High Tide

by Alyson Santos

  I feel his gaze now as I stare out the window. I’m not surprised by his concern. My grip on his hand has intensified steadily over the last few miles. We’re approaching the Pennsylvania border and everything in me wants to be scribbling furiously in a notebook. I brought it. Of course I did. Tucked it securely in the tote at my feet with a few granola bars and a bottle of water. There are so many lists streaming through my head right now, so many chaotic details to organize, but I can’t at the moment. My writing hand is occupied, held captive by the one who’s silently infusing peace into the air.

  Seven hours and I’m still breathing.

  I squeeze his hand, intentionally this time, and catch his compassionate smile. The craving to scribble fades into a dull twitch when I lean against his shoulder. He kisses my hair and traces his fingers along my arm with his free hand.

  “How are you?” he asks in a low voice, just for me.

  “Fine.”

  I can almost feel his smirk. “Really? You don’t look fine.”

  Even I crack a smile at that. “You and I, we are always fine, aren’t we?” I say.

  He pulls his arm away to tuck it around my shoulders instead. I settle closer to him, closing my eyes against the rest of the world. The weight of his arm, the warmth of his body, it all makes things seem possible that shouldn’t be. My father murdered my mother in front of me. I saw it. The gun. The blood. The screams. The rage. The terror. Every grotesque detail that years of therapy couldn’t erase. My father is a murderer, and I’m on my way to see him.

  This is what happens when you stray from the lists. This is what happens when you take the hand that plunges into your void. Pull up and hold on until you collide with hope in a cataclysmic impact that changes fate. Maybe Christian saved two lives this week. I glance up at his pensive face that’s softened considerably since our earth-shattering night together. Maybe I saved one too.

  My thoughts return to Zach Andrews. The murderer. The man who stole my mother’s life and hijacked mine. Does he deserve to be saved? Christian insists that question doesn’t matter. This visit is about me, not him.

  Odpustiť. Forgive.

  To stop feeling angry or resentful toward someone.

  To cancel.

  To absolve.

  A verb. To forgive is an action, a choice, a gift from me, because... Forgiveness is about me. My action, my choice, my gift to give in order to take back control from the one who took it away. Zach Andrews will be in prison for a long time but I don’t have to stay in there with him.

  I straighten a bit, startling Christian from wherever his own thoughts had been.

  “What is it? Are you okay?” he asks, searching my eyes.

  I abandon the scripted answer he doesn’t want and let the question filter through me. From my brain to my heart, the simple words take root and start to grow into something bigger when I let them. No, I’m not okay. I’m something else. Something strong that might be enough to support the real answer sprouting on my tongue.

  “Emma?”

  Because that’s it, isn’t it? My lists, all these attempts to take control didn’t work because I’d been fighting air. I’d missed the point, grasping at phantom lifelines never meant to hold a head above water. I see it now, what Christian’s been trying to tell me all along. Emma Andrews, your lists aren’t enough because you can never govern the chaos of your world—only your response to it.

  Forgive.

  I smile and wrap my arms around him. Lean in and confess the truth I know he’ll understand: “Not yet. But I think I will be.”

  Like most prisons, SCI Phoenix sits far back from a main thoroughfare. We follow the winding country road to a guardhouse that screams “turn around, you should not be here.” But we don’t, and after clearing the prescreening, we continue to the parking lot where Harper pulls into an empty space. Only Christian doesn’t seem surprised when I actually exit the car and search the imposing building for the visitor entrance.

  “You’re sure about this?” Harper asks, clearly not believing what she’s seeing.

  “You don’t have to, sweetie,” Gram adds. “It’s incredible that you’ve come this far.”

  I don’t blame them for their doubt. I’ve spent years demonstrating why they shouldn’t trust this moment. Christian grabs my hand and starts walking us toward the door in direct opposition to the others.

  “Yes, I do,” I call back to my stunned audience.

  Odpustiť. My choice.

  Inside, my confidence starts to waver. Bulletproof glass protects the officers behind it, and my voice cracks when I announce myself to check in. After confirming my visit, I’m told to wait for my formal registration and screening. We were warned to come an hour early for my first visit, and now I understand why. The craving for my notebook is almost overwhelming as I take a seat in the waiting area. What will this part involve again?

  Recording basic information

  Creation of a photo ID

  Screening for weapons and contraband

  ….

  Pressure on my hand interrupts number four, and I try to inhale a full breath. I hadn’t realized I was shaking until Christian squeezes my fingers and holds them to his lips.

  “You can do this,” he says with a direct look.

  Gosh, he truly believes that. He actually thinks I’m strong enough to walk through those doors and face the man who damaged me. I stare into the eyes of the one who’s fighting to put me back together.

  Do you remember that time I broke down and let go? His gaze asks. We do this together.

  I do remember. Just days ago I watched him shatter and rebuild into a man who could live instead of survive. A man who believes, without a doubt, that I can do the same.

  “Emma Andrews?”

  I glance up at the mention of my name and nod to the woman who said it.

  “You can come back for processing now.”

  Christian squeezes my hand, and I absorb every bit of his confidence for the fight ahead.

  The next time my name is called, there is no turning back. There are no “are you sure about this” or compassionate looks from the officer who leads me through a locked door. It clanks shut behind me with an echo in my head that inflates the sound to deafening levels. I’m glad I left all my personal items with the others because my hands are shaking too much to have placed them in the bin by the metal detector. At least I manage to force my legs forward enough to walk through it. Another locked door opens, and I’m led to a room that reminds me of my elementary school cafeteria. I can’t decide if this encounter will be more or less traumatic than navigating lunchroom politics.

  I take a seat at one of the tables, and I’m struck by the strange calm that starts to overpower the panic. In fact, the longer I sit, the more sure I become about my mission. I’m here. I’ve survived horrendous odds and walked through the door on my own volition. I chose this. My verb. My action. My father, my monster to forgive.

  Yes, hello. I’m Emma Andrews and this is my journey and no one else’s.

  I look up at the familiar click of a door and brace for the fallout of my choice.

  The man who enters with the guard is not my father. At least, he’s not the figure who’s spent the last several years growing horns and flashing violent red eyes in my head. His hands aren’t caked in blood and his face isn’t contorted in frenzied rage. No, this man is an imposter. A fraud who resembles the Zach Andrews who took me camping when I was seven. The liar who held me as I sobbed after the death of Beans, our cuddly, overweight tabby. See, this pretender has brown eyes, glossy with tears, and wears a stunned expression that makes it look like someone’s just reached into his own void. This man looks like he was drowning while he waited years for his daughter to make a choice.

  “Emma?” His voice is a broken introduction to the story I’m just beginning to understand. The imposter waits. Stands with hands trembling at his sides, wanting to reach but not sure if there will be anything to hold onto.

  Odpus
tiť.

  An action.

  A verb.

  A choice.

  A gift.

  Tears burn in my eyes, a longing so deep that it rushes out in liquid salt down my cheeks. What if we offer the hand? Hold on? Pull up and fall back until we collide with cataclysmic impact in a crowded prison visitation room.

  “Dad?” My own voice sounds shattered, and his sob is undeniable as he wraps me in his arms.

  “I’m so sorry, princess. Emma, I love you so much. I’m so, so sorry.”

  Tears soak through the shoulder of a worn prison uniform and brand new women’s blouse purchased just last week. They mingle in burning streaks from matching brown eyes weary of hate. Maybe it’s wrong. Maybe I’ll burn in hell for embracing a demon. After all this man is a murderer. A liar. A violent felon who will spend almost the rest of his life in prison.

  He’s also Zachary Andrews, my father.

  When we pull back, his expression has softened from fear to hope. I suspect maybe mine has as well, and think about the time this man was the first to tell me I’m beautiful. His gaze doesn’t leave me as we take our seats at the table, like he still can’t believe I’m here. As if maybe I’m his nightmare that torments him by never being real. How long until he wakes up and realizes his daughter is still the damaged little girl he loved and then broke?

  But…

  “I’m not broken, Dad.” My voice sounds foreign even to me. Who’s this woman who can say something like that with confidence? “I’m strong and talented and I will have an incredible life.”

  More tears stream from his eyes. Or are they in mine? I swipe them away and straighten further in my chair.

  “I don’t know you well enough anymore to know if you deserve what I’m about to do. I don’t know where your heart is or what you’ve done to atone, but I’m not here for you. For years I’ve let the poison you put into my life lock me in fear and hatred. Up until today it’s your mistakes that have controlled me. It was your sins that held me down, but not anymore. I’m taking it back. Today I’m here to take back my life.”

  I reach for his hand and wait until his heavy, hopeful eyes lift to mine. “I forgive you, Dad. You’re still my father and I forgive you.”

  Chapter Twenty: Beneath the Stars

  It’s strange that the same road that takes you toward the prison also takes you away from it. Hard to comprehend when it feels so different in this direction. Even the scenery seems brighter. The same trees absorb the sun in a new way. The same birds and insects hum a different tune. The same air is lighter and fresher and filters through lungs in a clear, refreshing stream. Is this how Christian felt after shedding the weight of his past and cleansing the pain in a hot avalanche of shower water? If so, I understand the change I’ve sensed in him since that day. The reason his smile releases more freely and his demeanor in general seems less guarded. Is this what it’s like to have control?

  My father and I have a long way to go in our reconciliation. I’m not sure we’ll ever be able to repair our relationship. There are just some things you can’t get past, but the fact that we’ve opened the door to communication was enough to send us both away from that meeting a little lighter. A little further from the void and closer to the stars.

  We spent the rest of the visit updating each other on our lives over the last few years. I did most of the talking since his was relatively stagnant, but I did learn his mental prison of regret and grief punishes him as much as the physical one. He’s in counseling to better understand what led to the tragic violence that night and come to terms with the repercussions. He killed his wife, my mother, in a moment of unhinged rage and that will never be okay. I’m just glad he’s taking ownership of his actions and the devastating effects.

  For my part, I wasn’t ready for the hard conversations yet. He hasn’t earned a glimpse into my head and heart, so I kept to safe topics like school, Harper, and Gram. We talked about Sarah and the distance (physical and emotional) between us due to our separate methods of coping which led to separate lives that barely intersect anymore. But it was my shortest relationship that consumed most of the conversation. It was a strong, patient, insistent lifeguard who impacted my life in a way that sent me bursting through prison doors to impact another. If a couple of months with Christian could accomplish that, what would a lifetime do?

  A smile skims over my lips as I think about that now. The fact that I practically admitted to my father that I was falling in love with Christian and considering a forever with him. It’s ridiculous. Ludicrous. Freaking insane. And yet…

  “What’s so funny?” he asks, his own lips spreading into a grin at my expression.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? You are…” He squints at the ceiling, searching for the word.

  “Lying?”

  “Yes that,” he says with a glint.

  I study his face for a moment. Losing myself in those gorgeous, boundless eyes I don’t think I’ll ever solve. Gosh, I want to spend forever trying. “I’d love to see your country.”

  “Really?” His beautiful eyes fill with so much joy, it shoots straight to my heart. “You will love it, I think.”

  “I think so too.”

  “Do you know what, Emma?”

  “What, Christian?”

  “I love it here also.”

  I suck in a breath, warmed by the hidden message. I know he does. Just like I know I will love his country. We will love any place where we’re together, living and thriving beneath the stars that will always follow us.

  Those glistening, explosive supernovas just waiting for a hand to reach up and grab them.

  One Year Later

  Harper shoots out a palm and clamps down on my knee. “Will you stop with the vibrating? You’re shaking the whole damn airport.”

  I toss her an annoyed look that does nothing to slow the jackhammer rhythm of my leg. She’s lucky I’m sitting at all. It’s been ten minutes since Christian messaged me to say that their flight landed and they were taxiing to the gate. Besides, she’s such a hypocrite. She’s not even dating Jakub, and I know based on the amount of prep-time this morning that she’s dying to see him too. They decided not to try the long distance thing after the boys returned to Slovakia last September. They weren’t nearly as insane as their best friends who took the opposite approach. They stayed in touch, though, not that they had a choice when their besties were in constant contact. Sometimes I think I saw more of Jakub over this past year on my phone screen than I did the entire time the four us hung out last summer. Anyway, enough about Harper and Jakub, even if it helps distract me from the anticipation that’s about to kill me. For real kill me because oh my gosh, I haven’t touched Christian since my visit to Slovakia over winter break.

  I study the face of each passenger exiting the secured area, trying to decide if they look like they’ve come from Bratislava. Sadly, no one’s wearing any Slovak flag t-shirts or shouting “Ahoj, ako sa máš?” or openly eating bryndzové halušky. Which is delicious, by the way. I tried it during my visit, though I’m skeptical about Christian’s comparison to little Italian dough balls with cheese and bacon.

  Nope, I get no clues he’s coming, so it’s not until I spot two tall, ridiculously good-looking young men dragging multiple suitcases each that I can finally release the burst of energy that’s been driving Harper crazy. I jump up from the chair and rush toward them. Christian’s face ignites when he sees me, and he drops the handles of his cases to catch me in his arms. I hold on tight, not even caring if he can’t breathe. After several seconds, I let go just enough to grip his hair and suck in every kiss I’ve been owed since we parted at Airport Bratislava months ago. News flash: it’s a lot.

  “Are you two done? Seriously, you’re going to have years for this. You don’t have to make all the babies right here, right now,” Harper grunts.

  We break apart, and I shoot her an annoyed eyeroll. That’s when I notice her awkward posturing near Jakub. Hmm… So is she annoyed by
my PDA or the lack of hers? By Jakub’s ogling return stare, he’s seriously considering a second fling as well. They’re both still single, and Christian and I were pretty sure that when Jakub decided to come along to help Christian with his move to the States, there’d probably be a summer fling reprise.

  Oh yeah, that’s right. Did I forget to mention Christian was transferring to Deepsilver University?

  “You ready to see our apartment?” I ask him, grabbing one of his suitcases. It still baffles me that a person can fit their entire life into three suitcases. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised when he fit an entire summer of supplies in a duffle bag last year.

  “Aren’t we living at your place? It’s the same as last year, right?”

  His English has improved a lot over this past year as well. I guess talking to your American girlfriend every day will do that. I have no doubt he’ll thrive at an English-speaking university, although, I still can only say three words in Slovak. Second news flash: That language is still freaking hard.

  “Um no, because it’s now our place. Our apartment,” I correct.

  “Yeah, I even gave up my room so you two could have your own bathroom,” Harper adds. “That means you’re also paying a double portion of the rent, remember?”

  “We got it,” I say, shoving her toward the exit. Also, she’s full of crap because the switch was totally, one hundred percent her idea.

  As we head to our car, I’m the lame, needy girlfriend who insists on using my free hand to attach to Christian’s. He smiles down at me, squeezing a message in our secret language. I squeeze back.

  “Do you have the letter?” he asks, once we’re loaded and on our way back to Deepsilver. Harper and Jakub are already laughing and bickering up front like no time has passed.

  “This one?”

  I pull a folded piece of notebook paper from my purse and smooth it over my knee. “Handwritten and everything. I’m impressed, Lukáč, although I still have no clue what it means.”