Then the professional woman is striding toward me, hand outstretched. Behind her, the older woman has taken a tentative step into the house, looking around her, body saturated with some emotion I refuse to recognize.
“Hello, Niahm. My name is Susan McKay. I’m the case worker assigned to your case.”
Okay, my attention is now firmly on the woman before me. I instinctively reach a hand out to stop her, which she mistakes and grasps firmly in her hard, unyielding hand, giving it a quick jerk, which I assume is her version of a handshake.
“My what?”
“Her what?” Stacy blurts at the same time.
“I’m from the department of Family Services. We’ve held off until after the burial to come forward, which turned out to be fortuitous, as it turns out. We’ve had a relative come forward, which means we won’t have to find you placement in foster care.”
She is smiling at me as if she’s just told me the best possible news, but I feel as if I’ve been punched in the gut. The burial? My parents have become a synonym for burial?
“Wait,” Stacy steps forward. “What do you mean, foster care?”
Stacy’s mom steps forward and places an arm around me. “Why don’t we all sit down?” Her voice is calm, her touch reassuring. I sink back to the couch along with her, Stacy coming to sit firmly on my other side, Bob positioning himself in front. The stiff woman looks around, slightly uncomfortable, and finally sits primly in the chair. The other woman stays standing, her eyes still skimming the room.
“Now,” Stacy’s mom begins, “why don’t you tell us what you’re talking about?”
“As I said, we were waiting until—”
“Yes, we heard that part,” Stacy’s mom interrupts firmly, and gratitude fills me at her defense. “Why in the world would you think Niahm needs to be placed in foster care?”
“She’s a minor.” The stiff woman sounds surprised, as if it should be obvious, and becomes “the bun” in my mind immediately when Stacy reaches up and draws the shape of said bun on the back of my head out of her line of vision.
“I’ll be eighteen next summer.” My voice is strong in spite of my still overwhelming desire to flee—and to laugh at Stacy’s finger circling on the back of my head.
“Yes, well, in the meantime, you are still of an age which requires guardianship.”
“But I’m always home alo—”
“She can stay with me,” Stacy’s mom interrupts, squeezing me tightly, in warning it seems.
“Well, Ms.…” The bun trails off, waiting for a name.
“Bowen. I’ve known Niahm her whole life. I don’t see any reason why she can’t stay at our place until then.”
“I can’t,” I tell her, “there isn’t anyone to take care—” She squeezes me again, her words once more overriding mine.
“You don’t need to worry about that, honey. We’ll hire someone to take care of the farm.”
“But, I—” Another squeeze, this one almost painful, stops my words.
“There is a process for becoming a foster parent, Mrs. Bowen. It takes some time for your application to be processed. Niahm would have needed to be placed in the meantime—”
“Are you serious?” Stacy’s mom practically explodes. “I’ve known the girl her whole life, have loved her as a daughter, and you’d take her from her home, from the town she lives in, to satisfy some—”
“No way!” Stacy yells, causing Bob to jump to his feet and begin growling in earnest. The bun shrinks back in the chair.
“Stop,” I command, to nothing in particular other than the situation that is spiraling out of control. Stacy and her mom back down, Bob sinks back onto his haunches, though he keeps his teeth exposed for good measure, and my eyes rove unwillingly to the older woman who is now watching us all with interest bright in her eyes.
“I’m not leaving Goshen,” I say to her, before turning back to the bun.
The bun gives Bob a cautious look before turning her attention back to me. “As I was trying to say,” she emphasizes, shooting a look at Stacy and her mom, “that would have been the case, had a relative not come forth. We were under the impression that you no longer had any living relatives.”
I cringe inwardly at her thoughtless words, swallow loudly, and say, “I was under that impression myself.”
The bun regains her overly bright smile, and delivers what she seems to believe is happy news. “As it turns out, Niahm, we were wrong. Your grandmother came forth.”
She sweeps a hand toward the older woman, and the desire to run once again flows through me. The woman is standing as if frozen, watching me with wariness. I slowly rise to my feet, Stacy and her mom matching my movement.
“No,” I say, surprised at how steady my voice sounds. “I don’t have a grandmother. They are both dead.”
“No, Niahm, this is your mother’s mother. She told me of the falling out she had with your mother, of how many years it’s been since she’s been here.” The bun sounds almost pleading, and I suddenly realize that any reluctance on my part will only make her job harder. She could care less about me—she just wants this wrapped up nice and tidy.
“No,” I repeat, more firmly. “I don’t know this woman. My mom—” I swallow over the painful word, try again. “My mom told me her mother died when she was a teen. This is not my grandmother. She’s probably just some wacko who thinks she can get their money.”
The bun stands defensively. “I hardly think that the department of Family Services is in the habit of handing children over to strangers. We required proof from her, and she has provided it beyond doubt.”
“How?” I demand, turning angrily on the bun.
“Why... DNA, of course.”
I stare at her for long moments then turn back to the other woman who is watching me with sadness reflected in her eyes... her clear eyes, I now notice. I feel a trembling begin in my knees, shuddering up through my torso. Her eyes... they could just be coincidence, right? And then she steps forward and holds her fisted hand out, turned downward. Without thought, I open my hand beneath hers, and she drops a ring into it. I glance down and my heart stops.
I know this ring. My mother had worn a ring like this in all of the pictures of her teen years. She told me that her mother had taken the ring to the jewelers to be fixed, as it was missing a stone, and that was the last she’d seen of her. Later they’d found her car, burned almost beyond recognition, the body within burned definitely beyond recognition. They’d only known it was her because when the car had struck the tree that sent it careening off the cliff, the front license plate had fallen off from the impact and remained on the road.
They’d never recovered the ring—identical to the ring that is now in my hand. My ears begin to buzz as the tremor slithers down my arms, my hand clutching the ring. There is only one way to know if it is the same ring.
I glance up in surprise as Sam rushes into the room, followed closely by Shane. Sam’s eyes are on me, but Shane’s are on the woman—my grandmother—and he slides to a stop, dropping into what looks like a combat position. Sam starts my way, glancing cursorily toward the bun, and then the other woman. When his eyes fall on her, he also freezes, dropping into a crouch and coming up with something in his hand. He leaps toward her, and there is no forethought, no conscious decision as I yell, “No!” and jump in front of him as his hand arcs upward.
A sudden pain just below my ribs takes my breath away, and it’s too much. I give in to the darkness that claims me.
Chapter 25
Niahm
I slowly come awake as a wet sponge presses insistently and continuously against my chin. I vaguely wonder who could possibly think a sponge on my chin would do anything but annoy me as I hear the low, feminine, whispered voice, furious in tone from across the room.
“You might have broken her rib. She needs to be taken to the hospital.”
“I agree,” I hear Sam reply, his low voice wretched.
“Absolutely not!” This time it
’s Shane, his voice matching the anger in the woman’s voice. “You know as well as I do what can become of that if—” he cuts himself off, and the woman utters a hiss. I nearly laugh, feeling as though I’m being treated to a melodrama, but the effort is too much. Breathing is painful in itself.
“Don’t even speak it!” the woman commands. “What are the two of you even doing here? In Goshen, of all places? In my granddaughter’s house?”
Her words send a shock wave of remembrance into my mind. The bun, telling me my grandmother is alive, the ring... Sam coming at me with something in his hand. I wonder idly if he hit me with something or stabbed me and I’m dying. Why is he still washing my chin with a sponge, then? It doesn’t make sense.
“He’s bound to her,” Shane answers, his voice low, calm, resigned.
“No!” The woman’s response is more of a gasp than an actual word.
A low whine near my ear makes me realize the sponge isn’t a sponge at all, but Bob’s long, wet tongue swiping at me. I decide it’s time to wake and demand to know what’s going on. I open my eyes and see Sam next to me, bent in abject misery as he holds my hand, rubbing his thumb across my knuckles, over and over.
Bob blocks my view as he once again comes in for his spit bath. “No, Bob,” I gasp, reaching up to push him away. He’s immediately shoved aside by a masculine hand.
“Niahm?” Sam’s face fills my vision, and I smile in relief, until I notice the worry lines creasing his forehead. I reach up to sooth them out, and he catches my hand instead, pulling it to his lips, sudden heat between our hands.
“I’m so sorry.” His green eyes beg for forgiveness. “You have to know I would never hurt you. I would protect you with my life.”
I grin at him, taking a breath that, though still uncomfortable, is nowhere near as painful as it had been only minutes ago. “Well, that’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”
Instead of my teasing bringing a smile to his face, he drops his head to my shoulder. “I’m so, so sorry,” he reiterates.
I pull my hand from his, feel the warmth fade as I do, and bury my fingers in his glorious hair. I tighten my fingers and give a light tug.
“Sam, look at me.” He hesitates, but then lifts his head, his face crestfallen. “Obviously you didn’t hurt me, right?” Sam’s ginger brows crash together in a strange mixture of defiant anger and deep sorrow, and I smile again.
“I hit you,” he says, self-recrimination in every line of his body.
“On purpose?” I ask.
“Of course not! I just told you I’d—” His vehemence strikes me as funny and I laugh.
“Then help me up and explain to me why you were trying to hit anyone at all.”
He looks at me for long moments, confusion written across his features. I laugh again and push him aside as I struggle to sit. He immediately hurries to help me.
“Get away from my granddaughter.” The cold fury in the woman’s voice draws my attention. I look at her, this woman who claims to be my grandmother, but who is as complete a stranger to me as anyone in a crowd. How dare she come in and act like she has the right to make decisions for me? I reach out and wrap my arm around Sam’s waist, pull him near me. It’s a pretty bold move for me, and I choose to ignore Sam’s lifted brows.
“Sam’s my friend. I want him to stay,” I say firmly. “I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, so maybe you should let me make my own choices. I don’t even know your name. How do I even know you’re my grandmother, as you claim? Where have you been all my life?”
Her anger drains, and she shuffles nervously—which would have been strange enough, except that Shane and Sam both have similar body language. Finally, she takes a tentative step toward me, hand outstretched. I make an unthinking move backward, but stop when I feel Sam’s arm slide around my shoulders. I don’t know how, but I have a firm knowledge that he will protect me from harm.
She stops in front of me, and turns her hand palm side up, opening it.
“My name is Jean,” she says quietly.
I look down at her hand, and my heart stops as I gasp. I roughly swipe the ring from her palm, the same ring she’d handed me before, remembrance and disbelief throttling through me as I stare at the unusual ring. A green stone cut in the shape of a sideways teardrop centers the silver ring, surrounded by smaller blue stones which look teal in the cast of the emerald. Two copper colored vines twine down the band. I lift it, closing my eyes as I turn it over. I don’t want to look, but I have to know. I slowly open my eyes—and there it is. Engraved inside are the words mo chuisle.
“Where did you get this?” I demand angrily, tightening my hand around it.
“It belonged to my daughter.” Her response is calm, though she does seem to be a little wary of standing so near Sam.
“No… how could you be…” I trail off, unable to speak over the tears that clog my throat.
Jean looks at Sam, “Could you give us a few minutes alone?” After several heartbeats, she grits out reluctantly, “Please.”
“No!” The word is out before I even have time to consciously decide to protest. “They stay.”
She takes a calming breath, but gives a terse nod. As if she had the decision, I think irritably.
“My mom told me this disappeared the night…” I look at her, and see her eyes have filled with tears.
“I know,” she says. “I was taking it to get repaired. There was a stone missing, right above one of the leaves.”
I open my hand and look at the ring again—now whole.
“I had it fixed.”
“Why?” My question is not why she fixed it, but a much bigger why, which she comprehends well enough.
“I had to go away.” When I open my mouth to protest, she holds up a hand. “I can’t tell you why. I can tell you it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
I remember the story my mother told me, about how they’d found the ring when she was only ten. They had never been able to find its owner, and so she’d kept it. She told me the words inside meant my love, and became Jean’s nickname for her. Then one of the stones had fallen out when she was seventeen, and she’d still worn it for nearly another year. Finally, her mother told her she’d take it to be fixed. She’d never returned.
Two years after her mother’s death, my mom had met my dad in college, and eventually moved with him to Goshen to escape the memories, the constant need to search for her mother, even though she’d believed her dead.
My gaze flies to hers. “The car… there was a body. Whose was it?”
Is this woman, who claims to be my dead grandmother, some kind of psychotic killer?
“I don’t know,” she says. “I parked at the bluff, intending to walk away. I left that night with the intention of never returning home.” Her voice catches, and I shove down the flicker of sympathy that ignites. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t leave them even if it meant…” She looks at Sam, then Shane, a plea in her eyes, and I wonder why she’s so worried about what they think when clearly she has animosity toward them. She takes a deep breath, and turns her attention back to me.
“When I came back, the car was gone.” She’s calmer now. “I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. I left the keys in it. Within moments I heard the crash. By the time I arrived, the car was down the hill and burning. There was nothing I could do. I could feel the intense heat from where I stood. It seemed like an answer, confirming that it was time for me to go. I knew they would think it was me, would assume…”
When she doesn’t finish, I shake my head.
“No, this isn’t right. I mean, anyone could know about the crash, could come back and claim to have been mistaken for being in the car. I mean, what, you’ve had amnesia all these years? Just now remembered who you are?”
“No, Niahm. I’ve known full well all along who I am.” Again, she speaks to Sam and Shane, in spite of having said my name, heavy meaning in her words. “More than anything I wanted to come home, but it was imp
ossible.”
“Why? Why was it impossible? Do you know how much my mom mourned you?” I spit out.
She flinches at my words. “Yes, I can imagine. We were very close.” She gazes at me. “You still don’t believe I am who I say.”
Instinctively, I pull Sam closer. Deep inside I can feel the truthfulness of what she says, of who she is.
“I found that ring when your mother was ten. We were at the park. I told her it was calling to me.” I jerk. She couldn’t have discovered that particular detail. No one had ever known besides my dad and I. “The words inside, mo chuisle,” I feel Sam tense next to me as she says the foreign words, “became my pet name for her. Because she always was that: my heart, my love.”
“Yeah,” I snarl at her, “because that’s what you do to people you love—you walk away and never return.”
She glances at Sam again, and I can’t help but follow her look. Sam is surprisingly pale, jaw clenched, mouth tight.
“It’s... complicated,” is her only response.
“No, it isn’t,” I argue. “You love someone, you stay with them—no matter what.”
She grimaces in pain, and nods. “You’re right, Niahm. I should have stayed. I should have dealt with the consequences. I should have been stronger.”
“No.” I glance up in surprise at Sam. The word seems forced from him, and he now looks regretful at having spoken.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nothing. I just... I mean, there might be circumstances beyond ones control...”
A trickle of fear beads in the back of my mind, and I wonder if he’s saying he’ll leave, should circumstances force him to. Somehow, in this short time, he has become vital to me. Part of me recognizes that I’m clinging to him in grief, but another part of me realizes it’s also something more.
“Niahm,” Jean speaks, reclaiming my attention. “I know you’re angry that I’ve never been part of your life, but I’m here now. I know that Beth would have wanted you cared for, not taken from your home and placed in a new town with strangers.” I can’t deny that I agree with her, but I also decide I don’t need to open my mouth and confirm it either. “I’ll just stay through the end of your school year. You’ll be eighteen by then, and I’ll go.” I’m stunned by her pronouncement. It’s almost as if she’s only here to provide me the means to stay on the farm, and in the end, that’s what’s important to me. If I have to tolerate her for a while, I decide I can—as long as she stays out of my way, that is.