Immortal Mine (23 page)

“Niahm?”

I look up at my name, see the worried look
on Jean’s face. I know I’m on the verge of losing it, but manage to
pull my emotions back down to a manageable level, regaining
control.

“Do you have it?” I ask.

She hands me another letter, this time in an
envelope. Of course she would know what I was asking for, having
read this herself. I just hold it, unable to take my eyes from the
last thing my mom touched, at least that I have access to.

“I’ll leave you alone,” Jean says. “If you
need me—” she breaks off, and changes course. “If you need
anything, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

She leaves me there, among
a side of my mom’s life that feels like an opened secret—or maybe
more like her own Pandora’s Box left behind to destroy any sense of
peace
I
might
have.



A few hours later I make my way down the
stairs. Jean is back at her laptop, but looks up as I come in. She
watches me warily, then stands and moves to the oven.

“I’m nowhere near as good a cook as you,”
she says. “But I manage.”

She pulls a plate from the oven, and I
recognize my mom’s version of Shepherd Pie. At that moment I
realize that it was never her version, but the version she’d been
taught by Jean—a fact she’d never shared with me. Irritation fills
me, but for once it’s directed at my own mom, and not at Jean.

I sit at the table, and she places it in
front of me. I wouldn’t have thought I could eat, but as I take the
first bite I’m suddenly ravenous. I finish it quickly as Jean sits
silently across from me. When I finish, and make no move to leave,
she leans forward.

“Did you read them all?” she asks. I nod.
“Are you okay?”

I give a short laugh. Okay is not something
I’ll be for some time. But I will be eventually, I suppose. Even I
can recognize it’s my feelings of betrayal causing all of the
hurt.

“Is that why you came?” I ask. “The last
letter, I mean.”

Jean doesn’t answer for a moment, tracing
the fleur-de-lis pattern on the tablecloth. Finally, she sighs and
looks at me.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’d like to think I
would have come anyway, after she... ” She clears her throat. “But
I just don’t know. I’ll be honest, I felt it was the least I could
do for my daughter, after causing her so much pain.”

She watches me, as if waiting for the anger,
but it doesn’t come. I respect her honesty, if nothing else.

“I’m going to bed,” I say, standing up. Jean
stands also. “Thank you,” I murmur, turning away. I trudge up the
stairs, wash my face and get ready for bed. I look outside once
again at the softly falling snow, briefly frustrated at the
shoveling that will be required in the morning. I slide between the
cool sheets, turning on the bedside lamp as I read her last letter
one final time.

My name is Elizabeth Marta Parker, wife of
Jonas Parker, mother to Niahm Jona Parker. Should something happen
to Jonas and myself, where we are taken from this earth, every
effort should be made to find my mother, Niahm’s maternal
grandmother, Jean Elizabeth Franza. She disappeared some years ago,
but I believe she is still alive.

Please tell her I would like her to go to
Niahm, and care for her in my place. Tell her I know she will love
Niahm as I do, and she is now Niahm’s closest living relative. Tell
her to raise Niahm to be the strong, independent woman Niahm has
already begun to be.

Niahm will need you. Please go.

Her signature rested beneath. The last two
sentences haunt me as none of the others have. She knew that Jean
would find this, that Jean would read those lines. I think she also
knew that eventually I would see them, that I would need them to
forgive Jean as she was never able to.

“Sam, what are you doing?”

I turn from my task of shoveling the snow
from Niahm’s front walk. She’s standing there, bundled up in her
coat, gloves, and snow boots—and looking drained.

“Isn’t that obvious?” I ask.

She stomps down the stairs, stopping right
in front of me, leaning back to glare at me.

“I didn’t ask you to do this.” Her statement
sounds like an accusation. I smile and lean down to kiss the tip of
her cold, red nose.

“I’m aware of that,” I say, turning back to
my task. She steps in front of me, nearly shoveled off her feet at
the forward motion of the wide shovel. Her arms windmill, and I
grasp the front of her jacket, steadying her. “Are you trying to
crack your head open?” I demand, immediately sorry as she pales at
my harsh tone. I yank her to me, throwing the shovel to the side
and wrap my arms around her, stunned as she bursts into tears.

“Niahm, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. You
just scared me.”

She continues to sob,
shaking her head against me at my words. I’ve never claimed to know
much about the female persuasion, but I’m aware that this type of
crying from
this
particular girl probably isn’t about my words or my tone.
Something else is going on. My mind immediately goes to her
grandmother, and I’m hard pressed to not storm into the house and
cause the woman some serious pain.

Instead, I sweep one arm under her knees,
and carry her to the barn, the best place I can think of for some
immediate privacy.

“I’m sorry,” Niahm says when I set her down
on a hay bale and squat down in front of her. She wipes at her eyes
and nose with her gloves, and my eyes go to those offending
garments, wondering how I can get them off of her without raising
suspicion why I want to hold her bare hand in the cold air, rather
than with her gloves on. Her face is very pale and drawn, dark
circles beneath her eyes. I rub a thumb across the smudges, as if I
can wipe them away.

“I’m a mess, I know,” she says with a sad
attempt at a smile.

“You’re not a mess,” I say.

“I am,” she refutes, “inside and out.”

I take her gloved hand in mine—and get a
flicker. Fuzzy images of white squares, anger, hurt, betrayal...
I’m stunned by the discovery, disturbed by the feelings I catch
from her.

“What?” She sounds slightly alarmed at my
expression. I quickly school my features.

“I’m worried about you. You’re upset.”

She’s silent, thinking, and finally pulls an
item from her pocket. She hands it to me—a white square. An
envelope. I look from the envelope to her and she gives it a little
push toward me. I apprehend that she wishes me to read it.

My name is Elizabeth Marta Parker, wife of
Jonas Parker, mother to Niahm Jona Parker. Should something happen
to Jonas and myself...

I stop reading to look at Niahm again. Her
face is creased with pain, as if she can hear the words.
Considering the crumpled, worn look of the paper I assume she’s
read it many times and probably has it memorized. I read the rest
of it, understanding her drawn look. I can also understand the
feeling of hurt I got from her and maybe even the anger, but the
betrayal stumps me.

“Where did you find this?” I ask.

“Jean gave it to me. She found it in the
tree.”

“The tree?”

Niahm tells me the story of the letters,
both in the tree and the ones found in the closet. She keeps her
gaze on her hands, which are twisting together nervously, during
her entire recitation. I watch her face, emotions flitting across
even though she tries to tell the story in monotone. She doesn’t
succeed—her voice expresses her wounded heart, the depth that she
feels betrayed by her parents leaving her home to search for
someone who’d willingly left, searching for someone who may or may
not be dead, rather than stay home with the very much alive
daughter who longed for them.

I’m not just getting these
impressions from her tone, I
know
them, can
feel
them coming from her. How is that possible? I
move to sit next to her, an arm about her as she leans into
me.

“I wish I knew what to say to make this
better for you, Niahm.”

“I wish I knew why she preferred to search
for a possible ghost than to be with me.” She sighs. “And yet, I do
understand a little. I mean, if I thought my mom were alive, I
don’t know that I’d ever stop searching for her.”

I recall Jean’s words about sitting with her
daughter, waiting to make certain she wouldn’t come back. I can
feel that Niahm is thinking about Beth’s search for Jean, which
never bore fruit—and yet, Jean was alive. Beth had been right.
Niahm is wondering about the possibility even now.

“Niahm,” I hesitate, reluctant to extinguish
that time flame of hope. “Your parents... I saw them. At the
funeral home.”

She shudders.

“I know.” Her words are firm, but beneath
them the shard of optimism stays strong.



“I have to tell her.”

Shane finishes pounding the nail into the
side of the barn before turning to me. He pulls the other two nails
from his mouth.

“You just gonna stand there jawing, or do
you think you might do something constructive?” He’s been pushing
to finish the barn, though he knows I don’t have any intention of
moving the horse—at least not yet. “Tell who what?” he asks,
turning back to the task, replacing both nails between his lips and
taking a third from the belt around his waist that he places
against the wood.

I pick up a large sheet of plywood, and
place it against the side of the barn, placing the nail gun against
it. Shane is firmly against anything as innovative as a nail gun,
preferring the old fashioned hammer-to-nail. So I don’t feel
exactly guilty about taking the occasional break. Even with long
breaks, I still accomplish far more work than he does.

“Niahm,” I answer after shooting a couple of
nails in. “I’m going to tell her ... what I am.”

Shane lets out a string of curses, partly as
a result of my statement, partly as a result of slamming his thumb
with the hammer at my words.

“Are you insane?” he yells. “There are rules
about that for a reason, Samuel. If you tell her, you put us both
in danger.”

“I know,” I say, but he overrides my
words.

“You put
her
in danger. If the
Sentinels found out...”

He doesn’t have to finish. I know exactly
what would happen if they found out.

“I would never put you in danger if I could
avoid it, Shane, you know that. So if you need to go or if you want
me to go—”

Shane’s fist connects firmly with my jaw,
sending me sprawling.

“You thick, fool
eegit
! Ye think you’re some kind of...
hardchaw
? That
ye can handle them alone, and protect her?
Ciach ort
!
Tá tú glan as do
mheabhair
!
Go hlfreann
leat
.
O mbeire an diabhal leis
thú
!”

I jump to my feet, my anger matching his, my
carefully maintained American accent slipping in the face of his
Gaeilge
.

“He
‘as
already ta’en me, Shane.
Diabhal
took me centuries ago. My soul ta th’
devil? ‘Tis long gone!
Tá mé
faoi chrann smola
.”

Shane’s stance drops
immediately from his aggressive position as my words register. It’s
an old argument, and he knows he’s unintentionally just confirmed
my side of the argument.

“
Ye are no’
cursed, Samuel.” His words are still fierce, but in a protective
way. He steps forward and gathers the front of my shirt in his
fists, yanking me forward so that our faces are a
hairsbreadth apart. “Do
ye ‘ear me, Sorley? Ye are
no’
cursed.”

I push away
from him and take some calming breaths, turning away from him. The
years apart from Shane are the hardest to take, the loneliest. I
don’t want to alienate him, but I also won’t give in on this
point.

“
I
’ll
stay wi’ her, as long as she’ll ‘ave me,” I finally say. “I canna
be wi’ her in the way I want ta ‘less she knows.”

He’s silent behind
me for long minutes. The only sounds are the wind and Shane’s
breathing. Finally, he takes a few steps toward me. I brace myself
for whatever his decision is.

“
I canna
change yer mind, then?”

I turn to face
him.

“No.”

His jaw clenches as
he considers.

“I willna abandon
ye, Sorley.”

It takes several
heartbeats for his words to register. I blink, give my head a small
shake, not sure I heard right.