CHAPTER 12
The plane crash becomes second-page news when a British pop icon marries an actor. Then scandal erupts within the British royal family, bumping the marriage to the inside covers, the crash lost somewhere in the back of the tabloids, with no pictures, next to the personal advertisements and weight-loss gimmicks. My fear of being noticed is almost gone. But that’s only one fear in the list of many that wake me at night.
Shannon Walsh’s house slowly turns from pink to yellow. I deliver treats to Clive at the Secret Book and Record Store, and in return he takes me to the Beachfront Café for tea, mostly to avoid Siobhan. Her attitude toward me hasn’t changed.
Kieran and I dance around each other as we paint, and every time we’re within close proximity, the dull ache creeps back into my heart. It’s become consistent, expected, a sort of comfort, if only it weren’t so frustrating. I’m starting to need him, which might be what frightens me most.
The only solution is distance. I paint one side of the house. He works on the other. It’s the only way to save myself from the feelings I can’t seem to get rid of.
And my memories . . . They aren’t coming back.
I wake with nightmares, jostling, grabbing at the air, a scream hurtling toward my lips, with just enough time to stuff a pillow into my mouth so no one hears me. My first instinct is to knock on Kieran’s door so he can make me feel better, but I resist the temptation. Going outside is my only reprieve. I don’t make my way into town again to call Stephen. That can only happen once. The next time I talk to him, Clementine will be back.
Two weeks have passed with no improvement. My time has expired, and even though I’m dreading this, the truth can’t be ignored anymore. The longer I lie, the worse it gets. That’s the truth about lies—when they linger, they slowly trick you into believing they’re the truth. When it all falls apart, the pain is even worse, because it’s now a part of you. And my lies are beginning to feel like the truth. The line I thought was secure in my mind has blurred, along with everything else. Clementine is losing strength as Jane gains a life. But whatever life Jane has is false.
The first tourist buses arrive for the day as I make my way into town. The air smells fresh and clean. Puddles pool on the cement. The sand on the beach is damp with the sudden rainstorm we had this morning, but the clouds have since departed, and the sun is out. It warms my back as I walk, my sunglasses shielding my eyes, but now I’m not so naïve as to think the rain is done for the day.
Waterville’s one internet café is down an alley off the main street. A bell announces my arrival at the small shop lined with old computers. An older man with brown hair stands behind the counter, a grin plastered on his face. Only one other person is in the café. He glances over his shoulder at me as I walk up to the counter. I ask the man working how much it costs, and he points to the coin machine next to a computer.
“You put money in,” he says. “Five euros. Twenty minutes.”
I thank him and take a seat at the computer a few down from the only other patron. His strawberry hair swoops over his forehead. Freckles cover most of his exposed skin.
“It’s dial-up,” he says in an American accent. “Dial-up. It’s like I time-traveled back to 1999.”
“Were you even alive in 1999?” I ask. He doesn’t appear any older than me.
“You’re American.” He perks up immediately. “You’re right. I was barely alive in 1999. But I’ve seen pictures. Awful time. Lots of pleather and crop tops.”
Unfortunately, he doesn’t read my silence well.
“And boy bands. I think 1999 was the height of the boy band epidemic. Nasty, contagious disease. But I think it’s finally worked its way out of American pop culture. Though I cannot say the same for Ireland. Have you listened to the radio here? They’re still playing Robbie Williams. Robbie. Williams. I can’t believe I gave up a summer in the Hamptons for this.” The guy gestures at his computer. “And my dad took my phone. Said I needed to experience the charm of Ireland without technology. ‘Charm’ is another word for ‘ancient shithole.’ They don’t even have sinks with hot and cold water running out of the same tap. That’s archaic.”
“I think it’s charming.”
He gives me a flirtatious eyebrow wiggle. “You’re kind of charming.”
“What?”
“Look, you’re the first pretty girl I’ve met on this gruesome trip my father calls a ‘father-son bonding adventure.’ I gotta know. What’s a beautiful girl like you doing in the middle of Ireland?”
“We’re not in the middle of Ireland,” I say. “We’re in Southwest Ireland.”
“Semantics. Seriously, what are you doing in no man’s land? You know it rains here all the time, right?”
“Yes.”
“Why not go to Italy? It doesn’t rain nearly as much in Italy.”
“I don’t mind the rain.” I start to move to a different computer, but before I can, he scoots his chair toward me.
“Are you from Seattle or something?”
“Cleveland,” I say.
“A midwesterner. They breed masochists.”
I cock my head at him. “Why don’t you go home if you don’t like it here?”
“I wish I could,” he says, “but my father coerced me into taking this trip because he feels guilty for leaving me and my mom for a big house in the Hamptons and an even bigger set of breasts on my stepmom”—he puts up his finger—“who happens to be only five years older than me. My name’s Andy, by the way. My therapist says people need to be more honest with each other. So that’s my truth.”
“Did your therapist also tell you that you’re kind of overwhelming?” I ask.
“I already knew that.” He stretches back in his seat, resting his hands behind is head. “Now it’s your turn.”
“My turn for what?”
“Tell me your problems, and your name.”
“I don’t have any problems,” I lie.
“Oh, you have problems. It’s written all over your face.” I grab my cheeks, and he smiles. “I knew it.”
“I’m not telling you my problems.”
“A girl with secrets. Even better.” He points at me. “The purple hair helps with the mystique.”
“Lavender,” I say. He cocks his eyebrow at me. “The hair color is Lusty Lavender.”
“Lusty Lavender. You just keep getting better.” He’s charming, in a slightly unpredictable way. “Well, Lusty Lavender, you’re the best thing I’ve seen on this trip. This whole island smells like manure.”
“Maybe it’s not the island. It’s you. I think it’s lovely here.”
“I think you’re lovely. Can I buy you a drink?”
“It’s eleven in the morning.”
“I won’t judge you”—he winks at me—“if you don’t judge me. Have you noticed how they tell time here? When someone says it’s half five, does that mean it’s five thirty or four thirty?”
“Five thirty.”
“Thanks for clearing that up for me. So how about that drink? Just don’t order wine. It comes in mini bottles. Like the shitty kind you get on airplanes, in coach. You really should go to Italy. Ditch this place.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m OK.” I stand up to move to another computer.
“I get it. I get it. My therapist says I need to be more self-aware, but if I can’t buy you a drink, can I at least get a picture with you?” I glare at him. “In truth, I just want to brag to my friends that I met a hot girl on this trip.”
“You really are messed up,” I say.
“I know.” Andy shrugs. “I’ve spent a lot of time in therapy to figure that out. But also, it turns out, we all are.”
I can’t really argue with that. I might be a bigger mess than he is.
“So what do you do . . . to clean up the mess?” I ask.
“My therapist says it all starts with telling the truth.” Andy exhales. “So the truth is, if I get a picture with you, it will royally piss off my dad, who made me promise I would take this ‘father-son bonding trip’ seriously.” He holds up a camera. “Just one little photo to help out a messed-up guy?”
“And you promise to leave me alone after that?”
Andy crosses his finger in an X over his heart. “You have my word.”
“Fine,” I say.
Andy puts his arm around my shoulder, hastily snapping a picture of the two of us. He looks at the display screen and says, “Thanks. It’s perfect. I’ll leave you alone now.” He zips his lips closed.
“Thanks.”
I move to the other side of the café. I can’t have Andy over my shoulder when I search “Clementine Haas.” He may be nosier than Clive.
The computer takes a few minutes to come to life, and after a lot of obnoxious noises, it finally connects to the internet. I check one more time to make sure Andy isn’t hanging over my shoulder, but he’s engrossed in his computer.
I try to settle into my seat, but anxiety keeps my toes tapping against the floor. I bite my nails without trying to stop myself.
I told Kieran I needed to email my parents before going to paint at Shannon’s. He apologized for not having a computer and held out his cell phone. “Would you like to call them?”
I politely declined, claiming I didn’t want to run up his bill, and he pointed me in the direction of the café. I was partially relieved when he suggested it, but the other side of me wanted Kieran to give me a reason not to do this. My stomach sat high in my ribs, jumping and spinning, all morning.
Google pulls up on the home screen. Clementine Haas, Cleveland, Ohio, is bound to bring something up. But my fingers can’t seem to type the words. My stomach lurches at the thought of what might appear . . . or what might not. The questions that plague me daily come to the surface again. What if I don’t remember? What if all I see are images of my life, but not a single memory surfaces? What if I do remember, and I don’t like what I see? What’s worse—blindly not remembering, or seeing your life in front of you, only to be disappointed?
But the time for delaying is over. I said two weeks, and it’s been that long. My father is waiting for me. I gave myself a deadline because leaving him behind isn’t fair when I can take action. I type: Clementine Haas, Cleveland, Ohio. Then I change my mind and delete Clementine.
Haas, Cleveland, Ohio.
Baby steps. Start small and work my way up. This is a big moment that I need to take in tiny increments. I click on the “Search” button before I can change my mind.
It takes a few seconds for anything to appear. When the screen lights up with links, I lean in closer to the computer, protective, my stomach a mess.
At first glance, every link is about the crash—article after article about what happened to me. The words bring up panic and disbelief, which scream at me that I am not ready to read about the worst moment in my life. I can’t even get up on a ladder.
At the bottom of the page, one article gives me pause. It isn’t about me. I stare at the words, reading them over and over.
Owner of the Local Bakery, Born and Bread, Killed in Drunk Driving Incident
I click on the article, and seconds later, it appears on the screen.
November 23, 2005. Lakewood, Ohio—Thirty-six-year-old Mary Haas was the victim of a hit and run early Monday morning on the corner of Detroit Road and Riverside Drive in the Cleveland suburb of Lakewood. She was taken to Fairview Hospital and died, due to complications from the incident, late Monday afternoon. Officers found the suspect and have confirmed that Roger Spiegel had been drinking prior to the incident.
Mary Middleton Haas, known to most as Mimi, was the popular owner of the neighborhood bakery, Born and Bread, a Cleveland staple for over fifty years. Haas bought the bakery in 1995 when then owners, Ruth and Rex Benson, threatened to close. Haas reinvigorated Born and Bread, attracting people from all over the city to her popular sugar cookies.
“She will be deeply missed,” said Stacy Partridge, a longtime patron. “Everyone who walked through the doors of Born and Bread felt her passion for that place.”
Mary Haas leaves behind a husband, Paul, and a six-year-old daughter, Clementine. Funeral services are planned for later this week at St. James Cathedral, just blocks from the bakery and the site of the incident.
After my tenth read, I’m still paralyzed. Numb. Disconnected from my entire body. My mom died because of a drunk driver. She owned a bakery. I say it so many times internally that I know I’ll never forget it, but . . . what happened next?
Reading the article is like reading a book. I want to turn the page and let the story continue. Does the bakery shut down? Does the driver, Roger Spiegel, go to jail? Do thousands of people show up to the funeral? What happens to her family?
But it’s not a book . . . It’s my life. Of all the memories, how can I not remember this one?
I told Kieran my last name was Middleton. My brain must have picked it because it’s my mom’s maiden name. But even now as I say it, I don’t feel a connection.
I’m filled to the brim with nothing. And nothing feels awful. I shut down the computer and stand up hastily from my seat. The chair squeaks, and Andy glances over at me.
“Leaving, Lusty Lavender? Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”
With my sunglasses hiding my tear-filled eyes, I run out of the café.
When the hospital called my dad, he told them about my mom’s death. I read it on my chart, so this shouldn’t be a surprise. But a small note, scratched in Stephen’s handwriting, is different than an article with details—details a girl should know about her mom.
I can’t recall the bakery at all. The article said she was known for her sugar cookies. Is that why I have a knack for baking?
A pack of tourists walks toward me in a clump, taking pictures and chatting, laughing—all as my world deteriorates. Surrounded by strangers, I stop on the sidewalk, unable to move. Unable to do anything but watch them pass by as I sob like a scared child. People watch, but I’m so tired of holding myself together. It takes too much energy to keep all the pieces in place.
No amount of grasping, clenching, squeezing, or moving forward can fix this.
“Are you OK, sweetheart?” An older woman carrying an umbrella touches my arm. Her hair is nearly black except for a thick streak of gray. Her hand has a diamond ring on one of the fingers. That ring holds a memory. A teardrop necklace dangles from her neck, and I’m sure she could tell me where she got it, who gave it to her, and the line of recollections she has about that one person.
“Do you look like your mom or dad?” I ask her in between sobs.
With a surprised expression, she answers, “My mum. Why?”
I notice a scar on her chin and point to it. “And how’d you get that?”
“I fell off my bike when I was little.” She cocks her head at me. “Can I help you in some way?”
My cheeks are wet, my sunglasses fogged.
“I have a scar on my knee. I noticed it two days ago,” I say. “I don’t know what it’s from.”
Her hazel eyes are kind, warm. I can tell she wants to help, but I know how this ends. She may not know it, but she is a walking story. And me . . . I’m full of scars with no stories.
I push away from her, running through the crowd, at a loss for control. For two weeks, I’ve kept my pain to myself. I’ve walked around like I’m normal, but I’m not. I barely feel human.
The false reality I’ve created crumbles, and anger and grief take its place. Pieces of hope don’t amount to much right now. They aren’t big enough to hold on to, to keep afloat. In all my efforts to shelter people from pain, it’s amounted to nothing. All of this—it’s useless.
At least now I can let go of my lies. My fantasy of returning to my dad as Clementine is gone. When you have nothing, you’ll be anything. What do I have to lose? Clementine or Jane—the hospital is just another box in a plethora of boxes. If I can’t escape my mind, why does it matter where my body is?
I can go back to Limerick, back to my dad, and do what I should have done in the beginning. I should have been strong enough to stay. Brave enough to face my life.
Back at the cottage, I collect my clothes, but even they were bought with someone else’s money. They aren’t mine. They’re just fabric in the story I’ve weaved about a girl who doesn’t really exist.
I leave the clothes. The only things I take with me are the clothes I’m wearing, my notebook, and sweatshirt. I am now just as I came.
From the money Kieran has given me, I’ve taken just enough for the bus ride to Limerick. I said I didn’t want any more of his money, but I’m desperate. When it feels hard to leave, I swallow it down. This is final. Besides the hospital, Waterville is the only place in my memory, and I will never forget it. It wasn’t all bad here. But it was all just a ruse.
Siobhan walks in the front door, startling me on my way out. She’s not the person I want to see right now. My face is painted in tears. Hers is a picture of made-up perfection.
“Are you crying, Muppet?” Her voice holds no caring, and yet even her body, maybe more than others, holds her story. Colorful pictures ink her skin, and the child she’s carrying . . . it’s an extension of her story. It feels utterly unfair. “Don’t tell me Kieran finally came to his senses and kicked you out.”
Two weeks of emotions flood out of me in a final, unfiltered burst. “I wanted to like you. I tried to be your friend. But you have no compassion for other people’s feelings. You only care about yourself and your problems. Did it ever occur to you that other people are hurting, too? That there are bigger problems than what you’re going through? At least your problem will result in love. You’re going to have a baby who will love you unconditionally. And Kieran and Clive, they support you. And you don’t deserve any of them.”
I don’t wait for her to slam the door on me. I do it myself. She can tell Kieran exactly what I said. I’ll never see him again.
Clouds roll into town as I walk away from the cottage. Siobhan was right about one thing—try as I might, I was destined to end up alone.