Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
Iwhip the curtain shut with shaking hands and stagger back until my knees hit the bed. I drop, pulse hammering in my throat. “What the hell was that?”
There’s no explanation. Nothing rational, anyway. It can’t be a ghost. Can it? No. I’d be laughed out of the physics department for even entertaining the thought. I huff an amused breath. Ghosts. As if.
It was just a hallucination. A bizarre waking dream brought on by exhaustion, hunger, jet lag, anxiety. And Janet’s stupid song.
I stand and straighten the sheets, fluff the unfluffable pillows, and triple-check the curtains. I kick off my jeans and crawl back into bed, then turn off the light.
So what if I pull the covers completely over my head? It’s not fear. Just practical. Light-blocking. That’s all.
I doze fitfully, waking every hour to check the empty room. By 5:00 a.m., I give up on sleep entirely. It’s too early for breakfast, so I take a long shower. Hot water hits me with needle-sharp pressure, scalding away the lingering chill and filling the tiny bathroom with steam.
By the time I’m done, I’m convinced it was all a strange nightmare, induced by exhaustion and that horrible Loch Lomond ghost song.
Needing to flee this room, I tiptoe down the stairs and am surprised to find the dining room lights are already on. I can hear dishes and pots clanking in the kitchen.
If that sneering front-desk Annie is back there, she’s the last person I feel like dealing with. I take one tiptoed step backward and am almost in the clear when the floorboard creaks.
There’s a murmured exclamation followed by a quick shuffling step headed my way. I panic, unsure what to do. It’d look stupid to scurry back to my room now.
“Come in, come in.” A short, thick-waisted woman scuttles from the back, smiling wide. A rag is tucked in the waistband of her navy-blue skirt, and she wipes her hands on it.
“I’m Una, and you must be the wee American, though nae so wee, are you?” She gives me a satisfied once-over. “But you missed dinner,” she scolds. “Now sit yourself down and eat before I take it personal.” The words are sharp, but her grin is warm, like we’ve known each other forever.
“I’m sorry, you’re probably super busy. I came down way too early.” The last thing I want is to be a burden. I know what it’s like to get an early-morning kitchen going. I instinctively reach for my phone to check the time, then remember it’s dead. “I’ll come back when—”
“You’ll do no such thing, lass. You slept the clock around.
Must be ready to eat a horse.” She tsks.
“Young woman like you, traveling all alone. My sister would never let Annie travel. Annie’s her girl, see, and she’s a different sort than you, I imagine.
” She gives me a wry smile. “It will have been Annie who checked you in, aye?” She nods, answering her own question.
“Our Annie, she’s a smart one.” Her tone suggests that’s not necessarily a compliment. “No troubles sleeping last night?”
I hesitate, wondering how to mention ghosts without sounding insane.
She waves a hand. “You best lock your door, or old Betsy will come in the night and bother you.”
Oh no. There are ghosts.
“B-Betsy?”
“Never you mind Bets.” She leans in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “She likes a wee tipple now and then. Mostly on ladies’ night.”
I swallow. “A tipple?”
“Aye, she’s a pensioner, see. Lives on the government money, and she likes to stretch it out on our two-quid pints.
Wouldnae hurt a fly, but she does lose her way now and then.
Gets tired and has a wander up the stairs straight into the first room she finds, which is your number three.
So you’ll be locking yourself in, if you know what’s good for you.
” She grins. “Unless you’re wanting old Bets crawling intae bed with you. ”
She bursts into laughter, and I can’t help but join her. No ghosts. Just a drunk woman with poor navigation.
Una looks relieved, mistaking the reason for my good humor.
“Oh that’s grand then. You Americans are a happy sort, aren’t you?
It’s a fine thing. We don’t mind old Betsy, either, not a bit.
Her Gerry held her together, but when he passed—Ger was her husband, mind—she wasn’t quite the full shilling anymore, if you get my meaning. A bit dotty, like.”
I love Una. And she’s right. I’ve survived my mother. This Betsy doesn’t scare me one little bit.
“I’m familiar with dotty,” I tell her. “Trust me.”
“Ah, right.” She pauses, searching for how to respond, then adopts a brittle cheer.
“Are you speaking of your mum, then? She gets on like a house on fire, no doubt about it. You’ve the same red hair.
” Una lifts a hand like she might touch it, but she pulls back.
“I can see the resemblance between you clear as dawn. You’re as like as two eggs.
Can you sing, too? Janet entertained the lot of us, that’s for certain. ”
I cringe. “Sorry about that. If I need to—”
“You’re sorry?” She clucks with amusement. “No sorry about it. Your mum knows all the songs. She speaks the Gaelic as good as my Gran herself did, may she rest in peace. If you’re lucky, she’ll have taught you a word or two.”
“A bit, yeah.” I cringe, flashing back to my early childhood and years of getting pinched for my lousy pronunciation. “It never really took.”
“Well, it’s lovely to hear it. It’s enough to forgive your mum for being a Campbell.” She winks like this is supposed to mean something.
“Is that a bad thing?” I’m desperate to know more about my family. I’ve always dreamed of tracking down some Scottish cousins.
“Och, listen to me. You with the Campbell blood yourself.” Una waves a hand, suddenly flustered.
“Just, well, never you mind.” She tsks to herself as she steers me to a table and practically shoves me into a chair.
“Here I am havering on when you’re plain starved.
Have you ever had a proper Scottish breakfast?
You’ll not have, I wager. Porridge, toast, eggs.
Or are you one for kippers? Och, listen to me.
You’ll not know kippers from a hole in the wall, nice American girl like you. ”
Una’s right, I don’t know kippers, but I do know the words toast and eggs. I open my mouth to ask for coffee, but she’s already ahead of me.
“Will you be wanting tea? No, I imagine you’ll be like the other Americans, wanting coffee.
Am I right? Last week, we had a couple here from California who said they only drank ex-presso.
Can you imagine that? As if I could afford an expresso-maker machine.
But I do a fine French press, and I say that’s as good as any fancy American coffee.
“Now your mum had tea. I had a pot on for her just yesterday before I realized she’d run like the dickens out of here. I mean, I’m sure she didn’t understand you were coming or she’d never have gone…” She tapers off, realizing the sensitive ground she’s treading.
I laugh humorlessly. Janet probably took off because she knew I’d be coming for her.
A twinge of sadness catches me off guard, and I busy myself with my napkin, searching for something to say.
“Yeah, my mother loves her tea.” I arrange my fork, knife, and spoon just so.
“She might be from around here,” I add, forcing my voice lighter.
“I don’t suppose she looks familiar to you?
” I make myself meet Una’s eye, then quickly look away from the knowing look that meets mine.
When she squeezes my shoulder, I grit my teeth.
“No, love,” she says quietly. “But your mum’s red hair is as Scottish as Bruce’s lion. Yours too.”
This time, when she reaches out, she does stroke my head, sweeping wisps from my forehead. “Now you make yourself at home and I’ll do the full Scottish brekkie for you. There’s nothing a good black pudding won’t fix.”
Turns out black pudding is as gross as it sounds. I’m busy cutting it into tiny pieces, discreetly spreading them around my plate so as not to offend Una, when a sharp laugh pierces the silence.
I startle and put down my fork with a trembling hand. Mom. She loves a good scare. A little too much.
“Well, if it isnae the Queen of Sheba.” Janet plops down beside me, loud and unbothered. Her accent is even thicker than Una’s as she demands, “Oh aye, thought you’d finally grace us with your grand presence?”
“I could say the same. I’ve been looking for you.”
“And here I am. Still. Which isnae where I’m supposed to be. And here you are. We’re here together, which means everything’s gone wrong.”
I toss my crumpled napkin onto my plate. I don’t have the energy for her riddles today. “Great to see you, too.”
She pauses to give me a slow, deliberate scan, then barks a laugh. “Oh, lass. Has your room no mirror?”
I smooth back my hair, grumbling, “I didn’t sleep well.”
She peers closer, shaking her head. “’Tisnae just that. You’re all peely-wally.”
“Peely-what-ty?”
“Pale, child. Your skin. Like you seen a tattie-bogle.”
I sigh. “Can we please speak English?”
“English.” She sneers and makes like she’s spitting on the floor. “Do you nae remember the tale of the tattie-bogle?” She pinches my chin a little too hard, forcing my head to jerk along to a childhood chant. “‘The tattie-bogle waves his arms, caw caw caw.’”
“Just stop.” I yank my chin free, darting a quick glance around to make sure no one saw. “The word is scarecrow. And, no, it wasn’t like that. But…”
For a moment, I just look at her. Just a kid needing her mom.
“Actually, last night there was—”
“Well, you seem fit enough now.” She claps my cheek a few times, just almost too hard to be affectionate. “Me, though. I’m as knackered as a salmon.”
“You, though.” I mimic her under my breath. Exhaustion crashes over me, heavier than any jet lag. “Of course you’re tired. I’ll just bet you need a vacation from your vacation.”