Chapter 13 #2
I had been a naive girl.
Naive .
And so innocent .
My heart suddenly felt heavy. When I touched the dried paints with my fingertips, tears welled up in my eyes. I wondered who Willa Nevaeh Rae had been when she was lured away from her party. What dreams had she followed and where did she think life would take her?
The banal answer was: I had no idea. I had centered my life around Dad, he had been my god and benefactor.
My savior who had sacrificed his great love for me.
I existed then only as a vague notion as blurry as my painting.
Today, I saw myself more clearly even though it hurt.
I saw myself not only through Dad’s eyes but through the eyes of many others who had told me how brave and courageous I had been and that I had a good heart.
For a moment, my fingers burned with the desire to destroy the paintings, like the moonshine, but then the double doors in the entrance foyer burst open.
A voice echoed through the penthouse, almost knocking me off my feet. “Willa? Willa Rae, dearest, where are you?”
For several heartbeats, I stood there as if in deep shock, sweet and bitter at the same time, and then the apathy fell away from me. I felt like a spectator at a play whose soul is touched by it no matter how much they resist it.
Automatically, I rushed forward. I ran, my heart pounding unbearably strong in my chest. For many, infinitely many seconds, I forgot everything I had heard about Dad and I didn’t remember it either when I spotted him.
He strode across the living room, but when he saw me, he stopped. His complexion was as white as chalk and he was only a shadow of the man I had left that day. “You’re alive… You’re actually here…” His words came out almost soundlessly as if he couldn’t believe it.
My chin trembled. Oh my God, Dad! I had thought so much about him and myself during the last few weeks and months, I had thought at times that he would be a stranger, someone I would no longer recognize.
But in his tailored suit and his polished Dior shoes, despite the misery in his features, he was so much my dad, someone I had loved all my life, my knees threatened to give way.
“Dad,” I whispered, but the word was like a cry that burst desperately from within me.
In three strides, he was in front of me, taking me in his arms. He whispered in my ear everything I had wanted to hear for the last year.
He hugged me so tightly that I almost lost my breath as he cried.
He didn’t cry like a god and a patron, but like a deeply shaken child, more violently than I had ever heard from any man or anyone before.
I realized that we could imagine encounters as often as we wanted.
We could decide how we would react, but then, in the end, they are completely different.
And when I instinctively wrapped my arms around him, I allowed myself to be his little girl again for a few breaths.
His innocent Willa who he had always wanted to keep safe from the evil in the world even though he had always been a part of it.
To this day, I don’t know how long we stood there like that, just Dad and Willa, no past or future, before I let go of him.
Dad’s aftershave enveloped us like a cloud, immersing me in many blissful memories of my childhood and youth: Dad and I marveling at the gigantic Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center.
Dad and I playing cards in his wine bar.
Dad and I laughing in the snow in Vermont, Dad and I on our balcony, and Dad philosophizing about war and peace.
I couldn’t help but think of Isaac’s words. Once she’s free, she’ll sing like a little bird. Daddy will lull her to sleep and make her forget who the bad guy was .
My muscles instantly tensed. I felt sick and Dad’s gaze, so full of love and joy, was shaded by a hint of horror. “Willa, what happened to you?” he whispered, and I saw how hard he was trying to maintain his composure.
I couldn’t say anything. My words were simply gone, hijacked by the weeks of my half brother’s captivity. I looked at Dad, searching for Isaac’s features, and was relieved when I found none in his face. Still, I couldn’t shake the horror.
“Willa, you can tell me anything?” Dad spoke gently as if to a wounded animal. He wanted to put his arms on my shoulders, but the split-second devoid of all that had happened was over. I backed away.
“Willa, honey, are you afraid of me?” He stared at me in shock.
I shook my head, hoping so strongly that all the stories the others had told me about him weren’t true.
I felt completely torn. I wanted to love him and I wanted to hate him.
And somehow, I did both, but I didn’t want to admit it.
Without another word, I ran back to the entrance foyer, up the stairs, and into my wing.
I stumbled through the anteroom into my bedroom, closed the door, and sank to the floor leaning against it.
A few seconds later, I heard Dad’s footfalls.
He knocked softly. “We need to talk, Willa. You have to tell me everything, please, honey. You have no idea how scared I was for you. I need to know what happened to you. I’m dying of worry.”
Behind the door, I bit my fist and stared at the gigantic swamp painting on my four walls. My Southern bedroom. It was like a second shock, sitting in the landscape I had just come from.
“Should I call a doctor?”
“No,” I choked out.
“Or Dr. Moore?”
“No.”
“Your girlfriend? Penelope?”
I didn’t say anything else.
“Willa, please open the door for me. We have to call the police. I still can’t believe you’re here…and now you’re running from me…I need to know what happened…”
“Tonight, Dad!” I choked out at some point when he didn’t move away from my door.
“I…I need space.” That wasn’t even a lie.
The long drive, the bright daylight, and the noise had stressed my already sensitive soul.
As had my first meeting with Dad. It had emotionally shaken me.
I had to compose myself. I would need strength.