Chapter Nineteen
Finbarr sat in a chair beside his bed, where Eimear was sleeping, long after the house had grown entirely quiet. Emma was asleep in the parlor. Madra, on the floor beside him, was even snoring a little. But Finbarr couldn’t sleep.
“I don’t belong.” Emma’s quiet, matter-of-fact declaration rang with heavy familiarity. But, until she’d said it, he hadn’t recognized what he’d been feeling for ten years. “Not here. Not anywhere.”
He didn’t truly belong here. But he couldn’t imagine himself belonging anywhere else either.
Mr. Spitz had offered him the feeling of family in St. Louis, but would it be?
The school was designed for the blind, so at the very least he would belong there in a physical way.
He could relax in ways he never could here.
And the people there understood the frustration and vulnerability of his situation.
They wouldn’t sneak up on him. They wouldn’t pretend they were someone they weren’t.
He heard a sob coming from the parlor. Emma was sleeping out there on the high-backed bench near the fireplace.
Finbarr rose and moved quickly to the doorway. “Emma?” He spoke quietly, not wanting to wake Eimear.
But Emma didn’t answer.
“Emma?”
“Marianne.” She was talking in her sleep. Talking and crying. “Marianne.”
Marianne. Emma’s friend who’d died in the fire. Who’d died in Finbarr’s arms as they’d tried to escape the collapsing barn, with flames all around them.
He couldn’t make out what Emma said next. It was more of an agonized sob than a word. She was having a nightmare, likely about that fire.
Finbarr walked over to the bench she was sleeping on. He hunched down and, carefully and slowly, lowered his hand until he found her shoulder.
“Emma?” he said softly.
She jolted and pulled in a sharp breath.
“I think you were having a nightmare, Emma,” he said.
He felt her softly touch his face. Her fingers shook. “I’m always afraid they won’t get you out,” she whispered.
“Get me out?”
Her hand dropped away. “They don’t always.” Her next breath shook tensely.
“You were dreaming about the fire?”
“I always dream about the fire, ever since it happened.” He heard her move. Her leg brushed against him as she, he would guess, sat up.
“You’ve had these nightmares for ten years?” The very idea was horrifying.
“Hardly ever in Baltimore.” She was speaking more steadily now.
“But now that you’re in Hope Springs?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He heard her stand.
“It does, though.” He stood as well. “If you’re—”
“Why don’t you lie down out here now? Try to get some sleep. I’ll go sit with Eimear.”
“You can—”
“I am not going to impose on you further.” Her light footsteps sounded away from him in the direction of his bedroom.
“You didn’t want to talk with me anymore or spend any more time with me than you had to.
If not for Eimear, I never would have acted against your wishes and come here.
But since I’m here, I am determined to be as unobtrusive as I can be. ”
“I didn’t want you to hide from me,” he said. “I just wanted you to be honest with me.”
“I thought you knew who I was.” There was frustration in her voice but also pain. “I thought you remembered me, recognized me. I thought you were happy that I was back. I thought—I thought you had finally forgiven me. I wanted to believe you had.”
“Emma—”
“I wasn’t lying to you, Finbarr. I was lying to myself.”
His door closed. She was, without a doubt, on the other side of it, and he was alone.
I thought you had finally forgiven me. Forgiven her for what? Surely she didn’t still carry around the misplaced guilt that had plagued her after the fire. Guilt he had, in his anger, contributed to.
Finbarr crossed to the door. He didn’t want to wake Eimear, but he couldn’t leave Emma feeling the way she was.
He knocked lightly. “Emma?”
He didn’t hear any movement beyond.
“Please talk to me, Emma.”
From what sounded like directly on the other side of the door, she said, “You said at the river you didn’t want to talk to me anymore.”
“I know I did, but I do now.” He listened for a response, for the sound of movement. There was nothing. “Please, Emma. Please don’t leave things like this.”
The door creaked a little, and he released his pent-up breath.
“I don’t know what you want from me, Finbarr.” Her voice was no longer muffled by a door between them. “Every time I’ve guessed, I’ve been wrong.”
“You weren’t wrong to come here,” he said. But that brought to mind something she’d said only moments ago. “You said you wouldn’t have knocked at my door if Eimear hadn’t been with you.”
“I wouldn’t have.”
“You couldn’t possibly have reached home.”
She sighed. “It doesn’t feel like home. Baltimore doesn’t really feel like home.
I don’t feel like I’m family to my own family anymore.
I’m not wanted at the school. The town has been kind, but I don’t think anyone here overly cares if I stay or go.
Wandering around alone in a blizzard would actually be very fitting. ”
“I care if you stay or go.” The thought of her feeling so expendable tore at him.
“As long as I go, right?”
He’d managed to hurt her again, more deeply than he’d have guessed. He carefully reached out, hoping to find her hand. He stumbled on her arm. She didn’t pull free, so he slipped his hand to hers.
“I often feel helpless when I’m around other people,” he said.
“Not knowing who is nearby or who is talking to me or who is watching me . . . I can’t ever escape that.
You managed to prick at a very sensitive wound, Emma.
And I hate that I made you feel like you would have to risk freezing to death in a blizzard because I wouldn’t help you. ”
She was still holding his hand, which he thought was a good sign.
“I just don’t want you to be unhappy,” she said.
He stepped closer and put his arms around her. She leaned into his embrace. The tiniest hint of the floral scent he’d noticed during their earliest walks on the river reached him again.
“If something were to happen to you, Emma Archer, I wouldn’t merely be unhappy; I would be devastated.”
“It sometimes feels like no one would even notice.”
“I felt that way for a long time,” he said. “For years.”
“What did you do?”
“I carved out this place for myself. Making this house my home meant it didn’t matter as much that I don’t always feel like I fit anywhere else. Here, it’s quiet when I need it to be quiet. I know where everything is. I don’t have to wonder who is around or where things are at.”
He felt one of her arms slip around him.
“It must be very peaceful here for you,” she said.
“It is. But it’s also sometimes lonely.” Why was he admitting that to her when he hadn’t admitted it to anyone else?
“Baltimore is like that,” she said. “It’s more peaceful than being here with all the memories. But being away from my family is often lonely.”
“Spending time with my family is also sometimes helpful when I’m feeling discouraged,” he said.
“When I last lived here, you very seldom spent time with them.”
“They were overwhelming. They still are.”
“There are a lot of O’Connors.”
“And they have a tendency to swarm.” He rubbed her back in slow circles.
He did so in the hope of offering some comfort.
It was comforting him more than he’d expected.
“Without warning, my family will be everywhere, on all sides of me, all talking at once. I have to try to sort out who’s there and where they’re standing and keep track of them while they move. It’s exhausting and frustrating.”
“They don’t identify themselves?”
“My nieces and nephews like to play a game with me. They say ‘guess!’ and then giggle with excitement when I can correctly name them. I think the rest of the family figures that, since I can sort out whose voice is whose, that I don’t need to be told.
And I don’t, I guess. I can figure out who they are, but it takes time and effort.
And when they’re all talking at once or all arrive at the same time, it’s too much. ”
“Have you told them that it would help if they told you who’s talking and who’s nearby?”
“I did, when I first started spending time with my family again.”
“But not since?”
“Anything that reminds them that I’m blind or gives them reason to think I’m struggling makes them worry about me. And when they worry, they get more overwhelming.” There was some relief in finally talking about this. “The last ten years have hurt them too, and I don’t want to add to that.”
She leaned more heavily against him. “Telling them what will help you have peace without having to hide from them would be a gift, Finbarr. If they knew you can’t always sort them out, then I promise you they would want to fix that. I promise they would. I did.”
She had, actually.
“When you knocked on the door today, the first thing you said was ‘It’s Emma.’”
Emma yawned. “You told me that was important to you. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. I didn’t want to hurt you again.”
He stood there with his arms around her as the wind continued pelting the house. Emma’s breathing grew slower.
“You should lie down, Emma. You can sleep on the bed next to Eimear; that’ll be more comfortable than the bench.”
“I don’t think I want to go back to sleep.”
“I’ll sit in the room,” he said. “If you have another nightmare, I’ll wake you up.”
“But then you won’t sleep.”
“I’ll manage.”
She slipped out of his embrace and stepped away. He immediately missed having her there. It was more than just having someone to talk to. It was more than offering comfort to an old friend. He’d felt . . . peaceful.
He made his way to the chair he’d been sitting in before. He could hear her settling in, could hear the blankets moving.
“Why did you run out of the barn the day Finn was born rather than talk to me?” he asked.
“I hate barns.” She spoke in a sleep-heavy whisper. “Especially that one. I can still smell the smoke and hear Marianne and Ivy crying. I can still see the barn falling on you and Katie and Marianne.”
“You were running from the memories?”
Slowly and sleepily, she said, “And I knew if I stayed, you’d tell me how much you still blame me for all of it.”
“You think I blame you?” he whispered.
“Almost as much as I blame myself.”