Ember #3
For a long time, I struggled with my feelings for the team—not least of all the complexities of loving multiple people. It isn’t exactly the fairy tale we’re all told to aspire for. But in many ways, this right here is the happy ending that most aren’t fortunate enough to ever experience.
“You good, Ember?” Jude studies me from the corner of his eye.
“Just thinking.”
“Want to help me carry gifts downstairs?”
“Uh, sure. Why not?”
“Thanks.” He rises, gesturing for me to follow him. “Just upstairs.”
Exchanging a nod with Warner, I follow Jude out of the kitchen and up their huge, winding staircase. The second floor is decked out much the same as the first, with quality wood fixtures and more exquisite artwork. They must’ve personally funded Ripley’s business for years.
“Would you mind stepping into my office, Ember?” Jude gestures towards the ajar door. “You don’t have to, but I thought we could talk.”
“About what?”
“I’ve heard a lot about your case, and I think I can help.”
Intrigued, I follow him into the shaded office. It’s warm and inviting. Children’s drawings adorn most of the wall space, while framed photographs clutter his desk. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen so many paperbacks before, clustered on built-in mahogany shelving.
“You can sit.” He motions towards a large armchair.
“What’s this about?”
Jude leans on the edge of the desk, his legs folded at the ankle. “You may not know this, but Doctor Richards is an old friend. Once upon a time, he helped me through a difficult period.”
I open my mouth to protest but fall silent at his wave.
“No, he would never break patient confidentiality. We haven’t discussed you. But I’m aware of your history from assisting Sabre. I like to help where I can, even if that isn’t my world anymore.”
“Jude… please get to the point.”
“Direct.” He rubs the side of his jaw in thought. “I respect it.”
It’s only then I realise his right arm ends at the wrist. His hand has been amputated. There’s only smooth, healed skin to rub his chin with. The limb looks healthy; it has to be an old injury. I didn’t even notice as he cradled his daughter earlier, the stump hidden from sight.
I make a point of clearing my throat. “I’ve never been a fan of beating around the bush.”
“Me neither. What I’m saying is that I understand your ordeal. Being taken, broken down piece by piece, assigned a number instead of an identity. Something similar happened to me a long time ago.”
“You were trafficked?”
“No, not like that. I won’t rehash my past, but it’s a matter of public record if you’re curious.”
“I’d never do that to you.”
“You have my permission to look, I’ve nothing to hide. My point is that I had to reconstruct my identity once I found freedom. Much like you’ve spent all this time doing. I know the struggle, and I want to help.”
“Help me how?”
“That’s entirely up to you.” He recrosses his ankles. “I can see there is a conflict of interest, but unofficially, I’m here to listen. Sometimes it takes being understood and seen to overcome what’s holding us back.”
I contemplate his offer, staring up at rows of psychiatry manuals and boring-looking textbooks.
“I’m not exactly the most cooperative patient. Just ask Richards.”
“You wouldn’t be my patient.” Jude is quick to assure me.
“Then what is this?”
“Consider it a listening ear. Night or day, rain or shine. When you feel 768 sneaking back in, dictating your thoughts and actions… I want you to know you don’t have to deal with her alone.”
Surprise jolts my bones, leaving me hot and embarrassed.
“How did you know?”
“That she sneaks back in?” Jude asks brusquely.
My nod is reticent. “Yes.”
“Because there are days when I hear the monster I was made into clearer than my own voice. Keeping Jude Farlow living in the present is a full-time occupation.”
Nothing but sincerity shines through his golden stare, the liquid caramel irises seeming to churn with a darkness forever trying to claw its way back to the surface. I wonder if that’s what he sees when he looks at me.
“Thank you, Jude. I’ll consider it.”
“Would you take my business card?”
Head bobbing, I accept the embossed rectangle he hands over. “Off the record?”
“Always. You have my full discretion.”
“Can I ask how you did it?” I draw in a deep, cleansing inhale. “Clawed yourself back, I mean. The real you.”
Jude adjusts the cuffs on his shirt, grazing over the place where his hand should be. He doesn’t seem to pay it much attention. Just a mere glance of acknowledgement before he looks back up at me.
“I realised there is no such thing as the real me anymore, just the person who made it out the other side. This isn’t about reclaiming, Ember. It’s a rebuild. You get to choose what that looks like.”
“I guess I’m not sure who I want to be.”
“Last I checked, there wasn’t a deadline on this stuff.” He smiles patiently, rising from the desk. “Come on, they’ll be wondering where we ran off to. It’ll be time to eat soon.”
Trailing out of the office behind him, I let my attention graze over his desk again. I recognise a lot of the faces in the photographs. There are a fair few I don’t know, including some old graduation pics with a girl who bears a striking resemblance to Jude.
Maybe he couldn’t find that person again. Maybe reclaiming the old parts of ourselves isn’t possible after having them torn apart, bit by bit. But I think I’d like some framed photographs of my own. Some happy memories. Some warm, cookie-scented Christmas mornings.
We can build that future.
Together.