Isla's Inheritance

by Cassandra Page

“We need to go out to David’s farm and get a few things for his hospital stay.” Even though it was first thing in the morning, Aunt Elizabeth looked tired. She’d gone back into the hospital after we’d had dinner to talk to the ICU staff and sit with Dad for a while; I’d wanted to go with her, but she told me I’d be more use to her functioning and rested.

  I’d joked feebly that she wanted that single chair at his bedside all to herself.

  Now she put a plate piled high with toast onto the dining table, next to the posy of flowers. Sarah had placed them in a glass of water the previous night, speculating about whether they were left by one of our friends who’d heard about my father, or whether one of us had a secret admirer.

  What would she say if I told her I suspected my duinesidhe … mentor? friend? … had dropped them off?

  “It’d be quicker to buy toiletries than to drive to the farm.” Sarah hooked her chair out from under the table with her foot, the legs squealing against the floor. She sat, cradling her coffee in both hands. Her eyes were shadowed with lack of sleep.

  “True,” my aunt agreed. “But the hospital wants any medications he may have been taking.”

  “Aren’t they getting a record of his scripts from the doctor?” Ryan asked, eyebrows raised.

  She nodded. “But he might have had other drugs. Over-the-counter ones. Also, I was thinking we should bring him some personal items like CDs, and pyjamas for when he wakes.”

  When he wakes. The optimism in her choice of words hung in the air. None of us disputed it, although Ryan did glance at me before grabbing a couple of slices of toast and the strawberry jam. His eyes were bloodshot, and the smudges of graphite on the sides of his right hand and his fingertips were only a shade darker than the bags under his eyes.

  Was I the only one who’d slept last night? Exhaustion had taken over and I’d dropped off to sleep right after my promised conversation with Dominic. He had chattered, excited and nervous about his job interview today, but volunteered to take me out for coffee in the evening if I needed a break from the hospital.

  “I still have my key to Dad’s place,” I said, sipping my coffee. I wasn’t hungry, but Sarah put a piece of toast on my plate and scowled at me, so I nibbled at it until she looked away. “I can go.”

  “It’s Friday. You’re meant to be at school,” Sarah reminded me. “We both are.”

  Aunt Elizabeth shook her head. “You’ve both finished your assessments. I’ll go in and have a word with the principal, explain the situation. I’m sure she’ll understand.”

  “For me, too?” Sarah asked, trying to look dutiful rather than hopeful. She didn’t do a very good job.

  Her mother smiled a little. “Yes, I suppose so. Isla will need your support, and I may need you to run errands. You can come to school and show me where to find the principal’s office.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll go out to the farm with Isla then,” Ryan volunteered.

  Our plan settled, we each went to get ready for the day. After looking out through the curtains at the flat grey sky, I settled on jeans, with a hoodie, rather than shorts. A pair of sensible sneakers and I was ready to go.

  Ryan wore jeans, with a black T-shirt that had a stylised drum kit on the front. If it weren’t for the fact his dyed black hair was sporting red roots almost an inch long, he would’ve looked very rock and roll. “You need to go to the hairdresser,” I said as we walked to the car.

  He shrugged.

  It was dry outside, but the high, pale clouds kept the heat down. I hoped there wouldn’t be rain, because it would make the drive to the farm no fun. Some of the roads out that way weren’t good at the best of times, and the reduced visibility made it harder to see livestock or kangaroos straying onto the road.

  We decided to take my car, because I had an almost full tank of petrol. Ryan grumbled about the lack of a CD player as we pulled out into traffic but soon slumped back, thumbs hooked in his jeans pockets, and fell asleep. I grumbled under my breath, wishing I’d had time to buy the portable speakers for my MP3 player.

  The drive was relaxing. I knew the roads well, although this was the first time I’d driven them myself. The only sounds were Ryan’s steady breathing, the rumble of the engine and the hiss of the tyres on the road.

  At least, it was relaxing so long as I kept my mind from thinking about the purpose of the drive. Or away from anything relating to Jack. Or my mother. I wanted to pretend I was on a normal drive out to Dad’s house to see him, to think about normal things—not the bizarre series of events my life had become.

  Pushing my worries to one side, my mind ran through a catalogue of options for Sarah’s birthday present. I wore my bracelet every day, and wanted to give her something she’d cherish just as much. The problem with our birthdays being so close and mine being first was that she beat me to the best ideas.

  I was tossing up between a wristwatch, a leather tote bag and a voucher for a facial when I turned onto the dirt road leading from the main road up to Dad’s farm. Ryan awoke when my little car started juddering along the uneven surface. He groaned, stretching to relieve a crick in his neck. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Although you snored,” I teased. We pulled up in front of the gate, and the mirth dropped away. This was where they’d found Dad, lying in the dirt beside his still-running ute.

  “Do you want me to get the gate?” Ryan asked.

  “Please.” The gate had a steel frame with a galvanised mesh infill. It was secured by a crude twist of thick wire wrapped around the frame, binding it to a metal loop screwed into the wooden fencepost.

  The wire was iron.

  The telltale nausea churned in my stomach even at this distance. Although it was healed, my palm tingled with the memory of the burn my father had given me. I scratched it, watching Ryan walk over to the gate.

  He hesitated before he touched the twist of iron, his hand inches from it. A frown creased his forehead. I held my breath, heart pounding, mind filled with wild speculation. Did he sense something about the iron too, some danger? Did Ryan somehow suffer the same affliction as me, even though we didn’t share a mother? How could such a thing even be possible? I drew a breath to cry out, to stop him from touching it.

  But I was too late. I waited for the yelp of pain, the sizzle of burned flesh…

  Nothing. He unwound the wire and passed it through the gate, leaving the twist of metal hanging from the loop. The gate creaked on unoiled hinges when he swung it open; he stood to one side, waiting for me to drive through.

  Heat crawled up my neck. He hadn’t hesitated because the iron nauseated him. He’d probably been looking at which way to unwind the wire.

  I sighed quietly, relieved, when he got back into the car after closing the gate. At least we’d passed the barrier.

  My sense of reprieve lasted only for the drive through the paddocks, until we reached the farmhouse.

  The ute was under the carport, and Sonya the goat looked at us over the back fence, probably wondering if we had anything good to eat or were going to come close enough for her bite us. She was better than a guard dog, that goat; when strangers arrived, she’d kick the side of a metal drum in her pen to raise the alarm. She regarded Ryan and me with grudging tolerance.

  But there was iron everywhere.

  Dad worked iron for a hobby; I hadn’t realised why until I’d learned duinesidhe were vulnerable to the metal. And now I was growing sensitive to it too. Energy encircled the farmhouse and surrounding yard like a talisman, a physical barrier against someone with fae blood entering. There was an iron knocker on the door; an iron hook was mounted on the wall beside it, under the overhang of the veranda. His broad-brimmed leather hat hung from the hook. Fastened to the side of the chicken roost, an iron rack held a shovel, pitchfork and rake. A plastic rain gauge was mounted in an iron frame near the gate to Sonya’s pen.

  What was Dad so afraid of?

  My stomach twisted up like the wire on the main gate. “I don’t think
I can do this,” I gasped. If the outside was this bad, how bad would the inside be? Iron knickknacks were scattered throughout the house. If I went in there it would be as if I was walking through a minefield. A minefield that made me want to vomit.

  Ryan misunderstood. How could he not? “Do you want me to get some things for him?”

  “If you could.” Shaking, I took my keys from the ignition and handed him the front door key. “I’ll feed the animals.”

  At least outside I could see the iron to avoid it, and the fresh air and cool breeze helped quell the sick feeling in my stomach.

  It took me a half-hour to feed the chickens and goat and to check on the sheep. By the time I walked back from the paddock, glad I’d worn sensible shoes rather than a pair of cute sandals, Ryan was waiting by the car with an overnight bag slung over one shoulder and a plastic shopping bag in the other hand. The latter was full of small bottles and boxes: the entire contents of Dad’s medicine cabinet, if I wasn’t mistaken.

  “We should ask Mrs Wilson if she can feed the animals,” he said as I approached him. “A two-hour round trip every day is a bit much.” He didn’t add we didn’t know how long this would go on for. He didn’t need to. “It’s a bit weird going through another man’s underwear drawer,” he added, trying to lighten the mood as I opened the boot so he could sling the bags inside. “Choosing the CDs was cool, though. He’s got some awesome old stuff. I grabbed some Eagles, Police and Beatles. And a photo he had on his bedside table.”

  “What’s it of?”

  “You, actually.” He grinned, unzipping the bag and rummaging around inside it. “Here.”

  I was about six in the photo, standing at the top of a wooden fort at the local playground. I wore a Minnie Mouse tank top and shorts, grinning down at the camera.

  The picture frame was iron. I hadn’t felt its closeness over the farm’s background nausea levels and nearly took it from Ryan before a warning tingle in my palm alerted me. I thrust my hands behind my back and stepped back. “Thanks.” I tried not to sound flustered. It didn’t work.

  Ryan gave me an odd look, but returned the picture to the bag and closed the hatch without saying anything.

  After squaring things away with Mrs Wilson, we headed home. Looking for something to focus on, I asked Ryan what he was getting Sarah for her birthday.

  “I’ve got some sketches for a painting,” he said. “It’s her as a singer on stage. You know, guitar, lights, screaming fans. That sort of thing.”

  “Awesome.” I was envious of him for being able to give her something so original.

  “Remind me later and I’ll show you the sketches. What are you thinking about getting her?”

  “I haven’t decided. I thought maybe a bag or a watch? Or a facial or something? Although a voucher feels lame.” I touched the bracelet around my wrist. “I want it to be something that makes her feel special.”

  “The bag or the watch, I reckon,” he said. “For an eighteenth present, you want it to be something you can look back on later and remember. Save the facial for Christmas.”

  I thought about it for a bit. “The watch then.”

  “Good call.”

  Rain began to sprinkle down when we were about fifteen minutes out, leaving specks of water on the windshield but doing little to wash away the dust from Dad’s driveway. It was barely worth turning the wiper blades on and, when I did, they covered the windshield with streaks of damp mud.

  Sarah was waiting for us on the front porch. She waved when we hopped out, and we all hurried inside, out of the rain.

  “Did you sort out everything at school?” I asked her.

  “Yup. There wasn’t even any argument. Disappointing much? But guess what? You got more flowers.” The sinking feeling in my stomach evaporated when she continued, “There’s a bunch from Natalie, Kim and some of the other girls, and one from Dominic.” She dragged me into the kitchen. The flowers were on the dining table, already in vases. There was a bunch of beautiful violet orchids, and another—the one from Dominic—of peach-coloured tulips. Both had cards attached, unlike the original bunch.

  “Starting to get a little crowded there,” Ryan remarked, leaning on the doorframe. “Soon we won’t have space to eat.”

  “I should take them in to Dad. They’re for him, really.” I sniffed the tulips; they were beautiful but didn’t have any fragrance. The original bunch, which I thought of as Jack’s even though I hadn’t confirmed it, gave off a delicate, sweet aroma. Had he picked them from somebody’s garden?

  We had a quick lunch before Sarah and I headed in to see Dad. Ryan wanted to come with us, but he had a shift at the supermarket in a couple of hours, and Aunt Elizabeth had gone to the bank to sort out getting some leave approved.

  At the hospital, I shouldered my bag and hefted a portable CD player, Dad’s medicines and one vase of flowers. To my relief, Sarah grabbed the other vase and Dad’s bag of clothes. I didn’t want to get close to that iron picture frame.

  The nurse who buzzed us into the ICU wasn’t the same one we’d met the night before; she was an older woman with a neat steel-grey braid trailing down her back and serious eyes. She frowned when she saw the vases. “No flowers,” she said. “ICU rule. Cards are okay.”

  Flustered, we left the vases in the waiting area. My new least-favourite nurse pointed at the hand sanitiser before returning to her paperwork.

  Dad was still in the same bed; I could see his red-and-silver hair from across the room. The sight was a fresh punch in the gut, leaving me breathless. Even though it was stupid, part of me had hoped he was awake, and that the hospital just hadn’t called yet. Squaring my shoulders, I started across the ward.

  We were halfway to him when Dad gasped and arched his back. His head flung backward into his pillows. His limbs thrashed in the throes of a convulsion so violent the intravenous line in his arm tore free. The needle dropped to the linoleum. An alarm squawked urgently.

  Nurses swarmed. Sarah grabbed my arm when I took a step forward. The nurse from the desk appeared before us. “Out. Now.” She took my other arm and, between them, they herded me back out the magnetic door.

  “I’ll come back out in a few minutes,” the nurse said, and closed the door in my face. The lock engaged with a click, echoing in the quiet waiting room.

  Sarah dropped the overnight bag on the couch. I stood there in shock, my heart pounding. I knew I should put everything down too, but my feet wouldn’t move. Sarah took pity on me, relieving me of my burdens, putting them on the overstuffed table. With empty arms, she engulfed me in a hug. I don’t know how long we stood there in the middle of the room, clinging to one another like children, but it felt like more than “a few minutes”. I stared at the door, numb.

  It was Rachael, the nice nurse from the night before, who came out to talk to us. She sat us down on the couches. I curled my legs up so I could hug my knees. “First of all, your father has stabilised,” she told me. “The seizure didn’t last long at all; he stopped as soon as you both left the room.”

  I gasped with relief.

  “What took so long then?” Sarah frowned.

  “We had to make sure he was fine first. Now we’re running some additional scans to identify the cause of the attack. I’m afraid you’re not going to be able to see him until this evening at the earliest.” She reached across and patted my hand.

  “We brought him music and things.” My voice sounded hoarse. “And that one has his medicines from home in it.”

  “I’ll take that,” she said, retrieving the plastic bag. “But as for the rest, we’ll have to ask you to bring it back next time, I’m afraid. Except for those flowers.” She stood. “Would you like me to call you later, when he’s able to receive visitors?”

  I nodded.

  “Thank you,” Sarah said.

  “Go home, get some rest,” Rachael told us both. “You’re no good to him if you’re exhausted.” I wanted to tell her I wasn’t tired, but the words wouldn’t come.

&n
bsp; Rachael went back into the ICU, plastic bag rustling with her long strides.

  We gathered our burdens and trudged back to the car. Sarah spent a large part of the drive on the phone to Aunt Elizabeth, letting her know what had happened, so I didn’t have to speak much. I was thankful.

  At least the weather had improved. The rain had dried up and the sun was even peeking through the clouds. When we arrived home, Sarah decided to take Hamish for his walk, asking if I’d like to go with her. I said no.

  This was the first time I’d been alone in the house since they’d found Dad. Without the pressure to maintain a strong façade for my family, I went into my bedroom and cried into my pillow for half an hour, hugging Mister Monkey tightly.

  Every time I closed my eyes I saw Dad thrashing in his bed, the drip falling to the floor, a small line of blood trickling down his arm and spotting the blue hospital tiles. Was Dad aware of his surroundings, scared and trapped in his own body? The staff had told us he was in a coma and may not be conscious of anything, but the niggling doubt wound around my heart, which was already heavy with regret. I shouldn’t have let Sarah and the nurse pull me away. I should have gone to his bedside.

  I knew I’d have just been in the way. But that didn’t stop me feeling like the most neglectful daughter alive.

  When my tears subsided I felt strangely numb, like the ocean on a still day: calm on the surface but with currents of emotion still lurking deep, unseen but potentially debilitating. I took a trembling breath. My eyes felt raw and my nose was red and sniffily—I was never one of those girls who looked pretty when they cried, like a character on television. I climbed off the bed and got a tissue.

  A large sketchpad sat on top of my laptop. Ryan’s. A yellow sticky note was attached to the cover. It read:

  Isla—

  The sketch for S’s painting is towards the back. Be careful to touch the edges of the pages, not the pencil, or it will smudge.

  Ryan.

  He must have left it for me before going to work.

  After repairing some of the damage from my crying jag, including splashing some water onto my face, I took the sketchpad and sat on my bed. Feeling whimsical, I put Mister Monkey beside me so he could see the pictures too. He looked damp and bedraggled.

  Dad had given me the bear to celebrate my first day of school. The toy was long-limbed and brown with a big sewn-on smile and, although he lacked a tail, his appearance had reminded me of a monkey and the name stuck. I wasn’t one for toys these days; while Mister Monkey did live in the top corner of my bed, against the wall, I hadn’t cuddled him for years. But he reminded me of Dad, so I was more than willing to ignore the minimal embarrassment of hugging a toy in the privacy of my own room.

  Also, I figured Mister Monkey wouldn’t tell anyone.

  I’d seen some of Ryan’s sketches before. He’d had this current sketchbook since the start of the year. The books that preceded it were lovingly stacked on a bookshelf in his room.

  Some of the pictures were simple sketches, line art he’d later transferred to canvas once he was happy with the composition. Others were detailed drawings in their own right, with complex details: patterns, light and shadow. These drawings were rarely done in colour, but I was still astonished at the detail he could evoke with just a lead pencil. I didn’t have an artistic bone in my body.

  There were pictures of people, including sketches of some of his friends from school and of an old girlfriend; of objects, from a motorbike to Sarah’s acoustic guitar, Amy; of plants; of cartoon characters; and of improbable-looking robots towering over small buildings.

  When I got to the concept sketches for the rose he’d painted onto the cover of my MP3 player I paused, fascinated. He’d drawn several versions of the rose across one page; the one in the bottom corner was the closest to what he’d painted in the shape of the petals, although the thorns resembled the second-last sketch.

  The next picture was the composition sketch for the painting he’d done of my mother. The hair stood up on the back of my neck when I saw it. I should have expected to see her but still felt a jolt of surprise when I turned the page. After I’d seen Dad’s photos, she seemed much more real to me. Even though the sketch wasn’t fleshed out in the same way the painting was, the resemblance was eerie.

  I shivered, turning the page.

  The following sketch was the one he’d wanted me to look at, the picture of Sarah. The viewer looked up at her on an angle, as though standing in the mosh pit at a concert. She was on stage, depicted mid-motion: her shoulder-length hair few around her head and her mouth was open, singing into a wireless microphone attached to a headset. Short shorts, knee-high boots and a tank top flattered her figure, while a leather bracelet encircled her wrist. And she was playing an electric guitar.

  I smiled. She would love the painting. Even the sketch was wonderful. I couldn’t wait to see it once it was brought to life in colour on canvas.

  I turned to the next sketch, the last one in the book before the blank pages began. This picture was half complete. An outline covered the entire page, detailing a reclining figure, lying on his back, eyes closed and hands on his chest. Funereal. The face and torso of the man were detailed, and my hands began to tremble as I recognised the subject.

  It was my father.

  The image wavered as my eyes filled with fresh tears. I blinked them away furiously. Dad’s eyes were closed and his mouth was open in an echo of the gasping expression that had haunted me since his seizure. My fingers hovered above his forehead as if to smooth away the pained furrows. His hands clutched something over his heart. Whatever it was wasn’t yet completed, but a black shadow rose behind it, spreading inky tendrils across his chest.

  Horror curled in my gut. What was Ryan thinking, drawing something so awful? I remembered the smudged fingers, the tired eyes; he must have done this last night. Straight after seeing his inspiration at the hospital.

  I stared at the half-finished drawing for a long time, my eyes fixed on that black shadow and the way it spread across Dad’s chest, like the exposed root system of an old oak. An idea formed in my mind. It was a crazy idea, but it made a certain amount of sense too.

  I rang Ryan’s mobile. He didn’t answer so I left a message, pacing my room. He phoned back a few minutes later. “Is everything okay with Uncle David?” he said as soon as I answered the phone.

  “He had a seizure this afternoon.”

  “Do they know what caused it?” I heard muffled noises in the background.

  “No. Listen, that’s not why I called. I was looking through your sketches and saw the picture of Dad.”

  “Oh.” He sounded abashed. “Listen, I’m sorry about that. I should have taken it out before I left the pad there.”

  “Where’d you get the idea from? The shadow and whatever it is he’s holding, I mean?”

  “I … don’t really know. It came to me at two in the morning when I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Right. Okay.” I thought quickly.

  “I’m really sorry, Isla.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Look, can I keep it?”

  “It’s not finished,” he said. Captain Obvious.

  “I know. Can I keep it?” I repeated, biting my nail.

  “Uh, sure. I guess.” I heard a voice calling his name in the background. “Gotta go. See you in a few hours.” He hung up before I could say goodbye.

  I carefully tore the picture out before leaving the sketchbook on Ryan’s bed.

  Then I went out to find Jack.

  Chapter Eleven