staunchley up in the chair and pull the extension cord up around his ribs and cinch it tightly as I tie him to the chair. His wrists are next and get the kitchen twine.
“Pull too much, Staunchley, and you’ll commit suicide. That twine will slice through your skin easily and through your veins faster still. You’ll bleed out and I won’t get the pleasure of killing you myself. Don’t disappoint me now, okay?”
The mocking in my tone is new even to me. It’s cold and callous and chills the air in the room.
“Baby?” —I flip to Sirona— “Check on Killian, would you?”
“Hagrid, go to your room.”
The dog lopes off, limping and whining as he goes, but he obeys.
My first blow is an uppercut to the jaw. Staunchley’s head flies backward and his neck audibly cracks with the force of the jolt.
“Why are you here?”
“You selfish prick.” His speech i
s gurgled with blood and whistles with the beating he’s taken. He’s missing teeth since the last time I saw him. “It’s always about you, isn’t it?”
“Try again. Or my next shot is to the groin.”
The first sign of fear crosses Staunchley’s face, although it’s brief. The bloody mask he wears is doing the work of concealing his emotions.
“Just like your father,” he hisses as he hacks up blood and spits it onto my shoe. When his eyes meet mine, he holds them and continues, “No. Worse. Your father had a heart. Your father wasn’t as selfish as the man too chickenshit to keep his name.”
“My Father…” I stop. Fuck this. I’m not having this conversation with him. He is not worth my breath. Nor was the man whose DNA I carry.
“Your father at least cared about people.” He coughs, spitting up more blood. “He wasn’t so hell-bent on making everything about himself. He didn’t steal from me or cheat me!”
Staunchley’s voice rises on each word.
“He understood my family’s needs. He was never petty.” His last word comes out like a curse.
I shake my head and repeat the word on a mumble. Petty.
My words come out like shards of ice. “You think I’m petty” —I emphasize the word— “and that was worth killing Sirona’s parents over?” No clue what my face says, but my tight voice, my taut muscles, and the ice running in my veins tells me—even if he’s too stupid to read it—that he is treading on deadly ground now.
“Her mom, yes, but I didn’t kill her dad. He did that himself.”
The sob gasped out behind me is my undoing, and I roundhouse kick him in the ribs as close to the last spot as I can. The chair falls to the side and Staunchley’s head hits the floor with a hollow thunk.
His gasping intake of breath is music to my ears.
“Fuck you, you disgusting piece of shit. You don’t deserve to live.” I raise the knife I pulled from the floor and am ready to plunge it into his heart when one word stops me.
“Wait!”
When Sirona’s soft hand lands at my side opposite the knife, I pause. My world is righted as I look down into her eyes. I don’t want her to know this monster inside me. I need the peace that she emits. More so, I need her absolution.