Chapter Five:
Angels and Demons
I got a boner for Holly Dawson the very first time I saw her. It was the beginning of my last year at Virginia State – I was working on a Masters of Political Science. Yeah, probably not what you'd expected, is it? Ha – I'm just full of surprises.
So – there I was (I remember that day almost painfully clearly) sitting by myself in this overgrown garden just behind the library – it was the perfect place to go to be alone. No one really bothered about it – sometimes I think they forgot it existed. So I was a little surprised when the door opened and out walked the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Tall, blond – and those eyes! Christ on the cross, those big blue eyes… and legs that went all the way up to her neck…
She was wearing faded bell bottoms and this gauzy white shirt, with little pink and red flowers embroidered around the hem – she had a short pink and purple poncho on over top of it and she was carrying a battered denim purse over one shoulder. A smile flickered across her lips… and I think for a full minute I forgot to how breathe.
She was new to the school and lost and wondered if I could direct her to the art building… I walked here there – one thing about being an outsider, I did a lot of wandering around aimlessly and pretty soon I know where everything was as well as all the best short cuts. Not that I ever expected such useless information to be so – well, useful.
Now, I wasn't always the suave and charming man I am today. Once upon a time, I was actually a little awkward around members of the opposite sex – I wasn't a virgin when I met Holly – Christ, I don't want you to come away with that idea. I just wasn't good at actually talking to women. Wham, bam, thank you Ma'am (always mind your pleases and thank yous, boys and girls) – and I'll call you next week sometime… and sometimes I did and sometimes I didn't, it all sorta depended on how the aftermath of whamming and bamming had gone… I've always hated those awkward morning after moments.
But when I saw Holly – my Christ, she rocked my world. By the time we arrived at the art building, I knew her name and her major and that she'd spent the last five years in France (think I dazzled her with some French, but I can't be sure, maybe she was just being polite when she smiled.) I was convinced she was out of my league. I was probably right. But back then, I wasn't going to let something as trivial as that stop me from at least finding out more about her.
And even back then, I was a sneaky little shit. That thing I pulled with my father – I did that long before I was a full-fledged officer working for the Central Intelligence Agency.
So after getting a hold of Holly's class schedule and home address, I just made sure that I was in just the right place at the right time to run into her a few more times – but I really didn't know what to say besides 'hello.' Then she'd smile and I'd forget how to breathe.
Nine months after that morning in the courtyard, I finally got up the nerve to actually ask her out – and I couldn't believe it when she said yes. I never have known for sure what she saw in me – after it ended – let's just say it wasn't exactly the right time to ask. The little contact we've had since then – well – yeah, I'm pretty sure she hates me… but I've never regretted that summer we spent together, even if I do regret what came after it…
I remember every stupid little detail about Holly Dawson. Her shy, sweet smile. Every mole and every freckle – they're etched in my memory along with her silk-soft hair and those beautiful eyes – eyes that smiled. Eyes that looked at the world around her with this sort of sweet innocence. She smelled like freesia – it's her favourite scent – her favourite flower. Whenever my mind conjures up the image of Holly, it's always accompanied by the scent of freesias. I'd never ever heard of a God damned freesia until I met Holly. She's the only woman (besides my mother and sister) that I ever said 'I love you too' – and when I said it, she was sound asleep… but I didn't mean it any less, just because she couldn't hear me. It was just that even then I knew it would never last. Dreams never do – morning comes and you wake up.
I woke up the day she left me. The day she asked me not to go to Langley. The day she asked me not to take a job with CIA. The last day of that summer by the lake. The last time I was ever truly happy.
A gentle tap on the door brings me back to the present – back to Mexico. Back to the darkness… back to my life.
"I see you've been up," Beth says from the door.
"Every Doc I've ever been to says getting up and walking around speeds the recovery process," I reply in a chipper tone. I'd hoped she wouldn't notice – but it's hard to put everything back just the way you found it when you can't see how things were arranged to begin with.
"You've hardly eaten," she says.
Her tone is – too neutral. Tension creeps across my shoulders and down my arms. Was it poisoned – or a last meal before someone breaks down the door to take me away? "Not hungry." I reply nonchalantly. I slide one hand behind my head, the other rests on the Beretta under the covers – it's pointed at the door. At her. Or anyone else who comes through.
"You've subsisted on nothing but chicken soup and crackers for six days – you're hungry."
I shrug.
After a moment, she approaches on what seem to be hesitant feet, stopping just at the foot of the bed. She seems to be looking me over – at least that's what I imagine she's doing. Looking me over and trying to make up her mind about something…
"So how bad is it?" I ask at last. I really hate all this fucking uncertainty.
"Your wounds seem to be on the mend – the fever abated yesterday. All things considered, I'd say you're doing pretty well – I'm just a little concerned about the lack of apatite –."
"Come on, Beth – you're not a stupid woman. You know what I'm asking." Who've you ratted me out to? Who's waiting outside your front door to haul me away?
She sits on the edge of the bed, just out of my reach. "I don't know what happened on the Day of the Dead, Sands. I know there was an attempted coup – "
"Attempted? Marquez –?"
"Dead. Along with most of his men – or at least that's what the guy on the news is saying."
With the hand not holding the gun, I reach for the pack of cigarettes and lighter – I notice she doesn't even try to help. No matter – I'm getting better at this. I can light a cigarette one handed and blind – how about that for my resume? "And – the president?" I inquire, after getting the cig lit.
"Back in Mexico City."
Guess if you want a job done right, you really do have to do it yourself… El Mariachi was supposed to kill Marquez, after Marquez killed the presidente… no wonder things went to Hell in a hand basket. Shit, fuck, damn and Hell… First Cucuy, then Ajedrez – then that fucking Mariachi… not to mention Collins or Suarez or someone else I've pissed off back home…
"Have you heard one word I've said?"
"Just the important stuff, Sugar Butt." I take a long drag off my smoke. "So how about it – how bad is it?" I ask her again.
"Sands –"
I wave aside what sounds like an apology – or an excuse – I even manage to smile while I'm doing it. "Come on, I'm a big boy, I can take it. I knew my shit was going to catch up to me sooner or later. So – what – cartel put a price on my head? Maybe your friend El's gotta be pissed at me – Hell, maybe the ANF wants a few words with me. I get it – no apologies necessary, Sugar. I'm just asking for some kind of heads up here." And I suck on the cigarette a little harder than I'd planned to – to make up for it, I make a smoke ring. Or at least – I think I do. I used to be able to do those…
"No one knows you're here but me, Cicily, Hermano, and his cousin Ramon – that's who I sent with Hermano to collect your belongings from the hotel. I sent Ramon because I knew he wouldn't say anything to anyone, no matter what they found."
I want to believe her. In fact, I'm desperate to believe her. But why should I believe her?
"Is there anyone you want me to contact?" she asks me. "Hermano tells me you spoke to a man before coming here –"
I just shake my head – Ramirez did his part – I'm done with him. But I still need Beth – if I can just figure her out. No one helps someone out of the goodness of their heart – you especially don't help out an asshole like me without getting something in return. "So – what – what do I owe you know for services – " Christ – 'for services rendered', am I trying to piss her off? "For the fine medical treatment and gracious hospitality of La Hospital de Beth."
"On the house."
"Come on – you have to want something," my voice is soft and charming. If she hasn't sold me out already – maybe I can buy just enough loyalty to come out of this mess alive. If I can just figure out her angle – maybe she has a thing against the cartels? That would be useful – I'm not used to operating in the dark… ha-ha. Go ahead, laugh, I knew it was a funny before I said it. She's quiet, so I go on, "It may not look like it from my stash – but I've got resources – and – I'm good at – you know, dealing with sore spots," I put a little malice in my voice – in my smile – and tilt my head just to one side. Sure I'll kill whoever hurt her – or get someone else to do it. There are still people in this world who owe me favours. I can have somebody made dead – or hurt. Whatever, I'm flexible. If it'll get me what I need, I'll do just about anything. "So – you know – if there's something you need – or want – I could be just the guy to take care of it for you," I throw in for good measure. I doubt she's stupid – but I want her to understand the proposition fully.
I hear nothing but the beating of my own heart for about thirty seconds. Then she answers me…
"You really don't get that there are decent people in this world, do you, Sands?"
And that is the first time I hear something that sounds like pity in her sweet voice. It throws me completely off guard. Everything about this woman throws me off guard. She's afraid of me one minute – rebuking me the next – then laughing with me – then getting into the tub with me – and taking care of me. Then she's cold and impossible to read… ok, that last was probably my fault. I pushed her pretty hard, maybe harder than I should have. And now, after all this – now she feels sorry for me? Christ. "Sure I get that," I tell her defensively. "I'm just not the kind of guy decent people associate with."
"If you at least put the safety back on that gun you've had trained on me since I walked into the room, I'll make the effort to prove you wrong."
I feel my jaw slack, just a little. "I give up," I tell her, pulling the gun into plain view. I contemplate pointing it at my own skull. "You've got me – I give up. If this is a game, it's better than anything I've ever engineered – I give up." I flip the safety back on and set the gun on the nightstand – then I light up another cigarette. I do – I give up. Whoever she is, she has me.
I feel her take the tray off my lap and remove it from the bed. "Mind if I have one of those?" She asks.
What the fuck, why not? I even light it for her, before handing it over.
She takes the cig from my fingers and then sits down next to me – her butt is right up against my left hip. I listen to her inhale – and exhale. "Not everyone in this world wants something," she says at last. "At least not the sort of something you supply."
"But everyone does want something."
"Yeah," she agrees, almost reluctantly.
"So – how about it – what do you want?"
Silence.
The silence scares me just a little – I can't see her eyes – I can't read her body language – I can't even begin to guess what she's thinking. "You really haven't told anyone about my being here?" I ask, wondering if I'll be able to believe her if she says she hasn't.
"Why would I?"
"Money. I'm sure I've pissed off at least one person willing to pay for my head on a platter."
"Of that I have no doubt," she's smiling. I can hear it in her voice.
"Then there's always revenge." I really do know I've been a bit of a prick.
"Why should I try to get even with you for being an asshole. It's apparently just who you are."
I snort. "So I'm told. But that doesn't change the fact that I can pay you – cash or – whatever. I can take care of that problem of yours – because I know it's still a sore spot. I can make it go away – never come back. You'll never have to look over your shoulder again – never have to wonder if he's going to show up on your doorstep," I coax. I'm going out on a fucking limb here with my guesses… but with the way she acts – the way she's said the few things she's said, I honestly believe she just ran away from the creep who hurt her, probably with little more than the cloths on her back. Why the Hell else is she living down here? I know I'm right. I hope.
"A couple of years ago I might have given you the name of a man I'd like to see rotting in Hades. But – now it just doesn't seem worth it."
"Why not? Why have this one little problem hanging over your head – give me the name. I'll make it go away. We'll be square."
"We are square."
"Come on – just a name. You can tell me," I smile at her, that malicious little smile of mine.
"Would you drop it please?" There it is – that – amused – bemused – tone of hers. She has to know I'm serious…
"Come on – just satisfy a man's curiosity."
"I said enough, Sands."
"Well, if you ever change your mind –" I begin – I don't really want to push her too hard (especially since I'm not quite sure how hard is too hard.) I know exactly how precarious my position is right now… and I don't like it.
"How's the headache?" Beth asks then.
"Throbbing – but not as bad as before. All things considered, I think I'll live." I hope.
I imagine she smiles, "Glad to hear it."
Is it even remotely possible that she hasn't ratted me out to someone…?
"I'd like to have a look at – your injuries – see how everything is healing," she says, carefully. Yeah, she's not the only person in this room with sore spots – mine are just a little bit more visible at the moment.
I take a last drag of my smoke and contemplate lighting up another – but I know that no amount of nicotine is going to make me feel any better. I don't want her looking at me – I don't want anyone looking at me. Call it vanity – or pride – or just plain stupidity – but – I just… I feel a sigh escape my lips. "You're the doc," I tell her. I she's already seen everything there is to see. She's looked into the holes that used to have eyes growing out of them… and – realistically – you have to see a wound to check it for infection. Even that doesn't make me feel any better about it. "But will you tell me one thing first?"
"Why am I helping your sorry ass?"
Damn it – she is freaky… "Yeah. I still might not believe you," But I want to… Sheldon Sands you are a fucking idiot…
"You – wouldn't believe the real answer – so just try to believe that I am who I am."
"Real answer?"
"Don't panic, Cowboy – the – deeper, maybe is a better way to say it – the deeper answer doesn't have anything to do with anything external. I don't work for anybody but myself – I don't even work out of a hospital, I'm just on good terms with some of the doctors at our local clinic. This – around you – this is it – this is all there is. Everything in this world that matters to me is right here in this house – and I only answer to my own conscience – and to God. And don't worry – I'm not going to go and get all religious on you," she adds with what I'm sure is a smile. "Faith is – a personal thing."
My brows knit – and it hurts, so I stop that. "I'm paranoid by nature," I finally admit to her. Somehow I doubt it's a great revelation.
"I know," she takes the ashtray from my hands and puts out her own cig – then she gets up and I hear her washing her hands in the bathroom.
"So what – you like to see me dancing on razor blades?" I ask when I hear her come back into the bedroom.
"You're the sadist, not me."
I smile – I can't help it. "Than how about answering something else?"
"No – I'm not afraid of you. Not the way you think I should be."
"Fuck me."
"Maybe."
If I had eyes, I'd blink. But I'm pretty sure it's a joke – I am not her type. Angels and demons do not make good bedfellows – I learned that one the hard way, a long time ago.
Beth comes back to the side of the bed, close to my face. Yeah, why not get the worst over with first – I sit up a little to make her job easier. I am capable of being a good patient – I just don't make a habit of it.
"Ready?"
"As I'll ever be," I still have to clench my fists as I feel her begin unwrapping the bandages, "So?" I ask after a moment. "How bad is it?"
"You're aware of the extent of the damage," she tells me in a gentle, not-quit-clinical tone.
I can feel the warmth of her breath on my face – I hadn't quite realized how close she was until now. I swallow – only it's not fear. Exactly.
"But it's healing nicely. There was a mild infection the second day that I had to clean up – you ok with the details?"
"I'm a big boy," I tell her, my voice as soft as hers – damn is she close. And the truth is I'm not sure I'm ok with the details – but I want to know. I need to know.
Ever so tenderly, she touches the tissue around my eyes – I feel her reach for something from her pocket – and then I don't feel anything. My stomach turns a quick flip – she's probably got a pen light…
"Looking good," she murmurs softly. Then I feel her fingers again, "Iodex," she says of the ointment she's applying just around the edge of the sockets.
I don't know how she's doing this without hurling.
"I'd like to give the wound a little air before putting the bandage back on – if you're ok with that?"
"Guess it's moot," I say to her. "But – what about your daughter –?" Christ – I don't want a seven year old seeing this.
"After dinner I sent her over to Hermano's so we could talk. They live just a few houses down."
"Is that safe?" I find myself asking – I have no idea why I even care.
"We were lucky – this neighbourhood wasn't affected too badly by the fighting last week."
"Ah." I just nod. "So – how bad is it – really."
Beth sits down next to me again – her hand falls on my leg – it seems like an unconscious action. "Cosmetically – you probably have a pretty good idea what it looks like. The eyelids were – "
"In the way," I supply. See – there's just something about having a drill come at your eye – even if you know it's fucking futile, you can't help but shut your eyelids in the effort to keep it out.
"I don't honestly know enough about cosmetic surgery to know what could be done about the lids – but there have been some amazing breakthroughs with artificial optics the last few years – "
"But nothing will ever restore my sight," I say.
"No."
I knew when I saw the drill in Guevara's hand that it was one of those point of no return moments - but that doesn't make it any easier to hear out loud.
I feel her hand on my leg tighten a little, as if in comfort. I want to pull away – but there's something about her touch that makes that difficult. And she's right – there is a difference between pity and caring – even if it's caring about a prick like me – which makes no sense at all, but there it is. She does.
"With dark glasses, no one will ever know," Beth tells me gently. "The rest of your face is perfect," as if to emphasize the point, she brushes my cheek with the back of her hand.
I catch it in mine – I'm not ready to be touched, even in kindness. I hear a light gasp coming from her as my hand closes around hers– guess I startled her. I make a special effort to keep my grasp light. "Didn't mean to scare you," I say softly, hoping she'll believe me.
"You're right about that sore spot," she says – I feel her shaking, just a little. "Sometimes I'm still a little jumpy. I know it's stupid – I left him almost three years ago."
"Take it from an expert, Darlin' – some wounds take forever to heal." And there goes that lifetime membership to the Assholes' Guild. Nothing I do now will ever get me reinstated… "What do you look like, anyway?" I ask.
"See for yourself," she says – but when she says the word it's not at all unkind – she lifts my hand to her face.
"I've never done this," I tell her – and I feel very uncertain, of a lot of things. How in the Hell do you piece together a picture of someone by feeling around their face?
"Just try."
I let my fingers glide over the smooth skin of her face trying to make some sense of what I'm feeling. It isn't working – I can't make heads or tails of it…
"Tell me what you feel," she coaxes.
"High cheekbones. And a little nose – strong chin. High forehead," my fingers slide through her hair – it's not quite shoulder length – straight. Soft. Different lengths – a little shorter around her face – longer towards the back. "What colour?"
"Naturally or currently?"
A small smile begins to form on my lips. "Currently."
"Blond."
"What kind of blond?"
"Medium blond – I guess – with a little red in it."
"The colour of honey?"
"Yeah – I guess that's a good word to describe it."
I can picture the colour almost exactly, I think. According to Holly there is no such thing as 'just blond.' "And naturally?" I ask.
"Brown. But lighter than yours."
"And your eyes?"
"Green."
My smile deepens. I love green eyes. I let my fingers ease their way around her face some more, trying to put all the pieces together. Her mouth isn't big – but it isn't small – and I imagine that she must have a beautiful smile. Her lips are soft – bow shaped – I linger there maybe a little longer than is probably courteous – her chin is rounded – I run my fingers along her jaw line – and suddenly Beth is giggling and I can tell trying very hard not to squirm.
"Sorry – ticklish," she explains.
"Your jaw is ticklish."
"What can I say – I'm weird."
"No arguments there, Sugar Butt," I run my fingers through her hair one last time as a picture of her forms in my mind. She isn't classically beautiful – I'm sure she looks nothing like Holly – or Ajedrez with her exotic beauty – but I get the feeling that my little angel is very pretty in her own quiet way. "Tell me one more time that you haven't ratted me out to anyone – because believe me, there are a lot of people who want me dead right now – and I don't even know who all of them are."
She holds my hand – and she tells me that she hasn't ratted me out to anyone. "There may be people in this world would could pull a couple of bullets out of a man's body – who could stay with him through six days of delirium and fever – and then turn right around and hand him over to someone who would kill him. I'm just not one of those people, Sands."
And more than anything in the world, I want to believe in her. I want to believe she hasn't ratted me out to the cartel – because even with Barillo dead, the cartel is probably only wounded. There are plenty of men to step up and take his place. They'll be in disarray for a while… but eventually they'll be back. I'm probably not worth as much to them as El… who's Christmas card list I'm probably not on either… and that is probably just the tip of the iceburg. I realize she's speaking again:
"I really can't tell you anything that will make you trust me. It's a leap you're going to have to make on your own."
"I – I guess if you really wanted to turn me over to someone – it would have been easier while I was out."
"Probably – and it would have saved me from having to deal with your oh so charming personality," while her words are biting, I can hear the smile in her voice.
"There is that," I smile back. I reach over and lay my hand on the gun – she's – just a little tense as I tuck it back behind my pillow. "I tend to sleep a little better this way," I explain.
I have the distinct feeling she's just shaking her head at me. "All right. I'd like to have a look at your stitches – and probably take them out."
"You're the doc."
I listen to her step out of the room for a few moments – when she returns, I hear small metal objects rattling around in a bag – she must really have a little black medical bag. She sets it down on the bed next to me. Long pause… "Um – robe?"
Oh. Right. Duh. I undo the belt of the robe and let it slide open – why exactly I feel suddenly body conscious I have no idea. The woman is a nurse – she's probably seen hundreds of naked guys in her life… although I wonder how many of those had no eyes… "So – you said you got through three years of medical school – what happened?" Mostly I just want something else to think about.
"It wasn't because of Neal."
"So it has a name," I manage a smile.
With very gentle hands, she draws back the robe, exposing more of me… fingertips graze over my wounds.
"I have absolutely no doubt, Officer Sands, that once you're up and back up to whatever it is you really do, you could find out his name if you really wanted to." There is no sharpness to her tone at all.
But the words slice through me just the same – back to what I do? I don't even know if… I don't know anything. I need to correct that, ASAP. "I don't suppose you've got a radio or something I could listen to?"
"I'll got one I can bring in when we're done," she tells me. "I'm assuming you've had stitches removed before?"
"Snip away, I'm fine," I tell her. Most modern medical facilities use dissolving stitches – or adhesive stitches – occasionally those freaky metal staples that make you look all Frankenstein's Monster – but I've spent most of my career in the kinds of places that aren't quite so modern.
She snips – I'm fine. It feels a little weird having thread pulled out of one's hide… but there are far worse things in this world. "So what happened – medical school?" I ask.
"Life."
"You're not being very fair you know – you know more about me than I do about you."
Her chuckle is soft and warm, "And it's probably driving you nuts."
"Just a little," I admit.
She finishes up, announcing to me that everything seems to be mending just fine, then comes back to sit on the bed, her butt pressed right up against my hip again. "Elsbeth Annabelle McKinny," she says. Her tone is neutral – but still – soft. "Thirty three years old. Born in Fayetteville, Alabama – we moved to Boston when I was twelve, but I'll always be a small town girl at heart. Averaged about a 2.7 grade point through high school – boredom," she explains. "After two years of community college I got accepted to Colombia and went off to New York. You ever been there?"
I smile – I haven't been in years… but yeah… "I'm more of a West Coast guy, though," I hear myself saying. Great. As if she doesn't know enough already.
I hear a soft chuckle, "I'm not surprised. But – if you know New York you know how – different it is, even from Boston."
"So what happened?"
"Give me your hand," she says.
I lift my left hand and she captures it easily – she guides it over and rests it on her arm.
"I don't know if you're going to be able to feel this," she says – then she runs my fingers over the insides of her arm.
I slide my fingers down her soft skin, trying to make out what it is I'm feeling. The scaring is barely raised. Long and vertical – right along the vein… "Why?"
"Stupid shit. I just all happened at once. My dad died – heart attack. He refused to take care of himself," her voice catches. Then she clears her throat. "I came back a couple of days early – I couldn't deal with the mourning relatives one second longer – and I was pretty pissed at him for dying on me. All things considered, I wish I'd stayed."
"Boyfriend in bed with another woman?" I hazard a guess.
"Fiancé. And with a teacher no less. He'd told me he couldn't fly to Boston with me because he had to study. Guess we had different ideas of 'studying' entailed."
"Damn." Even I think that's a little cold.
She sighs and pulls her arm back, gently. I imagine she's shrugging – or trying to come up with some kind of excuse for what she did – I just light up a couple of cigarettes and hand her one.
"Thanks."
"So – is Cicily that guy's – or this Neal's?"
I hear a sound that's probably a chuckle, "I can see why you must make a very good – is it politically correct to say spy?"
And I can't help it – I'm laughing – it hurts, just a little – that bullet wound in my side – but I don't care. She laughs with me – finally, when we've both settled down, I say, "Darlin' – just in case you hadn't picked up on it – I don't worry about politically correct. Although my actual jobdescription is covert intelligence. And you didn't answer my question."
I imagine her shaking her head, smiling, as she sighs. "Neal's. Six months after I moved back to Fayetteville Neal and I were married. We grew up together – I thought I knew him. Guess I made a mistake."
I hear – sadness. Hurting. He hurt more than her body. He hurt her spirit – she was already hurting – and he just tookthis wounded angel and hurt her more… Time to change the subject. For both our sakes. "When – when you put me in the tub – I remmeber you singing something – what was it?"
"Good memory, Cowboy," I hear the smile return to her voice.
"So?"
I almost think she's blushing – but she clears her throat and taps out a soft beat on her thigh…
The thundering waves are calling me home, home to you
The pounding sea is calling me home, home to you.
On a dark new year's night
On the west coast of Clare
I hear your voice singing
Your eyes danced the song
Your hands played the tune
T'was a vision before me.
We left the music behind and the dance carried on
As we stole away to the seashore
We smelt the brine, felt the wind in our hair
With sadness you paused.
Suddenly I knew that you'd have to go
Your world was not mine, your eyes told me so
Yet it was there I felt the crossroads of time
And I wondered why.
As we cast our gaze on the tumbling sea
A vision came o'er me
Of thundering hooves and beating wings
In clouds above.
As you turned to go I heard you call my name.
You were like a bird in a cage, spreading its
Wings to fly
"The old ways are lost" you sang as you flew
And I wondered why.
The thundering waves are calling me home, home to you
The pounding sea is calling me home, home to you.
The thundering waves are calling me home, home to you
The pounding sea is calling me home, home to you.
The thundering waves are calling me home, home to you
The pounding sea is calling me home, home to you.
And in the role of Beth ...Elizabeth Banks (Sea Biscuit)
The song she sings at the end of the chapter is by Loreena McKennit