Chapter 2 #2
But Torin continues without missing a beat.
“Nae problem. Ok, we’re finding our place, our senses are open, and we’re going to open our minds to what we feel on the inside.
” He pauses. “Listen to whatever your mind is feeling, whether you’re tired, hungry, scared—things of that nature.
Now, you’re gonna hold it, metaphorically, in the palm of your hand while taking a deep breath to the count of four. ”
He waits, allowing me time to inhale. “Now hold your breath for a count of four, and then exhale for a count of four, and hold that emptiness for a count of four.”
Again, he gives me time to do what he’s instructed. I begin to feel the effects.
My pulse begins to slow, and my mind stops spinning.
“Now you’re gonna tell yourself: I feel this, but I’m gonna put it down and you’re gonna put what ye ha’ in your hand down while ye continue doing another sixteen-count breath.”
My thoughts, once screaming through my mind, are now only whispers. The weight on my chest lightens.
I peek open my eyes and see Torin smiling broadly up at me. “Did it help?”
My smile is answer enough. “Where did you learn that?”
He shrugs off my excitement. “Ach, when you’re my age, ye pick up a thing or two, lass. Now let’s see if we can fix your seat, too.”
Torin leads me around the ring once and then makes me do another round of mindfulness before he leads me around again, but this time at a trot, and follows it up with yet another sixteen-second breath.
On and on that goes until I get the hang of it and feel more in sync with Sleipnir’s gait. Torin hands me the reins and nods at me to give it a go on my own. I ease Sleipnir into a canter, and my nerves, which usually roil under the surface, do not reappear.
I’ve never felt so sure of myself, especially while on the back of a horse. My cheeks are burning from the ridiculous grin I have plastered on my face.
A shooting star of a thought whizzes by.
I wish my dad could see this.
All too quickly, my happiness dissipates, and my smile falters before completely dropping. I pull Sleipnir to a stop in front of Torin and quickly dismount.
“Thank you for the lesson, but I’m sure Gran’s therapy is almost through, and I should head back,” I mumble, holding the reins to him.
Torin pauses, sensing my discomfort, before he takes the reins from my outstretched hands.
I came down here to avoid being alone, but now that my emotional walls are crumbling, solitude is all I crave.
The amazing feeling of riding without fear is overshadowed by the heartache of my dad never getting to see it.
On the way back to the house, quieter than the songs of the birds and the wind rustling through the evergreens, is the very distant gravelly caw of a raven.
I look up from the path, but don’t see any ravens.
Chalking it up to my imagination and hoping it’s not another omen, I keep heading for the house.
The soft notes of a piano echo down the hall and gently tug me towards the formal living room. When I peer through the door, I see Maggie, Gran’s music therapist, squeezed onto the bench beside her. Maggie is a sweet soul and dutifully nods along to Gran’s playing.
The song is soft and whimsical, flowing like a gentle river.
But there’s something about it that pulls on my memory. I begin humming along, knowing in my heart what the next note will be.
Without looking up, Gran calls over the music. “This was the lullaby I used to sing to your mother.”
Instantly, happy memories flood my mind, chasing away the sorrow that had begun to grow after thinking of my parents.
My grief has become such an emotional roller coaster.
The lullaby I remember now is about north winds, the Mother, and the sea.
The melody calms something deep within me as Gran finishes playing.
Maggie excuses herself and slips off the bench and out of the room.
I take her place beside Gran. Resting my head on her shoulder, she gently removes her hands from the keys to place one on top of mine while the other cradles my cheek.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Lena. There’s so much I want to tell you, but there’s so much I don’t remember. Just know that I love you, and I am so sorry.” Her eyes aren’t completely clear, and the glassiness of the memory fog is battling against the sparkling blue. She won’t be here for long.
The lump in my throat keeps me from responding, and it isn’t until the tears trickle their way down my cheeks that it eases enough that I can respond.
“I miss you so much when you’re gone, and them, too.” My voice cracks. “So much, every day.”
She strokes my cheek and begins wiping away my tears. “I’m afraid things won’t be getting any easier, dearie; you must become stronger.”
I want to argue.
I want to scream that all of this is so unfair, and I didn’t do anything to warrant all this pain and suffering.
But instead, I swallow the frustration and grief down. We sit together for a moment longer before her eyes turn glassy; she’s gone again.
She quickly moves her hands back to the piano keys and slides away from me. My chest aches. But before I move from the bench, she glances sidelong at me, her eyes more cloudy than I’ve ever seen them.
“The necklace has answers,” she whispers.
Maggie clears her throat from the entryway, catching me off guard, and we trade places on the bench. Gran keeps playing, but my mouth hangs open in shock. A strong pull from questions unanswered that her comment triggered has me desperate to find the answers.
My necklace is warm against my skin, and the faint humming sound of a note held too long begins ringing in my ears. I have so many questions, like a puzzle without all the pieces, and I want it solved; purpose begins burning in my veins.
Where do I find answers?
The office may have some. There are many books, family diaries, and photo albums in there. I’m probably losing my mind, but the ringing and strange interactions with Gran are really starting to drive me mad.
My steps are quick as I march down the hall and through the office’s double doors. It’s really more of a library with its walls of bookshelves lined with books, knick-knacks, artifacts from the grounds, and photo albums.
The albums are probably the best place to start. That way, I don’t have to read through pages of an ancestor’s diary. I grab the first album off the lowest shelf and haul it to the writing desk right in front of the floor-to-ceiling leaded windows that make an entire wall.
The view from the windows is like a picture out of a storybook, rolling hills dotted with mature trees stretch on for as far as the eye can see. The aroma of old camera film and mint floats up from the pages that are thick and yellowed with age.
I flip through the pages slowly to keep them from ripping. Briefly scanning each picture of faces and places, not recognizing anything, before I finish the first album and exchange it for the next one.
The first picture in the next album causes a gasp to escape me.
This task will be infinitely more difficult than I initially thought. A tear escapes and slips down my cheek before dropping onto the plastic-covered photo.
My parents gaze up at me, sprawling on a picnic blanket under a large tree. Far in the background of the image, barely visible over the tree line, is a pitched roofline with battlements.
I lovingly trace my father’s face. He was always handsome, but seeing him in his youth is remarkable. My finger begins tracing my mom, her long hair blowing in the breeze.
My tracing halts.
Peeking out from the neckline of her white, billowy dress is the unmistakable medallion that’s currently clasped around my neck. This was my mom’s necklace? Is that what Gran meant by heirloom?
Even more questions whirl through my mind, and I quickly flip through the rest of the album, looking for another glimpse of the necklace, but there is none. It’s as if it vanishes after this day.
I flip back to the picture of them under the tree and pull it out gently from under the plastic sheet, checking the date on the back. The date tickles something in my memory; it’s the day before they left for the States.
This picture was taken the day they found out they were pregnant with me.
Closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, I whisper, “What does this mean, Mom?”
This feels important, but I couldn’t even begin to imagine what it could be. We didn’t keep any secrets from each other. Only one topic ever felt off-limits: my dad’s family. Everything else could always be discussed freely.
A sinking feeling begins to creep over me when I realize maybe they weren’t always honest with me. I drop the picture onto the desk and exchange the photo album for another one, beginning the process again.
But my search is fruitless; frustration rises when Maggie walks in.
“I’m about to head out; Lizzie is with Adi,” she trills, slinging her long chestnut braid over her thin shoulder.
“Oh great, I’ll walk you out,” I mumble, looking up from the album. “Let me put this back right quick.”
“What is that?” she asks, her hazel eyes lighting with curiosity.
“Photo albums; I’m trying to find anything about this necklace,” I flash her my medallion, “without asking Gran. She’s had some strange reactions to it.”
I walk over to the shelf and slip the album between the others.
“Have you seen her sketch?” Maggie asks.
“What sketch?”
I brush the dust off my cardigan.
“The one from this morning looks just like that. But the strangeness is normal; it’s probably the disease twisting her thoughts,” she mutters.
Gran is mumbling about feathers everywhere when we get within earshot of the chair she’s relaxed in.
I glance around, half expecting to see a busted pillow somewhere, before I realize her eyes are closed.
Lizzie sits quietly across from her, laying the puzzle pieces on the low-lying table.
She was exactly what we needed when Gran’s illness became unmanageable.
I was so relieved when she and Gran instantly clicked, and she promptly settled into life here at the Hall.
“Gran, Lizzie, do either of you need anything?” I offer.
Lizzie shakes her head, and her curly auburn tresses bob up and down with the movement. Gran’s eyes flash open, and she smiles.
I move to kneel in front of her, but get distracted by her sketchbook lying face-up on the floor beside her chair.
With painstaking detail, she managed to recreate the medallion.
Every slash and curve of the ancient-looking runes sprawled in a spiraling circle has been sketched onto the parchment by memory alone.
How on earth did she draw this after only seeing it twice? And briefly at that.
Maggie clears her throat from the doorway, and I look up, still grappling with the sketch before me.
She waves and mouths, “See you later.”
But I can barely manage to nod back.
“Bryn, dearie, did you have a nice time in Olundy?”
I flinch when Gran’s voice echoes through the quiet room.
The name slices at my heart.
“Gran, I’m Lena, Bryn’s daughter …”
Her face twists with agitation.
“NO, no. Bryn. You’re my Bryn. Stop it. No, Lena!” Her voice rises with each word.
“Oh dear,” Lizzie mutters, coming to stand behind me. She places a tiny hand on my shoulder, offering support.
“You’re right, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Mum,” I reply, trying to calm her down.
Her frown eases, and she starts to stroke my hair, murmuring, “Bryn, dearie.”
Lizzie squeezes my shoulder gently. Her hand is so small, it amazes me that she manages to carry the immensely heavy load her job requires.
Family medallions are the last thing on my mind for the rest of the evening as Lizzie and I walk on eggshells to keep Gran calm while trying to get her fed and down for the night.