Return Chapter 1: Arrival

When weird becomes wild and wild becomes wonderful.

Return explores the definition of home in the external and internal realms,
reframing the notion of belonging, be-longing.

Readers can begin the Rumored Woman Series with either Reflect or Return.

The lulling sound of waves and a gentle rocking motion held me in a drowsy slumber. Eventually, my eyes focused on wooden slats, as if I’d slept in a giant cradle. I lay curled in the fetal position, on top of a green and blue plaid blanket. A long-sleeved cream linen shift dress, a replica of the one I’d worn with Faith before becoming a mermaid, was bunched at my knees. At least I’m not naked.

As I peered over the rail, the skiff tipped precariously to one side until I centered my weight. I was drifting toward an island with a small harbor bordered by houses. In my underworld odyssey, I’d never seen a neighborhood or other humans that weren’t an aspect of myself. Meeting the embodiment of my Judgements, Impatience, and Rage, as women with their own voices and mannerisms, had been no holiday. Never seeing them again would suit me. However, I hoped my guides—Faith, Compassion, and Forgiveness—didn’t make themselves scarce, along with my Peaceful Warrior who had promised to guard the holy grail of my attention.

Chilled by more than the morning air, I lay back down, knees bent toward the sky. Even though I floated on calm waters, my insides roiled. When I rubbed my face, crusts of sleep loosened from around my lashes, confirming this wasn’t a dream.

Why didn’t I wake up in my bedroom? Where in God’s name am I? I’d expected to return home, through the mirror, the way I’d left. A few biblical rays of sunlight escaped through the slate clouds.

I called upon Faith but didn’t sense her presence. My last memories with Faith were as a mermaid near the shipwreck, where she’d instructed me to compose a vow that reflected my commitment to myself. The opening line, “to grow wild by the sea,” was decidedly different from being adrift on it. If this was her idea of humor, it was lost on me.

When I’d swum back to where I’d left her with my Peaceful Warrior, eager to share my vow, Faith was alone. She didn’t need the spoken word to perceive my thoughts or feelings. After all, Faith was a part of me, even if I’d ignored her for years. She sensed my disappointment at not saying goodbye to my Peaceful Warrior and assured me that she and all the other women I’d met remained my inner companions, available if called upon. Faith had told me it was time to start my journey home as she fastened her pendant around my neck.

My right hand flew to my chest to check if it was there. It was, but this was hardly home, and I felt alone.

I sat up too quickly, and the boat wobbled again. Slow down, be still. My dry mouth caused me to search the skiff for drinking water, but the absence of any water or oars made my stomach churn. The skiff had three simple wooden seats: one in the middle and two more toward the bow. I couldn’t help but admire its craftsman design—a blend of wood and something that resembled hide. The visible latticework of its frame ran lengthwise from bow to stern and crosswise from port to starboard. If it was a fisherman’s boat, it thankfully didn’t smell of dead fish.

I inched forward gingerly and hoisted myself onto the middle seat. Gusts of wind nudged against my back while tendrils of hair tickled the sides of my cheeks. A shiver sent my elbows pressing to my sides. Pulling the linen hem over my bare knees didn’t help. I wrapped the wool blanket around me, arms crossed, fingers clutching its edges, shielding me from the elements. It could become a sail if I stretched out my arms, but why bother hastening my arrival? Soon enough, I’ll be blown there. Then what? The sun cast my elongated shadow before me; it would reach shore first.

The quiet harbor consisted of a simple pier without any moored boats. An abandoned row of similar-sized skiffs lined the beach. A half dozen homes sat back from the shore, their spacing widened to the north. A stone bell tower announced itself midway up the island, and clusters of black and white sheep were scattered on the pastures. I hoped its inhabitants spoke English so some aspects of my return would be easier.

My stomach growled. Eating with no money will be a trick, and where will I sleep? I’m at the mercy of strangers. Homeless.

No. I have resources—at a distance. I needed a phone to call Ian and a bank so he could wire me money.

A church bell rang—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, then silence. 7:00 a.m. is barely a civilized hour—no wonder no one is milling about.

I leaned over to drag my fingers across the sea’s clear surface. The frigid temperature was a far cry from the tropical waters I’d swum in with Faith—not for the faint of heart.

Nothing about my return resembled what I’d envisioned. I’d expected to go home, mistakenly thinking the only variables in the equation were daytime or evening or if Ian would welcome me back. Faith had said, “Start your journey home.” Being cast off in a boat with no oars, no money, no shoes, and a shift of a dress felt more like a final test.

Well, it could be worse. It could be raining or snowing with no civilization in sight. I enlisted Patience and Faith to accompany me, recalling my blessing: May I become patient with uncertainty, welcoming mystery into my life as my beloved dance partner, letting go of expectations, even with disappointment, to honor what is authentic in the moment.

However, invoking these qualities didn’t mean I could live by them. I lifted the blanket over my shoulders and held it out with my hands as a makeshift sail. After a few minutes, my shoulder muscles burned, and my hair hung undisturbed by any breeze. Only the current carried me, so I wrapped myself back up. Patience, Faith, and Surrender.

The church bell chimed once. 7:30. I knew the time, but not the day or the month. What if it’s not the same year? What if time moved differently in the underworld and more than a few months have passed? How long can I expect Ian to wait for me without a word?

As the shore neared, the sea floor became visible and white barnacles covered the rocks. Crap. Not a welcome sight for bare feet.

Soon the hull scraped against stones. When I stood, my lower back complained of stiffness, and the boat tilted, but I quickly recovered my balance. The skiff had halted in ankle-deep water. At least I wasn’t worried about getting my nonexistent shoes wet.

I shed the blanket in a heap in the bottom of the skiff to keep it dry, hoping this wasn’t my only bedding for tonight. My feet found round stones, and though it wasn’t sharp underfoot, it was shockingly cold. I hauled the boat onto the shore with both hands, walking backwards, leaving it above the remnant seaweed that indicated the high tide line, and a bit farther in case of a storm.

After crossing the cool, damp sand toward town, the smell of bacon from a café tormented me. My stomach grumbled again, while my mouth watered in futile anticipation. In front of the grocery store, I spied a metal box with a glass window. A newspaper would have told me the date and allowed me to avoid attracting attention to my predicament by asking. Except, when I reached it—it was empty.

Wandering the town, I discovered an oval red sign with gold lettering that read POST OFFICE – ISLE OF IONA. So that’s where I am. Scotland. Ironically, I’d considered visiting Iona before but negated it because it was too onerous to travel here. The post office’s hours were 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. each day of the week, with an hour break for lunch. How civilized. It was only open on Saturday from 9:00 a.m. to noon and closed on Sunday.

The deserted streets felt odd, not just because of the absence of people, but the absence of any parked cars. Only private homes stretched ahead. Somehow, I’d missed seeing the bank near the storefronts.

When the church bell chimed eight times, I turned around and retraced my steps. The different perspective revealed a red telephone booth near the dock. Oh, thank god this relic still exists. Eager to call Ian, I pushed at the folding door until it creaked open and prayed change wasn’t required to access the operator. Holding the receiver to my ear, I rejoiced at the sound of a dial tone, and pressed the little white square labeled zero. When it buzzed twice in rapid succession I exhaled.

“Guid mornin’. Operator speaking. How kin ah help ye?”

I had a list of things I needed help with, but I knew she wasn’t offering that kind of assistance. “I’d like to place a collect call, please, from Sarah O’Sullivan to the United States.”

She replied, “Yer batch, please. It must be a landline. Ye cannae place a collect call to a mobile unless ye have a callin’ card.”

Thankfully, our rented house still had a landline and I recited our number.

“Hold the line.” I gripped the receiver like it was a personal flotation device. It rang and rang and rang until I heard the recorded message in my voice. The irony of listening to myself wasn’t lost on me. “Nae answer.”

Ian slept with earplugs. “Could you please try one more time?”

She did, with the same results, and I hung up. Crap. Even if my friends had a landline, I didn’t know their numbers. I didn’t even know their cell numbers because they were programmed as favorites on my phone—no memory required. So, plan B: find a bank. Except, I had no identification and was clueless as to my account numbers. Undoubtedly, their security protocols wouldn’t look kindly on a barefoot woman. How can I prove I’m me?

I aimed for the café, doubtful I’d be welcomed penniless and shoeless. Asking the day’s date might raise suspicion about my state of mind, so I only planned to ask for directions to the nearest bank. The aromas of coffee and baking bread tortured me. A young, red-haired woman wearing an olive T-shirt and white apron over her jeans was setting the outdoor tables with a metal holder for salt, pepper, and jam. I was so hungry even the tiny jam packets tempted me.

“Good morning. Excuse me, which way is it to the bank?”

“Guid mornin’. Ye’ll nae be findin’ a bank till ye take a ferry to Mull. The next ferry ’tis nae till midday. There are nae mornin’ runs on Sunday.”

I managed to calmly say, “Thanks so much,” before I turned and walked back toward the beach. No Ian, no newspaper, no bank, no post office today, and barely a common language. Crap. Crap. Crap. My life abhors a plan. I retreated to the boat to regroup and grabbed my only other possession, draping what had become my security blanket over my shoulder, afraid it was my only bed for tonight. I didn’t even have underwear on. Talk about bare necessities.

The shoreline beckoned. I needed to create some distance between me and the scents of breakfast. I wasn’t ready to beg for it but couldn’t think about anything else if I smelled it. Washed-up seaweed, the color of mustard greens and ripe apples, formed the tideline. It oscillated like the sine curves on a heart monitor. My heart raced. Now what? I steadied myself by examining the beach. The seaweed in shades of cranberry was unfamiliar to me. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was edible as I followed its trail, even when it meant scrambling over the jetty of rocks to reach the other side. Startled black crabs, too tiny to have any decent meat in them, scurried into crevices.

Am I on my own now? Faith said I had the power to conjure her if I chose. I’d grown accustomed to seeing her. Now, I needed to find a way to feel her. I’d love to ask her why she made my return home so complicated. Hey, haven’t I journeyed enough? Silence. Well, if this is a test of my resourcefulness, it’s not in my nature to give up.

My pulse settled as I walked. Up ahead, a woman with a towel over her shoulders traipsed down the grassy hillside toward the beach. When she reached the corner of the fence that had steps beside it, she climbed the two stairs, crossed over the top rail, and then down the other side. How convenient. She wore a dark sweater and khaki shorts. I hoped I didn’t look as out of place as I felt. We could both be heading for a picnic of sorts. If only one of us had a food basket.

She entered the beach on the far side of another jetty of black rocks and disappeared. I kept walking, and my pulse quickened again. My new plan was to nod good morning and calmly carry on.

When I clambered over the next jetty, her towel and clothes greeted me. As she scampered out of the water straight toward me, I stalled. Her waist had the thickening of mid-life, but her upper body and thighs exuded strength.

“’Tis such a bonnie mornin’ ah could nae resist a quick dip. Are ye headin’ in yerself?”

I lied. “I’m tempted. It does look inviting.” She bee-lined for her clothes, which I stood frozen beside. Her slicked-back gray hair indicated she’d bravely swum underwater. I kept my eyes to her eyes, not wanting to stare at her unabashed naked body. What is it with me and naked women appearing out of nowhere? I grabbed the towel beside me and offered it to her, fumbling for a question. “Do you swim each morning?”

She swiftly wrapped herself in it. “Nae, only when the spirit moves me. Today, the light on the water was beckonin’. Ah put the kettle on. Would ye like to join me for a cuppa if ye’r nae goin’ for a swim? Ah’d welcome the company.”

I didn’t hesitate. “Sure. I’ve not had my morning tea yet. I’m Sarah, by the way.”

“Ah’m Katrine. Pleased to meet ye.” She toweled off her legs before slipping back into her shorts and pulled on her navy cashmere V-neck sweater, not bothering to turn it right-side in. Apparently, underwear was optional in her world. Katrine bent over and deftly wrapped the towel around her head, twisting it into a turban.

Starting toward the fence line, she said, “Mah home’s up the way. How long have ye been on the island?”

I followed. “Oh, not long. I arrived last night.” To avoid lying again, I went on the offensive with questions. “How about you? How long have you lived here?”

“All mah life. Ah left for university but had nae fondness for city life. Ah wanted to raise mah bairns here and be close to mah family. Mah husband, God rest his soul, was willin’ to oblige and moved here. He grew up in Fife.”

“I’m sorry to hear you’re a widow. How long ago did he die?”

“It’ll be fifteen years this December. A winter gale came up, and he never returned from fishin’. We lost three good men in that storm, all fathers. Makes me grateful ah never had sons. The sea cannae snatch another one of mah men. Ah’v already made mah sacrifice.”

“How old are your daughters?”

Katrine used the mini staircase to cross over the fence. I kept pace and came up alongside her as we walked the incline of her pasture. The morning’s dew rinsed sand from my feet.

“Mah youngest is about to turn twenty, then twenty-six, and twenty-eight. Mah eldest married last year, and ah’ll become a nana any day now. Ah suppose ah could have a grandson. We dinnae ken yet if she’ll be havin’ a lassie or a laddie. She embraced the mystery on that count.”

“That’s exciting. Does she live on the island, too?” A barn stood beyond us as we approached her house to the right.

“Nae, all mah bairns left for schoolin’ and have yet to return. Luckily, two of them are in Scotland. Mah youngest transferred to Boston College. Do ye ken it?”

“Yes, I know it well. I’m from the Boston area. The Jesuits are rigorous scholars of the mind while still tending to the spirit. She’s fortunate her inner life isn’t left out of their education.”

Katrine turned toward me and smiled as if I’d struck a chord. “Indeed” was her only response.

When we arrived at her wide-open door, she scuffed her feet on the mat and proceeded in. I did the same. After discarding her towel on the floor, she tousled her chin-length gray hair into a side part.

“Right. Now, let’s have ourselves a cuppa.”

The entryway bench sat below hooks mounded with flannel shirts and jackets. Clogs, boots, and shoes spilled out from beneath it. Across from the door were four stairs and a landing to the second floor. I followed her around a corner into an open living space.

Immediately, the expansive bay windows facing the shore caught my attention, with two high-backed chairs inviting a respite. “Your home is lovely. What a magnificent view of the sea.” The opposite wall had a stone fireplace with seating for a family: a couch flanked by two comfy-looking leather chairs. The kitchen extended beyond it with an outside wall of cabinets that parted to include a wide window above the sink. Anyone washing dishes enjoyed a pastoral scene. Their rectangular wooden kitchen table seated four.

Katrine took an electric kettle, poured less than a cup of steaming water into the silver teapot, then returned it to its base, pushing the button.

“Would ye like a scone with it? Ah baked them yesterday.”

“I’d love a scone. How can I help?”

“Ye can fetch us those plates from the strainer and set the table.” The table rested against a wall with an angled view of the water. “There’s some jam and butter on the counter over here. Ah’ll bring the tea when ’tis ready. Have yerself a seat.”

Her cell phone sat on the table before me. Standing with my back to her, I quickly tapped it and read, 8:47 Sunday, October 31. No year. Most people knew that bit.

I took the seat that offered me a view of her tea ritual. She placed two cups on a tray, pouring a splash of milk in each. The kettle rumbled and clicked off. Katrine swirled the silver teapot, emptied it into the sink, and placed the pot on the tray. She spooned loose black tea in before pouring freshly boiled water over it. On went the lid to the teapot, and on went the tea cozy. A small metal strainer that rested on a saucer occupied the remaining corner of the tray. Everything fit perfectly.

She brought the tray to the table first and then returned with a warm plate of scones from the toaster oven. I counted six of them. I was already planning to eat two.

“This looks lovely. Thanks so much for inviting me in.”

Katrine sat at the end of the table and tucked her hair behind her ears. “Ah assume ye take a spot of milk?”

I nodded. “Yes, thanks.”

She placed the porcelain cup on a saucer before me and poured the amber liquid, which mingled with the milk, turning a golden-brown shade, then poured her own, and replaced the tea cozy. “Do ye take sugar?”

“No, I’m good without it. I’ll save my sweet tooth for the jam. What flavor is it?”

“That’d be strawberry. Ah put it up mahself this summer from mah garden. ’Tis always a battle between the snails and me, who can harvest more. They may nae be fast, but they’re effective at ruinin’ a crop.”

I wanted to deflect the attention from me and tend to the scones. “What’s your daughter studying?”

She sipped what had to be scalding tea. “Maeve’s in communications of some kind. Last semester, she made a podcast for a school project. Ah’v yet to sort out how to listen to it. She has a fondness for the old stories. ’Twas her nana’s doin’, fillin’ her head with Celtic fairy tales since she was a wee bairn. Ah dinnae ken how she’ll weave it into modern-day interests. Ah’v nae doubt she’ll sort it out, though—Maeve’s a bard at heart. It runs in her blood.”

I reached for a scone, sliced it in half, slathered it with butter, and took my first bite before even adding the jam. “This is divine. I’ve never mastered the art of baking. Cutting butter in for scones has always escaped me.” Katrine passed me the jam. I spread it, admiring the lumps of strawberries. My second bite was even better than the first. Don’t inhale these. Pace yourself. “How do your other two daughters occupy themselves?”

Katrine was still buttering her scone. “Fiona’s a harpist, a music-thanatologist, to be precise.”

My brows furrowed. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that means.”

She softly chuckled. “Very few do. ’Tis more of an ancient tradition that uses music for healin’. It means she plays her harp for people who are dyin’ to help ease them on their journey. Fiona says it helps the family of the loved one as well.” Katrine held her teacup with both hands. “She adjusts her music to the mood of the room. At times, she also sings. There’s nae an instrument she cannae play. She inherited that talent from her dah.”

The fleeting look of pride slipped from her face. “She was only eleven when Kieran died. He’d been teachin’ her to play his harp since she turned ten. Fiona has Kieran’s height and was the tallest in her class, towerin’ over the boys at that age.” Her description reminded me of Sam, my friend Jocelyn’s daughter, and a twinge of homesickness came over me. Katrine continued, “We jested that with her wingspan, she could have been an Olympic volleyball player. However, a harpist was more likely. After he died, she poured all her grief into teachin’ herself to play.”

She sipped her tea again, looking past me. “Fiona brings a deep current of sorrow into her work and helps people to find their peace. Ah often wonder what she’d have chosen as a career if her father had returned from sea.”

A tender silence fell between us that melted me. We lingered in it as we ate the scones.

“Mah eldest, Brìghde has a mind for numbers.” Katrine said her name tenderly, BREE-dah, but as she continued, I heard pride in her voice too. “She’s in finance, aspirin’ to be a fund manager. Honestly, ah cannae explain what she does. It baffles me. Edinburgh is her home now, but given half a chance, she’d relocate to Wall Street. She’s approachin’ her Saturn Return year. Ah pray becomin’ a mum is enough of a change without relocatin’ to a different continent. Ah’m nae a fan of planes. They fall out of the sky.”

Saturn had wreaked havoc in my life at twenty-nine. I divorced, moved, and changed jobs. While I didn’t understand how the planets exercised their influence on us, I had no doubt they did. I tried to discreetly reach for my second scone. She had only finished half of hers. My plan to keep her talking was working—I kept my mouth full.

“Ah’m glad ye like them, ah dinnae ken what possessed me to bake a dozen scones for mahself yesterday. Ah was goin’ to bring them to mah neighbor, Angus, but never got round to it. Ah started weedin’ mah back garden, and before ah ken it, the sun was settin’.” She held the teapot. “Shall ah heat it up a wee bit?”

I nodded and moved my cup closer. “Yes, please. Are you fond of gardening?”

She topped off my cup and refilled her own. “Nae. Ah cannae say ah pay much attention to it. It keeps mah hands busy as mah mind wanders. Ah do like lookin’ at it when ’tis done and especially love eatin’ food from it. The island grocer offers what it can, but ’tis nae as fresh. We’re nearin’ the last of the harvest now. Soon, the rains and cold weather will be settin’ in.

“Ah’v been jabberin’ and nae mindin’ the time. Ah’v got horses to feed. They’ll be wonderin’ what’s become of me. Normally, ah’m like clockwork. Ah must apologize for talkin’ yer ear off. ’Tis nae like me.”

I watched her eyes land on my pendant for the second time. My hand instinctively reached for it. “Oh no, please don’t apologize. It’s been an unexpectedly enjoyable morning. Can I at least help you tend to the horses? I grew up with them and know my way around a barn. I love everything about them. Even their shit smells good to me.”

She had the same soft-throated chuckle as my friend, Veena. “Spoken like a true horsewoman—ah knew ah liked ye.” She stood from the table. “Ah’ll nae refuse the help, but we’ll need to find ye somethin’ different to wear. Ah’m guessin’ ye’ll fit into Fiona’s clothes. She took after mah love of horses.” Katrine walked away, presumably toward Fiona’s bedroom.

I stood while finishing my last bite and had started to clear the table when Katrine interrupted me. “Leave it be. The horses have waited long enough. Follow me.”