Bad Blood Page 3

  “Are you okay?”

  “Aye, I was just having trouble catching my breath. I’m fine now.”

  “You just didn’t want to help, right? There’s nothing wrong with you,” I call out as I drag my bags across the living room to the tiny guest room where I always sleep. She gives me a strange look, then shakes her head.

  “No, wait, Heather. Take Mum’s room. It’s bigger and looks out onto the park.”

  I haul my bag across the apartment to Gram’s old room, turning the knob hesitantly. Strangely, when I push open the door I feel comforted. Most of her stuff is gone, but the room still smells like her. Her bed and dresser are here; even her sewing machine is still in the corner. I shove my luggage next to the bed. I can unpack later.

  “Heather,” my aunt calls from the kitchen. When I walk from my room she hands me a phone. “Same number as last year. Unlimited texts and data. It’s been activated.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Abbie.” I glance down at it and I already have a text from Fiona.

  Heather! I’m so glad ur back. Work sux. Come save me!

  I smile. Fiona works at her mom’s café with a not-so-secret smoldering resentment. I text her back:

  Just arrived. I’ll stop by this afternoon. Put aside some cake for me.

  Her mother makes the best caramel sponge cake. Even Fiona has to admit that it’s one of the perks of her family’s owning the café.

  No promises. Packed with Americans tourists & they eat like pigs.

  There’s a few seconds’ pause and then another text that reads:

  No offense.

  I sigh and shake my head. Fiona has no filter.

  “Your parents will be wanting to know you’ve made it here safe and sound,” my aunt reminds me. “They’re probably waiting by the computer, since I said we could video chat as soon as we got home.” She looks at the clock. “It’s two a.m. in Chicago, so we should call them now so they can get to sleep….” She pauses, hands flat on the counter, head hung forward. “Heather, there’s something I have to tell you.”

  The floor drops out from under me. I know what she’s going to say.

  “It’s back, isn’t it?” My aunt has been in remission for almost five years. The lump on her lung was removed, and a course of chemo killed all the remaining cancer cells. Cancer-free is never a sure thing, though.

  She nods slowly. “I just started chemo again, and…that’s why Mum had to go into the home. It was just too much.” She says it guiltily, like she should have done more.

  “It’s not your fault….Wait. Is that why Dad came here in the spring?” He’d said it was to help move Gram.

  “I wanted to tell you face to face, love. And then you were getting help yourself. I had to beg your mother to send you along after. I wanted us to have the summer together, just in case.”

  My anger diffuses, leaving behind a layer of frustration. My aunt just told me she could die. It’s weird when people talk like that about their own deaths. It all makes sense now: Mom’s teary eyes when she mentioned Aunt Abbie. My parents letting me come to Scotland, even though they were clearly concerned. My aunt’s sabbatical, her canceled travel plans. Her coughing fit.

  “Okay, let’s call Mom and Dad…and then I’m making you a special batch of chocolate chip pancakes…if you’re up for it.”

  My aunt nods and gives me a sad smile. “Sounds perfect.”

  I study my aunt. Last time she had chemo she didn’t lose her hair, though she said the nausea was unbearable. She does look thin now, worn. I’ll have to make sure she takes care of herself.

  She puts her arm around me and walks me to the den. As we talk to my parents I try to put on a brave face, but all the while my hand is at my hip. I picture the three-curved symbol, cutting into it with a nice sharp knife, the blood welling and slowly dripping down my leg. The image soothes me. Sometimes thinking about cutting allows me to put off the actual act, while still feeling that sense of relief that it brings. I don’t let myself think about how abnormal that is, not now, not when I’ve wondered a thousand times what is wrong with me.

  Instead, I focus on the blood, and it calms me.

  In the afternoon Aunt Abbie wants to take a nap. Despite her enthusiasm for my pancakes, she only picked at her breakfast, barely eating. She looked ill, like if she ate any more than a bite she would puke. It scares me to see her like this. Last time she was sick I was too young to understand. That’s when my parents spent their summers in Edinburgh as well, before my mom started working again and my dad became so in-demand in Chicago. I remember they were worried, but my aunt seemed strong and always had a smile on her face. I knew she would be okay.

  But that was before I was overtaken by the strange compulsion to cut my skin, to watch my blood spill. My world has changed since then, and I’m no longer an optimistic eleven-year-old.

  I tell my aunt that if she wants to take a nap I’ll nap too, although that’s the worst thing I can do for jet lag.

  She gives me a look. “Heather, go see your friends. Have fun. Explore the city. Enjoy the festival. There are a million things you could be doing, and hanging around here while I take a nap should not be one of them.”

  “You don’t want to…I don’t know, supervise me?”

  She sighs. “I promised your mum, but as long as neither of us tells her…no harm done.” She gives me a playful shove. “Now go!”

  “Okay, I know when I’m not wanted,” I tease. I grab my phone, some cash that my aunt left for me, and my hoodie, because even though it’s clear and sunny now, in ten minutes it could be raining. Just some of the charm of Scottish weather.

  I also grab my camera bag and sling it across my shoulder. It’s my travel camera, nothing like the super-expensive one I have at home, but I still love it. It’s small and shoots great video. Maybe I can get some “mood” shots of Edinburgh.

  It’s a nice day, warm and bright. Instead of heading across the park to Fiona’s family’s café, I take a detour through a few of the University of Edinburgh buildings. The yearly festival uses almost every available meeting space, and there’s a ton of stuff to see. People stand outside performance spaces and hand out flyers. Within minutes I have one for a comedy troupe performing improv, a book signing for a romance author, and a rap performance of Romeo & Juliet. I feel guilty dumping them in the garbage, so I tuck the papers in my back pocket.

  There’s an art installation that has giant teddy bears posed in an office room. One is stationed at a computer, while another sits at a desk with a cup of coffee. Not sure what it’s meant to represent, but it looks interesting.

  I film the installation and do a sweep of the crowd. There are carnival rides set up off to the side. A lot of people are just enjoying the day, playing Frisbee and picnicking.

  As I step onto the grass, anxiety overtakes me, an all-too-familiar feeling. I look around, expecting to spot at least one person staring at me, but I’m just another girl in the crowd.

  “I’m just being paranoid,” I chant. “This isn’t real.”

  My mantra doesn’t work, and I feel the overwhelming urge to cut. Sometimes I can fight it. I did for six whole soul-crushing weeks. I count backward from ten. At two, the impulse passes, but it leaves me shaky and drained.

  I must be more jet-lagged than I realize. The sun glaring off the grass is hurting my eyes.

  The grass is so vibrant, it’s surreal.

  I hear laughter, the sounds of children playing echoing in my ears.

  I RUN ALONG the hill, my bare feet wet from the dewy tufts of grass. Playing Ghost in the Graveyard gives me the chance to run like a deer, a habit of mine of which Da doesnae approve. Girls shouldnae run around like wild savages, he would say. Girls should stroll along at a gentle pace. Like the babbling brook near our home. Mam says I’m more like a mighty river after it has rained: loud, wild, and hard to control.

  I still dinnae see my quarry, and I am about to give up and move on to another hiding place when I spot her down by the brook, hidin
g in the brush. She wears the same shapeless shift that I do, the white stark against the brown-green of the earth. I shriek in triumph and she turns on her heels to run; the coarse material of her dress billows in the wind. It gives her an unearthly look, as if she really is a ghost.

  I sprint after her, quickly gaining ground, and I ken she can feel me behind her. She hazards a glance over her shoulder, but it’s too late. My hand is already outstretched; my fingers graze her sleeve. I grin and shout, “You are caught, ghostie!” and she stops suddenly, causing me to crash into her. We both fall to the soft earth, laughing.

  “It isnae fair,” she says, pouting between giggles. I’ve always been able to beat Prudence at a footrace. Playing Ghost in the Graveyard is just as easy. I always find her, and when she tries to run, I always catch her. Sometimes, when I’m the ghost, I run very slowly just to let her win. It’s no fun to always lose.

  “I dinnae ken why I am faster,” I admit.

  “Da said we shouldnae say ken,” she tells me with a superior look. Da likes us to sound English, as they do in Edinburgh. We arenae allowed to speak Gaelic at all.

  “I dinnae know why I’m faster,” I say. “Maybe because I’m older.”

  “By just a few breaths.”

  “A few breaths can make all the difference.” I stand and help her up. We’re exactly the same height, tall for our ten years. We share everything, even a face. No’ even Da can tell us apart, although Mam never seems to have trouble knowing which one of us she’s talking to. It’s irritating when I’m trying to get out of a scolding.

  Mam calls out from the cottage for us to go inside. I glance at Prudence. It is time for our secret learning, the kind only Mam can teach us. The things we learn from her we have to keep secret from everyone…even Da. Especially Da. He’s unhappy enough that Mam knows how to read and taught us. He thinks the more women learn, the more likely we are to be tempted to evil things. He says girls’ minds are simple, and can only handle simple things. But Mam says what men think they ken but dinnae can fill all the lochs in Scotland.

  Prudence hooks her arm through mine and we make our way back to the cottage. Its stone walls and thatched roof are welcoming, as is the hearth that keeps our one-room house warm and cozy. I wish we could live here always, Mam and Prudence and me. I wouldnae even mind if Da stayed away in Edinburgh longer. He is always taking trips there, visiting family, selling our wool. He wants to take Prudence and me with him sometimes, but Mam says that Edinburgh is no place for us. That the city is filthy and the air foul. Usually Da has the final say, but on this one thing, Mam got her way. Prudence said Mam withheld her womanly charms…which means she slept in the bed with us for a few nights and Da got lonely without her.

  Prudence and I walk over the threshold together and Mam looks up from the table. It is brimming with plants and flowers, beautiful and fragrant. Before her is a big book, her grimoire. It holds all her secrets. Da is to never see it, never to ken about it.

  Mam smiles her broad, kind grin. “Sit, lassies. Your da is expected back tonight, so this is our last lesson for a while.”

  Prudence and I nod and go to the table, settling in on either side of Mam. I stare at the grimoire, so close all I have to do is reach out to touch its pages. But I stop myself. That book is full of magic. No’ the magic of fairy tales, which are just made-up stories, but real magic. Magic that uses the power of herbs and flowers and nature. Magic that heals.

  I STRAIGHTEN UP, my eyes darting around the Meadows, but the park is normal. Everything is normal. A few people are looking at me. “All right, love?” a man calls to me. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.” I wave him off and take a deep breath, stumbling on the path through the park. After a few steps I start to feel better, and let out a small, shaky laugh. The man said I looked like I’ve seen a ghost, and it gives me an idea.

  I phone Fiona. “On your way?” she asks without saying hello.

  “Yeah…you know your mom’s wedding dress from when she married Doug?”

  “That hippie thing that looks like an old nightgown? How could I forget?”

  “Would she let you borrow it?”

  “Is this a film thing?”

  “Maybe,” I tell her.

  “Can we not just have a coffee?” she asks with an exaggerated sigh.

  “That’s boring…but I guess I can just come by the café….”

  “Absolutely not. I want to get out of here. Let’s meet at the Starbucks on the high street.”

  “Starbucks? Your mom is going to have a fit.”

  “I know. I can’t wait for the look on her face when I tell her. See you there in twenty?”

  “Okay. And don’t forget the dress,” I say before she hangs up.

  I buy some baby powder and super-pale makeup at a pharmacy, pushing past the throngs of tourists meandering up the Royal Mile. When I finally make it to Starbucks, Fiona is waiting for me.

  “Fiona!” I call, and wave to her. She’s tall and slim, with a mop of curly reddish-orange hair. Her long legs poke out from under the table, making sure no one steals the extra chair. Slung over her own chair is a big canvas bag, the white material of the dress spilling out of it.

  When I reach her she stands and pulls me in for a hug and then nearly falls on top of me when someone elbows past her. “I feel like we’re going to be trampled at any moment,” I say.

  “Welcome to Edinburgh during the festival. I know one of the baristas, so I jumped the line,” she tells me, sitting and pushing a cup toward me. “Vanilla latte, extra sugar, right?”

  “You remembered.” I let out an exaggerated sniffle. “I’m touched.”

  She sips her own giant iced coffee. “I’ve missed you, Heather. Most of my mates have left for the summer.”

  “Oh yeah, I saw Deirdre and Lexi’s pics from Spain.” Deirdre and Lexi are Fiona’s school friends.

  “Yeah, they’re living it up in Ibiza while I’m stuck here.”

  “Well, if you were in Ibiza, you wouldn’t be here with me,” I point out.

  She raises her eyebrows. “I love you, Heather, but have you seen the boys there? Mmmmm.”

  “I don’t know, Scottish boys are pretty cute,” I say. My face reddens and I chug my coffee.

  “You mean Alistair is pretty cute,” she says. I shrug, my face burning.

  “So, what did you want this dress for?” she asks, motioning to the bag.

  “Well, I have an idea for a short film. Are you in?” Fiona is my go-to actress.

  “Of course I’m in….Wait, am I going to have to learn to juggle?”

  I laugh. Last year I was going to make a scary movie about killer clowns, but everything turned out to be so ridiculous, it was a hilarious disaster. “No juggling, I promise.” I pull out the baby powder and makeup and wave it around. “How would you like to be a ghost?”

  After we leave Starbucks, we wait in line on the hard stone ground that leads to the castle. Fiona glares at the people behind us who are standing really close. Like those extra six inches are going to save them so much time. “Oi, ever hear of personal space?” She turns back to me. “Bloody tourists.”

  When we get inside instead of going straight up to where all the historical stuff is, we cut left and head down the stairs to the bathrooms. Fiona slips the dress over her clothes and I do her hair; scrunching it up so it looks even more wild than usual. I pour the powder on while she plasters the foundation on her face.

  She studies herself in the mirror. “I look like I’m mental.”

  “It’s going to read great on camera,” I assure her.

  I grab the bag and walk with her up the stairs and out onto the battery that leads to the part of the castle that’s now the war museum. There’s an overhang that looks over all of Edinburgh. I evaluate the shot area, gray stone castle walls on one side, scenic Scotland on the other.

  “Perfect,” I say.

  “Are you supposed to be up there?” a castle employee in a blue vest calls out to us. He’s clutchi
ng a walkie-talkie.

  Fiona turns her gaze on him. “No, I’m bloody well dressed like this for my health. If you dinnae mind, we’re trying to film here.”

  “All right, all right, no need to jump down my throat,” he mutters, and walks away.

  I give Fiona a look and she shrugs. “Most people don’t want to deal with you if you act like you’re a terribly important bitch.” Then she grins. “Heather, do you remember when we were twelve and Robby called you a bitch for not letting him borrow your video game thingy?”

  “Yeah.” I shake my head. “I punched him in his face and was grounded for two weeks.”

  “He had to get his nose reset.”

  “And I had to make a show of apologizing.” I shake my head. “I was going to tell him that if he ever called me that again, I’d break his nose again. But when I spoke with him, he apologized to me.”

  “I didn’t know that part of the story,” Fiona says.

  “Yeah, good times when we were twelve.” I laugh. “Okay, let’s get some shots. I’m thinking of a whole ‘Haunted Edinburgh’ series. Why don’t you start along the wall, in the shadows, and then step out into the light. I’ll do a washed-out effect.” I pause. “Fiona?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Ghosts don’t wear sneakers.”

  “These trainers are new.” I just stare at her pointedly. “Bloody hell, Heather,” she says, giving in. “I’d better not get foot rot from this.” She slips off her shoes and socks and tosses them to me. I tuck them in her canvas bag and get into position against the outer wall.

  Fiona walks forward, doing a great job of looking ethereal until she reaches me. She sticks out her tongue and makes a razzing noise.

  “Very professional. Let’s do it again.” I hoist myself onto the wall.

  “Okay, that is definitely not safe,” she says.

  “It’s going to look great from this angle. Let’s go again.”

  Fiona seems to float along the stone as the wind pulls at her dress and hair. I won’t even have to do too much editing to make her look ghostly.