Racehead

by Daya Daniels

  My eyes.

  They’d always been my best asset. She’d loved my eyes. They are a unique hue. Amber. Gold. Pale brown. The color of expensive whiskey. They “lit a pathway to her soul,” she’d always said. I don’t see the appeal. Now, they just look dull and sad. Lifeless.

  Outside the window, across the miles of emerald green, I spot a house that still has white lights twinkling around the windows on the inside of it. The still-decorated tree edges the window. I take a deep breath. I didn’t do much over the Christmas holiday that had only passed two weeks ago.

  Instead of bringing in the New Year with noisemakers, cheap champagne, and singing Auld Lang Syne, I stayed in and watched endless Danielle Steele reruns while folk music played in the background.

  My parents didn’t call over the holidays but my older sister, Leila, did. Historically, she and I hadn’t gotten along well but still she supports me. She at least acknowledges me as her sister while the rest of my immediate family had all but abandoned me, when I’d told them I was gay during my last year at NYU—where she and I had met.

  My chat with Leila didn’t last long but it was cordial. She missed me and in all the small talk that she tried to make, I sensed nothing but sympathy in her voice. Compassion for what had happened. Empathy that I was now alone and far away from home and familiarity. She asked me if I needed money. Pride made me tell her that I didn’t. But holy hell, did I ever! It’s never been in my nature to accept handouts. I’m independent and I’d be independent to the end...right before my own inevitable destruction.

  Leila begged me to come back to New York City. I could move in with her temporarily, she offered.

  For a moment, I’d considered it but I really didn’t see the appeal of living on her pull-out couch for the next six months in a cramped Brooklyn apartment that already consisted of two rambunctious toddlers, an annoying machismo husband, and a yappy Yorkshire terrier.

  Sorry, pass.

  I had a plan and if it all went well, I’d know my next steps.

  It’s the beginning of January. Now and the next three months are the coldest here with the temperatures hovering around forty degrees Fahrenheit. Plockton experiences a maritime climate as with the rest of the British Isles and Scotland. The summers here are cool and the winters are mild.

  Scotland.

  The word itself comes from Scoti, the Latin name for Gaels.

  This place covers the northern third of the island of Great Britain and is home to five million people. It’s surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean with the North Sea to the east. The North Channel and the Irish Sea are to the southwest.

  I could stare out this window for ages at all the raw beauty around here. Although the sky is overcast with dense clouds and I’m staring at the landscape through the dirty pane of a window (that’s in dire need of being replaced), with the realization that it’s freezing outside, I still want to go out and breathe in the fresh, crisp Scottish air.

  The Highlands are in the distance, where many of the Scottish battles were fought—Falkirk, Bannockburn, Prestonpans among many. This place holds so much history.

  Most of the houses in this little village date from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. I believe the very building I’m standing in was constructed sometime during the Caveman Era. Surprisingly, I haven’t fallen through the floor yet (knock on wood).

  Chuckling at my own joke, I accept that it really isn’t that funny. The last thing I needed was collapsing floors around here, when I already had crumbling stone walls in minor areas and rusty copper plumbing to address.

  I run a finger down the length of the cold glass, tracing her initials there. When I’m happy with my script I back away and examine it, tilting my head to the side. Canting forward, I trace my own initials over her letters. It all looks as if it’s meant to be, like it should be etched in stone for everyone to see until the end of time. It’s perfect.

  Angrily, I swipe it all away like a grumpy artist dissatisfied with her own shitty work.

  Huffing, I pull my shawl sweater tighter. All I can think about these days is getting back on my feet. Releasing myself from the colossal burden of this place. Getting out of the bottomless pit of debt I’m in and finding some semblance of a new life if I can manage it.

  Do I even fit in with the real world anymore?

  Even friends that I was once close with have retreated. At first, they send their well wishes. They check on you occasionally until their initial shock wears off. Gradually, the phone calls become less and less because people get back to their lives. And when you seem as though you aren’t “getting over it” quick enough, people back away some more. Friends and family don’t know what to say or do. And eventually, you’re all alone again.

  I have no plans anymore. They all died when she did. I have no tomorrows. No hopes. No dreams. And that needs to change.

  Simply put, I need to get the hell out of here.

  Grace

  “IT ISN’T YOU, IT’S me,” I say softly.

  Mandy scoffs as her blue eyes widen. “Are you fucking kidding me, Grace?” She stands completely naked a few feet away from me after leaving the bed.

  We are staying in the Plockton Hotel. A cozy place in an old historic home by the waterside. The matron here offered you tea and biscuits throughout the day and the bed here is the most comfortable one I think I’ve ever slept in.

  I’m distracted this morning, annoyed.

  “Grace,” she barks, earning my attention again.

  Shaking my head, I exhale. “No, I’m not kidding.” I run a hand through my long hair, stand from the side of the bed and approach her.

  “You really don’t have a better line than that one?” she asks, scrunching her face.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Are you breaking up with me? Because I’m not sure you can do that. We’re not even together because you’ve never told me we were together, regardless of how many times I’ve asked.”

  I bite back my smile and amble across the room. I pull a few bills out of my wallet and toss them down on the corner table.

  “I understand you’re much older than me, Grace,” she says.

  Yeah, by like twenty years.

  “But I love you.”

  We can’t be together.

  I exhale and shake away her words.

  She approaches and stares at me, right before her eyeline drifts down to the cash on the table. “Payment for services rendered.”

  “Something like that, Mandy. It’s my fault you’re here.”

  “Yeah, in the middle of fucking nowhere. This place doesn’t exactly remind me of lying on the beach in Ibiza.”

  “And I apologize for that.”

  There’s at least five grand in cash right in front of her. One big wad of, “I’m sorry.” Mandy’s pride makes her stall but I know she needs the money and to be fair, it is my fault that she’s here in the cold...in “the middle of fucking nowhere,” as she’d put it.

  I wave a hand in the direction of the money. “It’s enough to get you back to London and should cover the week off from work you took.”

  She snickers and snatches it all up. “You’re fucking unbelievable.”

  Maybe so.

  Mandy rushes about the room and gathers her things. Exhausted, I amble across the tiny room to the bathroom, desperately needing a shower. Even though I’d slept for hours, for some reason, this morning I’m exhausted.

  “Grace,” Mandy calls out before I disappear behind the closed door.

  “Yes,” I say softly.

  “Has it ever occurred to you why you’re alone?”

  Of course, it has. But you don’t know my story.

  I quirk a brow and wait for her reply.

  Her face twists and she shifts where she stands for a moment, clearly debating whether she wants to hurt my feelings. Words once they’re said cannot be taken back and a person like me won’t ever forget them.

  I cock my head to the side, still waiting, waiting.


  “Never mind. I’ll see you around.”

  “Yeah, I’ll see you around, Mandy.”

  She disappears.

  When the door slams, I jump. In the last three years, I’d heard that sound more times than I could count. I should hate it by now but I don’t. I’m apathetic about it. After a few minutes of silence, I usually adjusted to being alone again.

  Maybe I prefer it this way?

  Reaching into the shower stall, I twist the handle turning on the hot water and let it steam up for a minute. This bathroom is smaller than my broom closet at home but I’ll make do. Stripping out of my clothes, I step in and think.

  I can’t believe I’m back here.

  I’d only been here for one night and already Mandy was getting under my skin. It’s best that she leave now, before things turn into a real drama fest and I don’t do drama. I’m not a confrontational person. I’d do anything to avoid an argument, including paying someone off just so they’d get out of my face.

  Slumping against the cool tile, I let the hot water sluice over me.

  I’d left London a week ago, deciding that the move here would be permanent. The beauty of Plockton could possibly be the only thing that lured me back here. Although I had family here, still I had nothing. This tiny village was the only place I’d ever called home before heading to London when I was in my early teens to live with extended family. I never came back to this place after that, even when my brother died.

  On the bus ride here, I absorbed the beauty of this place that I vividly remember as a girl. The green rolling hills for miles and the deep gray sky. The small brick house with the large fireplace that I used to live in right on the shores of Loch Carron.

  I have a sister and I had a brother. Georgiana is a year older than me and Niall and I were nine months apart, with me being the oldest. Georgiana is still here, I believe. We used to be close long ago but for years after I left, I never saw or heard from either her or Niall. But I remember everything about my siblings. Niall’s quirky laugh and Georgiana’s severe brows that were set atop big brown eyes. And she always wanted hugs, big hugs—lots of them.

  As children, we spent the days skimming rocks across the water and fishing. The nights we spent cuddled by the fireplace listening to my father talk about the war. Then he’d tell us ghost stories. We were a perfect family once upon a time.

  But the meaning of family is a relative one.

  Finishing my shower, I step out of the stall. Wiping the steam away from the mirror just over the sink, I stare at myself. I have bags under my eyes this morning and the last dye job that I’d put in my mahogany hair is beginning to grow out. The grays are about to show. At least I still have good skin, pale but good. I’ll need to get that hair dye in soon.

  Before leaving London, I’d closed my practice, sold practically everything I owned and had the rest put in storage. I was ready to start a new life here. I had no clue exactly what I’d do once I settled in. Maybe I’d get a job bartending—doing something to make me feel young and wild and crazy again, if I ever was. Just the thought makes me giddy.

  I’d always been the responsible one. The good girl. The straight shooter. The woman who always did everything right. The perfect example.

  I’m far from it.

  Now, I need fresh and I need new. I’m tired of living in the shadow of everything that had happened centuries ago. I need to control my own life again.

  Wrapping a fluffy towel around me, I head back into the bedroom. The blinking time on the clock tells me it’s just getting up to twelve. Check-out was an hour ago. I’m already running behind. This hotel was fully booked when we first arrived. They were gracious enough to allow me a one-night stay. And then I had to get out. Tourism is clearly a lucrative industry around here.

  I hadn’t told my family I was here but by the way information spread around this little village like filthy tabloid gossip, I was certain they knew by now.

  But they wouldn’t come to find me and I wouldn’t seek them out. Too many years had passed. There were too many open wounds still festering and possibly infected now, especially mine.

  Dressing quickly, I shove the last of my things into my tiny suitcase. I wriggle into my bubble coat and pull a beanie on over my damp hair. I inch closer to the door and stop. My stomach flips over and my hands are shaky. I dig into my pocket again and unfold the letter I’d received and scan it over. I’d read it a million times already since it had first been mailed to me. I shove it back into my pocket and just breathe.

  Everything is outside of this door.

  Hell is outside of this door.

  DRAGGING MY SMALL SUITCASE out of the bank, I stare up at the gray sky. The cool air whips around me burning my cheeks. The buildings that surround me are nothing like the skyscrapers with glass facades in London. All the structures here are made of stone—old stone. Others have gray roofs and their walls are painted a blinding white that make them stick out against all the gray that’s around this place.

  I’d withdrawn a little bit of cash for the week. It’s only Monday, so this should last me at least until the following Monday, depending on where I decide I’ll stay for the time being, until I can rent or buy a place.

  Around here, the pickings are slim since there aren’t a ton of empty buildings in Plockton, but hopefully, I’ll find something.

  I walk a few feet, scanning the quaint village I remember so clearly. Things look a bit different but not by much. Everything is exactly where I remember: the bank, the grocery store, the gas station. Nothing has changed.

  I walk some more until I get to the end of the road. An old pickup truck whizzes by. The trunk of it is full of tools and equipment. I think I even spot a lawnmower sticking out of the back. The truck stops suddenly. The brakes screech. The tires skeet along the pavement, causing smoke to drift up from the back tires. I remain fixated on it all with bulgy eyes. The gearbox of the truck goes into overdrive and with a roar of the engine, the vehicle reverses until it stops parallel with where I stand.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. If it isn’t Grace Mackenzie,” the deep accented voice says before the face it belongs to comes into view. Aidan bobs his head.

  Aidan McCullough. One of my best friends growing up and partner in numerous crimes around here. He’s bigger now—bulkier, fatter. He has the same sandy-brown hair and inquisitive eyes. Now, he’s sporting a thick, brown beard and a wedding band.

  I smile shyly and look him over. At one time, Aidan and I were very close since we’re the same age. I spot a few grays in his hair and in his beard but overall time had done him well. He’s handsome but still rough around the edges, as I remember.

  “Grace Mackenzie, in the flesh,” I reply in a sweet voice.

  He laughs out loud. “My god, I haven’t seen you in what? Twenty/thirty years?”

  “About that.” I bite my lip.

  “Wow.” He squints his eyes. “You don’t look much different, Gracie. Those eyes always get me.”

  Gracie. I’d forgotten that a few people around here had always called me Gracie. Only my sister used my name and nickname interchangeably but Aidan had always called me Gracie.

  “Where are you off to?” he asks.

  “Um.” I look around. “I’m actually looking for someplace to stay.”

  Aidan bangs on the side of the truck. “Get in. We can catch up. I can run you over to the Mulcahy’s place. They should have a room for you there.”

  “Okay,” I say hesitantly.

  Aidan hops out of the vehicle and dashes over to me. He snatches my suitcase up and tosses it in the back of the truck.

  “Thanks,” I say softly, before he pulls the passenger side door open for me.

  I hop in and make myself comfortable when he shuts the door. He jogs back over to the driver’s side singing a song and gets back in. And soon we’re driving again through the narrow, winding roads in the village.

  After an uncomfortable silence, Aidan clicks a button on the dashboard. Simple Mi
nd’s Don’t You (Forget About Me) sounds from the radio. I shut my eyes, reveling in the melody and then open them again as we drive far away from the village. I’ve been blasted back to the late ’80s sitting right here, with him.

  “So, are you back here for good, Gracie?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Oh, wow. Good. Good,” he says in his thick Scottish accent.

  “I’m surprised you never left this place.”

  “Well, we all couldn’t leave. Could we, Gracie?”

  At his cutting statement, I jerk my head in his direction to face him.

  Some of us had to leave...

  “My brothers and I had to help my father with the farm. We had to help my mother to keep up with the house and the land. We were always staying here, love. It was never a question about it,” he says with a salty edge to his voice. “This is my home.”

  I clear my throat.

  “I heard you became a doctor or something in London. And you got married.”

  “I did. And I’m not married anymore.”

  “Oh.” He grips the steering wheel tighter, giving me a wary sidelong glance with those absinthe-colored eyes of his. “What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “He died. A long, long time ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” My thoughts drift off for a moment.

  “So what kind of doctor are you?”

  “I’m a psychologist.”

  It had taken me four years to complete my bachelor’s degree at Oxford and three more years after that to complete my master’s degree. After that I spent three years as a social worker while I completed my doctorate on the side. During that time, I’d witnessed the horrors that plagued the children and families of our society. After that, I started my own practice and was dedicated to helping people when they were at their most vulnerable. I loved what I did.

  “Wow.” Aidan bobs his head as he runs a free hand through his unruly hair. “You’re going to open a practice here then? God knows we need it. There are a lot of crazies walking around this place.”

  “I can’t help the crazy become uncrazy,” I tell him.