Chapter 22
Emory
"Grief is the price of love, but memory is its reward."
Clutching on to the banister, I am doing my best with what little strength I have. My feet are kicking with desperation, a sense of longing to be on solid ground swelling by the second. Gravity serenades my body, as the pit of my stomach is bathing in fear.
I can’t fall.
I won't be able to walk away from this if I fall.
I must find… a way.
My arms shake as I try to pull myself up and fail.
I look around, and the trellis isn’t too far, so I swing my legs, using my toes, as I try to grab hold of it.
I miss the first time, so I try again. Determined to make it, I struggle for another five times, until on the last go, my grip slips—what I didn’t want to happen. .. happened, and now I am falling:
This is it.
I finally find my sister, but before she can see me, before I can tell her that I don’t blame her for anything, I fall to my death.
I won't get to know why she is here.
How did she even get here?
Did the guy bring her here?
Who was he anyway?
If he was the one who brought her here, then why?
I have too many questions that need answers.
I can’t die.
Not now, I just-
The fall feels like forever, like falling through space and time itself.
My body is cold as the wind cocoons around me—I don’t detect that I am falling.
I start to wonder if I am dreaming, but that thought is short-lived—pulling me from my thoughts is the abrupt stop I make.
I am startled when it wasn’t followed by pain splintering through my body from the contact it would have made with the concrete.
No, instead it was like falling into bed sheets on a soft bed after a long day of working.
You know, the feeling where the mattress swallows you as the comforter wraps you in a soft… warm burrito.
I open my eyes to a face forming before me—it is familiar but disfigured, swollen, and red.
I observe a little longer before it clicks.
“Peter, what-” I watch as the look in his eye changes, and a stare that I have become accustomed to…
makes its presence known. I witness his emerald eye shift to a striking baby blue.
“I already told life you were mine.” The sorrow conjoined with anger was his specialty. “I will be damned if death takes you away from me.”
I was right. “Oliver?” Peter is lost to me—there is no indication that he still occupies space in his body. The only thing I can see, and feel, is Oliver—nodding in response. His emotions convey care and worry as my relocation of him surfaces. My eyes glare at him with a grip like super glue.
His worry turns to panic as he peers over his shoulder, and I am pulled to take a gander, just past the arm, my face is buried in—trying to make sense of it all.
A man is walking towards him—well, it is more of a flounce.
His features match those of my father’s, but not how I remember him.
No, he is more like a younger version—It is as if he jumped out of the photo I found upstairs in the west wing.
His modern-day clothes fit him snugly, while an exceptionally well-kept beard obscured his young face.
It is the Citrine in his eyes that has me captivated, and the only feature that convinces me that he wasn’t some figment my mind conjured.
When he speaks, it makes my mind race. A thousand thoughts and questions collide at once, but none of them are clear enough to grasp.
His voice is cavernous, reminding me of the lake and the accident—It left me drowning in my thoughts, with every word from his mouth dragging me deeper into the sea of panic.
Threats pouring past his lips, filling my cup of queries.
Who is this man?
What did Peter do to make him so hostile?
Could it be he is after Oliver?
If so, why?
My brain is on the edge of exploding as Oliver tightens his grip around me. Peter’s face is so messed up that I am positive it was challenging to form any expression, but Oliver manages to manipulate it effortlessly, simpering at me as a sign of reassurance.
I snuggle into his chest, soaking in this safe feeling, before it's gone, as Oliver sits me on the bench in the Garden.
A warm and comforting kiss befalls my forehead, then I open my eyes to realize that he has abandoned me here.
No answers, just stale wet air from the storm, causing my damp hair to mat to my face.
Taking the time to look around, I study the moon-rays as they dance in the sporadic puddles on the ground.
Standing, I walk back over to the bush of Juliet roses and peek down at the headstones.
Instantaneously, I remember the garden chase.
Then, I rush my way back over to the bench, the one that displays the stunning etching of the bird sprawled across the back.
A closer look, and the engravings start to become a little clearer.
The rain must have washed away a bit of nature that once grew there.
Dirt is still caked in most of it, but the black of the dirt enhances the etching, providing a bold outline as it allows every detail to bask in the glory it deserves.
Someone put a lot of time and work into this piece.
Once I finish admiring the craftsmanship, I could barely make them out, but I see there are words—an indication that this, too, is a memorial:
My Dove…
Not until death can you be mine
Emory. Evangeline Selby
1992-2021
Looking at my hands, my nails are average length, I try to scrape the clumps out of the divots in the wood. I manage to smear it instead, as the rain still lightly falls, adding to the moisture.
Only a few letters are revealed: M*I*N*E.
That was all I was able to get to before there was a thud and a splash as something fell in one of the various puddles around me.
I turn slowly as terror clamps my limbs, holding them together like they’re in a Vise Grip, hindering my movement.
I fight back the feeling, forcing my body into action as I turn around.
There, a few feet in front of me, I see Peter—again.
This time, he doesn’t move, he only… lies there.
His breathing is shallow as he lies on his back in the small pool of rainwater.
A flashback of when my mother met him blinks into focus like a static TV.
Mom took us out for smoothies—she wanted to help us feel better, it was the first weekend we didn’t receive a letter from our dad. It had been a year—they were always so prompt, every Saturday morning a package showed up on the doorstep for each of us... even mom.
When we stepped out onto the porch to find the delivery box was empty, Evelyn and I were crushed.
Evelyn: (scoffing) Ugh, whatever.
She threw her hands up and stormed inside, shouldering mom on her way past, and once the door slammed closed, turned her gaze to me.
Mom: (sighing as she brushes her hair behind her ear) I really am sorry. I will message and try to see if maybe it was a delivery thing. (She smiles wearily.)
Mom walked over to the porch swing and sat down, putting her head in her hands—I joined her, resting my hands on her shoulder.
I didn’t know what to do, I wasn’t even a teenager yet, but that didn’t stop me from trickling my fingers down her back to comfort her—I learned that technique from the best.. . her.
Me: Mom, (I say with a worried tone) can we go get some frozen yogurt?
Her sniffles fade to chuckles as she lifts her head to reveal the ruby color forming in her sorrowful eyes. She wipes her face dry, before taking me in her loving arms.
Mom: (She nuzzled her nose to mine) Of course, pookie.
I jumped from the swing with joy, bolting through the house to tell Evelyn the most amazing news.
Me: (Shouting like the kid I still was) Evelyn! You won't believe what I got mom to agree to.
I rushed through the house, throwing open every door. I found Evelyn in the garage, cross-armed at dad's old work bench—her face buried in her elbows, while her body shook with misery.
Me: (My voice comes out softer than silk) Evelyn? (There is no response) Evelyn? Guess where Mom is taking us?
Evelyn: (The tone of her voice muffled from speaking into her arm) Where?
Feeling like I cracked her armor a little, I permit myself to unleash the pure excitement that has built up in my little body, in the short span of standing there in her melancholy moment.
Me: (Yelling in raw, uncut ecstasy) Frozen Yogurt!
I witness her head shift as a sparkling sapphire orb peeks from beneath her lashes, like castle guards on night watch over the kingdom.
The air turns colder, and I am pulled from my memory.
Flower petals are swirling like a tornado around me, as the voices of my mother and sister echo off the stone in the garden.
Specks of light begin to form amidst the swirls as the memory breaks up into pieces in front of me.
I reach out to touch what would have been the next segment, and I am pulled into it like a vacuum.
We are now in the car, and hits from the 2000s are playing on the radio.
Mom and Evelyn have their arms outstretched before them, their hands clapping ‘bye’ to an imaginary being.
It doesn’t take long before the all too recognizable building dominates the view from the windshield as mom pulls into a parking spot.
Me: (In a guttural gremlin voice) Smoothie Giant! (I shriek like a starving pterodactyl)
Mom laughs as Evelyn joins the yogurt chant.
We climb out of the car and form a line to march in tune with our victory cries.
At the register my sister and me have added almost every topping you could and our cups were overflowing with sticky sweet goodness.
Mom reached in her purse to grab her wallet, and a man from out of nowhere shoves her into the glass display case of sweets made in-house.