Pocketful of Sand(30)

He’s not listening to me and the scent of alcohol seems to be getting stronger and stronger, dredging up memories I’ve tried for years to bury.

“Cole, please,” I plead, pushing at his hands, trying to keep my composure. My chin is trembling and I feel the icy fingers of panic clutching at my heart.

“’Please.’ I love that word on your lips,” he confesses, still not grasping the hysteria that I’m spiraling toward.

“Cole, stop! I mean it!” The more insistent I become, the more it seems to provoke him. “Cole.”

“Eden,” he whispers, the slight slur to the word taking me back in time.

I have to get away. He has to stop touching me. I can’t breathe, but it’s not in a good way.

I sink my fingernails into the backs of his hands, dragging them away from me. “Stop!” My words ring through the room, shattering the silence that falls between us when he finally lifts his head. I feel on the verge of a full-on panic now and I can’t hold back the tears. “Get out of my house!”

He looks stricken, but also confused. Now I can see the dazed way his eyes stare into mine. He’s drunk. This isn’t the Cole I thought I knew. The Cole I knew would never do something like this. But maybe I didn’t really know him at all. Maybe the Cole I thought I knew was nothing more than a product of my imagination.

My breath is coming in big, heavy sobs and I’m shaking. The fragile wall that I’d built separating my past from my present is eroding, melting away like the grasp I have on my composure. Memories are colliding with my five senses and suddenly the man in front of me is the same one who still haunts me, who still terrorizes my dreams.

“Eden,” he begins, but I cut him off.

“Get out, Cole.” When he doesn’t move right away, just stands staring at me, I shout, “Get out!”

I double over, wrapping my arms around my middle in an effort to still my jittering insides. I see Cole’s snowy boots receding as he backs toward the door. I don’t move until the cold wind hits my face as he exits. But then I crumble to my knees and sob until I fall into a dreamless sleep.





SIXTEEN


Eden



I FOCUS ON Emmy’s voice as she reads to me. This is part of her schooling. She learns best if I can make it fun for her. I guess most kids probably do. It’s one of the most magical parts of my day, too. Her intelligence and animation never cease to make my heart swell with pride.

I watch her little mouth form the words, words far beyond the reading level of other children her age. I watch her little fingers turn the pages, faster and faster as she gets older. I watch her little eyes follow the sentences, sparkling with delight as the story progresses. This little girl, this little miracle, is my whole world. Has been since the day she was born. She saved me from…well, she just saved me. Plain and simple.

I’ve always applied myself so fully, so deeply to loving her, to protecting and caring for her, so much so that nothing else mattered. And while I’m still applying myself to those same things, right now it doesn’t seem to be very effective in quieting the ache that’s been emanating from my heart since I opened my eyes this morning.

Cole.

My insides squeeze painfully at just the thought of his name passing through my mind. It drags with it the fright and disappointment from last night.

How could I be so wrapped up in a man I hardly know? Why would I allow that to happen when he’s obviously got a metric ton of issues?

It’s the same question over and over again–Why him? Why him? Why him?

I’m getting no closer to an answer.

The snow is pouring outside, burying us deeper and deeper in a wintery wonderland. Before, I was sort of looking forward to it in some strange way–being snowed in. But now, I just feel suffocated.

It’s almost eight when the power goes out. I bathe Emmy by candlelight with the last of the hot water. She laughs and plays, thinking the whole ordeal is great fun. It’s when I get her out to dry her that I’m reminded how wise she is for her years sometimes.

“Why are you sad, Momma?” she asks, cupping my cheek with her tiny hand.

“I’m not sad, sweetpea. I’m just trying to hurry so that my daughter doesn’t turn into an ice sculpture right in front of me.”

This does nothing to eliminate the worry I find in her eyes. It breaks my heart to see anything other than child-like love and awe and carefree happiness there. Her eyes have seen too much in her short life; I don’t want to add to her scars by letting her see too many of mine.