Meant To Be

by Неизвестно

  My heart thudded rapidly in my chest. I met Sheila’s eyes hesitantly, only to be shocked by the fondness in her gaze. Her eyes twinkled with joy, seeming to drink me in. Her mouth attempted to smile, but the swelling around her jaw allowed only the slightest upward crinkling of her lips. Her hand moved haltingly on the mattress, then slid off the edge towards me.

  I stared at it dumbly. She wanted to hold my hand. Our previous meeting had been pleasant, but without any physical display of affection. Now she seemed almost to be begging.

  Without further thought, I took her hand in both of mine. It was cold. Very cold. Her lips curved a tiny bit more.

  "My name is Meara," I corrected, my voice cracking.

  Her head nodded ever so slightly. She continued to look at me with eyes that radiated warmth—even love. I squirmed with discomfort. Did she even know who I was? Perhaps her head injuries had made her delusional.

  "I heard that you wanted to see me," I continued in a stilted tone. I wished I could release her hand and step back. Nothing about this felt right. I didn’t know her; she didn’t know me. It was too much.

  "Meara." She said the name distinctly, and her eyes assumed a different look. A deliberate, almost pleading look that seemed designed to convince me she knew exactly who I was. She worked her lower jaw for a moment, as if limbering it for her next words. Speaking was obviously painful for her.

  She squeezed my hand, and spoke slowly. The words were slurred, but I understood.

  "I always loved you, Meara."

  My body went rigid. Involuntarily, I began to pull away. But she quickly tightened her grip on my hand, fixing me with soft brown eyes that, so like my own, displayed her emotions like a billboard.

  She seemed perfectly sincere.

  I averted my eyes, and moistness welled up behind them as I gathered my thoughts. The woman was hurt, perhaps dying. Now was not the time to chastise, or to judge. She had carried me inside her body for nine months—I could certainly stand by her bedside for a few minutes. As of yet, she hadn’t asked for more.

  Her hand tugged at mine, relenting only when I looked at her. Her expression was changing again. The warmth was still there, but another emotion was taking the forefront: determination. She began to speak, but her voice cracked, and she closed her eyes with pain. When she spoke again her words were slurred and softer, and I had to lean in close to her face to discern them. "I was protecting you," she said firmly, as if making an announcement. "Rosemary died."

  She swallowed, and this time the pain made her grimace. Then her whole body stiffened, as if the grimace itself had hurt even more.

  I watched helplessly, frustrated at having no idea who or what she was talking about. "Don’t talk if it hurts so," I suggested. It was plain to see that Sheila felt what she had to say was important. But the message wasn’t getting through, and I couldn’t bear to watch her suffer on my account. "We can talk more when you’re feeling better," I assured.

  But her head shook almost violently on the pillow, and her eyes filled with agitation. I wasn’t sure, but it seemed that one of the monitors, beeping steadily before, had increased in speed. My own heart began to race, and I moved my free hand to press the call button.

  Sheila was trying to talk again. I shook my head, but her eyes showed desperation, and I leaned in close to her lips once more. "Stay—" she spat out emphatically.

  She tried to say more, but seemed to be losing control of her tongue. Within seconds the monitor tone became steady, then a second alarm followed, this one louder and unmistakably ominous.

  Before I could decide on further action the door flew open, admitting the head nurse and several others. "Wait outside please," the nurse barked, shoving her way to the bedside. Sheila’s grip on my hand had loosened, and I knew, to my horror, that the relaxation wasn’t voluntary. I released her and backed away.

  Two more people pushed into the room, rolling an equipment cart. One paused to lead me out. "You’ll have to wait here," she insisted, depositing me in the hall next to a laundry bin.

  I backed myself to the opposite wall of the corridor, then slumped against it. My mother had died peacefully in her sleep, but my father had died much like this. One moment he was attempting to move from the bed to a wheelchair. The next, he was gone.

  Gone.

  I drew in a breath. Sheila had no right to do this to me. I had seen enough death. I had buried enough parents. This could not happen.

  A short woman with a distressed expression hastened down the corridor and into Sheila’s room, the tails of her long white lab coat flying behind her. The summoned physician, I was sure. The door closed again.

  I’m not certain how long I stood leaning against that wall, wishing I were tall enough to rest more of my weight on the hand rail. People came and went from Sheila’s room, others strolled past, unaware. Like a computer screen stuck on the hourglass, my mind was in gridlock. I had too many questions. Too many conflicting emotions.

  Too much fear.

  At some point I realized that a man was standing beside me—quietly, patiently, as if waiting for me to notice him. He appeared to be around sixty, intelligent and well-dressed, with an air of authority. I had the impression that he was an attorney, and he proved me right.

  "Hello," he said pleasantly, though keeping his tone suitably sedate. His eyes, even as he spoke, flickered occasionally from me to Sheila’s door; showing he was not unaware of the situation. "I’m sorry to intrude, but my name is David Falcon. I’m an attorney, and I’m here because I was hoping to speak with a Ms. Meara O’Rourke. Might you be her?"

  I didn’t have the opportunity to answer. The door to Sheila’s room opened, and the woman in the white coat emerged. The head nurse followed at her elbow, then pointed discreetly in my direction. But I didn’t need anyone to tell me the news.

  My birth mother was dead.

  The door between us had shut again.

  Chapter 3

  "Is there anyone I can call for you, Ms. O’Rourke? You seem quite shaken—I’m sure you shouldn’t drive."

  I turned toward the man sitting in the lobby chair next to me, thinking that although he must have been somewhere in my vicinity throughout the haze of the last hour, this was the first time I had really looked at him.

  No—it was the second.

  His kind gray eyes warmed, as if he perceived that he was finally making mental contact. He reached out a hand, and I shook it. "David Falcon," he explained again. "I’m the attorney representing Mitchell Black, who was your biological mother’s husband. I’m terribly sorry to have contacted you at such a bad time, and my business can wait. But I hate to leave you here alone under the circumstances. Is there someone I can call for you?"

  The man’s build was slight, his face and nose both narrow. With his perfectly white hair and gray eyes, he bore more than a passing resemblance to my father, and I found myself wondering if he were Irish.

  "That’s very kind of you," I answered. "But no, there is no one."

  His eyes saddened. I knew that I should appreciate his empathy, but his concern only seemed to widen the hole in my heart.

  "That is to say," I explained, "There’s no one you need to call for me. My friends are all hours away—I’ll be fine."

  He considered. "You live in Pittsburgh, isn’t that right?"

  "North of the city, yes."

  "And you plan to drive home tonight?"

  I had to smile at his gentle prodding. "I gather you don’t think that’s wise."

  He smiled back. "As I said, you seem quite shaken. Perhaps it would be best if you stayed nearby tonight. Tomorrow there will be—" he hesitated a second. "Arrangements to be made for your mother. And there are several important matters I must discuss with you as well."

  I tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but a jumble of similarly legalistic words still swirled in my head like a cyclone. Regret to inform… surgical reconstruction… dehiscence… cardiac arrest… no way to accurately predict… There had
been people to talk to, forms to sign. I had consented to have the body sent to the nearest funeral home; where that might be, I had no idea. Nor did I have any idea how I would pay for another burial.

  My parents’ protracted illnesses, combined with poor health insurance and even poorer success in the stock market, had wiped out their life savings even before my mother had died. The pending sale of their house would cover their debts, assuming no hitches were encountered on its inspection. But my own savings were scant indeed. Even though I had a coveted job in one of the highest-paying school districts in Pennsylvania, I had not yet paid off my own school loans.

  But, I resolved, trying to snap my bleary brain back into focus, the money wasn’t important. The fact was that my biological mother was dead, and if she’d had no one to turn to besides me, then my life had unquestionably been the richer of the two. The suddenness of it all had been a shock, yes, but it was time I pulled myself together.

  "You’re probably right," I said crisply, straightening my back. "It would be foolish for me to drive back tonight, when there is still business to be settled here. Perhaps you could recommend an inexpensive motel?"

  He studied me, appearing to be in deep thought. "I know just the place," he said with a smile. "And it won’t cost you a thing."

  I assumed that he was going to invite me to his own home, which was beyond the call of duty. "Oh no," I said quickly. "I don’t want to put anyone out."

  "You won’t be putting out a soul," he said, his voice a tad melancholy. He started to say something else, then thought better of it and sat back in his chair. "I suppose that it might be prudent if we did discuss some of our business now. That is, if you think you’re up to it."

  I tried not to bristle. The more birthdays stashed under my belt, the more resentful I became of being perceived as a shrinking violet. It still happened frequently. I was petite, with long, curly auburn hair and large, thickly lashed eyes that people couldn’t seem to resist comparing with those of furry animals. But my appearance had no relation to my psyche. I was smart, and I was strong. I took care of other people—not the reverse.

  "I am most definitely up to anything," I stated. "What is it that we need to discuss?"

  His eyes widened slightly, but he proceeded without further comment.

  "The situation is this, Ms. O’Rourke. My client, Mitchell Black, was the owner of an estate very near here, on Laurel Ridge. The estate includes close to five hundred acres of forest, as well as the Sheepsworth Inn, a stone mansion built in 1835 that is a historic landmark—and until recently was a thriving bed-and-breakfast. There is also a farmhouse on the property, though I don’t believe it’s inhabitable at present."

  I listened with interest, being a lover of both forests and old things, but I could not fathom the relevance.

  "Mr. Black passed away a week ago today, as I suspect the hospital told you. At the time of his death, he was legally married to your biological mother, Sheila Tresswell Black. Because Mr. Black’s most recent will had not been updated after his marriage, and because there was no prenuptial agreement in effect, Sheila was legally entitled to half of his estate. And unless we discover that she had either a will of her own, or another living descendant, her share in that estate will be passed along to you."

  I blinked. Sheila’s heir? That couldn’t be. "But I only met the woman twice," I protested.

  The lawyer shook his head. "That doesn’t matter. What matters is that Sheila named you as her next of kin. Even though you were adopted, if the facts indicate that you are her only living biological relative, you will be her legal heir."

  I sat still a moment, stunned. Hadn’t the administrator stated that Sheila had only been married a short while? My mind began to spin again. Black, Tresswell, Johnson. No prenup. How many times had Sheila been married? She had told me at our last meeting that she was single and had no other children—but it was impossible to know whether to believe her. Had she ever been divorced? Widowed? I tried hard not to assume that she had been some sort of gold digger. But I couldn’t help wondering.

  "Among Sheila’s personal effects," he continued, pointing to the plastic bag that I was—unbeknownst to me—clutching tightly in my hands, "I’m sure you’ll find a set of keys. She and Mitchell were living in the back end of the closed bed-and-breakfast; the rooms up front and on the second floor have been sitting empty for a while, but should still be comfortable. Under the circumstances, I’m sure Mitchell would want you to make yourself at home there. I should know," he asserted, the sad smile returning. "I was his friend for many years."

  "I’m sorry," I responded sincerely. Mitchell had been dead only a week—I had probably just missed his funeral. Hadn’t the administrator mentioned on the phone that he had children, too? "The offer is very kind. Thank you."

  The lawyer seemed pleased. "Wonderful. I must tell you, though, that the signs for the inn have been taken down, and it isn’t an easy place to get to in the daylight, much less in the dark. So you’d best follow me there. In the morning, I’d like to sit down with you to discuss this in more detail."

  I looked into his kind gray eyes again and believed his concern to be genuine. My swimming brain was in desperate need of some peace and quiet, and an otherwise empty Bed and Breakfast seemed the ideal location. Entering what had been Sheila’s home could be unsettling, but given our lack of familiarity, not unbearably so. And perhaps tracing her footsteps, even the last few, could help me to understand her better.

  At this point, surely nothing could confuse me more.

  ***

  The lawyer’s Lexus pulled out of the inn’s drive, the sound of tires grinding on gravel being replaced with that of a gradually fading engine, then silence. I breathed out a slow sigh, then locked the door behind him.

  It was a dark, starless night. The Sheepsworth Inn, being uninhabited, had been devoid of outside illumination as we arrived, and the glimpse of the structure offered by my car’s headlamps was sufficient for little more than to confirm that it was a two-story building made of stone.

  Mr. Falcon had looked at me oddly when I extracted my overnight bag from my trunk and headed inside. He had said nothing, but I wondered with amusement if he thought I was the sort of woman who routinely woke up in strange places. The truth was far removed. Rather, I was a woman who had spent more than one morning after a supposedly in-and-out hospital visit brushing my teeth with a paper towel. Going prepared had become habit.

  As I turned and stood in the foyer, gazing with admiration at the prominent wooden beams of the cathedral ceiling and the splendid curve of the staircase that climbed toward them, I felt profoundly alone. Not in the sense of being frightened, but rather, a deep melancholy. A place such as this, I thought with certainty, was meant to be filled with people. Laughing, loving, eating, snoring. Its emptiness now seemed an aberration, much like the hollowness pervading my own body.

  My eyes traced the foyer’s ornate moldings and finely crafted stair rail—surely grandiose for their time, and most definitely their place. I stretched out a hand toward the newel post, enjoying the cool smoothness of wood polished by over a century’s worth of palms.

  In doing so, however, I allowed my keys to slip to the floor. Cursing my clumsiness, I bent to retrieve them, and it was upon rising that the sensation struck me. I remembered such a staircase. A very old one, with wooden steps and a runner of carpet tacked down the center. The newel post was high; it seemed as though I had to reach up—rather than down—to grasp it.

  I stood up straight again. There was no telling what I was remembering, or even if it was real. I knew that I had not been passed directly from Sheila to my parents; there had been years of foster care and bureaucratic red tape in between. All my life I had been left to wonder about that time—where I had been, whom I had known. My desire to fill in the gaps had at times consumed me, making every inkling of deja vu, every oddly familiar face, suspect. And when I was anywhere near Somerset, Pennsylvania, the mind games I played with myself
escalated.

  According to my birth certificate, I had been born only a few miles from here. It was a fact my heart refused to forget, and one which no doubt prompted me, year after year, to return to the area for hiking trips and summer camp. I had only to see the name of the town printed on a road sign, and my pulse would begin to pound. The emotional ride could be exciting at times, but it was always pointless. In my head I knew that I could be remembering any staircase. Or more likely, no staircase at all.

  Resolving to keep my mind in the present, I mounted the steps. If Sheila and Mitchell had supposedly lived in the rear of the first floor, I would stick to the second. I did want to look at Sheila’s living quarters—at least to the extent that my conscience would allow the snooping. But not tonight. Tonight I wanted only a clean bed and a quiet place to sleep.

  The stairs groaned as I walked, and I noted the pronounced dip in each step’s center, wood worn thin by thousands of feet. The walls were tastefully papered, the wainscoting well preserved. I stopped when I reached the broad landing, first intrigued by the comfortable bench that offered mid-climb respite, then mesmerized by the wooden cuckoo clock above it.

  I stared at the timepiece dumbly for a moment, wondering if my eyes were deceiving me. Perhaps it was molded from some sort of plastic? I stepped forward, daring to touch the feathers of the sparrow that clung to its left side, perched upon the thinnest of branches and posed, worm in mouth, as if just having landed. No, the clock was definitely made of wood. It had been carved by hand, and it was exquisite.

  A second sparrow formed the clock’s apex: its breast swelled proudly, its beak open to celebrate the day—or perhaps, the accomplishment of its labors. The area of the clock around the cuckoo’s door had been fashioned into a nest, its uneven sides heaving with twigs and down. It was not a sanitized, romanticized version of a bird’s nest, and it was this imperfection that made it appear so real. The remainder of the clock’s body was formed of branch and tree trunk, decorated with finely veined leaves; a circular knot of bark disguised the clock face itself. The cuckoo hole opened out into the nest’s base, and I was dying to see if, as I suspected, the stroke of the hour heralded a featherless baby bird.