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Alina
Callum was back, but this time with reinforcements. I heard the rumbling of their cars coming down the driveway, even with the wicked weather.
The rain had finally eased to a constant drizzle, but it was still heavy enough to hinder any further plans of working out in the field again today.
My curiosities led me to the veranda, waiting to know who else Callum had brought with him to antagonize me. Thankfully, it was the only other person I knew he was ever likely to bring out here.
Seeing Charlie climb down from the second car of the convoy was a relief. He was bigger than Callum, taller and heavily muscled, but they shared the same ash-blond hair and movement in their bodies.
Both men strolled toward me, talking between themselves. It wasn’t until they were at the bottom of the stairs that Callum’s voice carried up to me, his arm raising to point to the old machinery shed set back away from the house.
“It’s in there. Be thorough. I want to know what it needs.”
Charlie agreed with Callum before offering me a curt nod while avoiding eye contact.
“Be thorough with what, exactly? What do you think you’re doing, Callum? Intruding again where you’re not welcome?” My hands rested on my hips.
“You remember Charlie, don’t you, darlin’?” Callum asked.
Of course, I did. I wasn’t an idiot, but it didn’t explain what he was doing here.
“He’s a mechanic now, going to have a look at that old Fordson of yours. See if he can’t get it running for you.”
“No. No.” With each no, I took another step closer to him, my arms hanging at my sides. “No. I haven’t asked for your help.”
“And I knew you wouldn’t because you’re too damn proud. You were back then, just like you are now. You don’t need to have asked for help when it’s so clear it’s needed.”
His words stung. I knew what he was referring to.
My mother’s trial.
He’d tried to be there for me, but I had shut down—retreated to my sense of safety. I’d had to. The townsfolk were whispering horrible things about my mother and me like I couldn’t hear them, so I had no other choice.
I’d lived in this house with no power or regular heating for weeks, too frightened to ask anyone for help. I’d had to boil water every day so I had something to wash in before school, and I’d had more canned meals cooked on an open fire than I cared to count. But, for the most part, I had hidden that from Callum.
The old tractor was derelict, it would cost a small fortune to get it running again if that was even possible, and it was money I didn’t have to spare, not if I was to get this old house ready to sell.
“What is this, Callum? A Hail Mary to ease your conscience?” I narrowed my eyes at him, skeptical of his intentions. “Maybe if you get in my good graces, then I could forgive you?” My finger pointed at him, accusing him, and all he did was step into me, so my finger made contact with his sweater.
Even through the fleecy fabric, I could feel the hard muscle beneath.
“Give me some credit, Alina. You think I thought a few repairs on that rundown old tractor were all I needed to seek your forgiveness?” He took another step closer, my finger buckling under the close contact of our bodies. “Why would I think that when I already know a conversation would achieve that? A conversation you’re hell-bent on avoiding. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be in your bedroom…” he sidestepped me, leaving me to snap my mouth, which still hung open, shut, “… working.” He shot back over his shoulder before disappearing into the house.
I waited until he’d left the house to check on Charlie’s progress before sneaking upstairs and retrieving my mother’s letter from the drawer where it was stored for safekeeping. Sliding it into my back pocket, I left the house, hiking the hill for some solitude and a moment of my own to read over her words.
From my vantage point, held in seclusion by the weeping branches of the tree, I could see the two men talking outside the shed. Callum was nodding, listening intently to whatever advice Charlie was offering before he reached up to squeeze his younger brother’s shoulder.
I unfolded the pages, running my hand over the paper, flattening it out against my knee as I sat under the wisteria tree.
My sweet Alina,
If you have this letter, it is because Mr. Wilson gave it to you with my last will, and I’ve finally made peace with what I have done.
I’m sorry, my angel. For the pain I have caused you, for not being able to give you the life you so rightfully deserved, and for so many other things. Please don’t be sad for me because of our history, and please don’t be angry because of all I kept from you.
You had questions and always asked them so innocently. You were always such an inquisitive and imaginative child. If I had only a single wish for you when you were in my womb, other than for you to be healthy, it was for you to be magically spirited. Your name, Alina, means sunray. I am not sure I ever told you that. The perfect name for my perfect baby girl. My darling girl, you were always the light within me, even through the darkness of your beginning.
Know that I loved you from the very first heartbeat, and I never stopped. The circumstances behind your creation should never shape you. You are proof that we are destined by fate, my miracle child.
