In the Unlikely Event

“Ruined how?” I blink, confused. I’m starting to think everyone just flat-out hates me in this town. They won’t even take my money now?

“Someone wrote all over it.”

I take the note and flip it. Sure enough, I see my name on it, and a date.

The date I threw it into Mal’s guitar case.

He kept it. For good luck. For fate. For whatever reason, he kept it and the napkin, and what does that even mean?

Heart pounding like a restless, caged animal, I tuck the note back into my pajama pocket.

Did you feel the same way I did, Mal? Did you walk around with a hole in your chest?

But if he had, he wouldn’t have married Kathleen. I’m reading into things. Not the first time I’ve done that. Besides, Callum. I love like Callum.

Callum, Callum, Callum.

“Look, it’s the only money I have. I stay right up Main Street, in the Doherty cottage. Is it okay if I come back in a few hours with the money? I’m starving. Also, my host is sick, and I—”

“I know who you are.” The woman lowers her voice, her eyes softening. She has this weird mix of Irish and Indian accents, sweet and round and warm, like spices and honey.

“You do?” I let out an audible sigh.

News sure travels fast in small villages. I wonder if that’s why people feel so strongly about country life. Because it defines you so profoundly, it’s a part of your identity. Then again, I did have a show-off with Maeve and Heather here not even forty-eight hours ago.

She starts shoving my things into a stripy, nylon white and blue bag. “I arrived in Tolka three years after your mother left. They told me how you got the scar. I’m so sorry, Aurora.”

“Huh?” I look up at her, no longer smiling.

My mom wasn’t here to begin with—she said she never set foot in Ireland—so how could she possibly leave? And I was born with this birthmark. That’s what she said. This is not some Harry Potter scenario where the scar has deeper meaning. It is what it is: a birthmark. Knowing me, I probably punched myself in her uterus by accident.

The cashier hands me my bag.

“On the house. I’m just glad you survived.” She shakes her head a little, her long side braid moving back and forth.

“Survived what?” I’m trying not to lose patience. “What did you hear about me? About my mom?”

The bell above the door chimes, and someone walks into the shop. The light flickers, just for a second. On. Off. The universe is trying to tell me something. The universe can also go screw itself. It hasn’t helped at all so far. It just messes with me.

As soon as the woman sees who it is, her eyes widen and her mouth clamps shut. I turn around. It’s Father Doherty, and he’s already holding a bottle of wine, obviously in a hurry to pay and leave.

Fancy everyone having a party and not inviting the Wicked Witch of the West.

I wish I could say I am happy to see him, but more than anything, it’s panic that washes over me. I’m panicked about Mal being sick and walking around in the rain, panicked I’m losing grip on what I have with Callum, but most of all, I’m terrified that there’s some big secret about me I’m not privy to.

And all the answers are around me, in a demonic circle, dancing ritually and laughing. Only they’re invisible, and I can’t see them.

“Rory,” Father Doherty gasps, stumbling backwards. His back hits the magazine shelf.

I raise an eyebrow. There’s no way his grandson didn’t tell him I was here.

“I’ve been meaning to come up and say hello.” He clears his throat, mustering an embarrassed smile.

He looks even more ancient than he did eight years ago. Weaker, too. Tragedy has a way of painting your face in a different shade. You can always spot people who are grieving before they open their mouths.

“I’m sure you have.” I smile patiently, knowing there’s no point in confronting him.

“I wanted to give you time to settle. How have you been?”

“Oh, you know.” I wrap the bag handle around my fist. “This nice lady over here was in the middle of telling me a story, weren’t you, Ms…”

I turn around and watch her watch him with pure terror in her eyes.

What the hell is going on?

“Patel,” she says. “Divya Patel. Actually, I…I…” She looks at me, smiling apologetically. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I mixed you up with someone else. It’s all a bit of a blur. A lot happened when I first came to Tolka.”

I look between them. Unbelievable. He just silenced her without more than a look.

Father Doherty knows something I don’t. Divya, too.

“Please.” I drop the polite charade, turning back to her. “I deserve to know how I got my scar.”

She looks between me and Father Doherty. There’s a scream lodged in my throat. She’s asking him for permission. He has no right. She shakes her head and grabs the bottle of wine he’s handing her.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice is quiet.

I storm out of the store, ignoring the sting in my eyes. I drive around for a while, trying to piece together everything, see if Mom ever mentioned anything about being in Tolka. But if she had, I would certainly remember. She never talked about Tolka. When it’s late lunchtime, I finally decide to come back to the cottage. But instead of eating, I dump the bag with the food onto the counter and call her.

“Rory!” She picks up on the first ring. “Gosh, I knew you’d call at four in the morning. I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Text messages don’t cut it, young lady. What about your mom? You knew I had those injections two days ago.”

“It’s Botox, not bone marrow. This, too, shall pass,” I bite flatly. After six months or so, depending on where you got it.

“You’re too sarcastic for your own good, Daughter.”

“No such thing, Mother.”

“How’s Ireland? How’s your wretched half-sister?”

Dead, I want to scream. I’m in the Twilight Zone, and I’m not talking glittery vampires. Since breaking the news about Kathleen would only make her ask a trillion more questions I’m not prepared to answer, I keep this piece of information to myself.

Instead, I say, “Have you ever been to Tolka, Mom?”

“Hmm, what?”

“You heard me.”

“Where is this coming from?”

“It’s a simple question. Its origin is of no importance. Have you or have you not visited Tolka?”

“Your father used to live there for a hot minute, you know.” I hear her flicking the lighter and inhaling the first drag of a cigarette. “When your half-sister was younger.”

Of course. Of course, she would never call Kathleen by her name. Of course, she’s hostile toward Dad, even when he moved closer to his kid and tried to be a decent father.

“You’re not answering my question.”

I want to punch a wall. I think I just might. But I’m afraid a trip to the hospital will result in more revelations. Maybe they’ll run some tests and find out I’m half-leprechaun. Who knows?

“No,” she says finally. “No, I haven’t. Are you sleeping with that infuriating Irishman yet? You’ve always had a weakness for the ones who are irreparable.”