The Unmaking of June Farrow(34)

“Get in the goddamn truck.”

He didn’t say a word as he walked up the bank, not even looking back to make sure I would follow. For a moment, I considered refusing, but beneath the anger, that look on Eamon’s face had been desperate. He didn’t just know me. I also had the sense that he was trying to protect me. As we stood on the riverbank with that police officer, there’d been an undeniable fear in his eyes.

The engine started up as I opened the door and climbed in. Eamon didn’t wait for it to close before he hit the gas.

“I told you to stay put,” he said, grip tight on the steering wheel. “What the hell were you thinking?”

I studied the inside of the truck. It was an old farm rig with wooden railings fit to the bed and mismatched tires that had probably blown in the fields. Straw and dirt covered the floor where the mats were missing, and the radio dial was fogged over, the numbers illegible.

We were headed back the way I’d come, away from town. I watched the steeple of the church disappear behind us.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

Eamon stared at the road.

“You said that if I came with you, you’d tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t know what’s going on.” He ground it out one punctuated word at a time, his accent deeper now.

“You know a hell of a lot more than I do. What did you mean, I don’t know you yet?”

He let his eyes land on me for just a moment before he pulled them away again. “We met five years ago. If you don’t recognize me, it’s because it hasn’t happened yet—for you.”

“How is that even possible?”

“How is any of this possible?” His voice rose.

And that’s when I saw it—the glint of gold on his left hand. A wedding ring.

“Oh my god.” I leaned forward, putting my head in my hands and trying to breathe.

“I came home one day and you were gone. I haven’t seen you since,” he said. “That’s all I know.”

“When was that?”

“Almost a year ago.”

I closed my eyes, trying to breathe. A year ago was when my episodes had started. When everything changed. Could that timing be a coincidence?

“It wasn’t me,” I choked out. “It couldn’t have been me.”

“It was you. I think I know my own wife.”

I shook my head, wishing I could unhear those words. “I’m telling you that I have never been here before. I’ve never met you.”

He cranked the wheel, and the truck jostled left to right as it turned. I grabbed hold of the handle above my head to keep from hitting the window, and as soon as I saw what lay ahead, I sat up straighter, leaning closer to the glass.

A relieved breath left my lips.

The Adeline River Flower Farm sat back from the road, framed by the mountains in the distance. The house was a different shape, but it was still the same one I’d grown up in. The windows were in the same place, the porch and steps just like I remembered. But the front room that had now become our office wasn’t built yet. Instead, that part of the yard was covered in ferns and a chicken coop framed with gridded wire. Behind it, the rise of land was covered in rows of flowers in full or partial bloom.

Eamon pulled into the drive, barely getting the truck parked before he opened the door, then he was slamming it behind him.

He walked toward the house as the front door opened and a woman’s face appeared, her hand twisted into the edge of the apron tied around her waist. His voice was drowned out by the sound of the cicadas in the trees, but I could tell the two of them were arguing.

I hesitated before I reached for the handle and pushed the truck door open. My feet found the ground as I watched them on the porch. The woman’s eyes jumped from Eamon to me.

I knew who she was as soon as I saw her. I’d seen her countless times in photographs. Esther Farrow, my great-great-grandmother, stood there looking at me with an expression that said she knew exactly who I was, too.

Their voices quieted as I crossed the yard, and Esther’s expression didn’t change from the deep concern that wrinkled her brow. She fell quiet as I got closer, and they both stared at me before she finally gave Eamon a nod.

“Thank you.” His voice was heavy.

Esther Farrow stared at me, eyes trailing from the top of my head down to my feet. When her eyes lifted to meet mine again, it was guarded. Distant.

“Annie!” Eamon took hold of the front door, pulling it wider. A few seconds later, a quick patter of footsteps sounded inside the house. It was followed by the bob of a head behind the window.

A small girl that looked to be at least a few years old came outside, hiding behind Esther’s long skirt. Her wild, waving blond hair was pulled into two unraveled braids and the dress she wore came down to her knees, where tall woolen socks were pulled up over her calves. By the time my gaze made it to her face, she was staring at me. No, not at me. Into me.

She stood so still she looked like a doll, her pink lips the same shade as the apple of her cheeks. I pinned my eyes to the porch steps, unable to bring myself to look at her for another second. I couldn’t bring myself to ask who she was. I was certain I didn’t want to know.

Eamon reached for her and she untangled herself from Esther’s skirt so that he could pick her up. She tucked herself against him and her eyes found me over his shoulder, but Eamon shifted her in his arms, blocking her view. He carried her to the truck without another word.