Chapter Five ~ Fiona #2
With my heart in my throat, I slip out of the room and all but run for the stairs.
Even if this wasn’t Dad’s wake, I wouldn’t waste my breath saying anything to those gossips.
There would be no point; they’ve always believed what they wanted to about me, and I can’t see that changing.
Lashing out at them would give them more ammunition and another reason to believe their disdain for me is justified.
I’ll never understand why people considered my dad’s desire to travel charming and found him worldly and fascinating, yet they assumed my wanderlust made me believe I was somehow better than them.
Most people from Honeywell stay here for life, but from an early age, I knew I wanted to see and experience everything the world has to offer.
People called me a dreamer, said I had my head in the clouds and stars in my eyes, as if any of that were a bad thing.
I never lost my sense of wonder or stopped believing in magic the way so many of them did, and that, apparently, is an unforgivable sin.
Except to Seamus Murphy. And now he’s gone.
I’m seething by the time I reach the top of the stairs.
I can’t believe they’d bring up my grandmother’s funeral today of all days, even if they didn’t realize I could hear them.
Several years ago, Mum’s mother died suddenly while I was leading a group on a three-week backpacking trip across Europe.
We were spending a week in the middle of nowhere, France, where we had spotty cell reception, no Wifi, and the closest phone was nearly two kilometres away.
By the time I got the message that Grandma had died, I’d missed the funeral.
Even though I insisted I could be on the next flight out, Mum told me to finish the trip and come home when I could.
When I finally got to Honeywell, we had our own private memorial, and I spent a week holed up with my parents, sharing stories about Grandma, and sorting through her belongings before returning to London.
My parents understood. They always understood. Never once did they blame me or make me feel bad for being away. They were proud of me and they encouraged me, especially Dad. But according to the people in this town, I deserve the World’s Worst Daughter Award.
My legs carry me automatically to Dad’s office door.
I should go back downstairs, but my feet are rooted to the spot.
Mum is in such a fog, I doubt she’ll even notice I’m gone.
Others likely will, but what they think of me isn’t my concern.
I lift my hand as if to knock on the door, then deflate when I realize what I’ve done. Old habits really do die hard.
I turn the knob and step inside. I haven’t been in here since I arrived, and the familiar scent hits me like a punch to the gut.
I suck a breath into my tight lungs, then another, but it still feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. This room has always smelled the same: a combination of lemon furniture polish, old books, Dad’s Irish Spring soap, the musky cologne he wore, and, of course, peppermint.
It takes me at least a minute to work up the courage to turn the light on and walk fully into the room.
I stop at the desk, trailing my fingers over the polished wood.
Piles of papers and reference books litter the surface, and yellow sticky notes are plastered haphazardly along one side of the computer monitor.
‘Organized chaos’ is what Dad called it. He always knew where everything was.
My gaze travels around the overstuffed bookshelves.
All thirty-seven of the novels he published take pride of place, front and centre.
There’s a small light built into the top of the shelf that can be turned on to shine directly on the books.
Mum set it up as a surprise for Dad’s birthday one year.
She said she knew he’d think it was ridiculous and hilarious and cheesy—in other words, perfect.
She said Dad worked hard and deserved to have a literal spotlight shone on his work.
I round the desk and stand beside the huge leather chair.
Dad’s favourite threadbare cardigan is draped over the back.
I can picture him sitting here, fingers flying across the keyboard, brows furrowed in concentration.
Throughout my childhood, he’d let me sit in here to watch him or do my homework or occasionally write my own stories.
He eventually set up a small work station for me with a table and comfortable chair near the window, since he knew I liked to be able to look outside.
I wander around the room, trailing my fingers over the spines of books, and looking at things without really seeing them.
After doing a slow loop, I return to the desk and pluck the cardigan from the back of the chair.
I swing it around my shoulders as I slide into the chair, inhaling until my lungs are full of Dad’s scent.
I wish there were a way to preserve it. To bottle it and keep it forever so that when it begins to fade from my memory, I’d always have it handy.
I scan the framed photos that take up one side of the desk.
There are collages on the wall, but Dad kept some of his favourite photos here where he could see them while he worked.
There’s one of him and Mum on their wedding day, their smiles big and goofy, eyes bright and shining with love.
One of them holding me on the day I was born, with Mum smiling tiredly at the camera while Dad stares down at me with so much love and wonder in his eyes, it pokes sharply at the ache in my chest. One of Dad and Rex in this very room, curled up in the armchair by the window, with Dad reading to Rex.
One of Dad and me in front of the cottage in Ireland; Mila took this shot the first time she and I visited Dad together, and it’s one of my favourites.
I pick it up to examine it more closely and notice a smaller frame behind it.
It’s a picture of Nathan and me one summer when we were teens.
In the shot, I’m on the tire swing in Nathan’s backyard; my head is thrown back, mouth open mid-laugh, and Nathan’s arms are out as if he just pushed me.
The look on his face nearly stops my heart.
It feels like an eternity since I last saw that love-struck grin on his face.
Hell, it feels like an eternity since I’ve seen him aim any expression at me other than hurt, irritation, judgement, or indifference.
I set the frame I’m holding back on the desk and pick up the picture of Nathan and me.
My fingers have a life of their own as they trace the glass over Nathan’s face.
He was one of the first people to arrive today.
We barely said more than hello to each other, but I saw him moving through the house, talking to people, taking a shot of whiskey with Thomas and Liam, bringing Mum a plate of food, and then lingering to make sure she ate some of it.
He seems as comfortable here as I imagine he is in his own home.
“I asked him once why he kept that picture on his desk.”
I startle, fumbling the frame and catching it before it crashes to the floor.
Nathan is leaning in the doorway, one hand holding something, and the other stuffed into the pocket of his jeans.
He’s dressed similarly to Thomas, except his sweater is dark blue.
I can almost hear my dad laughing and commenting on the number of ‘Irish fisherman sweaters’ today.
“What did he say?” I ask.
Nathan pushes himself away from the doorframe and crosses the room.
I expect him to stop on the other side of the desk, but he comes around to stand beside me.
He sets down what he’s holding, and I have a moment of confusion as I take in the small plate of food.
I must have been up here for a lot longer than I realized if the speeches are already finished.
Nathan’s rough fingers brush mine as he takes the picture from me. “He said this is how he liked to remember us: young, happy…in love.” He glances at me, then away just as quickly. “He told me a few times over the years not to be mad at you for leaving. Said that wanderlust was in your blood.”
I had no idea my dad and Nathan ever talked about me. I figured I’d be such a sore subject for Nathan that they’d avoid discussing me at all.
He sets the picture down and picks up the one of my parents on their wedding day.
“He loved you so much, Fiona. You and Mae.” This time, when he raises his head to meet my gaze, he doesn’t look away.
“I’m sorry for what I said the day you came home.
It was an asshole thing to say, especially right then.
Murph told me he was the one who insisted you not come home, but… ”
He blows out a breath and sets the picture down with the others.
“When you moved away, he told me I had to find a way to forgive you for leaving. That it was never about me. It took me a long time to believe that and accept it. Then when he got sick, all that old hurt got stirred up again and mixed in with new hurt. Even then, he told me if I could get past it, maybe we’d find a way to be friends again someday. ”
This is almost too much. I never thought I’d hear Nathan admit he had conversations like that with my dad.
Multiple conversations, from the sounds of it.
He was so upset when I left all those years ago, and it always seemed like he wanted to hold onto that hurt, wrap it around himself like a protective cloak that couldn’t be removed.
But there was a time when Nathan and I were best friends.
It was always Nathan, Liam, and me—and occasionally Liam’s younger sister, Thea—but where I’ve always felt a brotherly love for Liam, it was never like that with Nathan.
Losing him as a friend was almost worse than losing him as a lover.
I thought even if we weren’t together as a couple, we’d always be friends, even if it was awkward for a while. Clearly, I was wrong.
I rise and move past him to look out the window.
Dad chose this room for his office because of the view: the large yard with its treehouse and swing set, and beyond that, a creek and wooded area.
My voice is small and shaky when I finally speak.
“Do you think that’s possible? That we could be friends again? ”
Nathan lets out a quiet, mirthless laugh. “I don’t know, Fi. I just don’t know.”
When I turn around a moment later, he’s gone. Just like that.
I force myself forward, moving back to the desk to push the chair in.
The plate of food is gone, but Nathan has left a marshmallow peanut butter square on a napkin.
They were among my favourite treats as a child, but Nathan always said they were too sweet.
Has he developed a sweet tooth over the years, or did he choose this specifically for me?
I eat the square before returning the cardigan and leaving the room.
Downstairs, I make a beeline straight for the whiskey.
Like Thomas did earlier, I pour a shot and raise it toward the poster of Dad.
“Sláinte, Dad.” The whiskey burns all the way down, but it’s a good kind of burn. The kind that temporarily distracts from the living, breathing ache that’s taken up residence in my chest since that life-altering phone call.
I look around the room and find Mum on the loveseat. Nathan is perched on a folding chair in front of her, holding both of her hands as he speaks to her. The sight makes my throat burn in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol.
The way my skin prickles tells me there are eyes on me.
I’m sure someone somewhere is whispering about me, but I don’t care.
I keep my focus on Mum’s bent head and the slumped curve of her shoulders.
When Nathan stands, planting a kiss on the top of her head before walking away, I hurry forward before anyone else can move in.
I don’t bother asking how she’s doing. The answer would be obvious even without her pale skin and glassy, red-rimmed eyes. “Is there anything I can do for you, Mum?”
She surprises me by reaching for my hand and giving it a gentle tug.
“Sit with me a while, won’t you, Fiona Mae?
” She rarely uses my full name; that was Dad’s thing.
He had a million pet names for me, but he loved using my full name too, which Mum let him pick himself when they found out she was pregnant.
I snuggle next to her on the loveseat. From here, we have an unobstructed view of the slideshow Nathan, Liam, and Rex set up with pictures of Dad ranging from infancy all the way through his life.
This was another of Dad’s ideas for the wake.
He wanted people to remember him happy and healthy, in love with life, and above all, in love with his family—Mum and me, of course, but our found family too.
Dad always said if you were truly lucky in life, the bonds of family extended past blood ties to the people you choose to surround yourself with.
As we sit in silence, Mum’s grip on my hand tightens until it’s almost painful. I’m afraid I’ll hear bones snap at any moment, but I simply squeeze back, hoping the contact brings her some comfort.
A picture of Mum and Dad together in Niagara Falls a few years ago glides onto the screen. Mum makes a small, choked noise that startles me from my daze.
“It’s not fair, Fiona. It’s just not fair.
I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.
” Mum’s shoulders slowly fold inward as if she’s collapsing in on herself.
She tilts toward me, and I wrench my hand from hers so I can wrap my arms around her and hold her up as big, soul-wrenching sobs wrack her body.
The icy numbness in me cracks at the sound of my mother’s keening. The unstable dam that formed after my own epic meltdown breaks, and soon the room is filled with the sounds of our heartbroken sobs.