The Truth Against the World (12 page)

“Lisa Morgan,” she said, smiling broadly. She gave me a hearty handshake, then turned back toward my parents.
“Just phone the clinic if you need me for any reason. I'll be calling on Mrs. Evans every day at two o'clock, then.”

While Mom and Dad walked her out, I rummaged through the small kitchenette cupboards and found a shelf of glass tumblers. I filled two glasses with water from the tap and brought them both over to the sofa.

“Well, what do you think?” I looked at Gee Gee. Her eyes were bright, but I couldn't read her expression. “She seems nice.”

“She seems just fine, yes.” Gee Gee sipped absently at her water.

I nodded, feeling awkward. This was so new. And it felt strange to have someone else taking care of Gee Gee, someone who was basically a stranger. Someone who was literally there to help her die.

She saw the expression on my face and hugged me close. “It will be nice to have the extra hands, so that you three can explore the village without worrying about me.” She smiled. “Truly.”

“I guess it's better than having Mrs. Magee come in every day,” I allowed.

Gee Gee's smile grew wider. “Those English. She is a bit stern, isn't she?”

“She'd probably feed you castor oil,” I said, relaxing back into the lumpy sofa. Gee Gee leaned against my shoulder and closed her eyes.

“Mmm,” she responded. After a moment, she was breathing slowly and evenly. I curled my legs underneath me as carefully as possible and tried not to move, as if I could somehow keep time from sprinting forward and changing everything. But my mind kept hurtling ahead, spinning in circles. My dreams. The cromlech.

Olwen, Gareth's ghost girl.

Gee Gee was dying, and there was no avoiding that reality. But if there were ghosts … restless spirits, somewhere beyond life and death … how could I let Gee Gee go? If she died, who—or what—would be waiting for her?

At dinner, I ate ravenously, finishing off a huge bowl of
cawl
—hearty lamb and vegetable soup—along with two rolls spread with fresh-tasting local butter, and a hunk of cheese. The high-ceilinged farmhouse dining room was nearly empty except for one older couple in the far corner. Mrs. Magee had seated us across the room, near the unlit hearth.

The nearby walls were covered with framed black-and-white photographs. When we stood up to leave, I took another look, searching for faces I recognized. The oldest ones were from the early 1900s: women in voluminous, somber-colored skirts and men in dark suits standing solemnly in front of the farmhouse. There was even a photo of the Romani Gypsies that had given the farm its name—a dark-haired bunch standing in front of a tree with a painted cart and horse in the background. And, of course, there were the family photos. Maybe Mrs. Magee would let me get the pictures scanned.

“That young man is my Uncle Rhodri.” Gee Gee pointed at a spindly, dark-haired teenager holding a pitchfork that was quite a bit taller than he was. “This very old one, these are the owners of the farm before my great-grandfather Matthew bought it.”

My favorite was an oval portrait of a tiny baby in a lacy christening gown that was Gee Gee herself. Next to it was a photo from World War II showing several women in overalls out in a field with rakes and hoes.

“The Land Girls,” Gee Gee said. She pointed to a tall young woman with her pants rolled up to mid-calf. “That one's Margie Jenkins's mother, Marged. I wanted to be a Land Girl, but I wasn't quite old enough. You had to be eighteen.”

She turned away from the photo display, her eyes tired. By the time we got back to the cottage, just a short walk down the path, Gee Gee seemed drained. I hoped it was just jet lag. It was only eight thirty.

Dear Rae,

Got to Wales today after what felt like weeks of traveling. We're staying in the most adorable cottage on a farm that used to be Gee Gee's uncle's. It's beautiful here. I wish you could see it. And people are so nice. You'll probably get this way late, but anyway.

—Love, Wyn

I dropped the postcard and pen on the nightstand, called a quick good night to my parents, and pulled on my blue fleece pajamas. I'd have to remember to buy stamps tomorrow. It was kind of funny because I'd already emailed Rae from the farmhouse, but I liked postcards. I couldn't help it.

I crawled into bed, turned off the light, and was asleep within minutes.

After sleeping better and longer than I had in quite some time, I woke up the next morning with energy to spare. The chilly air felt good to me as we walked to the farmhouse for breakfast, but while I downed two poached eggs, a grilled tomato, baked beans, toast, and half a grapefruit, Gee Gee only picked at her eggs and toast. As I pushed her wheelchair down the path back to the cottage, I could hear her breathing heavily.

Inside, I settled her on the sofa with a blanket and went into my parents' room, where they were finishing their unpacking.

“Gee Gee seemed really tired out on the walk back,” I said without preamble. I tried to sound calm, but I shifted from foot to foot anxiously.

“We noticed the same thing, honey.” Mom folded a sweater into a perfect square and put it into one of the dresser drawers. “We've talked about this, though. It's normal for someone in her condition to get worn out easily.”

“What do I do if something happens and you guys aren't here? Should I get Mrs. Magee?”

“Oh heavens no,” Mom said. “I made a schedule.” Of course she did. “Either Dad or I will be around, unless we have to leave for a short time, and we've posted the number of the clinic next to the phone. Oh, and the emergency number here is 999. You shouldn't need that, though, unless you need to call the police or the fire department.”

“Fire department? Not reassuring.” It was, though. Not for the first time on this trip, I was glad my mother was kind of a control freak.

Dad said, “Hey, listen—how about coming with me into town? I was going to do some grocery shopping, and thought you might like to have lunch out with your old dad and explore a little.” He slid a dresser drawer closed, then pulled an old gray fleece out of the standing wardrobe.

“Okay,” I said, willing to be distracted. “Let me grab my camera.”

“There won't be much going on, on a Sunday,” Mom pointed out. “Tuesday there's a farmer's market, though.”

I rolled my eyes. “I
like
scenery. When was the last time I took a picture of a human being?”

“Just this morning, I saw a picture of a sweet little girl on your phone.” She smiled.

My forehead wrinkled in confusion.

“Well, maybe you didn't take it,” she added. “I was looking at your pictures of the train trip, and the picture just popped up. Maybe it was a message. I'm sorry I forgot to tell you.”

Without a word, I ducked out of the room and rushed across the cottage. My phone was on my bed, where I'd left it a few minutes ago. I unlocked the screen and checked my messages.

“Jeez, Mom,” I muttered. There was a message I hadn't seen, from Gareth.
The latest mystery photo
, he wrote, and attached was a picture.

The girl.

Olwen.

I hit
Reply
.

I see her this time. Come as soon as you can.

The lane that led down to the main road was about half a mile long, bordered by tall hedges on either side, and Dad and I walked in companionable silence, me snapping the occasional picture. There was hardly any traffic noise, just wind in the trees, occasional snatches of birdsong, and the buzz of a distant tractor.

We walked by the clinic where Lisa worked, which wasn't far at all, just a block from the bus station. Both places were closed, as was the Friar's Folly, though a middle-aged man with spiky blond hair and an apron was hanging around the side door of the pub, breaking down empty cardboard boxes. He waved and smiled, then went back to work.

I snapped a picture of him for my mom's benefit.

On the main road we passed tourist shops, offices, several banks, and regular side roads that branched off into neighborhoods. Some of the side streets were obviously older, lined with quaint bungalows, while others held more modern-style apartment buildings. After walking for another half mile, we found the grocery store; not much more than a corner market. I followed Dad up and down the aisles, pulling the occasional strange item off the shelf to inspect more closely.

Dad laughed at me when I made a face at a jar of Marmite spread. “Just wait till you try the laverbread. It's not even bread.”

“I'll stick with beans on toast, thanks.” I was becoming less and less sure about British cuisine the longer we shopped, but then Dad found a nearby fish and chips shop and my opinion flip-flopped yet again. We sat on tall stools at the counter and munched away at crispy, greasy, piping-hot fried cod and potatoes, wrapped in cones of newsprint and sprinkled with malt vinegar. Outside, people dressed in church clothes trickled up the street, laughing and chatting. A few came in and out, and I couldn't help listening in to see if anybody spoke Welsh to the elderly man behind the counter.

Finally, one woman said “
p'nawn da
”—good afternoon—and began chatting away too quickly for me to understand.

“Did you hear that, Dad? She talked so fast, though. I need to practice more.”

“So you can eavesdrop more effectively?” He stole one of my few remaining chips and popped it into his mouth.

“Hey!” I pulled my cone of newsprint closer. “No, I just thought I could talk to people. Make some friends.”

“Speaking of friends,” Dad said, his face serious. “I spoke to your mother about this Gareth guy.”

“Uh huh.”

“We aren't too sure it's a good idea for you to be meeting him right now. With everything that's going on … ” He looked out the window, seeming lost for words. “The thing is, we always want you to be safe, and we don't know him.”

“Maybe you could talk to his parents over the phone,” I said, trying to keep calm.

“Maybe,” Dad said. “But your mom and I have a lot on our plates right now. I can't make any guarantees. And your mother is more cautious than I am. I'm sure he's just a normal kid, but give us some time to work it out.”

“But I already asked him to come,” I blurted out.

Dad ran his hands through his hair, leaving it a spiky mess. He sighed heavily, then looked at me. “Then I'll definitely be calling his parents, I guess.”

“Why does it matter? He's staying with his great-granddad,” I said, my voice rising with desperation. “Dad, I don't have any other friends here.”

His expression softened and he put an arm around my shoulders. “I know you feel that way. I know this is hard.”

I swallowed down tears and leaned against him.

“We'll work it out,” he said after a moment. “I promise.”

I straightened up and slid off the stool to throw away our trash. “Can I at least walk around a little by myself?”

Dad looked at my face and sighed again. “Be back at the cottage in two hours, Wyn. Let me put Hugh's number in your phone, too, in case something happens and you need a cab.” He fiddled with my phone for a second, then handed it back.

“What's going to happen? There is literally no trouble here for me to find.”

Dad laughed at that, so I figured things would be okay with Mom, too. He hugged me and headed back down the street.

Sadly, it only took me half an hour of walking around to realize that not much was open on Sundays. None of the cute shops; not even the bookstore, Smyth and Sons. The breeze was starting to get chillier, and I increased my pace, heading south along Cwm Road until the businesses and houses started to thin out a bit. The road was sloping very slightly upward again, and the vivid green hills I could see distantly from my bedroom window looked almost close enough to touch now. I stopped at what seemed to be the last big intersection in town. The road curved to the west and was marked with a worn green sign reading
Heol Owain Glyndwr
. Underneath the street sign was a smaller sign with an arrow pointing left.

Amgueddfa—Museum
Capel Llanddewi Newydd—New St. Davids Chapel
Ysgol—School

A museum. I felt a rush. This was what I'd needed all along—somewhere to look up the history of this place, maybe find out who Olwen was. I trotted down the road and passed the chapel, which was a medium-sized, cheery-looking, whitewashed building with a small steeple in front. Just past it was the Cwm Tawel Museum, a tiny brick building set back from the road. I walked down the front path through neatly tended flower beds and read the sign on the door:
Open Monday–Friday, 10 a.m.–3 p.m.

I sat down on the step for a few minutes, nonplussed. I'd just have to come back some other time. I'd have to find something else to do this afternoon.

I heaved myself up, trudged back to the main road, and walked north along the quiet street, wondering whether it would be weird if I just walked into some shop that happened to be open and tried to practice Welsh on people. There'd better be more to do in Cwm Tawel on weekdays. It was certainly living up to the name “Quiet Valley” today.

If Gareth was here, I'd definitely be more entertained. And I'd feel less alone, too. But he wasn't. Not yet. I wished Gee Gee was well enough to show me around, but there was no use thinking about that.

The lane leading back to the farm was empty, but there was a cheery murmur of voices spilling from the open door of the Friar's Folly. Curious, I peeked in just to see what was going on. The dimly lit, wood-paneled room was half full, men and women alike enjoying pints of beer and chatting in Welsh and English.