Chapter 8
eight
The first time I wake, I have no sense of time or reality. The world around me shifts, my eyes too heavy to open, my brain too foggy to register the sway of my body.
Warmth envelopes me, but I am still cold and shivering. There is no part of me that is unaffected by the rage of pain coursing through my body like lightening. Someone is screaming. Crying.
I can hear it.
No.
I can feel it.
It is me.
Hushed conversation surrounds me, and gentle hands caress my face, but I can’t concentrate on them. Not when everything hurts so much.
What is the fire in my stomach?
Am I dying?
Is this what dying feels like?
Thousands of needles piercing into the skin.
Poking…
Stabbing…
Then it is gone. Replaced by a deep, smooth voice that surrounds me like the warmth of a summer wind, but with the bite of a winter chill. The scent of orange and cedarwood wash over me. A juxtaposition of sensations that calm the frenzy gripping my mind.
A low thrumming fills my veins as I listen, the pain ebbing slightly at the rich tones of lyrics I know all too well. Wetness gathers on my cheeks, the warmth causing a harsh sting against the chill of my skin, but I welcome it eagerly.
“Hó bha ín, Hó bha ín.
Hó bha ín, mo ghrá.
Hó bha ín, mo leana,
Agus codail, go lá.
Hó bha ín, mo leana,
‘Is hó bha ín mo roghain.
Hó bha ín, mo leana,
Is gabh amach a bhadhbh badhbh.
Hó bha ín, Hó bha ín.
Hó bha ín, mo ghrá.
Hó bha ín, mo leana,
Agus codail, go lá.”
Those hauntingly familiar lyrics are the last thing I remember before darkness rushes up to greet me.
Over the years under Elias’s roof, the memories of my mother had begun to wane, and I often wondered which of them were real.
There were times, when I’d been left in the dark, confined space of the shed, that many of the moments that came to me felt—fake.
Like I had somehow conjured them up in my imagination to stave off the repressing darkness.
Hó bha ín, Hó bha ín
Sleep, my child. Sleep, my child.
The familiar tune tugs at the edges of my fraying memory, the tapestry of my mind slowly unraveling to reveal the pattern beneath.
I nearly forgot those words.
Those lyrics.
She used to sing them to me every single night before I went to bed.
Is breá liom tú, mo laoch beag.
I love you, my little warrior.
Those were her last words to me as she shoved me into the small crawl space just beyond the kitchen.
Our secret hiding place.
I always thought it was a type of game when she’d make me practice time and time again, getting in and out of the crawl space without being heard. Without being seen.
Knowing what I do know, it is clear there was something much more urgent behind it.
Hó bha ín, Hó bha ín.
Who is singing those lyrics? Lyrics to a lullaby that my mother once told me had been passed down from generation to generation among the women in her family.
Before I can put much thought into it, the same voice begins to hum the tune beside me. Am I dreaming?
No, I am in too much pain to be dreaming.
Then what is happening?
Does it even matter? The warm bass of the voice humming mother’s tune caresses the air around me, filling me with a sense of long forgotten peace. A sense of home, and once again, I slip into the depths of unconsciousness.
Where am I?
The stale smell of hay and urine is gone, and the beneath me is soft and warm. There is a thick quilt draped over me, it’s heaviness providing a comfort I’m unaware I needed.
My eyes are heavy, and I don’t need to open them to know I am alone. I’ve spent a lot of time over the years getting to know what an empty room sounds like. Taking a deep breath, I inhale the fresh scent surrounding me.
Orange and cedarwood.
What an odd combination.
Fog stills holds my mind in its clutches, and I can’t place where I’ve smelled that scent before, but my body seems to understand it means safety because the tension in my muscles begins to uncoil.
Slowly, I pry my eyes open; the lashes nearly flued shut. The room is blurry, and I carefully bring a hand up to wipe away at the conjunctiva that has settled over them. I take a deep breath, fear washing over me before I have chance to clamp down on it.
What if this is all a dream?
No, it can’t be. I remember them, the men who rescued me. The ones who bore features similar to mine.
My brothers.
Or had that all been a figment of my imagination?
Pain flares sharp and immediate in my left side when I try to sit up. I bite down the cry that threatens, blinking against the tears gathering in my eyes.
Then it all comes back to me.
I’d been shot.
Rescued and shot all in the same day. Karma really is a bitch.
“You’re awake.”
I turn my attention toward the door, where an elderly woman stands smiling, a small tray of food in her hands. She stands tall. Her shoulders erect, head slightly raised as she takes in my current state.
Sweat dots my foreheads as I struggle to stay composed while she makes her way into the room. My abdomen is killing me in this position, but I know I won’t be able to sit up fully without any help, and I don’t want to appear weak by lying back down.
“You might as well give it up, dearie.” She smiles softly at me as she sets the tray down on the dresser opposite the bed and approaches me. “Either lie back or ask me for help.”
Is she a mind reader?
“Not a mind reader. Just perceptive.”
Oops, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.
The woman holds out a strong, wrinkled hand and raises a brow at me like she is challenging me to deny it. With a small, defeated sigh, I take it, letting her help me into a sitting position against the headboard.
I’ll admit, that was much easier than trying to do it on my own.
“I Siobhan, dear, but you can call me Nan,” she introduces herself before turning to retrieve the tray. “Your grandmother.”
Grandmother. I have a grandmother. That is a novel idea. I’ve never had a grandmother. Elias’s parents died before he’d taken me. Rumor was that Dante and Elias’s father had murdered her in a fit of jealous rage, which led to Dante killing him and taking the throne.
That is how he ended up as Don for so long.
Something warm stirs in my chest at her gentle gaze and soft smile. Not even Libby looked at me with such warmth, and this woman barely knows me. The hearty smell of stew fills my nose when she sets the tray on my lap. My stomach grumbles from hunger.
“Thank you,” I mumble between small spoon full of soup. “This is delicious.”
Nan beams at my praise. She goes about fussing over the room while I eat. The stew is heaven on my tongue, and I resist the urge to moan in ecstasy at the bits of steak that melt in my mouth. The bread is thick, crusty, and smells homemade. I dip it into the stew and bring it to my lips.
After weeks of water and barely digestible food, there is nothing better.
The silence between us as she works is comfortable, and I can’t help but sneak a peek at her every now and again as she moves about.
She is taller than my five-foot-five frame and willowy.
Long legs peek out from under a billowing bohemian skirt, and on her feet are a worn pair of Birkenstocks.
She wears a white peasant blouse and several layers of necklaces in all shapes and sizes.
Nan reminds me of my mother. Wild and free.
Her graying red hair hands in a smooth bob just below a strong, angular jaw that makes her look younger than she is. This is a strong, natural woman. The opposite of Kendra’s plastic manufactured beauty. It’s refreshing.
The quiet of the room fractures suddenly as the door swings open harshly, revealing a slender woman with tawny brown hair holding a stack of clothes. She’s aged since the photo I saw of her laughing with my mother, but I recognize her all the same.
Marianne McAlister.
“Ever heard of knocking?” Nan’s brusque tone astounds me. Her radiant eyes narrow at the woman, hands on her hips, a scowl on her lips.
“Why would I knock in my own house, Siobhan?” Marianne sneers at Nan as she thrusts the clothes at her before turning toward me. Her mud brown eyes widen slightly as she takes me in.
“Jesus,” she gasps, a hand flying to her mouth. “She looks like…”
“Remember something, Marianne,” Nan growls. “You may stay here, but this is not your house. It is mine, and you will show me the respect I am due.”
Damn. Nan has some golden balls.
The pair fall quiet, their gazes locked on one another in a silent battle of wills, giving me time to study the woman my mother once called her best friend. Her posture is stiff as she stares Nan down. There is history there I don’t understand, but one thing is glaringly obvious.
This is the twin’s mother.
My encounter with the duo was short, but I can see pieces of her in them, even if they are subtle. Their fair, flawless skin matches her own almost perfectly. The same for their angular noses and long eyelashes.
The rest is all Kavanaugh.
So, my mother’s best friend married the man she had been in love with. Is that why she didn’t follow up with the police? Because she wanted what she couldn’t have? Or is that just my cynical paranoia showing?
Matthias has been a bad influence on me.
Lost in my thoughts, it takes me a moment to realize Marianne has been talking to me.
Scrunching up my nose, I look up at her. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I asked if your mother ever mentioned me.” Marianne’s eyebrows furrow. “Marianne McAlister?”
I shake my head. It isn’t a lie. Mother never talked about her life before Portland. Not once. That makes it easy for me to act is if I’ve never heard anything about her. Marianne seems to buy it, but the glint in Nan’s eyes tells me she hasn’t bought my bullshit.
Marianne’s face falls, and a small bit of guilt overwhelms me.
“I didn’t know about…” Marianne visibly swallows before giving her head a small shake and pasting a fake smile on her painted lips.
“You can go now, Marianne.” Nan dismisses her with a wave of her hand as she approaches the side of the bed with the clothes.