Chapter 11
Eleven
The Present
Bookmarking the page with the black satin ribbon attached to the inner spine, I round the counter island and wrap myself around Aleksander, not able to stop the flood of emotion pouring from my eyes and soaking into his shirt.
Nina was a good, kind woman trapped in a cruel nightmare.
I love my parents, but I also hate them for not doing more to help her.
Papa helped Keith get out from the Society’s crushing grip and live a normal life.
He and Mama helped Alana escape from being forced to marry Gabriel.
So why couldn’t they do the same for Nina?
“I’m so sorry.”
Aleksander sets the knife down from slicing the red onion, lifts me off my feet, and deposits me on the opposite countertop next to the refrigerator.
Bracing his hands on either side of my hips, he fits himself between my legs and drops his forehead to my sternum.
My hands grasp the back of his head, my fingers diving into the soft strands of his hair, and I hold him to my breast, wanting him to feel my love and let it heal his broken heart.
“Tell me a memory about Nina.”
His shoulders rise and fall with a deep inhalation.
“Her laugh. It was rare to hear because there was little joy in our house for her to laugh about, but when she did, it was beautiful. Like a song you hear one time but can’t ever forget.
She loved to wear this yellow sundress in the summer because she said the color reminded her of the climbing honeysuckle that clung stubbornly to the weathered stone wall at the edge of the rose garden. ”
I begin to picture the scene he’s creating of a little boy walking alongside his mother, his small hands brushing against velvet petals as he explores the garden.
“There was this one day. The sky was a cloudless canvas of endless, impossible blue that stretched overhead. The sun was so bright and warm and blinding, it hurt my eyes but also made everything around me more vivid—as if I didn’t realize the world had been blurry until it suddenly came into sharp focus for the first time. ”
“I like that analogy,” I softly tell him, not wanting to break his recollection of the memory.
“Something landed on my arm. A butterfly. Its wings were a prism of orange outlined in black with tiny white dots that looked like stars scattered along the edges.”
“A monarch.”
He cups my cheek. “I caught it between my hands, and its wings beat against my palms, frantic and desperate as it tried to escape. Mama kneeled beside me and said, ‘You must let it go, Aleksander.’ ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘I want to keep it.’ I remember her sad, solemn smile when she clasped her hands over mine, gently urging me to release it. ‘Because a butterfly’s soul needs to fly. Wild things yearn to be free, and if you keep it, it will die.’”
His fingers slip from my face, as if I’m the wild thing he was forced to release so it could live.
Taking his hand, my lips trace over the small, cursive AOIFE tattooed under the ANGEL inked above each knuckle. “Sometimes the wild thing comes back because you are its home.”