There You'll Find Me (37 page)

Just a short time in Ireland, yet I know I am
forever changed . . .

—Travel Journal of Will Sinclair, Abbeyglen, Ireland

W
hat’re you doing here? So early.”

I walked into Mrs. Sweeney’s room at Rosemore at seven Friday morning, with my violin case in my hand and the whole world on my shoulders. Normally I would’ve been running, which was exactly what my body craved. But today I was here.

“I thought I’d stop by and see you.”

“Getting your last hour in.” Her slurred voice was so weak and slow, she didn’t sound like herself. Or look like herself. An oxygen tube was strapped in her nose and an IV plugged into her papery hand.

“How did you know I had one more hour to go?” She didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to. Nothing got by Mrs. Sweeney. I settled into the chair beside an untouched breakfast of some meal replacement. Lately when I came, that was all she had. Something she could swallow now that she barely had the energy to chew. Or the stomach to keep it down. The canned drink looked vile, and she’d told me as much.

“I finished my audition piece last night.”

She licked her lips. “Happy?”

Not in years
. “It’ll do. Would you like me to read to you?”

She shook her head against the white pillowcase.

“I have a new Stephen King. Guaranteed to make you smile. And give me nightmares.”

“No,” she whispered as her eyes drifted shut.

We sat there in the hush of her room as the hands of the clock moved much too quickly. Outside in the hall, a nurse pushed a cart with medicine and aids delivered trays of breakfast for those starting their morning. Or counting their remaining hours.

My own breakfast was oatmeal, which had seemed to grow and multiply in the bowl. I’d swallowed some of it down, telling myself that the steel-cut oats the O’Callaghans served were crazy healthy and whole grain and all of that nutritious stuff. Though that had been hours ago, my stomach still felt like it had blown up twice its size. My uniform stretched across my body too tightly. And my lack of sleep the past four nights weighed me down to the point I must’ve looked like a total slug.

The night before, Erin had watched my every bite, just like she had every meal that week. I’d eaten half a chicken breast.

And shoved the other half in my napkin when no one was looking. I broke it into pieces and later flushed it down the toilet.

And then I sat down on the lid and cried.

Maybe I was that girl.

The one who was losing the battle with the emptiness.

It had started out so simple. To lose a few pounds. And then the weight started flying off when I began riding my bicycle, and it had become something I could count on, control. I liked it. I did.

“Mrs. Sweeney . . .” My eyes glazed over with renewed sadness as I brought my thoughts back to my dying friend. “I’m sorry about your sister. Beckett and I tried talking to her again.”

She nodded. “He told me.”

“Oh.” Just the thought of him made me hurt. “You’ve seen him?”

Eyes still closed, she moved a finger toward her dresser where a giant bouquet of roses sat. “From Beckett?”

She didn’t respond, but I could see the card from there. And his name.

“He and I kind of got into a fight,” I said. “We said some . . . stupid things. He thinks—” Could I even say it? “Well, he thinks I don’t take care of myself very well. But it’s so hard to live up to this ideal girl he has in his head. Most guys want supermodel, Hollywood, full of drama. Beckett wants someone who doesn’t mind his double life. And he’s mad because he thought I was something and I’m not. I couldn’t be any further from his idea of this girl who has it together.” Why was I blathering on like this? I couldn’t seem to shut up. “And my parents think I have issues too. But I could turn it around right now if I wanted to.”

But then why was I still ravaged by guilt for eating dinner? And why did breakfast make me want to go to the bathroom and throw it all up?

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I said.

Her hand moved a few inches toward me on the bed, and when I looked up, Mrs. Sweeney’s glassy eyes were on mine.

I reached out and lightly covered my fingers with hers. “I’m sorry about your sister, Mrs. Sweeney. I thought I could fix it. I seem to think I can fix everything, but I can’t. And I messed up. But you apologized to her over and over. You tried to explain it, and if she didn’t have the grace to forgive you and
thank
you, then she is the one in the wrong. I hope you can . . .”
Die with some sort of peace.
Not take bitterness with you when you go
. “I hope you can trust that what you did for her was an amazing sacrifice. I can’t imagine what you gave up, what you endured. And all to save your father and to keep your sister from that horrible man.”

Her hand clutched mine, and I just kept talking. “God wants you to know that you are forgiven. You don’t need to ask one more time because your slate was wiped clean decades ago. And he loves you. He’s always loved you. When that husband treated you bad, when he couldn’t show you love, God had your heart right in his hand.” I didn’t know where the words came from, but they poured out of me like I was Sister Maria. “You are beautiful and worthy. And you’re going to be reunited with your son, and you’ll never be in pain again. Do you believe that, Mrs. Sweeney?”

Tears trickled from both her eyes. She pressed on my hand again.

A hundred thousand words spun in my head like snowflakes in a winter storm, but none seemed right for what was in my heart, for what this woman needed to hear. “Your sister will see the truth.”
Though maybe not this side of heaven
. “And she’ll regret all the years she didn’t get to have you in her life.” I leaned down and pressed a kiss to Mrs. Sweeney’s cool forehead. “Because she missed out on knowing what a wonderful person you are.”

“Play.” She pointed to my violin. “Play.”

“Are you sure you’re up for it?”

She nodded.

So I did.

I picked up the bow, set it to my violin, and let Will’s song pour out. In each movement, I saw him on the cliffs, watching the waves at Lahinch, looking over the edge of the forge on the island, losing his heart to the music of Galway. I played my guts out, praying the music would heal one girl and one woman from their heavy sprits, their hollowed hearts.

I struck the final A-flat, drawing it out, letting it echo in the room, above the beep of Mrs. Sweeney’s IV. Above the beating of my heart.

Mrs. Sweeney sniffed, then mumbled something.

“What?” I leaned closer to her.

“I know . . . that melody, that loneliness you play.” She took a labored breath, her frail chest rising beneath her gown. “The ending’s still wrong.”

“It’s the best I could do,” I whispered.

“Needs hope.” Eyes closed, tears slipped down her alabaster cheeks. “For me . . . please.” Her hand reached for mine. “Find your hope.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

STEELE MARKOV

This hunger, it gnaws at me. And if I let it go—what would remain?

Fangs in the Night, scene 8, page 49 Fierce Brothers Studios

S
aturday morning.

Nobody had said another word about “the incident” to me. The family tiptoed around, and I knew they were waiting for tomorrow, when I would be my parents’ problem again, at least temporarily. I hoped.

I’d just run the flatiron through my hair for the last time when I got a text.

Meet me at the bottom of the stairs
.

Beckett.

I hadn’t talked to him in exactly one hundred and twelve hours, and he hadn’t been coming to the dinner table and eating with the family. Yet he never left my mind.

The phone dinged again.

Ignore me, and I’ ll come up and get you
.

Though that sent a cautious thrill down my spine, I slipped a headband over my hair, letting the minutes stretch out as I made my bed, tidied up my desk, and finally slid into my flats and went downstairs, one hesitant step at a time.

Beckett stood in the living room, talking to Sean. Conversation stopped when he saw me.

“Good morning to you,” Beckett said evenly.

“Good morning.” What if he was right about me?

“Well, I’d best check on my banana cake.” Sean walked back into the kitchen, whistling a tune, oblivious to the awkwardness rushing through the room.

“How have you been?” I asked.

Beckett’s eyes studied my face. “You’re not sleeping.”

I inhaled, focusing on drawing air through my lungs. Trying to keep my heart from falling from my chest. “I’ve been practicing a lot. Composing. I thought I had the ending for the song, but . . . turns out I didn’t.”

“I need you to come with me.”

I blinked at his abrupt tone. “I don’t believe that’s a good idea.”

“This isn’t about”—he lowered his voice—“
that
.”

“I still don’t—”

“I found it.” He held up a copy of my brother’s cross. “I found it.”

His words were a miraculous chorus. I stood there and let them repeat in my head. “How is that possible?”

“I checked nearly every gravestone within fifty miles of here.

Even hired some people back in the States to research online. But I found it yesterday. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this place to begin with.” He waved the photo. “Clonmacnoise.”

“Is it close?”

“It’s about a two-hour drive.” He squashed a hat down over his head, another partial disguise for the day. “We can get there and get you back so you can pack for New York.”

“I don’t know.” How could I be in the same truck with Beckett when I missed him? And when I was furious with him? “I have a lot to do today.”

“You’ve been waiting for this for weeks. Don’t miss it just because of your stupid pride.”

“Such pretty words,” I said. “I’m getting all flustered just standing here.”

“Get your coat.”

“I’m still mad at you.”

“Duly noted.”

Two hours and ten minutes later, turning off a curling narrow road in the middle of nowhere, we reached the parking lot at Clonmacnoise.

“And what exactly is this place again?” We were so busy in the truck not discussing how screwed up he thought I was, I’d forgotten to ask.

“An old monastery. It goes back more than four hundred years. Monks from all over Europe came to pray and study here.”

He was strangely quiet, and I wondered why he was even doing this.

Because he was a guy of his word.

We wove through a small museum that explained some of the history, but, sensing my urgency, Beckett pressed his hand to my back and led me through a crowd of people through the various rooms and, finally, outside.

Leaving the darkness of the exhibit, I squinted against the sun as we stepped onto the grass.