“I do know,” he confirms. “There are ways to fulfill the binding without growing too attached. You know this as well as I do, Samuel.”
I push back from the table, pacing with agitation. I haven’t felt so much like the teenager I pretend to be as I do right now. Shane reaches behind him and casually tosses the kitchen towel my way. I wrap it around my bleeding fingers.
“Samuel,” Shane’s voice is quietly forceful, commanding my attention. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, opens and finally sighs. I wait. I have all the time in the world to wait, I think acerbically. “You know there isn’t any way to know… for certain, I mean, if she’s…” he stands, folding his book closed and placing it and the pen in the drawer behind him. “Just don’t pin your hopes on something that could be nothing,” he says, leaving the room.
He’s right. I know he’s right. I’d be giving the same advice to him if our positions were reversed. But somehow, Niahm has become central to me, more than is required by being bound to her. I would never tell Shane, but it terrifies me.
I walk to the sink, wash the blood from my hand. The think pink line, that had been a gash only a few minutes earlier, only serves to remind me of how wrong I am, how wrong my life is. Even as I watch, the water running wastefully down the drain, the pink line slowly fades, leaving the skin perfectly unblemished. I turn back to the table, pick up a piece of the jagged glass, and hold it against my skin, wanting the laceration to return—needing it to return.
Finally, without drawing it across my healed skin, I drop the glass back to the table. I could cut myself all night long, and it wouldn’t matter. I’d still wake up, exactly the same.
“And, Samuel?” Shane calls from the other room, “clean up that mess.”
His words force a small, grim smile from me. Heaven save us from overbearing parents.
Chapter 20
Niahm
“Brrr,” I shiver, looking out the barn doors at the gray skies.
“Cold?” Sam asks redundantly, rubbing down the sides of the Irish. He’s just finished working him in the paddock. He was able to place a saddle on the stallion’s back today, after the past few weeks of leading him around with a blanket on his back. Of course, the Irish threw a fit, and tried bucking the thing off. Sam just waited patiently, keeping him close with the lead until he grew accustomed to it.
“Why would you assume that?” I shoot back, rubbing my arms. It’s not his fault I was more worried about looking cute in my thin blue jacket rather than putting on something that would buffer me against the cold day.
Sam just chuckles at my response, not even looking up from his task. He finishes, giving the Irish a final pat on the neck as I scoop up an apple and hand it over the low door to him, which he then presents to the Irish. Sam backs out, closes the door behind him and turns my way. I realize how close I’m standing when I have to crane my neck to look up at him. He begins rubbing my arms rapidly, the friction warming me—or maybe it’s his nearness. He leans down, and I wonder yet again if he’s going to finally kiss me. Not that I, you know, want him to, or anything. It’s just that there have been so many times I thought he was going to, when he leans in close like this. Yet, he always pulls away.
“You should wear a warmer jacket, Niahm, when it’s cold outside.”
I narrow my eyes at him, but he just laughs again as he turns to clean up the rest of his gear.
“Want to go to the diner and get something to eat?” he questions.
“No, absolutely not!” I exclaim. Then, realizing how it sounds as his eyes jump to mine, I soften my tone. “We can eat here. I already have some chili cooking.”
“Good,” is Sam’s only response, but I know what it means. It means he’s happy. Sam is very vocal about his enjoyment of my cooking. I push down the self-satisfied feeling I always get when he reacts in such a manner.
Sam has taken to holding my hand quite frequently now—in public. At school, I manage to keep my hands bound up in carrying my books. He seems to have divined my hesitancy, and doesn’t push the issue. But when we’re in town, he always either holds my hand or has his arm draped across my shoulders. It almost feels like he’s…I don’t know, staking his claim, or something, though that could just be wishful thinking. I’ve been getting some hateful looks, especially from Hilary and Heather, when he does. I try to avoid being seen in town with him—not because I don’t want to hold his hand. I do, more than I should. I’m just not fond of making enemies of my lifelong friends. Hence, my reluctance to eat at the diner.
“Your parents going to be there?” Sam asks, pushing himself up from his squatting position where he’d been organizing the bucket of cleaning items. I grunt. Sam and my parents get along far too well for my contentment. Sometimes, I think he prefers spending time with them, especially my father, talking about all of the places he’s been. Sam is either well-travelled, as I’d once accused him of being, or well-read about other countries. I suspect it’s the former. Their conversations can be extremely long, and extremely boring.
“Yes,” I confirm, and his face lights up.
Chapter 21
Sam
We head inside just as darkness spreads itself across the land. The aroma in the kitchen is mouth-watering—spices and yeast. I watch as Niahm places the tray of rolls into the oven then pulls items from the fridge to make a salad.
It isn’t long until Jonas and Beth have joined us—looking dapper in their “tea-time with the Queen” clothes, as Niahm calls them—and we’re all sitting at the table. As usual, Beth invited Shane, but he cried off, claiming work. A blatant lie, but knowing what he’s really doing, I could hardly call him on it.
Niahm and her parents talk almost constantly as they eat, and I get the feeling they are trying to make up for lost time. Still, it’s been so long since I’ve felt like a normal part of a family, that I can’t help but be grateful for the talking and laughter. I also genuinely enjoy time spent with Beth and Jonas—they remind me of my own parents.
“How many times have you been to Jamaica?” I ask Jonas, always fascinated by his stories of travel, always trying to find somewhere he hasn’t been. Niahm kicks me lightly under the table—she hates it when Jonas, Beth and I begin talking about their travels. Niahm has heard the stories many times, and so is annoyed by being forced to hear them yet again. I grin at her and, slipping my shoe off, rub my foot lightly over her ankle, bringing an immediate blush to her cheeks.
“Only once, actually, about two years ago,” Jonas says, handing me the basket of rolls, which I gratefully accept, not noticing his daughters pink cheeks. “Fascinating place, fascinating people. We went for pleasure more than work, but of course we couldn’t escape the work.”
“The work is pleasure,” Beth says, eyes lighting as she talks. I have clearly noted that neither of Niahm’s parents share her unusual eyes. A crushing disappointment, realizing that her own eyes are likely just a fluke of nature, without any real possibility.
“Is there anywhere you two haven’t been?” I tease.
“Russia,” Beth says.
“Though that will very soon be remedied,” Jonas says, taking his wife’s hand and smiling at her.
“Oh, Jonas, we must be sure to get to Saint Basil’s Cathedral,” Beth gushes. “I know it’s not really necessary for this particular book, but how can we go there and not visit?”
“Have you been to Russia, Sam?” Jonas asks. But I’m not paying attention to him; I’m watching Niahm. She has gone very still, lips thinning the tiniest amount, jaw clenched. Jonas follows my gaze, and upon seeing Niahm’s stiff posture, he seems to droop, his shoulders sagging.
“Are you okay?” I ask, instinctively taking her hand, immediately wishing I could take the words back when she glances at me. In that glance I can see a maelstrom of emotion barely held in check. In her hand I can feel the pain, rejection, abandonment that drags at her.
“Niahm,” Beth entreats, one hand snaking out toward her daughter, then pulling ba
ck when Niahm jerks away. “Honey, we were going to tell you tonight…” she trails off in Niahm’s silence.
“When?” Niahm finally grinds out, quietly.
“Sweetie, we—”
“When!” she demands, pushing back from the table, standing, pulling her hand from mine.
“Next week,” Beth admits, quietly.
Niahm takes a breath, as if to control her emotion.
“Baby, why don’t you come with us?” Jonas cajoles. “You haven’t been to Russ—”
“No.” Niahm’s refusal is immediate, firm. She turns tortured eyes to me. “If you’ll excuse me,” she says, sounding proper and stiff, controlled in a way I’ve never heard her speak before. With her words, she turns and walks out the back door.
I stand, intending to follow her, suddenly wondering if it’s my place to do so. After all, this is between her and her parents.
“Oh, dear,” Beth says, covering her mouth with a hand.
“She’ll be fine,” Jonas assures her. “She always is.”
I look at them both, wondering why one of them hasn’t already rushed from the room to comfort her.
“Should I?” I mutter, indicating the door she left from.
Jonas glances at me, as if just remembering I’m present. “Well, you can try, I suppose. It’s usually better to just let her be.”
I don’t answer, just leave, hoping I can find her. She’s in the stable, using a pitchfork to brutalize the hay. If I didn’t feel so bad for her, I might be amused by the activity.
“Niahm?” I ask, and she glances up at me. I don’t need to take her hand to see what she’s feeling; it’s written all over her face. She flings herself at me, wrapping her arms tightly around my middle as her tears come. I hold her, wishing that in all my years on the earth, I had somehow learned the proper words to say at this moment, to ease her hurt.
“Are you sure you want me to come along?”
Niahm rolls her eyes at me. I’ve asked her the same question several times, and I guess she’s tired of answering. I shrug and return to the house to haul another bag out to the truck.
It’s a two-hour drive to the airport, one that Niahm doesn’t usually make with her parents when they leave. She told me they typically drive and leave their car parked while they’re gone.
“I feel this weird sense of…I don’t know, foreboding, I guess,” she explained. “I just have this overwhelming thought that I need to take them this time.”
Because Niahm seems so firm in her conviction that something bad will happen if she doesn’t do this, I don’t argue with her. Instead, I’d volunteered to ride with her—later wondering if she needed the time alone with them. She’s still angry, still hurt, but managing to hide it beneath a falsely cheery exterior. She wants me along, particularly, I suspect, since Stacy isn’t available to make the trip.
The two hour trip to the airport is made with even more falsely cheerful conversation in the car, from both Niahm and her parents.
“How’s school, sweetie?”
“Really good. I’m getting an A in biology.”
“That’s fantastic.”
“A miracle, really.”
I’m on edge just listening to the inane, senseless chatter. But it seems to be what they all need, so I don’t say much—and definitely don’t question Jonas about his travels, not matter how much I’d like to tell them some places to visit while in Russia. I can feel Niahm’s worry, as palpable as her hand in mine, though I don’t intrude on her mind. I’m tempted to, but I resist. She’s told me her worry is unclear, nothing more than a feeling. I’ve decided it’s just the stress of having them gone once again.
At the airport curb, Niahm clings to them.
“Sweetie,” Beth laughs. “We’ll be back before you know it.”
Niahm shakes her head against her father’s chest, eyes scrunched closed.
“Darling, we’ll bring you back one of those amazing Russian dolls, the ones that stack inside one another.” Jonas seems taken aback by Niahm’s display.
“I don’t want a doll.” Niahm’s voice is flat. “I just want you to be home.”
“We will, Niahm—as soon as we possibly can.” Niahm just shakes her head again and turns away from them, climbing back into the car.
The two hour trip back to Goshen is made with me driving, Niahm crying, pitifully silent as she gazes out the window, refusing to talk about their leaving.
“Hey, Shane, you think we could slow down work on the stables?” I call, glancing out the window at the nearly finished structure.
Shane, having silently come into the room behind me, throws an arm about my neck, pulling tightly. I drop, throwing an elbow into his solar plexus as I do so, immediately grabbing his arm and flipping him over my head. I continue my descent over his prone form, driving my elbow toward his windpipe, stopping just short of actually hurting him.
“Very nice,” he compliments, his breath wheezing. I hold out a hand, pulling him to his feet as I stand, grinning. It’s only been the past couple of years that I’ve been able to defeat Shane, a source of great pride for me, and chagrin for him.
“You’re an old man,” I grin at him, “You sure you should keep trying to take me?”
Shane’s fist shoots out, and I feel my shoulder dislocate.
“Uh,” I grunt painfully, no longer grinning.
“Not so old, now, huh?” He smiles, grabbing my arm and pulling my shoulder back into place.
“Why don’t we go out and visit that barn?” I challenge, rolling my sore shoulder, not wanting to destroy the kitchen.
“You mean the one you want me to stop working on so that you have a reason to go visit the object of your affection?”
“The very one,” I say, grinning with what I hope is malice.
At the same time, we hear it—hooves galloping toward the house, and very quickly, at that. We turn and move at the same time. Without speaking we are plotting our defense if needed. As we step out the front door, I see Niahm’s unmistakable blonde hair flying out behind her as she pushes Sheila toward our house. Shane relaxes, but my tension ratchets up in response to her body language.
Something is wrong.
I run out to meet her, Niahm throwing a leg over and sliding off the mare’s bare back before she has even stopped. I catch her in my arms as she falls forward, horror and grief in every line of her body.
“What, Niahm? What is it?”
She opens her mouth to speak, but can’t force the words past her intense dread. I snake my hand down to hers, and I see it.
Officer Hill walking up to her door, followed by two strangers, a man and a woman. I see the logo on their lapels; recognize that they are from the airline. I hear Officer Hill tell her, feel Niahm’s panic as her brain tries to process his words, hear the representatives offering their condolences.
“No,” I cry, releasing her hand and pulling her into my crushing embrace as she collapses, unable to withstand the burden any longer, knowing that now her parents will never again return home to her. In the back of my mind, underneath the overpowering concern for Niahm, I recall her intense worry over their trip, her need to drive them to the airport one last time.
Chapter 22
Niahm
Numb.
I lay on the couch, aware of Stacy and Sam’s voices from the kitchen. They talk in lowered voices, but they needn’t bother. I can’t make sense of words anymore. Bob pushes his nuzzle under my dangling hand, a plaintive whine escaping him. It’s a sound my own throat longs to release.
There’s a knock at the door, I can hear that, divine the meaning of the sound. I try to muster the will to care who is standing on the other side, but the effort is too great, so I give up. Stacy passes me, her hand reaching out to squeeze my arm. She opens the door; voices that drone from her direction mean nothing to me.
Time passes. People stream in and out. They all come to me, touch me, say words to
me in voices that grate on my nerves. I know them—have known them my whole life, but I don’t care to pull their names from memory to acknowledge them. Finally, I pull a blanket over my head, hiding from them, hiding from the pain that keeps trying to surface. It works; they stop bothering me.
Sometime later, when the silence becomes oppressing, I pull the blanket back and see Stacy sleeping at the end of the couch, my feet resting in her lap. I didn’t even feel her sit down, let alone pull my feet into her lap. A light snore from near my head pulls my attention there, where Sam sits in the chair with his head leaned back, also sleeping.
I study him. His cheek bones are angular, as if carved. Once, in India, I spent an entire afternoon sitting on a mat in the street, watching an old man carving a piece of wood with a small knife. When he was finished, he showed me the face he’d created, and I had been impressed by the symmetry and perfection of the cheek bones. I see the same perfection in Sam’s face. With his eyes closed, I can see how long and thick his copper lashes really are, fanning across the high point of those perfect cheeks. His jaw is strong, masculine, freckled with stubble. His amazing hair glints in the dim light pouring in from the street.
I don’t really know him all that well and yet it somehow feels right that he is here, in my life. In the short time he has been, it almost feels essential that he’s in my life. As if he can feel the weight of my appraisal, he opens his eyes. He watches me in return for a few moments then slowly leans forward. He reaches out and touches my forehead lightly, fingers barely skimming the surface, and I feel a shudder start deep within my abdomen. I try to force it back, push it down to where I’ve managed to keep it tucked away. Then Sam moves closer and brings his other hand up, cupping my face, eyes full of sympathy and understanding.
A sudden recollection of his own family pushes to the front of my mind, how similar his circumstances—