“Did me singing wake you?” he chimes in his lilting accent.
“You were singing? I thought a chorus of angels had gathered at the front door. I only came down to let them in.” I take a quick look outside the front door, then close it. “No one there. Looks like everyone else has already headed out for the day. Just you and me then.”
He leads the way into the breakfast nook: four small round tables draped in white linen, each with a centerpiece of freshly plucked daisies. “Will Mrs. Sinclair be along soon?”
“Ms. Forbes, actually. Modern woman, you know? We both agreed that Claire Sinclair sounded kind of hokey. But please, just Ross and Claire will do.” I sit at the table closest to the window to soak up the morning sunlight. “Anyway, she has a pounding headache. I thought I’d run to the chemist’s after this for some medicine.”
“No need for that, Mr. ... Ross. First door on your left by the entrance. Just about any remedy you can think of stashed in the cabinet there.”
“I’m sorry if you went to the trouble of cooking up something specifically for her. I’m sure she’ll be better by tomorrow morning.”
“Ah, just a couple of thin slices of ham with an egg on the side.” He pats his round stomach. “It won’t go to waste. Nearly my lunch time, ‘tis. Been up since sunrise. The Pattersons had to be off early to catch a plane. You’re here for one more day?”
“Two, actually. Then back to Glasgow and headed home.”
Moments later, Dermot places a scone and bowl of fruit and yogurt in front of me, then pours a cup of coffee from a silver pot.
“Tea for me,” I say, “but would you mind if I took my wife this cup when I’m done here? I know you probably don’t prefer guests to take food and drink back to their rooms, but —”
“No worries! Go right ahead. Will you be relaxing here today or doing a wee bit of sightseeing?”
I glance down at my bare wrist, realizing I’ve left my watch in the room. “What time is it, Dermot?”
“Half past nine, I reckon.”
“Already?”
“Aye, ‘tis.”
“Damn ... I mean ... I’m going to be late. I forgot our rental car had a flat and I have an appointment at ten o’clock.”
“Where at?”
“Oh, I’d say it’s no more than five or six kilometers from here. South of Aberbeg. A little kirk called St. Joseph’s. I’m meeting a man there named Reverend Murray. Said he might have some information on my genealogy.”
“Ah, aye, I know the place. Stone wall about so high” — he holds a level palm to his hip —“covered in ivy? Gravestones all ‘round? Giant yew tree out back, looks like it would smash the roof in if a good wind came along?”
“That’s right. Said he had an early appointment before that and had to be off for Dunbar for the rest of the day. If I don’t catch him at ten, I might not at all.” I take a few sips of black tea, burning my tongue in the process, devour a scone laced with walnuts and gobble down several spoonfuls of yogurt, nearly choking on the chunks of fruit I had forgotten were there.
Dermot drifts back in from the kitchen. “I’d offer you a lift, but I have to take me mum to the doctor’s in an hour. Do you know the way? You can borrow me bicycle. Wee bit o’ rust on the frame, but I keep the gears oiled and plenty of air in the tires.”
“Yeah, I suppose I could make it if I leave in the next few minutes.”
“Your ancestors are from around here, then?”
“Not exactly. They took part in the Battle of Halidon Hill, though.” I don’t bother to tell him they probably died there. That’s a given.
“Never been much interested in my own ancestry,” Dermot muses. He hands me a fresh mug of coffee, then scoots the sugar and cream closer. “But I’m sure there are a fair amount of skeletons rattling around back there. If they could only tell their stories ...” He chortles to himself, his cheeks reddening. “Then again, maybe there are a few things we’re better off not knowing, aye?”
“Maybe, Dermot. Maybe.” I stir Claire’s coffee and push my chair back. “I’ll just grab a few pills, take this up to my wife, ride out to the kirk and be back by noon.” Wishful thinking, I know, but it sounds like a good plan. If Reverend Murray has somewhere to be later today, I can only spend so long with him — which is a blessing, considering the talker he seems to be.
“I’ll fetch the bicycle from the shed and prop it next to the side door for you, then.”
“Thanks, Dermot.”
I duck into the bathroom by the front hallway and pop open the medicine cabinet. I have to hold the bottles at arm’s length to read the labels, but I finally decipher what’s what. I pour a handful of aspirin into my palm. Then, not wanting to take advantage of Dermot’s generosity, I count out four and put the rest back. There are only two acetaminophen capsules left, so I take the bottle, reminding myself to buy him a replacement when I return later.
Again, the stairs creak under my feet on the way up. I’m more successful in opening the door quietly this time, though I expect to find Claire curled up under the blankets, dozing off her potent Glenfiddich. Instead, I hear her in the bathroom, puking up last night’s dinner of haggis and rosemary potatoes. I warned her. Waiting until I hear the toilet flush, I set the coffee on the bedside table and go to look in on her, like any good husband would.
She’s donned one of my ratty old college T-shirts. Hair springs raggedly from her loose ponytail, one unruly lock covering her left eye. Pushing it out of the way, she rolls back onto her bottom, then leans her head against the wall.
Extending my palm, I offer her the pills and a glass of water. “You really are a mess.”
“I’ve felt better.” In two quick gulps, she downs the pills. “Better hurry up. You’re going to miss breakfast.
“Already back from there.” I run a washcloth under cool water and dab her forehead, then press the cloth into her hands. “You know, I was going to meet with Reverend Murray this morning, but I’m not sure I should leave you like this.”
“Oh, Ross, I’m so sorry. I’m ruining our honeymoon already.”
I sink to my knees on the glossy tiles. “You’re not ruining anything. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’ll be okay once I can hold the pills down. Mostly it’s my head that hurts. I feel better just having emptied my stomach.” She screws her eyes shut, then covers her entire face with the washcloth. “Really, not much you can do here, except watch me hurl some more and maybe take a nap, if I’m lucky.”
“You sure?”
Her head bobs in a feeble nod behind her terrycloth veil.
“Don’t be mad at me if I tell Dermot to look in on you, okay? I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Well, three at most, knowing Reverend Murray — I promise. I’ll have my phone with me.”
She flaps a hand at me.
“You sure?”
“Go, before I throw up on you.”
My transportation, missing its kickstand, is propped against the brick wall along the driveway. When Dermot said there was rust on his bike, he wasn’t kidding. It looks like a relic from the days of the Wright Brothers’ cycle shop, with big, knobby tires and an oversized seat. A basket is strapped to a wire platform over the back tire, big enough to transport a few days’ worth of groceries. The original color was once royal blue with white trim, but oxidation has taken its toll, splotching the frame with patches of deep red rust. The inner tubes may have been well inflated, but fine cracks in the tires’ rubber hint at the beginnings of dry rot. I push down on them several times, expecting the telltale hiss of a leak. If they go flat, the worst thing that will happen is that I’ll have to walk back. Luckily, it isn’t that far. I’ve been telling myself I need to start an exercise program. Maybe today’s the day. I hike a leg over the seat and glance down to notice a big smear of oil from the chain streaked across my pants leg.
“Just great,” I mumble.
“What’s that?” Dermot says from behind me.
Lookin
g over my shoulder at him, I fake a gracious smile. He’s drying his hands on his apron. Since I didn’t know he’d followed me out, it’s a good thing he spoke up or else he would’ve heard a string of cuss words next. “This is great. Thanks, Dermot.”
“Just put it back in the shed when you return. Do you need me to call the car rental company for you? Or run the tire over to me cousin’s?”
“Thanks, but no, I can take care of that later. Should be back around lunchtime, or a little after. If you could stop by the room sometime ...”
“Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’ll look in on her before I head out to pick up me mum.” He unties his apron and tucks it under his arm, then points down the street. “Take the main road that way. When you come to the edge of town, you’ll see a petrol station. Go left. There’s a stone bridge about three kilometers from that. After you cross the bridge you’ll take the second right. Just past the fourth house, turn left, go up the hill and —”
“Wait.” I interrupt him before he can confuse me any further. “You lost me at the petrol station. We went by the kirk yesterday on our way here. I’m sure it wasn’t that complicated.”
He rubs at his nose. “Just trying to keep you out of traffic. If you want, you can take the main road most of the way, but mind the automobiles. They don’t pay any heed to the speed limit. When you see the sign for Paxton, follow that. You should see the kirk just over the hill there. Careful of the lorries, though. They’re even worse. Think they own the bloody motorways.”
I pat my pockets to make sure I have my phone and speed away — speed being a relative term, in this case.
Since most people are already at work, the roads are fairly clear of traffic and I zoom into the parking lot less than ten minutes later. The kirk looks as though it has seen better days. Ragged patches of gray stone show through where its limewashed walls are chipped. The slate roof is in better condition, although the north side is half covered in algae from the frequent rains and the sprawling shade of the giant yew tree that prevents the sun from ever drying it out. Weathered headstones, mottled with lichens, are scattered over the lawn to the west of the building, the names they bear long since faded into oblivion. My guess is that more people are laid in the ground outside the old church than now make use of its interior, a theory confirmed when I realize that the gravel car park is overgrown with weeds that are now kept in check by frequent mowings.
There is no evidence of Reverend Murray, no car, not even a bicycle. Maybe he walked here? I rest the bike against the stone wall that encloses the cemetery and walk toward the side door. As I approach the bright red door, I notice a yellow square of paper tacked to it, its edges fluttering in the breeze. The words are blurry, but the reverend’s writing is neat enough that I manage to piece the message together.
Dear Mr. Sinclair,
Sorry to have missed you. Called away unexpectedly. Come again tomorrow, if possible. Same time. I have interesting news for you.
Blessings,
Reverend Murray
What kind of emergency could a retired pastor possibly have? Damn it. Tomorrow won’t exactly be convenient, since we have to take off for Edinburgh, but by then we’ll have a working car. At the bottom of the note, he has scrawled his office phone number. I stuff it in my front pocket and jog back to my nineteenth century wheels.
A low rumble rolls across the land. In the west, heavy clouds are gathering — and they’re moving quickly my way. I swing a leg over and imagine myself on the last stage of the Tour de France, the finish line in sight.
I’ve just reached the edge of Aberbeg when my phone rings. Raindrops the size of marbles pelt me.
Barely avoiding an accident with a sign post, I veer off into a narrow alley and pull out my cell. “Claire?”
“No, Dermot here.” His voice is muffled by the pounding of rain. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. ... Ross, but I think you need to come back. I checked in on your wife for you, and ... she looks quite ill.”
Guilt shoots through me. I should have ignored her insistence that I go anyway. Claire was never one to want to be fussed over. “Is she still throwing up? Does she have a fever?”
“No, but the pain’s worse, she said.” Over his words, I hear a long moan.
“Was that her?”
“Aye.”
“Call an ambulance, Dermot. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I snap the phone shut and pedal as fast as I can.
By the time I skid to a halt in Dermot’s side driveway, chased there by the wail of a siren, my clothes are drenched. A burst of flashing red lights reflects against the windows as the ambulance turns the last corner. I plunge inside the house, then race up the steps three at a time.
Claire lays curled up on her side in the middle of the floor, her fists balled to either side of her head and her jaw clenched in agonizing pain.
Just inside the door is Dermot, wringing his apron in his hands. “I’m sorry. I tried to help her, but she wouldn’t let me. When she said she felt like her head had exploded, I called you.”
Dermot continues to apologize, but I stop listening. Something is terribly wrong with Claire. She’d suffered from the occasional migraine before, but that usually only resulted in her closing the bedroom curtains, popping a few pills and burrowing beneath the covers to sleep it off. The way she has her head clamped between both hands and is wailing, you’d think someone has driven an ice pick into her skull.
Footsteps pound in the stairway. Before I can even go to her side, the EMTs have pushed past me and are taking her vital signs.
“Hello, miss,” one of the EMTs says calmly, as he pulls up one of her eyelids and shines a penlight in them to check her pupil dilation. “My name is Thomas. That’s Andrew and Harry with the stretcher. We’re here to take care of you. Can you tell me where it hurts?”
Water is collecting in a puddle beneath me. I shiver from the dampness seeping into my bones. Even though I’m aware how cold and wet I am, I’m transfixed, wanting to help, yet not wanting to get in the way.
As Thomas takes Claire’s jaw in his hand and positions her head to check her other eye, she whips her face sideways and lets out a scream. She gulps in air, sputters. “My head, my head, my —”
She cries out again, the pitch rising until it comes out as a screech.
Thomas tosses a commanding glance at his coworkers. Seconds later, they’re carefully hoisting her onto the stretcher. I snatch my glasses off the table and follow them.
At some point, one of them asks who’s with her and I mumble, “I am.”
Beyond that, I don’t remember any details about the ambulance ride to the hospital, the questions they ask me or even how long it takes to get there. I can only think of Claire, and how scared I am.
This is our honeymoon. Things like this aren’t supposed to happen. This is the beginning of our forever.
10
NOT SO LONG AGO
Balfour, Indiana — 1999
“Twenty-five hundred dollars?” Dad smacks the piece of paper against his palm, then tosses it onto the writing desk next to the rotary phone. “And our insurance doesn’t cover one cent, Goddamnit! They said it was an experimental procedure. Tell me where we’re supposed to get the money from, Rachel. Where, huh?”
Mom looks down at her lap, twisting a tissue between her hands. Mascara is smudged beneath her eyes. A white streak runs down her cheek where a tear has washed away her foundation. She keeps her voice low, her tone apologetic. “I don’t know, Jack. But what was I supposed to do?”
She looks so ... I don’t know. Forlorn, maybe? Yes, that’s the word. Like she’s lost her last friend. Like she’s all alone, without hope or comfort. I want so badly to run to her, wrap my arms around her and tell her it’s going to be okay, just like she’d done for me so many times. But I’m scared. Scared to know what they’re talking about. And scared of my dad. He’s never raised a hand against either of us, although I often wished he had. Then I could go to the police and have him thrown in jail.
What he does every day is worse than beating us. He doesn’t leave bruises or broken bones, things other people can see. Proof. Just scars on our hearts.
Mom glances my way. Her lips curve into a tepid smile, but her chin quivers. “Ross, I didn’t see you there. Go on in your room and I’ll be there in a minute to help you with your homework.”
“I don’t have any homework.” I grip the doorjamb, more to stop myself from going into the dining room and giving my dad a good shove than to keep myself upright. “It’s Saturday.”
“Of course it is.” She fakes a laugh. “How silly of me. Can’t even remember what day it is. Working those extra hours at the store sure has me mixed up. Well then, go ride your bike. A growing boy like you needs his exercise.”
The firm set of her jaw tells me to stay out of it, she’ll handle things. I glare at my dad, but his back is turned to me, like he’s purposefully ignoring me. Shoving my hands in my back pockets, I leave the room. I don’t bother to tell her there are six inches of snow on the ground and the road is a river of slush dirtied by car exhaust.
She doesn’t notice much these days. It’s like she’s not completely with us. Like she’d rather be somewhere else. Like she’s already gone.
11
HERE & NOW
Berwick, Scotland — 2013
I wait for the second hand of the clock on the wall opposite me to sweep around past the ‘12’ one more time before I separate myself from the furniture and stomp to the desk.
“Have they figured out what’s wrong with my wife?”
The station nurse lays her pen down and pushes aside the paperwork she’s been examining. The cap on her head sits askew, her sweater is rumpled and the bags under her eyes tell me she’s probably nearing the end of a twelve-hour shift. She gives me a patronizing smile. I clench my fists at my sides. This may be the tenth time I’ve bugged her since they sat me down on that green vinyl couch three hours ago, but somebody needs to fill me in.
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