Dane's Storm(15)

And now suddenly, I felt alone, drifting aimlessly into murky waters I didn’t understand and couldn’t navigate. I hated feeling lost, hopeless, and so scared I woke up each day with the hairs standing up on the nape of my neck.

The way I used to . . . then.

No, don’t go there. Don’t.

And yet, almost without thought, I found myself wandering down the hall, into the spare room with the half-door that led to the attic. I hesitated outside it, before I reached down and turned the handle, the familiar squeak bringing a rush of memories. I inhaled a quick gulp of air. Why am I doing this? And yet, as if I were in a dream, I felt strangely disconnected like I was both in it and watching from somewhere far away.

Bending my back, I ducked through the small opening and pulled on the light within, climbing the creaky stairs. It smelled of dust and mothballs, and I sneezed once, moving a cobweb out of the way as I made it to the last step. The overhead beams were low enough that I had to walk hunched over, moving toward the subdued light of the round, grimy window. When I’d made it to where the sunlight created a patch of shadowy light on the old wood, I knelt and glanced around.

Dusty boxes littered the space and dust motes spun lazily in the low light adding to the dream-like feeling. My eyes lingered for a moment on the gray rubber bin to the right of the window, and a slow-moving swell of agony rose within me before I tore my eyes away. Away . . . away, up to the wall above where a single blue butterfly had been painted in a childish hand. It was the lone one on that portion of the wall and it fluttered there in strange solitude as if once upon a time I’d known what would remain beneath it.

My eyes moved away from the singular butterfly to where there were several more in varying shades of color. They climbed the upper wall and spilled onto the peaked ceiling—the only portion that was finished in planks of wood and not just open beams. Butterflies fluttered and flew on almost every available space above me and my lips tipped into a small smile.

I’d drawn them, each and every one. When I’d gotten in trouble as a girl and been sent to my room, I’d snuck out into the bedroom next to my own with my art supplies, and tiptoed up to this attic. My father’s disability didn’t allow him to climb stairs and so even if he came looking for me, he could only call my name from the bottom floor. Here I’d draw butterfly after butterfly, delicate-winged creatures that were not only beautiful, but could fly away on the slightest of breezes. Maybe I’d wanted to as well.

I stayed kneeling in the tiny pool of muted sunlight, closing my eyes and tilting my face upward as if in prayer. Although I’d prayed once and those prayers hadn’t been answered. I didn’t expect any answers now. Still, this had once been my secret place, my sanctuary of sorts, and that long-ago feeling of peace fell over me despite the painful memories that lived here too.

I wasn’t a child anymore, though, and I couldn’t stay here forever, finding solace in pretend games and painted butterflies. My eyes lingered on that bin, too scared to move closer, fear and yearning spiraling inside me like a howling wind. I tore my eyes away, taking another deep breath—clenching my eyes shut momentarily—and then turning in the shaft of sunlight, making my way toward the stairs.

As I shuffled in my hunched-over position, my foot caught on the uneven edge of a floorboard and I tripped sideways, catching myself on a stack of dusty boxes. I swore under my breath. The boxes teetered backward as I righted myself and I tried to stop them from toppling over but wasn’t quite quick enough. The old box on top broke apart when it hit the floor and papers and files slid out, landing in a messy pile. “Damnit,” I muttered again. I didn’t have time to clean this up now. I’d have to get a new box and throw all these old papers inside it later. Not that they were probably anything of importance, because from what I could tell by the ones on top, they were old tax documents.

I started to move again, when I noticed what looked like a letter among the other papers. I bent lower, picking it up. I frowned when I saw the name “Bea” scrawled on the front. Who was Bea?

The letter was sealed, but the glue was old enough that when I picked at the seal, it opened easily. I unfolded the paper inside, my eyes moving over the script:



My beloved Bea,

My heart aches as I write this and yet I know what I’m doing is for the best. If I were a selfish man, I’d show up today. I’d run away with you as we planned, and I’d spend my life loving you. It would be the easiest thing in the world for me to do, Bea. The easiest. But it would also be the most selfish, because I could never give you the life you deserve. I have so little, not even enough to begin a small life for us. Eventually, the realities of everyday survival would be bigger than the wild love we feel now, and you’d grow to resent me for all you were forced to give up. I couldn’t live with that. I couldn’t live watching the fire in your eyes slowly fade to ash. I couldn’t know that I was responsible for it.

I won’t be there today, Bea. I won’t even send this letter, because I know you and you’ll try to convince me otherwise, and I’ll be unable to resist you. Instead, I write this for me, to confirm that I’m doing what I know to be right. To remind myself that the tree protects the flower, but in doing so, is frozen for all time.

I won’t take you in my arms as I long to do with every breath. But you will be in my heart, every day for the rest of my life.

Yours always,