Becoming Princess Eden: Book One: How They Met (Seahorse Island 1)

by Lisa Lee

  Gideon tried to warn her, but no words came out. He tried to move, but like his voice, his body could not follow his direction. The sun’s weak light glimmered off a flash of steel. Gideon screamed in his dream and woke up. He put his head in his hands and shook his head in frustration. Taking his hands away from his face, he saw his hands were dripping, not with tears but with bright red blood.

  He woke up again, this time for real, and ran to the washroom and vomited. As he clutched the commode, he saw his necklace with the golden cross swinging back and forth. He grabbed it and said, “Lord, if she’s real, help her!”

  NINE

  Eden, History Lessons

  I jerked awake and found myself lying on the hard floor where I’d fallen unconscious. Directly in front of me lay Mrs. Stout, her eyes fixed and unseeing. Blood dribbled out of her open mouth and down her round, squished chin into an ever-growing pool of blood. I realized she was dead.

  Hands touched me, and voices called my name, but they seemed far away and removed from me. I reached out with my forefinger and gently touched the red wetness. As I drew my hand back, a droplet fell, causing the pool of blood to ripple in a red wave.

  The loud, intrusive voices became even louder. My hand shook, and my vision twisted into a kaleidoscope of red shades. I shook my head to get rid of the red but must have fallen unconscious again, because when I next opened my eyes, I was in the infirmary. A sea of faces surrounded me: Bethany, Kaitlyn, Mrs. Abe, Mrs. Grey, Mrs. Flint, Annalise, Jaelle, and more. Some of them were crying. Too many voices and too many sensations at once. I closed my eyes to stop the onslaught.

  “Everyone out, now!” It was the firm voice of the nurse.

  When all was quiet, I exhaled a little.

  “Eden, I need you to open your eyes,” I heard the nurse say. I turned my head away from her voice. I felt her hand touch my face and pushed it away with my own hand.

  “Eden, that’s enough,” she said. “I need to check your vitals. Then I can allow you to rest.”

  Anger surged through me at her tone. I bit my lip to keep it in check.

  “What if she needs to go to the hospital?” said a voice I recognized. It was Jack Holt. I turned my head and opened my eyes, to see him step further into the room. How had he gotten into the infirmary? I stopped biting my lip and started to laugh and laugh. Could my day get any more absurd?

  “We can’t take her to the hospital,” I heard the nurse say through my laughter.

  “Look at her!” Mr. Holt shouted. “She needs professional help!”

  His shouting made me nervous again. I stopped laughing and started whimpering instead, shutting my eyes to reality.

  “Jesus!” Mr. Holt exclaimed.

  “We don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” the nurse said primly.

  Mr. Holt made an inarticulate sound, and I could hear them both step closer to the bed. I buried my head further into the pillow, still whimpering. I felt lost and without hope.

  “I thought you said she witnessed someone have a heart attack,” Mr. Holt said.

  “Well, yes . . . that is . . . she saw Mrs. Stout have a heart attack and must have fainted at the sight of the blood coming up,” the nurse replied, but her voice sounded uncertain, not her usual authoritative tone.

  “You don’t sound sure,” Mr. Holt probed.

  “With her medical history, we’re mostly sure, but we’re not equipped with autopsy equipment, so we have to guess,” the nurse explained with a shrug. “It’s just unusual for blood to come from the mouth during a heart attack. I think the sight of so much blood was difficult for Eden.”

  “You think?” Mr. Holt replied, his usual sarcastic self.

  I heard his footsteps come closer. It was hard not to open my eyes when I felt someone standing so close to me. I tried to just breathe in and out, but I was startled when I felt fingers touch my neck, and my eyes flew open to meet Mr. Holt’s grim gaze.

  “Why does her neck look like someone strangled her?” Mr. Holt said in a tone that scared me.

  “Um—” I heard the nurse begin.

  “If she dies, if any hair on her head is damaged, I will kill you. Do you understand?” I heard his footsteps walking away.

  After that conversation, the nurse did her best. She opened the curtains in the infirmary during the daytime so I could see the gentle slide into fall. I turned away from the harsh sunlight, unappreciative of nature’s beauty. She had meals prepared for me that were designed to tempt my appetite, but I told her the smell of such sweet and savory food made me nauseous. I ate sparingly. On days when my crying wouldn’t end, she would sedate me, and I had the sensation of losing time. I heard only gibberish when she read to me at night. She continued, undeterred, her voice determinedly cheerful.

  This went on, day after day. I was content not to think or feel, only to exist. Mr. Holt, however, had other plans for me.

  One night as I started to drift into a drug-induced sleep, I heard the door to the infirmary bang open and heard footsteps coming fast to my bed. Surprised, I opened my eyes. It was my father! Before I knew it, I was enveloped in his arms for a prolonged embrace.

  “I’ve missed you, daughter,” my father said, still holding me tight. Eventually, my father loosened his hold a bit, but I gripped him tightly to me again and cried, not whimpering tears but cathartic, loud, and unladylike tears. My father’s presence had opened the fault lines in the numb shell that encased me. After my crying eased, my father moved back a little to look at me.

  “It’s so good to see you,” he said, his hand smoothing hair off my face, his own wet with tears. “How is school?” he continued, his gaze holding mine.

  “It’s so hard being away from home,” I replied, tears continuing to fall from my eyes. My eyes pleaded with him to let me come home.

  “Daughter,” my father said. “You must endure a while longer.” I could feel the trembling in his hand as it rested on my head. The lines around his brown eyes were deeper and more numerous than before. His whole frame was thinner, gaunter. Most surprising, my father’s hair was almost all gray, no longer a luxurious mane of rich chocolate brown with almost undetectable streaks of gray. The suffering I saw on my father’s face made me swallow the plea I was going to make about taking me home. He would take me home if he could, right?

  “Where is Mom?” I asked. “How is everything at home?”

  “It’s fine,” he said, his eyes dropping from mine as his mouth tightened.

  “Mom?” I inquired.

  “Your mother is ill,” my father said.

  “Are we going to see her?” I asked, sitting up straighter on the bed.

  My father held up a hand as if to stop any further questions. “No, I can’t bring you to her. You have to stay here.”

  “What?” I asked, perplexed. “Wouldn’t she want to see me?”

  “Of course,” my father replied, “but it’s not possible right now.”

  “We’re going to leave her all alone? We should be with her! Is she contagious or something? What’s wrong with her?” The questions tumbled out of me.

  “Daughter,” my father replied. “Have your mother or I made a decision that wasn’t good for you?”

  I didn’t want to say something harsh and spoil this time with my father, but it was wrong for us not to be with my mom if she was sick. I said nothing in response to my father’s question.

  My father continued, “Your mother, she . . . well, she needs to rest for a while. She insisted that I come see you. Please trust us. We are doing everything for your benefit. You have to stay here and live well, do you understand?” My father’s eyes pleaded with me to say yes.

  Instead, I replied, “I understand you sent me here to keep me safe from Inspector Brown. But I’m not sure I feel safe here. I feel more like Jephthah’s daughter. Do you remember the story? Her father sacrificed her for an oath. I feel like a sacrificed daughter. Could I not stay somewhere else, Father?”

  My father’s face became whiter, m
ore bloodless, with each word I spoke. His hand gripped mine almost painfully. “Eden, I swear on everything I still own that if we had kept you at home, you would be in a worse situation.” He took a deep breath. “I need you to survive. I need to believe that all the sacrifices we’ve made mattered.”

  “Why did you come? How did you even get in?” I asked.

  “I came to encourage you to do your best and to let you know that you are very much loved.” He squeezed my hand.

  I managed a small smile at his words.

  My father continued. “Mr. Holt told me things had become difficult for you, and he arranged for me to come. I was blindfolded so I couldn’t see the route.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I said. “Even though I wish I were home with you and mom, I will trust you are doing your best to protect me.” I gave him a facsimile of a smile.

  Instead of smiling back, my father’s expression grew even more serious.

  “Daughter,” he began. “I don’t have much time with you. I need you to remember three things. The first is to pray every day. It is important to have daily communication with God. You need to hear his voice above all others.”

  I nodded to show I heard him, wondering why he was using this time to repeat basic Sunday school lessons.

  “Have you?” he asked.

  “Have I what?” I asked.

  “Have you prayed every day?” he asked again.

  “Um . . . no. Not every day,” I said, dropping my eyes and lowering my head, a little embarrassed and ashamed. My father, however, did not reprimand me.

  “The second thing to remember is that while your mother and I love you very much . . .” he paused before completing the thought, his fingers tightening on mine almost painfully again. “We really have no claim to you,” he finished.

  “What are you saying, Father?”

  “Your parents are not dead.” He had a look on his face that I had never seen, a look of shame.

  “But you told me they were dead!” I said, shocked.

  “No, we let you assume they were dead, and we never corrected you.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense. How did you get me?”

  “We were told initially that your parents were dead and you needed a home. There were some doubts. The demand for babies and toddlers was high, and yet we got you before you even made it to the list.”

  “So how did you know my birth parents weren’t dead?”

  “It’s not important how. I found out when you were three. I convinced myself you were safer with us.” My father looked at me as though I would be upset. He needn’t have worried. I felt such desperate happiness to be with someone who knew and loved me after months of homesickness and loneliness that the thought of birth parents seemed unimportant.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Eden,” my father said, his tone urgent, “from where and from whom we come always matters. I needed to confess this to you now in case I don’t get another chance.”

  The urgency in my father’s voice scared me. I let go of my father’s hands to give him a tight hug, saying, “You are the father that matters.”

  I felt my father nod in response, and then he pushed me away gently.

  “What’s the third thing?” I asked. “Remember to pray, remember I have another family, so what’s the third thing?”

  “Eden.” My father shook his head and gripped my shoulders. “We cannot wish the truth away. How would you feel if no one recognized you as my daughter anymore?”

  “That would never happen!” I exclaimed.

  “But imagine it,” my father insisted.

  “I don’t want to think about this!” I responded, putting my hands to my ears.

  “Eden, your birth parents have had to think about it every day for years. Have some sympathy for them,” my father said.

  I nodded my agreement, chagrined.

  “The third thing is to trust Mr. Holt.”

  “What?” I asked, completely surprised. “Trust him?”

  “Yes, trust me,” Mr. Holt said. He stood just on the inside of the infirmary by the door. I had no idea how long he’d been standing there.

  “Why are you here?” I asked, resenting his intrusion.

  “I am your fairy godmother,” he replied sarcastically, opening his arms expansively as he walked closer to us. “I made this touching scene possible.”

  I viscerally hated Mr. Holt at that moment. I just stared at him, not trying to disguise my dislike, itching to remove the smugness from his face.

  “Ah, but all good things must come to an end,” Mr. Holt continued.

  My father nodded. “Yes, Eden,” he said. “It’s time for me to return. We should thank Mr. Holt for allowing us this time together.”

  Thank Mr. Holt for allowing us a minuscule amount of time together after years of separation? I wished I could vent the impotent rage that soared through my spirit! Instead, I gave the briefest of nods to Mr. Holt and turned to my father. I didn’t want him to leave, and I started to try to say everything at once. “Travel safe; look after mom; take care of yourself. Oh, what about Aunt Adeline? Is she ok?”

  My father held up his right hand to stop my flow of words. “I understand it all, daughter,” he said. Then he placed his hand on my head and prayed, “Lord, please watch over Eden. She is a wonderful gift. I pray that you keep her safe from all harm: spiritual, mental, or physical. And please grant her wisdom and the spirit of discernment.”

  I smiled a little at my father’s prayer. To be prayed over by someone who loves you is like someone taking a warm blanket out of the dryer on a bitterly cold day and wrapping you in it.

  Then I heard Mr. Holt say, “Are you ready now?”

  My father gripped me tighter and said, “I need a brave goodbye.”

  When I was very young and my father had to travel for work, he would have to peel me off him before walking away. He came up with the idea of giving him brave goodbyes. When he would return days or weeks later from wherever it was he went, he would bring me back “gifts for a brave girl.” So, as I felt my father move away, I resisted the urge to cling and just said, “Thank you very much for visiting me.”

  He nodded and turned away but then said, “Oh, I almost forgot. I have a gift for you.” He looked to Mr. Holt and said, “It is just the flower pot you saw me pack.”

  Mr. Holt nodded his assent, his right hand impatiently tapping his thigh.

  My father handed me a plain brown bag and walked away with Mr. Holt.

  Before I knew it, the infirmary was empty, and I was left holding the bag. I pulled out the flower pot. It was pink and held fake purple and green tulips secured by a green spongy material. It was an unusual gift from my father. He usually bought me snow globes. The only use he had for plants, fake or otherwise, was to hide memory sticks. Zing! Now I understood my father’s gift to me.

  As I looked at the artfully arranged flowers and found the hidden memory stick, a part of me wanted to lie down, pull the covers over my head, and continue crying over my depressed, homesick existence. I knew, however, that I would not be able to rest until I had discovered what my father meant for me to find. I was too sad for excitement, but I was curious. The question was, how could I look at the memory stick without being caught?

  “Eden, you’re up!” It was the nurse.

  I gave her a small smile, not sure really what to say. So much had happened in a short period of time.

  “Do you want to eat?” she asked.

  I nodded and asked, “How much longer do I need to stay here?”

  “In the infirmary?”

  At my nod, she said, “Well, let’s check your vitals, and then I will discuss it with Mrs. Flint.”

  After she completed my medical checkup, she asked, “Where did you get the flowers?”

  I thought for a moment and then said, “I guess a visitor must have left them.”

  “That was nice of her.” Without looking at me, she added, “It’
s nice that your friends are putting their domestic arts skills into practice.”

  “Can I have my electronic notepad?” I asked. “I want to see what I’ve missed. How many days of classes have I missed?”

  “Seven.”

  “Um . . . I will have a lot to catch up on. Hopefully, I can get back to classes soon.” I tried to sound sincere.

  “I will see what I can do.” Before leaving, she said, “It seems your visitors did you a world of good.” From the way she looked at me, I knew she knew my visitors were not classmates.

  “You should know,” she continued, “that arrangements were completed for Mrs. Stout. We had her cremated and sent her remains to her sister. It’s unfortunate that she had a heart attack so young.” There was a note of warning in her tone.

  She needn’t have worried. I had no plans to say a single word about Mrs. Stout. I shivered as I remembered the woman’s determination to kill me. I figured the divine intervened in the form of a heart attack—or whatever it was—for Mrs. Stout. I should feel saddened at the lost opportunity for her soul to be redeemed, but there was a savage part of me that was utterly incapable of seeing her humanity. What I couldn’t understand was why her death seemed to sap the life out of me? Enough, I thought to myself. You must claw yourself into tomorrow and the day after.

  “I understand, Nurse . . .” I started to say and then realized I didn’t know her first or last name.

  “It’s Nurse Wilkins,” she said with a small smile.

  After she left, I grew anxious to review the memory stick, but I had to be patient and wait.

  The next morning, Nurse Wilkins pulled the curtains back, and I didn’t flinch away from the sun. She had brought in a tray piled with food, and I ate it all.

  “Mrs. Flint is fine with you joining your classes on Monday. That gives you today and the weekend to rest and recuperate a bit more,” Nurse Wilkins said. “You can go back to your room tonight.”