CHAPTER 5
The thing with amnesia is that waking up in a strange place isn’t actually strange. Doing it a second time should be less scary.
As it turns out, getting out of the hospital is easier than I expected. We just walk out, past a slew of camera crews and reporters drinking coffee and chatting, some in trench coats like Stephen said. With my eyes on the ground, I act calmly and walk casually. Moments later, we’re at Kieran’s old, beat-up truck.
I let myself take one more glance at the hospital.
“Are you getting in?” Kieran asks.
No more pausing. The goal now is to move forward. When this is all over, I’ll make everyone understand why I did it, but I can’t worry about that now. I’ll make them see my side of the story—that I didn’t want to pull them down with me. I didn’t want to hurt anyone with my pain.
When the truck door closes, Jane Middleton sits in the passenger seat. My only reminder of Clementine is the tattoo on my foot. That’s the unfortunate reality with tattoos—they follow you everywhere.
Much of the trip to Waterville is a blur of green patchwork countryside and winding roads. Kieran’s truck is so old, the radio comes through as static half the time. There’s no air conditioning, and the steering wheel is on the right instead of the left, which feels odd, even though I don’t ever recall driving on the other side of the car or road.
The truck grumbles a weird noise. “Are you sure this thing is going to make it?” I ask.
“She hasn’t let me down yet,” Kieran says, and runs his hands lovingly over the steering wheel.
The road is twisty, and Kieran dodges gigantic tour buses, nearly hitting his side-view mirror on the hedges that line the road.
“The Ring of Kerry,” he says. “You can’t avoid it.”
“Sure.” A woozy feeling hits me as we go around another tight turn. “Of course.”
The Ring of Kerry is a mystery to me. It wasn’t on Stephen’s map. For all I know, it’s an actual ring worn by someone named Kerry. Kieran tells me he’s spending the summer at his family’s cottage, away from Dublin and school. When I ask about his parents—I forgot to ask about them when I devised this plan—Kieran tells me they aren’t a factor.
“A factor?”
“My father won’t come near the place this summer.”
“And your mom?”
“Neither will she.” He shifts the conversation in a different direction. “Waterville isn’t a big city like Limerick, but your chances of getting mugged are slim.” He smirks. “Where are you from in America anyway?”
“Cleveland,” I say, with false confidence. “It’s in Ohio. On Lake Erie.”
“Lake Erie?”
I change the subject. “Look, sheep!”
After hours in the car, battling traffic and roads too narrow for two cars to pass each other safely, we reach Waterville. I’m exhausted.
“It’s all just so green, Kieran O’Connell,” I say as we pull into the town.
“Well, Ireland is kind of known for that.”
“And the ocean.” I rest my forehead on the window. The sun is setting, glistening off the water in iridescent colors. It’s mesmerizing and beautiful and vast.
“We are on an island.” Kieran teases.
“With sheep. Lots of sheep.”
He pulls up a driveway to a large beige stucco house with white shutters, a sprawling, finely manicured lawn, and a large patio overlooking the ocean. Colorful flowers bloom everywhere.
“This is where you live? I thought you said it was a cottage?”
“It is,” he says. “It’s a really big cottage.”
“But you drive this.” I touch the beat-up truck’s interior.
“The outside doesn’t always match the inside.” Kieran shrugs. “Always remember the Jell-O, Jane.”
“Your insides are made of money.”
“No,” Kieran says with a laugh. “My dad’s insides are made of money. And not much else.”
“Well . . . what are your insides made of?”
Kieran comes around to open my door. “You’re tired. You’ve clearly been through an ordeal. Let’s get you set up inside.”
“An ordeal. That sounds about right.”
Kieran takes me inside and back to an empty bedroom. My mind tries to take in my surroundings—the living room and kitchen and all the fine decorations—but Kieran is right. I am more tired than I want to admit.
The bed in the spare room appears soft, with fine white sheets. When I sit down, it’s like resting on a cloud.
“It’s just the jet lag that’s making me tired. That’s all. And the mugging.” I take off my shoes and settle back. “I promise I won’t stay long. A week, maybe two. You won’t even know I’m here.”
Kieran draws the curtains closed.
I yawn, closing my eyes. “You’re my spare tire, Kieran.”
“What was that?”
Words come from somewhere deep in my brain, somewhere I haven’t been able to reach all day, except for a few moments. “You always need a spare tire in Cleveland. For the pot holes of life.”
Those are the last words I remember before sleep takes over.
When I wake up the next day, peeling my head off the plush pillow, light pours through the small crack between the curtains. I check the clock. It’s past one in the afternoon.
My surroundings are still foreign to me. But the burden I felt yesterday has eased. I may not recognize this place, but it feels better than where I was. And I’ve accumulated one day’s worth of memories. That’s better than nothing.
My brain knocks against my skull when I sit up, still fully dressed, and check for Kieran. The house sounds and feels empty. My suspicion is confirmed when I get up and holler down the hallway, and no one responds.
The reality of what I’ve done hits me again. I ran away with a stranger to Waterville, Ireland, and I have no way of leaving. The weight of it is paralyzing. But the thought of going back . . . That’s worse.
I owe Kieran my life. Jane’s life.
It must be possible to push through the immensity of all of this toward freedom. I can’t worry about what I left behind. When Clementine is back, we can all move on from this disaster, my time hiding in Waterville a blip.
A note sits on the bedside table, addressed to me, a stack of money next to it.
Gone for the day. Here’s a little help for someone who’s broke.
Kieran
He’s left one hundred euros. Not only did Kieran get me out of the hospital, he’s now left me money. Somehow in all of this, he’s become a positive piece in this swarming mess. And what am I doing for him? Lying. About everything. And using him. Pretending to be yummy orange Jell-O when I’m really pig and cow parts. If I were more confident and capable, I would come clean before it goes too far. Even from the little I know about Kieran, he deserves that.
But at any moment, my life can turn upside down. I’m as inconstant as the wind, wholly unsteady. If I told the truth, he would send me back where people want to control me, and I can’t go there yet.
I make it my mission to find a way to repay Kieran for all of this, before my lies destroy everything.
The cottage is one story, with fine furnishings, but quaint. It’s large and smells like the ocean and burned wood. Windows line every room, exposing a stunning view of the water across the street. The living room has a large stone fireplace and wooden beams. A grand bay window overlooks the rocky beach that leads down to the sea. The view showcases large emerald-green hills, some steep with stone walls that make the land seem like a patchwork quilt. It’s spectacular.
Four bedrooms are tucked at the back of the house. I snoop in the first and find a king-size bed with sheets that appear untouched. A few items hang in the closet—sweaters, jackets—all men’s clothes. The taste is older and refined.
The next bedroom is slightly smaller. A mirror hangs on the wall, and magazines are scattered all over the desk—Punk, Nylon, Dazed, Bazaar. High-heel shoes are strewn all over the floor—peekaboo-style, T-strap, pointed toe, platform. And on the dresser are glass jars full of multicolored sea glass. The sun hits the containers through the window and reflects the colors on the wall.
In the attached bathroom, the mess gets worse. Toothpaste is caked in the sink. Towels cover the floor. The cabinet has a few packages of unopened toothpaste and toothbrushes and multiple boxes of hair dye in extravagant colors with names like “Magnetic Magenta,” “Vibrant Violet,” and “Lusty Lavender.” Kieran never mentioned a roommate, and when I asked about his parents, he clearly didn’t want to talk about them. I leave the bedroom, deciding it’s probably better not to linger.
The kitchen is as messy as the bathroom. Used tea bags sit, staining the sink, and the counter is littered with crumbs and used plates and glasses. I realize the first chore I can do to help Kieran. This house needs to be cleaned.
The door to the last bedroom is closed. I casually push it open and turn on the lights. This room is relatively neat. The bed is made, and a pile of folded clothes is stacked on the dresser. A surfboard leans against the wall, and pictures are everywhere. There’s a shot of two people dressed in full hiking gear, standing at the top of a snowy mountain with an Irish flag. A picture of someone skydiving, another of a person skiing, white powder flying up around his body.
Yet another sits framed on the dresser: a group of six boys, all dressed in school uniforms—blue sweaters, white button-downs, blue ties, dark slacks—huddled and laughing in front of a sign that says “Blackrock Preparatory School for Boys.” I spot Kieran immediately. With his blue eyes, he’s easy to find in the center of the picture. Judging by the mischievous expressions on the boys around him, Kieran isn’t the only daredevil of the bunch.
My stomach turns sour as I set the frame down. This is Kieran’s bedroom, his life displayed in pictures. His memories. Here I stand in an empty house, surrounded by other people’s lives. And yet, I’m empty. It’s numbing. But what did I expect when I left the hospital? I’ve known from the beginning I had to do this alone. Stephen couldn’t help. My dad couldn’t help. Even Kieran. He’s given me moments when a life of some sort feels within my grasp, but even that hope is fleeting.
I’m alone and I deserve it, because I made it so. But I’m starting to think maybe I don’t like being alone.
To ignore the numbness, I clean. Between the disorganized bedroom, the messy bathrooms, and the unkempt kitchen, there’s a lot to occupy my time and distract me. And when the cottage is clean, I turn to myself. My teeth need brushing. My clothes are a day old, and I slept in them. I need an overhaul as badly as the cottage did.
After a sandwich of bread and Nutella, two of the only ingredients in the house, and a cup of tea, I sit with my notebook in front of me and write out a to-do list for my new life.
- Figure out what the Ring of Kerry is.
- Buy some clothes and underwear.
- Get groceries.
It’s painfully short, and the longer I sit alone in the kitchen, the more the paralyzing apathy threatens to come back. Kieran’s old baseball hat sits on the kitchen counter. I grab it before I leave. It’s a way to stay somewhat hidden in public, which I’ll gladly take over being inside. I’m unwilling to stay still anymore.
Outside, the humid sea air comes off the ocean. It washes over me, the smell of salt water and fresh air a relief, the sensation similar to yesterday when Stephen took me outside for the first time. I feel more . . . capable.
The road is lined with hedgerows and stone walls on one side and the ocean on the other. Kieran mentioned during our drive that there’s only one road into town. He went so far as to claim that I couldn’t get lost if I tried. He doesn’t know how wrong he is.
The green hedgerows are speckled with bright red flowers. Puddles glisten in the sunlight. The smell of earlier rain hangs in the air. Low, puffy clouds sit heavy in the sky, and the brisk wind feels good on my skin.
I cross the street to walk along the ocean. The beach is rocky, and the water is more murky than clear, like the bottom of the sea has been tossed around and brought up to the surface. Out in the bay, there are large, green rocky islands that look almost angry, with jagged edges and rough terrain. I sit on the sand, prepared to take my shoes off and feel how cold the water is, but instinct stops me.
My tattoo.
I’m not sure what’s more frustrating: not wanting to see it, or not knowing why I hate it. My shoes stay on. I walk the beach, feeling the opposite of the mighty creature Stephen claimed I am. A tattoo shouldn’t knock someone over, and yet mine attempts to repeatedly.
The small town of Waterville is decorated with multicolored houses and buildings—red, yellow, green, blue, pink. Tourists walk the streets, people carry grocery bags, moms and dads play with their kids.
For a while, I sit on a bench and watch the tourists in tennis shoes with rain jackets tied around their waists and cameras in their hands—all ready to casually capture the next memory, with no regard to how special that is. Each moment passes without much notice from anyone—a laugh, a kiss, a hug—each so easily etched in his or her mind. Not so easy for me. I have to fight for mine, which feels unfair.
With my notebook in hand, I leave the beach behind and head into town, checking out the shops and pubs. Each storefront is painted a different color, and signs out front advertise different specials.
FISH AND CHIPS €5
NO BUS OR COACH PARKING AND NO LOUD AMERICANS
LIVE MUSIC NIGHTLY
At the corner, a street sign points in multiple directions to cities and their distances.
TRALEE 73 KM
KILLARNEY 62 KM
CORK 120 KM
KILGARVAN 71 KM
Limerick isn’t even listed, which makes me wonder: Can I ever go back after what I’ve done? Is that even possible? It has to be. I can’t allow an alternative.
In the clothing store, most of the items are made of wool—wool hats, wool sweaters, wool skirts. Celtic crosses in all sizes hang on the wall for sale, and the music playing in the store is a mellow and bittersweet tune, all fiddle and fluttering flute. I browse alongside a handful of camera-toting tourists.
A woman with short brown hair and a friendly demeanor approaches me and asks in a thick accent, slightly different from Kieran’s, “Can I help you, love?”
“That would be lovely,” I say, thinking of Stephen for just a second before I push the thought away. “I’m looking for some shirts and pants.”
“Do you have a specific style you’re looking for?”
“A style?”
“What kind of clothes do you like?”
I should know this, and yet, as with everything else, my mind is a vast wasteland of nothing.
“Let’s just go with plain.” I can’t keep the resignation out of my voice when I say it.
The woman shows me the white T-shirts, then the jeans. I mention that I also need underwear, and she shows me to the back of the shop.
“I don’t have the stuff young people wear,” she says, holding up a pack of granny panties, “but God likes you better in these.”
I take them, content with anything. “Socks?”
She rings up my items, making conversation by asking if I’m just in town visiting. I nod, handing her money.
“Have you been in before?” She squints at me as she gives me my change. “You look familiar.”
I shake my head. “It’s my first time in Ireland.” The first time I remember at least.
She shrugs and hands me the bag. “You have a wonderful day now. The sun is out. It won’t be like this forever. The rain always comes. Enjoy it while you can.” She winks.
Her reminder shifts my mood almost instantly. The sun is out. I should be happy I’m here. This is what I wanted. To stay in Limerick meant being trapped. No matter where I am, I can’t allow myself to fall so far down into my own hole that I can’t get out.
“Thank you. I will,” I say with a determined voice. “Can you point me in the direction of a grocery store?”
Her directions lead me to the center of town and the Centra Market. The aisles of organized food are strangely comforting, adding to my improved mood. I feel more capable in here than I did in the clothing store, which feels notable, so I write in my notebook, I like food more than clothes.
There’s a sense of freedom in taking my time, picking out items for Kieran’s kitchen. Knowing that I’m being helpful on some level, my confidence swells.
With flour, eggs, sugar, milk, butter, chocolate, bread, cheese, fruits, and vegetables in my cart, I check out.
A book is on display at the register, A Rough Guide to Ireland’s Riches, which completes my purchases for the day. There must be information on the Ring of Kerry in here. A sense of pride fills me. I’ve accomplished multiple chores today.
“Is that all for you, love?” the woman behind the counter asks. People are so nice in Ireland. Even her face is kind, covered in wrinkles that make her look like a sweet Irish grandma. I smile. Maybe I’m not as lost as I thought. Maybe Stephen is right—if you’re going to get lost, Ireland is the place to do it.
“Yes.” I say it with confidence. All I needed was a little freedom to get myself together. I went with my gut, and it’s working. My memories are bound to come back quicker this way.
The woman behind the counter examines me after I’ve paid.
“Did I give you enough?” I ask, and then whisper, “I’m from America.”
But she just keeps looking at me as she puts my food in a bag.
“America? Have you been here before?”
“No . . . Why?”
“You just look so familiar,” she says, her eyes searching my face.
The woman in the clothing store said the same thing. I pull down on Kieran’s hat, shielding my face some. I sense the clouds coming on.
“I swear I know you,” the woman says. She dings the cash register loudly, the noise startling me.
“The captain has asked that you remain in your seats.”
A flashback of the burned and crumpled plane I saw on TV pops in my head.
“Eighteen-year-old Clementine Haas is the lone survivor of the plane crash that devastated the small town of Ballycalla.”
I step back from the counter. No one knows me in Ireland, and yet two people think they do. Stephen said my picture wasn’t released to the public, but something is definitely off. A buzzing starts in my ears—like an engine. The woman behind the counter stares.
“Thank you.” I grab my groceries and head speedily for the door, but my progress is halted when I come face-to-face with . . . myself.
Irish tabloids are lined up on the newspaper stand in the corner of the store—the Irish Mirror, the Irish Daily Star, and The Irish Sun.
My face is on the front page of each of them.
I gape at the pictures in disbelief, like the girl on the covers might start talking, telling me about myself. It’s like gazing into a distorted mirror, the image clear and yet at the same time different than me.
Lone Survivor Escapes Hospital, Whereabouts Unknown
My finger touches one of the front pages, where my skin looks rosy, healthy. Then my hand reaches for my real face, and all I feel is a hollow cheek. I can’t believe that girl is actually me. She’s grinning, with long brown hair that’s curled in loose waves draped carefully over her shoulder. My dirty, haphazardly cut hair is a sharp contrast to the silkiness of the hair in the picture. The color doesn’t even match, though I have no memory of why or when I decided to go blonde.
The girl in the picture wears precise makeup, lips a bright red, mascara accentuating her eyes. She appears younger than me, less . . . damaged. Looking at her, I’m intrigued about her life, interested in what the article says about her. I almost pick up the paper to read it.
But she’s just another person on the cover of a newspaper. She’s not . . . me.
I practically stumble onto the street. My legs move fast as I retrace my path back to Kieran’s cottage. One road. It’s impossible to get lost. But Clementine is lost.
And now the whole of Ireland knows I went missing.
Clouds have rolled in, and the rain is coming, like the woman at the clothing store said. I fix my eyes on the ground, my face shadowed by Kieran’s hat, until I’m back at the cottage.
No one is home. Where is Kieran? Possible scenarios play vividly in my mind. What if he’s seen the papers? What if he recognized me and already called the authorities? He isn’t here because he’s in Limerick turning me in. My lies will be my downfall, and yet I knew this would happen.
At least no one is here to see me crumble. I sink into a chair in the kitchen, the weight of it all too heavy to hold, wishing I had an emergency button I could press so that Stephen would come running. He must have been so angry when I didn’t come back. So scared. I broke my promise to him. I betrayed him.
And my dad . . . I did this to spare him pain, but the truth is that whatever I do will be painful for him.
My head rests in my hands, my hair falling around my face. The right decision is to go back to Limerick and end this. A good daughter would do that. A loving daughter. An honest person. But I can’t erase the lies I’ve already told. And I don’t know yet what kind of person I am.
I find a pair of scissors in a kitchen drawer and head straight to the bathroom. In the mirror, Clementine Haas reflects back at me. I pause, only for a moment. I don’t know the kind of person I am, but I know I can’t go back yet. Escaping the hospital wasn’t enough. I need to escape Clementine, too.
After the first snip, there’s no going back. I cut my hair short, to my chin, with jagged edges and blunt bangs across my forehead. Blonde hair falls in clumps on the ground. In the bathroom cabinet, a rainbow of color options is available. “Lusty Lavender” seems like a good color for my skin. The dye is cold on my head as I apply thick layers of color, the pungent smell tingling my nose.
When my transformation is complete, one of Kieran’s white towels is soaked in purple dye. The girl in the mirror, with short lavender hair, is no longer Clementine Haas. No vague remnants of the person on the covers of the tabloids, other than my brown eyes.
I shower, my fingers running clumsily through my hair, purple dye swirling at my feet. As good as the hot water feels, l can’t linger. My new clothes fit well, and once I’m done cleaning the mess in the bathroom, I throw a load of laundry into the washing machine. Moving is good. Thinking is the enemy.
I pick through the groceries on the counter, methodically moving around the kitchen. I turn the oven on and fill a bowl with butter, vanilla, and eggs. In another I mix dry ingredients—flour, baking powder, salt, sugar.
“And a dash of love,” I say to myself, the words coming from somewhere unreachable. “It holds everything together.” I’m not sure why baking cookies feels like the right thing to do momentarily, but putting the ingredients together, making something from nothing, seems right.
As the cookies bake, I read the book I bought. If my charade is going to work, knowledge is key. Jane would know a few facts about this place.
The Ring of Kerry is the scenic route around the Iveragh Peninsula in southwestern Ireland. It boasts the best and most amazing pastoral and coastal views in all Ireland.
So it’s not an actual ring.
The most popular area is the Dingle Peninsula with the finest traditional Irish music in the country and where many of the locals still speak Irish.
Killarney has impressive lakes and mountains.
In Cork, it’s popular to drink Murphy’s Irish Stout instead of the more popular Guinness brewed in Dublin.
The oven buzzes—the cottage filled now with sugary smells. I set the cookies to cool and switch the laundry from the washer to the dryer. All the moving is working. My nerves have calmed. I might just avoid disaster.
Then I hear the front door open. I freeze next to the dryer. Steps echo through the house, getting closer and closer to the kitchen. I take a deep breath, ready to face Kieran for the first time today and deal with the consequences.
I step out from the laundry room into the kitchen.
But it’s not Kieran.
“For the love of God, please tell me he didn’t dare you to do that to your hair.”
A gorgeous girl stands in the kitchen. Her long hair is hot pink. She’s dressed in a tight black dress with red polka-dot tights. Her arms are covered in tattoos—tattoos she probably loves. But the thing I notice most . . .
She’s pregnant.