Page 8 of Promise Me This

That same glimmer from earlier returns to her eyes, but she simply nods. “Right then, follow me.”

I do as I’m told, joining her outside the kitchen. She gestures down the hall to the right of the stairs. “That’s my personal space; my room, office, and a closet. Guests don’t usually need to go there, as you can almost always find me in the kitchen, but should you be looking, that’s my wing.” She takes to the stairs, one wrinkled hand gripping the banister to steady herself. “You’ll be in the converted attic room.” She tosses a smile over her shoulder that instantly takes ten years off her face. “It’s my favorite spot in the house. You can even see the river on a clear day.”

“Then why isn’t it yours?” I ask as we reach the second level.

“With these knees?” She gestures toward her legs, that tunic brushing her thighs. “Not a chance. Now I just save it for those guests who I feel will appreciate it most.”

I smile. It feels odd on my face, like stretching a muscle after too long spent stiff. “What made you think I’ll appreciate it?”

She opens the second door off the landing, a narrow one that reveals a closet stocked with everything one might need to clean a room. She gathers a caddy of supplies from the floor and a pile of sheets off the shelf, which she hands to me. Her gaze meets mine as she does it, something familiar and comforting glinting in her emerald irises.

“Just a feeling,” she says. Her chin juts toward the stairs, which continue upward. “Come on, let’s get you a clean room.”

Between the two of us, it takes just under fifteen minutes before the room that was once an attic is sparkling, the lemon cleaner mixing with the fresh scent of rain coming in through the open dormer window in a pleasant way. I lug my suitcase up the two flights of stairs and settle it next to the white antique writing desk in the corner of the room by the door. Collapsing onto the bed, I train my gaze on the wallpaper, a floral print with winding wisteria vines that stretches all the way to the vaulted ceiling, and let my vision go blurry at last from the unshed tears.

My phone, now connected to Wi-Fi, vibrates in my pocket. I retrieve it, unlock the screen, and click on my mother’s message.

Mom

Let me know when you’re settled. Dad and I are leaving for the cruise this evening. Left your key under the doormat in case you need it. Love you, Mom.

Her signature sign-off on the text splinters my heart, making me miss her. But even more heartbreaking is what I can read between the lines of her message.

In case you need it. Meaning in case I come crawling back home with my tail between my legs, something I distinctly wanted to avoid doing. Which is why I left my key with them in the first place. I didn’t need a way back to their home, the empty nest I invaded, though they’d never admit as much to me. I was finally taking control of my life and facing my demons. Finally attempting to repair the damage that I’ve caused.

In case you need it, meaning in case I fail. Something I’m apt to do.

I used to be successful. Full of promise. I was a straight-A student all the way through sophomore year of college, destined to become the journalist I always dreamed of being. Then I came home from Ireland, and everything I was became lost in the wake of tragedy.

The first person I ever failed was my unborn daughter. I’ve been doing the same to everyone else in my life since that day—so much so that it has become a personality trait that my mother feels the need to account for.

Thoughts of my daughter, which have been hovering at the edge of my mind all day, suddenly force their way onto center stage. The fist that has been clenching my throat releases, allowing a sob to claw its way out. With tears blurring my vision, I scramble across the room, grab the notebook from my front suitcase pocket, and bring it with me to bed.

Tucked under the covers, I turn to the first blank page, not letting my gaze settle on any of the anguish scribbled before it. I click open the pen I’ve been using as a bookmark, and I talk to her the only way I can anymore.

My Darling Poppy,

I’ve made it to Ireland after a long flight—and a lot of years. Dublin is lovely, but the countryside is otherworldly. I like to imagine you here, running through the fields and laughing at the sheep. The breeze coming off the bay travels up the river to Cahersiveen, filling the air with salt and movement. I imagine you would’ve had your father’s hair, and that breeze would have driven your curls crazy. In the most beautiful way, of course.

The flight was mostly uneventful. There were two babies on the plane, seated a row in front of me. I heard grumbles from other passengers as their cries disturbed their sleep, but I didn’t mind it. Those poor little ones didn’t know why their ears hurt from the pressure, only that they did. You can’t blame them for that. Instead of complaining, I simply stared out the window. Frost crept like fogged breath over the glass, cutting me off from the dark ocean below. I felt a bit like a fish in a bowl, with the whole world on the other side of the glass. Only no one was looking in at me. Though I can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing.

I wish you were here with me on that plane, sweet girl. I think a lot about what you haven’t seen, what you’ll never get to see. In the first few months after I lost you, Mom sent me a song written by a woman in a similar situation. In it, she said when a child dies that God takes them back to the beginning of time and shows them how it all unfolded. I like to believe that’s true. That maybe you’ve seen far more than I ever have. You’ll have to tell me all about it when we’re together again.

I saw your daddy today. And your sister. Can you believe you have a sister? She looks just like Callum, the way I always knew you would. They make quite a pair. Quite a family.

I don’t know what I thought I’d find when I got here. I guess I didn’t let myself think about it, out of fear. Fear that he’d forgotten. Fear that I never could. In all that fear, I forgot that he’d have a whole life that doesn’t include us. That by finally telling him about you, I could be damaging something he’s built in our absence.

Now I don’t know if it’s logic or that fear that’s making me hesitate. I’m so tired of being afraid. I let myself give up everything, bury my head in the sand, and hope that it would keep me safe, all because I was afraid to suffer again. To lose anything that could hurt me the way losing you did.

What if it’s too late to right my wrongs? What if I’ve kept silent too long?

I’ll do my best, Poppy. My best is all I can do.

I love you, honey. I’ll be seeing you.

Momma

Chapter Four

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