Echo(67)

“And neither do your actions, Declan,” I condemn, and he knows exactly what my words imply.

“No, you’re right. I can’t make sense out of the things I’ve done to you. But I do know enough to recognize that ever since I took a man’s life, I haven’t been the same. I carry an appalling amount of animosity inside of me that I don’t know how to deal with.”

“So we’re all just screwed up?”

“To some degree, yes,” he responds. “I don’t want to downplay what your mother did, that’s not what I’m trying to do. I just want you to face the facts and do something with it.”

And I see his point, because it doesn’t even take me a second thought to know I don’t want to resemble that woman in the slightest. I don’t want that hostility living and breeding inside of me anymore. I want to let go of the resentment. I want to let go of the blame. I want to let go of the constant fiending for payback. But sometimes we don’t get what we want, and even though I want to be without it, a part of me will probably always want to hang on to it.





I AIM MY foot to land on the small patch of snow just to hear it crunch under my rain boot. The sound brings me a tiny piece of joy as I walk the grounds. The snow started to melt away yesterday when the sun finally peeked out from behind the heavy blanket of grey clouds. But today is another dank day, cold and damp.

Declan still has me here at his house. He took me back to the Water Lily to pack some of my belongings, but I’m still paying for the room because he told me this arrangement was simply temporary until I was well-rested and feeling better.

This is my second day here, and I’ve hardly seen Declan. He spends most of his time up on the third floor where his office is. When the sun came out yesterday, he suggested that I soak up the vitamin D, so I decided to enjoy the grotto. I spent hours inside the clinker structure. He has a small round table with two chairs set in the center under the glass ceiling. Even though the temperatures were in the thirties, the sun warmed the room where I sat and daydreamed like a little girl. As if that grotto was my palace, and I, the princess captured, waiting for my prince to save me.

And now, as I walk the grounds, stepping from snow patch to snow patch, I feel myself imagining this fabulous property as my magical forest. Winding through the trees, up small hills, passing flower gardens bedding the blooms that will emerge in the coming months, as well as benches and manmade stone and pebble creeks. I wish for one of the creeks to be the mythical Lethe that Declan and I could drink from to vanish the past into a vapor of vacuity. To eradicate the sufferings of our souls.

It’s as if this is the forest I spent my childhood searching for. I used to sneak out of my foster homes during the night in a fit of wanderlust, hoping to find the place my father told me about. The fairytales of kings and queens, flying steeds, and of course, Carnegie—my life-long caterpillar friend who used to fill my dreams. He hasn’t come around since that night when I turned into a caterpillar as well. He’s been replaced by the corrosive memories of my past, and when I’m lucky enough, empty nights of blank space.

I find a spot up on a hill to perch myself. I sit and my pants dampen, seeping up the melted snow that soaks the earth beneath me, but I don’t care because I’m at peace. I fold my legs in front of me and look down on this house that for now, I imagine is my kingdom. And when I close my eyes and lie back on the sodden ground, I believe that the man hiding away in his office at the top of the castle is my prince.

I breathe in the essence of the innocent child-like dream, and I’m five years old all over again. Dressed in my princess gown, I see my father holding the bouquet of pink daisies. His face still a crystal perfect image in my mind. Although twenty-three years have passed, I’m still a little girl, and he’s still my handsome daddy who can fix anything with his hugs and kisses.

“You’re so beautiful,” his voice whispers through the wind, and my eyes flash open when I sit up.

My heart flutters at the realness of his voice, and then I hear it again.

“Where have you been, sweetheart?”

“Daddy?” My voice rings high in optimism through the breeze blowing through the trees above.

“It’s me.”

Looking around, I see no sign of anyone. I know this isn’t real, but I don’t care. I let whatever chemical my brain is spilling take me away, and I give into the illusion.

“I miss you,” I tell the wind that carries wishes coming true.