Whispers in the Mist (9 page)

Exactly
, the girl’s look seemed to say. She pressed on with the fingertip until Ellen understood. “Kittens?” she said.

The girl pointed to Ellen’s house.

“Ah, connection made then. Yes, the kittens are fine. I found them. But you have some explaining to do, young lady.”

A nod, cautious like, along with a squint that Ellen took to mean,
Oh, about what?

“You and your friend about scared my son back into nappies, that’s what. That was you two walking down the lane a few days ago?”

Again, the cautious nod.

“The point is that my son thought your friend was Grey Man dragging you into his lair. Come along. I need to show him that there was nothing to fear. He’ll be home soon with my daughter.”

After another minute of palm-writing
wait
,
car,
and
brother
, Ellen understood that the girl preferred to wait in the car for her friend, who was actually her brother.

“I don’t think so. You need nutrients as much as those poor kittens. And don’t you want to check on them?” Ellen retraced her steps back to the Volvo with the girl following close behind. “We’ll leave your brother a note. You must have writing implements in here somewhere, am I right? What the devil is your name, anyhow?”

The girl burrowed into a knapsack tucked behind the passenger’s seat. She pulled out the necessary tools and with a flourish wrote,
Gemma
. Then,
No one talks to me that way—except my brother.

“I don’t know what you mean. How else am I supposed to talk to you?”

Most people talk to me like I’m soft in the head. Like I might break any second.

Weariness sloshed over Ellen in tight waves. She must be an eejit for suggesting what she was about to suggest, but what could she do? Maybe she’d gather all the strays to her side in hopes she’d feel like less of one in her own life.

“See here,” she said, “if your brother passes muster and if the children like you, you can lay your sleeping bags out in my daughter Beth’s room. It’s not so unusual during the festival. I’ve done it before.”

And Danny hadn’t liked it then either. But it wasn’t like he had a say in whom she befriended. Especially now.

Gemma signaled what Ellen interpreted as an,
Oh no, we couldn’t
.

“Yes, you can.” On the car window, Ellen drew a broken heart in the condensation left by the fog. “Beth doesn’t live there anymore.”

ELEVEN

G
EMMA TRIED TO IGNORE
the glass-like feeling inside her bones. She knew this feeling well—like her anxiety might cause her to shatter any second. On a deep breath she reminded herself that she was the one who had saved the kittens in the first place. Nothing was going to happen to them, and nothing was going to happen to her. She was safe. Ellen was a nice person who meant her no harm. Dermot would return soon.

She sat at the kitchen table with a glass of milk, which Ellen ordered her to drink in a mom-like voice. Gemma obeyed with a troubling sense of déjà vu. This was too close to the childhood home that lurked within the fringes of her mind. Drinking her milk in a steamy kitchen with gauzy curtains over the windows. The memory from the Before time ought to comfort her, but it didn’t because it arrived fraught with loss and everything that lurked within the bottomless well.

Gemma’s thoughts wandered away as they often did when she was nervous. She wondered if the bar owner’s dog came from a shelter, but she thought not. She wouldn’t mind going back to that bar again; she’d bought a box of dog biscuits to help motivate herself in that direction. As she so often did, Gemma practiced being a normal person in her imagination. Her counselor had taught her this exercise, but Gemma wasn’t sure it worked. In fact, visualizing herself engaged in everyday activities as her best comfortable self was too daft for words.

Still, while Ellen cooked pancakes, Gemma imagined herself as a spontaneous person who hankered after a pint now and then. She imagined herself surveying the pub for an empty seat, not caring whether people looked at her, not caring about the proximity of so many bodies. She imagined herself with a voice that said “excuse me” as she maneuvered herself toward a stool and leaned over the bar and smiled at Alan. She imagined him returning the smile and herself holding his gaze long enough to notice that he was pleased to see her. “A Guinness, please,” Gemma said inside her head, and inside her head her voice sounded easy and fluid. Well-used. Sing-songy and sparkly.

Knocking roused Gemma from her mental exercise. A plate of pancakes sat at her elbow, and she had the sensation that Ellen’s voice had been in the background the whole while. “That must be your brother,” she said. “I’ll fetch him.”

Their voices murmured from the living room, and a few minutes later Ellen returned with Dermot. He clutched what Gemma liked to call his Sherlock Holmes cape around him and smiled with thinly disguised relief. The smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Dermot spoke with his hands.
Well done. Your counselor will be thrilled you made a new friend.

Very funny. She has the kittens. I’ll visit them after we eat.

Dermot nodded like he usually did when it came to her obsession with animals. Gemma settled into her pancakes, more than content to let Ellen’s attentions veer toward Dermot. She didn’t let herself slide into Gemma World, though. She kept her ear tuned to their conversation. After Ellen’s initial chastising about the loitering, scaring her half to death when she’d found their sleeping bags, she asked Dermot the natural question: “Why were you cruising my lane?”

Dermot settled a paper napkin on his lap and spread an even coat of butter and Nutella on each pancake in his stack. Hairline wrinkles around his mouth deepened as his expression closed down.

Gemma nudged Dermot with her toe, and he flashed a quick,
What? Settle down
, with his hand.

Yes, why are we here? And don’t you dare say for the matchmaking festival. I heard what Merrit said in the pub—that you accused the matchmaker of killing Mam.

“It’s strange,” Dermot said in his fake ruminating voice. Gemma recognized it from all the times he’d manufactured ways to get Gemma out of the house they lived in together. Like the time he’d “just remembered” that he was supposed to pick up a package, but he was too busy with paperwork and could Gemma manage it on her own?

“Yes, strange,” Dermot said, “how you sometimes want to return to the past for no other reason than knowing the past might help you know yourself better.”

Gemma rolled her eyes.

“Oh?” Ellen said.

“Your matchmaker matched our mother is what it comes down to.”

“Ah,” Ellen said, not sounding impressed.

“We’d like to chat with him,” Dermot continued, “but of course I forgot about the festival. We arrived on Monday and had a lead on a room somewhere around here but got lost. And our car broke down, to make matters worse. Without transport or a hotel reservation, we’ve been walking everywhere and we’re none too civilized about now.”

Ellen plopped more batter onto the skillet as Dermot went on to explain in too much detail that he’d bought sleeping bags off the McClennan family a few lanes over—and did Ellen know them?—and that morning had finally found a man to tow the car. The spark plugs had needed replacing. They’d waited in the village until their car was fixed and returned to clean out the old cottage. All very innocent, really.

Ellen set a plate of pancakes in the oven. Gemma felt Ellen’s skepticism rising off her in waves. She signed toward Dermot.
You need to tell her about me. Then she’ll understand.

Not everything is about you
, he signed back.
You aren’t supposed to be here, if you remember.

And confronting the matchmaker doesn’t make this trip about me too?

Dermot shook his head, but he couldn’t hide the acknowledgment that flashed then receded.

Ellen had turned to watch them. “And what’s all that? Secret conversations?”

“It’s automatic sometimes. I learned sign language along with Gemma.” Dermot poked at his pancakes with his fork. “She refused to learn unless I went with her.”

Get on with it, would you?

“You’re sure?” he said. At Gemma’s headshake, then switch to a nod, Dermot continued. “Gemma has given me permission to tell you about her—disorder—which makes dealing with strangers tough.”

Ellen turned toward Gemma as if seeing her with new eyes. Gemma’s body responded to the unwanted attention as it always did. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her heart accelerated. She waved a hand in front of her face in the classic I’m-too-hot gesture and turned toward the wall, signaling for Dermot to continue.

“Gemma’s shyness began at an early age,” Dermot pontificated much to Gemma’s irritation. He had his Gemma-speech down pat by now. “In fact, her shyness was so extreme that in certain social situations—like at school—she wouldn’t talk at all. She would take the teacher out of the room to ask her for permission to go to the loo, and even then, she’d whisper. Most children grow out of it, but Gemma didn’t get the chance because our mom died and Gemma woke up to reality months later to discover that her brain wouldn’t let her talk at all anymore.”

Dermot didn’t bother relating how much Gemma had improved over the years. No more vomiting at the mere thought of leaving the house. No more leaving the house with a wide-rimmed sunhat tied down along the sides of her face. No more hiding out in the closest Ladies’ every chance she got. With a force of will and Dermot’s help, she’d come a long way.

“The doctors call her disorder selective mutism,” Dermot said, “because she can talk, but she doesn’t. Before our mom died, she was your average case. Afterwards, something else entirely: the perfect case study. She’s been prodded by the best of them.”

Ellen sounded intrigued. “She doesn’t talk because she doesn’t want to?”

“No, it’s more like—” Dermot paused. “Okay, it’s like this: You know people who are phobic about snakes? Phobias are irrational and no amount of coaxing is going to get such a person not to lose it at the sight of the smallest snake. There are cases of people dying of fright, crazy as that seems. It’s all in their heads, of course, but it’s still too real—they can’t control the way their bodies react to snakes. The brain is that powerful. It’s like that for Gemma with anything she considers public exposure.”

“That’s tragic.”

Gemma wished she could convey the sheer terror that sometimes engulfed her. How could anyone comprehend the sensation of bones turning to glass and skin to paper? It was like at any second she would shatter from the inside out and turn into a puddle of goo. Dermot did his best to describe her disorder, but he never got down to the heart of it, which was that sometimes she thought she was going to die, simply die, if one more person laid another spotlighting and dagger-like gaze on her. Gemma barely remembered what she was like Before, when, according to Dermot, she screamed and cavorted and giggled like a normal child when she was inside their home.

“Our mom’s death sent her over the edge,” Dermot said, “and I hoped coming back to a place our mom had visited would dislodge some of the anxieties, further her progress.”

When did you become such a good liar?

Dermot’s grip on his fork tightened. He set it aside with a quiet clink against the wood tabletop.
It’s the truth now.

You think I’ll magically start to talk again. Just like that?

We can hope.

No,
he
could hope. He’d never said it in so many words, but she knew he wanted a life of his own—a family with a wife and two kids and a house without Gemma living with them and dragging everyone down. She understood his need for her to make progress, because it was her need too.

But of course, he’d never explain all of this to Ellen. Just like he’d never tell Ellen what he believed, which was that the beginning of the end of their mam’s life started with Liam the Matchmaker.

And ended when Gemma witnessed her murder.

Friday

Before mine eyes in opposition
sits Grim Death, my son and foe.

John Milton

TWELVE

I
N
P
OT O’
G
OLD
Gifts, Brendan Nagel slapped a price sticker on a hand-carved Celtic cross. These crosses were quite nice, in fact, carved from Connemara marble and standing about eighteen inches high. He’d given one to his dad for his birthday. He’d had to beg Malcolm for an employee discount, the stingy bollocks.

Brendan glanced at the clock. Half ten and Malcolm still hadn’t arrived. Except for souvenir-mad customers, Brendan had the shop to himself. Not that he minded. Somehow things went smoother when Malcolm wasn’t playing grand host. Not to mention, Brendan didn’t like the way his boss sideways glanced at him sometimes. But Brendan’s dad had told him to hush his worries about getting fired. Brendan’s life was on track and it would remain that way. He’d see to Brendan’s welfare, he would, and Brendan trusted his word. Brendan could take over the shop one day, so his dad said. And wouldn’t that be a first for a Nagel?