Chapter 2 #2
“I could’ve left you sooner.” Her voice pitches lower, accusatory. “That man would’ve cared for you. And you’re a brilliant lass. You could’ve managed.”
The words hit like slaps, but they also trigger a memory. My mother at my eighth-grade science fair, charming my teacher into letting me give a longer presentation because “my daughter’s a brilliant lass.” She’d been so proud, calling attention to me. That’s the Janet I’m always hoping to catch.
I swallow hard, mustering a reply. “That man is my grandfather. And you’re my mother—what do you want, a trophy for doing your job?”
“A trohhh-phy.” She snickers, mimicking me under her breath. “Aye, that’d be grand.”
“Glad this amuses you.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, sudden and razor-sharp. “You’re nineteen now. I was nineteen. I could’ve left sooner but waited for you to finish the schooling that’s so important to you.”
“That was called high school, and I’m pretty sure you were legally required to care for me.”
“Pssht.” She waves that away. “You’re old enough to manage. Have been for years.”
“With no help from you,” I mutter. Anything to ease the sting.
I knew Janet didn’t enjoy her life, but hearing it laid out so frankly—that she wanted something more than me—is a pain too sharp to consider.
I harden my tone. “You can’t just run around Scotland. You don’t have a visa, a job—not the slightest clue what you’re doing. No, you’re going home before you empty Poppa’s retirement account.”
“Aye. I am going home.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Och, but what I said isnae what you heard. I want to go home.” She draws out the words, like I’m the obstinate one. “It’s why we’re here, now. At this verra moment in time. I’m being called. I can feel it. Can you nae?”
Something cold prickles at the base of my neck. The way she says it—like she’s hearing voices I can’t. Shaking off the weird feeling, I snap, “We’re here for my University of Edinburgh tour. Which I missed, thank you very much.”
“You dinnae understand. It’s time for me to go.”
“I’m trying. You’re the one who left me at some restaurant. To pay the check,” I add with a hard stare. “Alone.”
She grins and bursts into some old song. “New moon, I’m all alone—”
“The lyrics are ‘blue moon.’ But yes, there was a new moon last night. And what’s with all the singing? Have you been drinking? They said you were drinking.” I lean in and sniff. “I swear, there better not be a bar tab.”
“Ah, I’m simply happy as a lark, my lass. Getting close now.”
I scoot back my chair. “Not if we don’t get a move on. We need to hit the road.”
She giggles, then bursts into more song. “‘O ye’ll take the high road, and I’ll take the low road, and I’ll be in Scotland afore ye.’”
I jerk my head back. “Seriously? Not that again.”
But she ignores me, voice swelling with the tune. “’Twas then that we parted, in yon shady glen, on the steep, steep side o’ Ben Lomond, where in purple hue, the hieland hills we view, and the moon coming out in the gloamin’.”
“Just, come on.” I stand and gesture for her to do the same. So much for finding my Scottish relatives. I’ll be lucky if I get Janet out of here without suffering public mortification. “We have to check out before the hotel charges us for another day.”
“I dinnae ken about that.” I startle as a man steps up behind me, radiating self-importance. “I’m not so verra stingy,” he says, all but purring at Janet. “Nae for someone as bonnie as yourself.”
Great.
Clearly, he doesn’t register my scowl, because he grins at me and booms, “You must be Janet’s sister.”
My mother titters like a songbird. “Oh, Dan. You old flirt.”
“Not sisters,” I say, exhaling a flat sigh—we’ve done this routine a thousand times. “She’s my mother.”
Dan doesn’t even hear me. His adoring gaze is pinned on Janet as he takes her hands and pulls her to standing. “If our humble inn could enjoy one more night of your glorious company, well, that’s on the house, surely.”
“Surely,” I grumble.
Dan’s smile dims as his gaze shifts to me. “I’m afraid you’ll still have to pay your way. Seeing as it’s peak season, well…you’ll understand.”
Oh, I definitely understand. Dan isn’t my first barkeep, and I have a pretty good idea where he’s hoping Janet might sleep tonight.
“Don’t worry,” I say with only the barest eye roll. “I’m checking out, and my mother is as anxious to leave as I am. You’ll understand,” I add sweetly.
“Nae as much of a charmer as your mum, are you?”
Janet yanks her hands back, her mercurial mood sizzling to life like acid on metal. “And you’re a miserable old goat.”
Is she…defending me?
For an instant, I glow with it. Then reality sets in—Janet’s probably just annoyed I ruined their moment.
I jump in quickly. “Whatever. It’s fine.” Then I turn back to Dan, eager to get something out of this before he knows what’s hit him. “Though I will take you up on a late checkout. Thank you so much.”
It takes a second, but Dan finally nods, begrudgingly, and leads us to the front desk, where he studies his ledger like a head of state reviewing classified intel.
Before she can do any more damage, I grab Janet’s shoulders and steer her toward the stairs. “Get your things. I’ll meet you back here in an hour.”
She shoots me a saucy wink, and with a little flounce to her shoulders, sings in my face, “Moon coming out in the gloamin’.”
“Would you please stop? One hour, okay?” I eye her warily. “Actually, thirty minutes. You got that?”
With a nod, she sashays away.
My shoulders sag. How am I supposed to get through the next twenty-four hours?
I still need to confirm our flights and book a taxi, so I drop my phone at the front desk to use their USB thingie.
Shockingly, it works. I’d half expected another relic to match this ancient hotel.
With a sigh, I head upstairs, gripping the sticky, over-waxed banister, every tread creaking like a horror movie. No wonder I thought I saw a ghost.
Twenty-nine minutes later, I reemerge feeling almost cheerful. I’m headed back to New York. Back to Poppa, school, my beloved routine.
Back to me.
No more ghosts.
Unfortunately, no Janet, either.
I ask around the dining room and—surprise—nobody knows where she went.
I wait at the bar, my suitcase standing pathetically beside my stool. I fish my book from my pack, but no matter how hard I try to focus, the words blur on the page.
Eventually, Una brings me a cheese and chutney sandwich. “I’m certain she’ll be back any minute,” she says with a reassuring nod.
I nibble the crustless triangles as slowly as possible. When I finish, she brings a bowl of carrot soup. I ladle it in small, slow sips, watching the lunch crowd come and go.
Why did I let her out of my sight?
The thing is, I keep finding myself in situations like this.
When friends ask why I don’t just cut her off, I tell them: she’s my mother.
My only living family besides Poppa. But the real reason runs deeper.
Somewhere under all her selfishness lives the woman who used to bring me cake in bed when I was sad.
Or sick. Or because it was Tuesday. Who’d wake me at midnight so we could leave offerings of milk and honey for the fairies.
The woman who’d braid my hair into intricate patterns with the focus of a surgeon.
And then there was the time she taught me to swear in Gaelic.
After a particularly bad day at school, she pulled me aside with twinkling eyes and whispered the most creative insults, showing rare patience as she made me practice over and over until I got the pronunciation right.
When I did, she clapped her hands and pronounced me a proper Scottish lass with fire in my belly.
And so I keep bailing her out because I’ve seen her capable of love, even if she rations it like a finite resource.
Which is all very noble, until I hit the one-hour mark waiting alone in a hotel dining room.
I try to read. Fume a little. Wait some more.
Una reappears, gives my shoulder a sympathetic pat, and silently places my room key—the one I’d already returned—on the table.
I nudge it away. “Thanks, but I’ll just wait here a little longer.”
“Of course, lass.”
Compassion softens her features, and I can’t decide if it’s welcome or unbearable.
Naturally, that’s when the giant grandfather clock begins its eerie bong-bong from the other room. A clock in the dining room joins in, clicking and whirring before releasing a series of rhythmic chimes. Behind the bar, more bells start to ding, higher and tinnier.
A strange, disconnected feeling washes over me. How long have I been sitting here? Did I only imagine seeing Janet earlier?
Another clock begins a cheerful ding-ding-dong-dong, its chimes overlapping and crawling under my skin. I grip the bar, unease prickling the back of my neck.
“Is this place haunted?” I blurt.
I hadn’t meant to ask about ghosts. Now Una’s going to think I’m some woo-woo American.
“Ah.” She tucks her rag into her belt and sits beside me. “You seen something, is it?”
I blink. Her nonchalance throws me so much, I admit a hesitant, “Maybe. I only saw his reflection. He didn’t speak.”
“Only that, eh?” She sighs and pats my arm. “Poor lass. Seeing a taish would be enough to shake the bravest of us.”
“A what?”
“A taish. Dinnae be afraid of them. It’s a spirit, like.
A soul’s image returned as a reflection.
They say a taish is created at the moment of death.
Dinnae ken why it happens to some and nae to others.
Maybe if a man fights his death, or it takes him by surprise, then maybe he becomes a taish.
” She shrugs. “Or maybe a soul just wants to say goodbye.”
“So…this guy showed himself to me as he was dying?” Soup sloshes in my stomach.
Una is quick to grab my hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “Och, no, dear. I imagine the lad is long dead. Here’s what I think. I reckon he had a powerful feeling, maybe in life, maybe in death, and a picture of him was captured and still hangs about. Like mist.”
The smell of carrots is making me feel sick, and I shove the bowl aside. “I don’t know if I want to stay in a hotel where supernatural mist is hanging around.”
She laughs kindly. “A place this old, you cannae walk to the loo without something coming to call. Maybe it’s just the pipes knocking. Or the floors creaking with nobody upon ’em. Hell, Edinburgh has a whole bleedin’ coach haunting it. Rolls up and down the Royal Mile, it does.”
She leans in, eyes twinkling. “Naw, a taish is nothing to be scared of. In fact,” she adds with a saucily raised brow, “legend goes, if a lady taish appears at a man’s left hand, she’s no spirit at all but the lass meant to be his wife.
So? Did the lad appear at your right? You might’ve seen your husband, how about that? ”
I know Una is only trying to make me feel better, but taish, ghost—whatever they call it—I’m ready to toss up my lunch.
She makes a thoughtful hmm, then hops up and scurries behind the bar. A moment later, a small glass of whisky appears in front of me.
“A dram of the Glenfiddich will set you to rights.”
I eye the amber liquid warily. “I’m not much of a drinker.”
“And I’ll wager you’ve never had our Scottish whisky. There’s naught better to warm your bones and ease your mind.”
I hesitate, but it’s just a tiny pour. Maybe the alcohol will cut through the nausea. Quiet my brain for a second.
I exhale and wrap my fingers around the glass. “I’ll give it a try.”
Una beams. “That’s the ticket.”
I knock it back in one go, and immediately regret it. Fire scorches down my throat, my belly churns, and still my thoughts hum like a beehive in my skull.
I’d expected Una to brush off my story. Instead, she’s planted even more disturbing ones in my mind. Had I been watching the guy at the moment of his death? I could swear he saw me. Just as clearly as I saw him.
What the hell does that mean?
A chill trickles down my spine. My vision wobbles as blood drains from my head.
“Did I make you ill?” Una’s face pinches with worry. “Och, I’m a fool.”
“Of course not.” I force a weak smile. “I’m just tired.”
“Poor child.” She slides my room key across the bar. “Back upstairs with you. Doc Una prescribes some solitude and a bit of rest.”
By the time I reach my door, I’m trembling. It takes three tries to fit the key in the lock. When it finally turns, I lurch inside and flip the bolt the moment the door shuts.
I drop onto the bed fully clothed, but the silence instantly unsettles me. I spring back up, fumbling for the remote, and switch on the TV to some random baking show.
I pass out. Of course.
When I wake, the room is dark except for the flickering light from the screen—blue, white, blue, white.
I prop myself onto one elbow, blinking at the television. A man in a kilt is throwing some kind of weird shot put. A banner along the bottom reads: CROWDS GATHER FOR ANNUAL STRATHbrIDE HIGHLAND GATHERING.
It takes a bleary second to remember where I am.
Janet.
Did she ever make it back to the hotel?
I grab my phone to check for messages, but the screen is black.
Dead again. I meant to ask at the front desk if I could actually keep an adapter, but instead, I bolted from the dining room like it was on fire.
I blame that stupid shot of whisky. I never drink.
Alcohol tastes like losing control, and there’s too much I need to keep track of.
The doorknob rattles.
I squeal, slamming back against the bed frame.
“Havennae will be…noo wherizzit?”
A gusty sigh puffs from my lips. Just a woman shouting nonsense in the hallway. A real, flesh-and-blood, drunk-out-of-her-mind woman. Her footsteps must’ve woken me.
“Oi! Oi! Oi!” The door shakes as she pounds on it. “Whooo’s locked me oot? Lemme in.”
I fling off the blankets and spring to the door, smacking it with the flat of my hand. “Go. Away. This isn’t your room.”
The stairs creak. Another voice joins her—softer, soothing. I can’t make out the words, only the murmuring hum of someone talking her down.
The voices recede.
I peer through the peephole in time to watch them disappear down the hall.
I lean against the door, waiting for my heart to settle. A shaky laugh forces its way out.
Just Betsy. The lady Una warned me about.
Relief floods me. I turn, open my eyes—
He’s there.
Not a reflection. Not a trick of the light.
Him.
Standing right in front of me.