"Jesus H," he said with a fractured look, then walked away.
Bells jangled on the front door. Gone.
Out of Time
Castine, Maine
JULY-SEPTEMBER 2000
Moira and Maeve turn sixteen
Summertime passed in a rush, as Mom stayed busy with Poppy, and Dad with work. Maeve had more lessons than ever with Ben Freeman, who was helping her make a tape for an agent. On his advice, she even met with the high-school counselor to see about graduating early--something supersmart Kit planned to do, too. Moira busied herself in the garden, planning meals and playing the piano; and when she found out that Ian had broken up with Paula, she managed to bump into him a lot more often. Sometimes he'd lift his hand in a half wave, which always made her day.
A few weeks after school began, Moira and Maeve celebrated their sixteenth birthdays. Mom made a cake smothered in butter-cream frosting with two large "16" candles on top, and the girls each blew out their half. Daddy hauled two huge suitcases into the kitchen--powder blue for Moira and dark blue for Maeve. They didn't fully understand the significance until Poppy gave them his gift: passport applications.
"We'll get your pictures taken and go down to the post office tomorrow after school," Dad said. "Poppy wanted you to have this much today, though."
"You t-t-two go," Poppy stuttered. "Avven-t-t." He slumped a little farther in his wheelchair.
"Don't upset yourself, Dad," their mother said. "We all understand, right, girls?"
The twins responded at the same time: "Yes, Poppy. Avventura."
Later that afternoon, Moira walked to the docks, her cheeks wind-washed. Sixteen! Real adventure might be just around the corner. Someday soon, she'd travel with Maeve, but until then there were lots of adventures to be found in Castine--maybe as many as she'd ever want. She hoped to catch Ian, to get a birthday smile from him. Anything seemed possible now. Everything did.
She'd walked halfway down the hill, near Michael's house, when the peal of Maeve's laughter made her stop. Maeve and Michael? A secret boyfriend?
"Get it, Maeve!" Michael yelled.
Moira stood just close enough to see Maeve catch a football and run with it hugged to her chest for a few yards.
"Oh, no, you don't!" said another voice, and like a lion claiming its prey, Ian came out of nowhere and tackled her.
For a second Moira admired how his blond hair complemented her twin's sundown strands. That's how we'd look together, she thought. But Ian stayed on top of Maeve, laughing with her, not struggling too hard to steal the football. He stayed there, in fact, until Michael shouted, "Get a room already!"
They're together, really together. The words became Moira's cadence as she ran back home. Had Ian kissed Maeve? If he had and Maeve had kept that secret, Moira would never forgive her. Why was Maeve always the lucky one? Why couldn't Moira have anything for herself?
Once in her room, Moira opened her desk drawer and unearthed the stone saxophone Ian had given and she had taken. There was only one critical way she and her sister were different. And that, Moira thought as she clutched the token, could be remedied.
MOIRA FOUND THE saxophone case leaning against the piano in the living room. When she flipped its latches, the hard snap of metal seemed to reverberate like an alarm in the otherwise quiet house: Wrong sister, go away. She assembled the sax easily enough. The next step proved harder; Maeve had once tried to teach her about positioning, but the lesson was long forgotten.
It should just come to me, Moira thought. It should come to me the way it came to her. She set her fingers on the keys with hope. Listen for the notes, find them in the air, breathe and--
A warbling squawk erupted from the instrument.
Try again. Fingers down, take a breath--
Hobbled notes poured from the horn.
"What's that horrible noise?"
Moira felt a hot blood in her cheeks, but she lowered the sax and turned to face the woman who had the power to change her life. "I want to take saxophone lessons."
Her mother rubbed her hands on her apron and stepped farther into the room. "Why would you want to do that?"
"I could be as good as Maeve. I'd like to try."
"Hmm," she said, staring out the window. Seconds passed.
"Mom?"
"Did you know your name was supposed to be Chelsea?"
This wasn't what Moira had expected. She shook her head.
"It's true, after Grandma Chelsea. But your father decided that his redheaded girls needed Irish names. Maeve and Moira, after his mother and grandmother. He said that Chelsea was the name of a London borough and his ancestors would turn over in their graves if we named you that. So I gave in, even though they sounded like twin names to me."
"I don't get it, Mom. You don't like my name?"
"I love your name, and it fits you. What I mean is that I've tried to differentiate you girls from the beginning, and it's been like fighting"--she looked up, toward heaven, maybe, and her voice softened--"like fighting the tide. But I keep at it, because I know it's important for the two of you to have separate identities." Her eyes found Moira's and her voice rang clear again. "You'll have your room back once Poppy's better, you know."
"I know." She had to admit she didn't want to share a room with Maeve right now. She didn't want to share anything, except the sax. "I want saxophone lessons," she said again.
"You're a good pianist, Moira."
"But I'm not a prodigy like Maeve, am I?" The distinguishing word she'd heard so long ago. Prodigy. Special. Gifted. Magnetic. Attractive.
"You're both talented young women."
"I'm not a prodigy. You can't say it, can you?"
Her mother rubbed her forehead. "You've grown into a terrific player, Moira. I didn't mean to imply that--"
"She always gets the best of everything! Everyone likes her! Everyone loves her! Everyone--"
"Ah, I see," said her mother. "You want to impress someone. A boy, maybe?"
"No one." Moira met her mother's suspicious gaze, tried to deflect it. "Please, just let me try it. Let me be myself."
"You are yourself. Of course you're yourself. What you need to understand is that being separate is healthy."
"Healthy?" Moira knew then her mother would not relent--not with this tone of voice, this unwavering brand of speech, and a smile so sharp it seemed to cut through skin and muscle and bone. She should give up. She would, normally. But then she remembered Ian. Words to persuade, and emotions--fear, frustration--tumbled over themselves in her mind. She grasped at half a thought. "But isn't it healthy to feel ..."
"What? To feel what?"
"Whole." Moira's vision blurred. Her eyes stung. "I don't feel whole." Truth. She swallowed. "Can't you try to understand? Can't you help instead of fighting me?"
"Oh, Moira"--she shook her head--"I am helping. You need to find your true self. You won't always be joined at the hip to Maeve. You won't always be together. Stretch out a bit. Don't search for space inside your sister's shadow."
Moira battled a wave of potent humiliation as panic swelled in her. I'll never have him, never be good enough.
"I'm not worth a try, even if it means so much to me?"
"Worth? You're worth everything, but Moira--" Her mother stepped closer. Moira thought maybe she'd reach out, hug her, even yield. Instead, she brushed the piano with her hand. "Maybe some extra piano lessons will make you feel better."
Moira didn't speak as she disassembled the saxophone and put it back in its case. Then she regarded the piano. "I should be grateful you let me take Grandma Leahy's piano and have lessons," she said evenly. "I should take some more lessons and I'll be happy, right?"
"If that's what you want."
"It's not what I want! I'm trying to tell you what I want, and you won't listen!" She crashed her hand over the black keys with one hand and slapped at a sheaf of music with the other. "Clair de Lune" fluttered to the floor.
"Moira Leahy!"
Moira ran
out of the house and across the lawn. When she reached the shoreline, she sat on stones as gray and chill as her thoughts. Would she never affect anything in her life? Would she never prove herself to be ... essential?
"Moira?" Maeve stood beside her. Though her face was drawn and serious, her cheeks were pink--scrubbed fresh with air and laughter and maybe Ian's kisses. Sweet sixteen. "I felt something bad. What's wrong?"
"Go away. I can't be near you right now." Moira's chest felt wire-bound, but she ignored the hurt in her twin's eyes.
After Maeve left, Moira looked across the Penobscot at the burgeoning clouds on the horizon. She wished her arms would grow long enough to reach into them, that she could somehow move their dark shapes where she wanted, make it rain and thunder, make the air jump with lightning. Fly. But she was second born and earth-bound and not meant for such things.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JOURNEYS
Hours passed as I waited for my father's return. I helped Garrick and-his assistants stack dishes and gather cups, sweep gingerbread crumbs into dustpans in the hall. I went through the small rooms, too, straightening bears and books, setting chairs back in their places.
Once, I peered inside the music room and saw the Steinway. I could easily picture Moira behind it, playing one of her favorites, something from The Sound of Music or Pippin. Or Liszt. Struggling over the difficult measures, perhaps, but injecting each phrase with heartfelt emotion. I felt a prickle, turned, and saw Garrick at the end of the hall, looking at me. Neither of us spoke.
I picked at the simple meal he prepared for us, and the third white plate on the table was so brilliant with emptiness that it nearly hurt my eyes. I spent the rest of my time in the front room, my face all but pressed against one of the cold windows as the sky spit sleet on the walks and the season changed before me.
Walking was my dad's way of processing anger, releasing it peacefully. He must be furious with me to be away for so long. I wondered if I should go out looking for him; this wasn't his town. Still, I couldn't believe he'd be lost with his sense of direction. Maybe he'd made the state line by now. Or maybe he'd walked back to my apartment and his truck, and left for Maine.
I'd just reached for the shop phone, intent on calling my landlady to verify whether my father's truck was there or gone, when Garrick approached. The keris lay unsheathed in his hand.
"I tried to remove that stain," he said. "I used all of my cleansers, but ..." The mark was still there, long and thin like a vein. "It blends with the pamor and shouldn't reduce the value. You needn't worry." We shared a look; we both knew I had other things to worry about.
When I called my landlady, she said my dad's truck was there all right. And so was his dog. Running around the yard, barking, spawning all sorts of complaints. Had been for nearly five hours. The dog seemed rabid, she said.
"A little brown and white dog?" I clarified.
"That's the one. Cujo." There was a tremor in her voice. Her fear of dogs was legendary, but Sparky? Menacing? "I'm surprised no one's called the police," she added. "I was nearly ready to do it myself."
What the--?
"I've got to go," I told Garrick, gathering my things. "If my father comes back ..." Icy rain beat against the window.
"I'll get him to you."
SPARKY NEARLY BIT off my nose when I got out of my car and rounded her up. Shivering. Bits of ice stuck to her fur. Not rabid, but frenzied. Frenzied as only a frightened, freezing animal could be. Five hours, oh, my God, what a horrible person I was for completely forgetting about her.
The mystery of how it happened was solved at the front door. Closed but not quite latched.
Kit was a dead woman.
I'd thought her cured of this particular bad habit. In her first weeks as a resident physician, she'd often left our apartment open in her rush to get back to the hospital. I'd had to remind her repeatedly to lock up, which was usually her cue to joke that my forgetfulness was rubbing off on her. But this--now--was no laughing matter, and there were not enough miles for me to walk to dissolve my anger.
I bathed Sparky in warm water, apologizing to her with my human words, but I was still livid when I found my missing cell (in my car, beneath the seat) and called Kit. Be gentle, I thought, taking deep and calming breaths as the phone rang. Tell her you love her. Voice mail picked up. I waited for the beep.
"You're such an ass. You left the door unlocked again and my father's dog got outside and nearly died from hypothermia. Isn't 'first, do no wrong' part of some sacred doctor code or something? Maybe you should read up on it." I hung up and brushed my hand over Sparky's warm, dry coat, as she burrowed more closely against my leg. "I think I handled that pretty well," I told her. "All things considered."
I FELT THE SLOW pulse of time that night as I had just once before. My father's truck still sat outside of my house and his dog on my couch, but I saw no sign of the man himself. I reached for my old senses, the ones I used to rely on, but I couldn't sort my anxiety from any possible omen of disaster.
Only the dark seemed comfortable, as I stepped out into my backyard. Cold air rolled over me as long minutes passed. The multicolored glow from my landlady's window disappeared as she turned her tree off, went to bed. Sleet came again and pelted against my hood, until a song evolved from the rhythm of nature. Tribal. Compelling. I breathed it in. Swayed with my hands over my head. Moved my limbs to it. But I'd never been graceful on my feet. I slid, fell. Sudden laughter burbled up in me as I lay there on my back, staring up at night.
"Mayfly. Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," my father said, when I nearly leaped out of my skin.
"Dad, I was so worried." Felt my heartbeat, strong and hard beneath my hand. But thank God. He was here. Whole and well and ... here. Muscles I hadn't even realized were clenched relaxed as I followed him inside, back into the living room.
"I have something for you," he said, just as I saw it. Beside my couch sat a miniature boat, made into a coffee table--the wood burled and polished to a high sheen, a generous loop of lanyard on either end, twin seats under a pane of glass.
It took a second for me to find my voice. "Did you make that?"
"Christmas present," he said sheepishly.
So that's what had been under the tarp in his truck. "You knew I wouldn't go back with you."
He didn't answer, just wrinkled his lips--a man sorry to be right.
"You're leaving now, aren't you? I can tell."
"In the morning," he said. "Right after you." He held out an envelope, waggled it at me. I took it, tucked my finger beneath its seam, and tore. Inside was a plane ticket for a trip that would begin in less than ten hours. Destination: Rome.
"I can't take this." I set it on the table. "Dad, I'm sorry for everything. We should talk about--"
"I'm tired of talk." He did look tired, the creases around his eyes as deep as I'd ever seen them. "You have time off now. You want to learn about that sword, and the man who can tell you what you want to know is on the other end of that ride," he said, picking the ticket back up, holding it out to me again.
"How did you get that?"
"Found your airport. Small thing, but it'll get you a plane to Newark, and from there to Rome." The airport. No wonder he'd been away for so long. "So you'll go," he said, like it was a done deal.
Excuses reared up like students with their hands raised high, but when I gave them their chance they lacked spine.
"I don't have time to pack."
"There's time enough."
"I can't take a keris on a plane--not after 9/11."
"I asked about that," he said. "You won't be able to take it in your carry-on, but you can pack it in that big blue suitcase of yours. About time you used it properly."
"I can't leave Sam."
"Kit said she'd take care of Sam."
"That's a good one. Kit nearly killed your dog this afternoon leaving the door open. Sparky was outside for hours."
He glanced at his dog, asleep on the couch. "No harm done
. She checked Sparky out, even took her temperature. Everything's normal."
"Kit was here?"
"Not five minutes ago. Just took off."
"See that? She's avoiding me," I said. "Plagued with guilt."
"Nah, she just said she had to go back to work, grabbed a few things, and left. You're alike, aren't you? All work, no play. We're going to change that. She mentioned a place a surgeon friend of hers likes in Rome, a nice hotel, and said she'd make a reservation. And your ticket back is open, so you can stay as long as you'd like."
This was his talent: making the stiff limber, bending it to his will, reinforcing weaknesses.
"You asked why I stand by your mother."
"I shouldn't have said those things." I forced my eyes to stay on his. "I'm sorry."
"She's hard sometimes, Maeve, but strong and steadfast like a shore. My shore. I love her for that. I don't believe she ever meant to hurt you girls--not in any way. She did her best. I know your sister was your shore."
"Dad--"
"Let me finish. Moira was your shore, and now she's gone. Maybe you don't want another shore, maybe you don't need one, so you've decided not to bother looking. But what I'm seeing in you is someone who's afraid to move at all, someone who's decided to play it safe. That's not living. The Maeve I used to know would take this ticket--which, by the way, is nonrefundable. Better not waste my money, or I'll be pissed like you've never seen."
What did I want to say? Don't make me do this. But my hand reached forward anyway, and then the ticket that would change my life lay on my palm. My throat clogged. "Thanks."
YOU'D THINK MY head would've been full of Italian music that night--"O Sole Mio" or even plainchant. "Harlem Nocturne" stalked through me instead, along with the image of a detective with a pillbox hat searching Rome for an empu.
Earlier, I'd pulled my passport from my saxophone case and leaned it against the lamp on my dresser. Looking at it now from my bed, in the shadow of night, its cover seemed black as a raven's wing, though I knew it was navy. What am I doing? What am I doing?
The Last Will of Moira Leahy: A Novel Page 9