Radiance (Riley Bloom #1)(30)

He was fighting against her.

Her refusal to rid herself of it.

To give it to him.

To unburden herself and move on.

It was like she’d stayed so long at that window, spent so many years crying, and moaning, and wailing her nonexistent heart out, she’d gotten to the point where she couldn’t remember anything else.

Her grief had come to define her.

Without it, she feared she might cease to exist—completely disappear.

Unaware of how that very disappearance would actually be the best thing for her.

Sure, the sad, old version of her would fade away without a trace, but only so a new, improved, happier version could find a new life on the other side of the bridge.

I watched the struggle continue, knowing I had no right to interfere, that it was forbidden, that Bodhi wouldn’t allow it. But still, that didn’t mean I couldn’t surround him with hope. Imagining the color in my mind as the most beautiful, radiant, rose-petal pink, I turned it into a giant, glistening bubble, and wrapped it around him as I held the wish near.

Eager for this to be over—for Bodhi to find enough strength to take it from her, release her from her grief, so that she could be free.

All the while trying not to think about what might become of him once he had swallowed her sorrow.

Where would it go?

Would he be forced to take her place at the window and wail for the next hundred years?

Or could he find a way to process it?

Treat it like they do with sewage and waste and gross stuff like that. Reconditioning it in a way where it’s no longer toxic, no longer so completely destructive to live with.

And if he couldn’t process it—if he couldn’t treat it in some way—then what would become of me?

Would I ever find my way out of that bottomless sea?

Or would I be forced to tread in that black, oily water for the rest of eternity?

But still, even though all those thoughts were actively flooding my mind, I kept my promise, and I kept my place. Holding tight to that vibrant, pink bubble of hope, as my legs moved beneath me, and my arms spun in half circles by my sides. Watching as Bodhi continued to put up one heck of a fight, engaged in a battle of her dark, heavy soul versus his light.

Shaking and trembling, he struggled to consume all her pain, while I whispered to myself, over and over again, that it would all be all right. That the light always wins in the end. In all my favorite books, movies, and shows on TV—that’s just the way it always goes.

Only this was all too real.

And like it or not, Bodhi and I were locked in this together, our eternities depending on how this thing ended.

I closed my eyes, overcome with exhaustion, and not wanting to see any more. Though I still clung to hope—hoping it might aid him in some small, acceptable way.

Hoping she would let go, give up the grief, and move on.

Hoping Bodhi would stay sure and strong and continue to fight.

And the next thing I knew, it was over.

Or at least my part was over.

I suddenly found myself outside of it all. Back in that small, dank room, watching from the sidelines as the ghost lady’s dress whitened, her hair brightened, and the color returned to her cheeks in the way she must’ve looked before all the darkness moved in.

But the most remarkable change of all was her eyes.

The way they transformed from bottomless black oily pools—an endless sea of sorrow—to a calm brilliant blue.

And when she looked at me, looked right at me, her smile was so glorious, so luminous, so filled with hope, it just lifted her right up like a helium balloon as she sailed out that small window and up toward the sky.

I nudged Buttercup who was lying beside me, watching as he removed his paws from his eyes and immediately ran toward Bodhi who was curled up in the corner, arms circled tightly around his waist, filled to the brim with grief and pain and no idea where to put it.

And all it took was one quick look at him to know that even though he appeared to be with us, he still really wasn’t. Inside his head, inside his soul, he was back on that lonely rock island, fighting against the emotions he’d willingly taken on—trying to find a way to bear it, to process it, so that he too could release it and move on.

And while I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to, and while I wasn’t sure if it was permitted, and knowing there was a very good chance he might scold me later, I crept toward him. Kneeling down beside him as I placed my hand on his arm and streamed into his energy field. Having learned long ago, back when I was living in Summerland, that everything is made up of energy, our bodies, our thoughts, everything.

Which means that all of us are connected.

Which means that if we want to really know someone, or comfort someone in some way, then all we had to do was pay attention and tune in.

That’s truly all it takes.

He struggled, struggled for so long I worried that he wouldn’t hold out. But I kept my promise, and other than watching as the battle continued to wage, I didn’t intrude. I just kept to myself as he experienced her entire emotional journey—her fear when her boys didn’t return—her overwhelming grief when she learned they never would—her indignation when she found herself accused—her grim acceptance when she was so unfairly tried—including the moment she gave up on herself—which happened to be the same moment everyone else seemed to give up on her too. Even though she knew she was innocent of their deaths, she still found a place for the blame. She still chose to keep up her punishment long after she’d already been hanged. And even though her sons continued their existence in the very same house, enjoying century after century of naughty, mischievous pranks, it’s like they were all so immersed in their own separate worlds, they were completely unaware of each other.