Embrace

by Jessica Shirvington

  And light the fire of Love with the wood of the virtues.

  Thus you live in the true desert.

  It was pretty, I guess, in a sad and surprisingly religious kind of way. From what little I knew, Mum hadn’t been religious. She’d hated anything that pigeonholed people’s beliefs. I’d only been baptised because Dad’s family had insisted and he saw the advantages in getting better high-school placements.

  I opened the second envelope. Inside was a handwritten letter. The writing was confident: long letters, curling like old-fashioned calligraphy. My hands quivered slightly, holding the piece of paper last held by my mother.

  My girl,

  Happy 17th Birthday. I wish I could be there with you, but I think if you are reading this…I am not. For that, I am sorry. The day your dad and I found out we were going to have a baby was the happiest day of my long life. I know the only day that will exceed that joy will be the day you are born – no matter how that day ends.

  A big decision lies ahead. The burden of the covenant is a heavy one to bear. Choose with your heart, for I already know that you, my girl, must let your heart guide the way.

  Believe in the unbelievable – for it will not wait for you – and know that nothing is ever as simple as good and evil, right and wrong. There are spirits in this world that are not like us, my girl. In their rightful place, they are wonderful and terrible, valiant and wicked – and that is OK, for we need both. Keep your eyes open, but do not trust everything they show you. Imagination is their highway, free will is ours.

  Remember always, everyone has a place of perfect belonging, and if they leave that place without permission, sometimes they must be returned.

  I love you. Please forgive me.

  Mum

  Methodically, I refolded the letter and the poem, placing them back into their respective envelopes, concentrating on each function carefully so as not to think beyond. Focusing my mind to slow down and not go places I couldn’t handle. Not yet. It was a skill I had taught myself through practice, practice, practice.

  The last thing in the box was a wristband. It was made of thick leather, though it looked metallic, with some type of distressed silver finish. It was roughly four centimetres wide and had similar engravings to the box. It was mesmerising. More handsome than pretty. Beside it was an identical circular mark on the wooden base where the varnish had worn away. At some point, this box had held a twin to this band.

  I picked up the wristband, ignoring the fact that my mouth and eyes were watering. My nose was running too, although I could swear I smelled perfume. Something floral? I wondered if it was her smell, impossibly contained in the box for all this time. I pushed the thought aside. And then, just as quickly, another took its place.

  The letter. She’d known she was going to die.

  No, I couldn’t think about it. Not now. Dad would be back any minute. I needed to stay in control, not let this derail me. I wasn’t sure what the letter meant anyway. A big decision? Maybe school or university? It could be anything. She probably just left it as a precaution – every mother wants their child to believe anything is possible. As for the bit about her long life, I didn’t understand that. How could anyone think her life had been long? She was only twenty-five when I was born…when she died.

  I wiped a hand under my runny nose and placed all of the items back in the box in the same order. When Dad came back, I’d packed it away into my bag and moved to the couch.

  He hesitated. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, good…fine…yep. There was a letter. Do you want to read it?’ I really didn’t want to give it to him. It was nice to have something of my own from her, even if it was strange, but I knew that seventeen years of suspense was enough torment for anyone.

  Dad smiled, lines creasing in the corners of his eyes, but his shoulders dropped. ‘No, it’s OK,’ he said.

  Oh crap, I didn’t know how to handle it if Dad actually cried. But he recovered, clearing his throat and tilting his head to the ceiling. ‘No, honey. It’s between you and your mum. But…thank you for offering.’

  Apparently, the offer was enough.

  ‘Well, like you said, I think she was just prepared. It was one of those…follow your heart letters.’ I said it like I got them all the time.

  ‘Don’t be cynical,’ he chastised me, though I knew he loved the fact that I was just as cynical as him.

  He sat next to me and put a hand on my knee. I put my hand on top of his. We were silent for a moment.

  ‘So…’ he said finally, as we both moved our hands away. ‘What are you doing tonight?’

  ‘Going to Lincoln’s. Got a wall to paint.’

  ‘Finally gave in, did he?’

  ‘Yep.’ Victory was definitely sweet.

  ‘Right…sure. So you’ll be going there straight after this, then?’ he asked, a lilt in his voice that normally meant he was about to tell me something I didn’t want to hear.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, dragging out the word.

  ‘Oh, good. You know, actually, I bumped into Lincoln today when I was out getting a sandwich.’ His eyes drifted around the room and he stood up and went to his desk, suddenly very intent on a stack of papers.

  ‘What did you do, Dad?’ My heart skipped a few beats and I had an awful feeling I knew where this was going.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing. We were just talking about you guys, you know, your training. Lincoln said you were going in a marathon next month with him. That sounds like fun.’ He strained a smile. ‘And…um…he asked me about work, which was nice of him and…you know…’

  ‘No. You – know – what?’

  ‘Well, I said, mentioned really, that you…well, that you’d been through a tough time at your old school and…ah, you know…that maybe he could bear that in mind… He is five years older than you, Vi. I just didn’t want you to feel pressured. I didn’t plan it, I just bumped into him and…Christ,’ he said, getting more and more flustered, ‘your mother was on my mind and I thought she’d want me to, you know…say something.’

  Someone kill me now! From heartfelt moments to this!

  I stood up, moving to the far side of the room. The tension in the air was palpable. Neither one of us liked talking about the attack. In fact, talking about it was an agreed out-of-bounds. Even this slightest mention brought a familiar darkness into the room.

  I stared at my feet, stubbing the toe of my trainers into the carpet as if I could shift it if I concentrated enough. Why couldn’t I be one of those kids with parents who actually knew what they were doing?

  ‘You had no right,’ I said flatly.

  ‘That’s not entirely true, Violet. I am your father.’

  He picked a great time to start taking the reins.

  ‘Dad, you’re so far off the mark I can’t even… Lincoln hasn’t pressured me at all!’ I grabbed my bag and heaved it onto my back. ‘WE’RE JUST FRIENDS! He’s not even interested in me like that – and thanks to you,’ I shook my head at him in utter disbelief, ‘he never will be now.’

  Dad’s eyes went wide with surprise. Clearly he’d decided Lincoln and I were a couple.

  ‘Oh…’ He stumbled over his words, lost for any comeback. Great, now my own dad thinks I’m pathetic. ‘Oh…I just assumed. Sorry, Vi. I just…after everything that happened…I just worry.’

  I didn’t respond.

  ‘I’ll stay out of things from now on,’ he added.

  ‘I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow night,’ I mumbled, knowing that even though we lived under the same roof we wouldn’t be crossing paths before then. Especially now.

  ‘Yes! Great! I’m really looking forward to your birthday dinner. Meet at seven?’ he asked, over-enthusiastically.

  I was already heading for the door. I threw a hand in the air. ‘Whatever.’

  One good thing about Dad was that I knew he’d be happy to pretend this conversation never happened.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘There is an old illusion. It is cal
led good and evil.’

  Friedrich Nietzsche

  I considered calling and making up some excuse to get out of going over to Lincoln’s. But even though I didn’t want to have to talk about the attack, I’d also decided a long time ago that I wouldn’t let it rule my life. I wished Dad had kept his big mouth shut, but now that Lincoln knew, I wasn’t going to run. It was one of the rules – I don’t run and I don’t quit. And since the attack, since the court case and changing schools, I’d stuck to them like a mantra. They were what got me through.

  Even though I’d set a meandering pace, I was still early by the time I hit Lincoln’s street and I spotted him through the window of the corner shop. He had his back to me and was in training gear – black sweats and a white sleeveless T-shirt, which showed off his golden tan and sun-streaked brown hair. He had a covenant with the sun – unlike me, who it chased even under a cap and suncream. I took a moment, luxuriating in the rays of warmth that settled over me whenever he was around, and braced myself for what was ahead now that Dad had opened his trap.

  I watched Lincoln loading food into a basket, after first studying the nutrition table on the back of every package. All except my favourite chocolate biscuits – he threw those in without a second glance. I took a breath for gumption and knocked on the glass, feeling a more nauseating version of the excitement I always felt in anticipation of seeing him. He turned, already smiling, as if he knew without looking that it was me, and despite my preparations my breath caught and my stomach fluttered in a specific salute reserved solely for him. You’d think that after looking at his face almost every day for nearly two years I’d be better at handling it. Nope.

  I scrutinised his smile, looking for signs of change as he put two fingers in the air to let me know he’d be a couple of minutes. When he turned his back, I stopped nodding like an idiot and wondered (for the millionth time) if he could see how awestruck I was. If he did, he never showed it. His smile hadn’t given anything away either. It had been the same beautiful – platonic – smile as always.

  Dusk fell while I loitered next to a couple of discarded milk crates – the makeshift break lounge for shop staff if the pile of cigarette butts around them was anything to go by. A cool evening breeze carried through the warm air and I turned to face it, closing my eyes, drawing it in. As I did, I became aware of the growing orchestra of crickets in the distance. It was that time of year when, even though there were no gardens in sight, their songs filled the night.

  When I opened my eyes, orange streetlights were beginning to flicker on. The buildings that edged the pavement threw sharp, jagged shadows over the street, changing the mood instantly to a gloomy display of light overcome by shade. The mood snuck its way into me and I had to work to stop my mind from running away; from forcing me to relive things I didn’t want to. But as soon as I pushed one disturbing thought aside, another took its place – namely my mother’s wooden box. I was grateful I’d had so much practice compartmentalising, because right now I didn’t want to think about whether she might have known she was going to die. Yeah…not going there.

  ‘All done.’ Lincoln was beside me and I hadn’t even heard. Not good, Vi.

  I looked at him quickly, nervous to look for too long. ‘Hey. Are you cooking?’

  ‘Yeah, I thought I might. Is that OK?’

  ‘Sure. What’s on the menu?’ I said, tucking a few stray hairs behind my ear. We started to walk towards Lincoln’s warehouse and I took one of the bags to lighten his load. Our fingers brushed briefly and it was enough to make my heart jump.

  ‘Pasta, chicken, basil, feta,’ he said casually, listing the ingredients of my favourite pasta dish.

  I bit my bottom lip. A sympathy meal. Shit.

  Walking into Lincoln’s warehouse, a wave of contentment washed over me. It felt more like coming home than anywhere else. Lincoln had just bought it when we first met. It was small by warehouse standards but huge by one-person-living-alone standards. It was a dump when he got his hands on it, but he’d been gradually doing it up and, I had to hand it to him, he had good vision. He loved it. So did I. The most beautiful thing about it was the enormous arched windows at either end. During the day they dropped waterfalls of light into the big open space, flooding it. It was the perfect place for art. That was one reason I loved it. The other had more to do with its occupant.

  We silently unloaded the groceries in the kitchen. With every opening of the fridge or rustling of the plastic bags, my heart beat faster and I became more anxious, wondering what he was going to say. But he said nothing. Instead, he started piling up ingredients on the bench the way he always did and set about making dinner.

  After he pulled out a chopping board and had everything ready to go, he looked up at me with raised eyebrows. ‘So…’ He cleared his throat. ‘How was your day?’

  I realised I had been standing silent and motionless in the middle of his kitchen like a lost kid. I unstuck my feet from the floor and walked over to the counter, resting my hip against it as casually as I could. ‘Fine. School was good. I got into the Fenton course.’

  Lincoln put down the knife and turned to me, grinning from ear to ear. My heart melted that he knew me so well. Knew how much the course meant to me.

  ‘Thank God! I was worried I was giving up my wall to an amateur,’ he teased, pulling me in for a hug. He smelled of baked suncream and his body radiated warmth. I relaxed into his arms. I loved the fact that I was the ideal height so that my head rested snugly into his shoulder. It was like we were two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. We locked together perfectly. Of course, as soon as I relaxed, Lincoln was stepping away. It was just like the other million hugs we’d shared, and though every time I wished it meant more, his body language assured me it didn’t.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘are you ready for the transfer of official ownership rights?’

  ‘Yeah, definitely,’ I said, regrouping. ‘I was going to lay down a coat of primer first, if that’s OK?’

  ‘It’s your wall – do with it as you please.’

  He smiled, turning back to his chopping board. I had been bugging him for over a year to let me paint a mural on one of his walls and had finally worn him down.

  ‘How about we eat first?’ he suggested. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Could he truly be planning not to talk about it? People always wanted to know the details. First it was the authorities. Then my supposed friends who wouldn’t let me forget. Then it occurred to me – maybe he didn’t care, didn’t want to know. Before I let myself go down that slippery slope I forced myself to decide. I either had to wait patiently to see if he said anything, or just say it myself.

  ‘I was fourteen,’ I blurted out.

  Lincoln’s eyes flashed up at me and his body paused for a moment, then he simply went back to chopping up the chicken. ‘OK.’

  ‘I know Dad said something to you,’ I said, more defensively than I had intended.

  He looked up again, briefly. ‘We bumped into each other earlier, yes.’ Chop, chop, chop.

  ‘Well?’ I asked, increasingly confused. ‘Aren’t you going to ask?’

  ‘Do you want me to ask?’ He threw the chicken into the frying pan and it sizzled and smoked.

  ‘What does that mean?’ I asked, tucking my hair behind my ears.

  ‘It means, there’s a good reason you haven’t told me about it before. If that reason still stands then I don’t want you to feel forced to tell me just because your dad said something in passing. We all have secrets, Violet. Trust me. We all have things we can’t talk about.’

  He went back to his cooking, but then looked up again. ‘Anyway, you only do that thing with your hair,’ he motioned to his own ear, ‘when you’re worried. Nervous.’

  Wow. I hadn’t seen that coming. Suddenly I had no idea what to say. I mean, I hadn’t wanted him to know. I didn’t want anyone to know. But now that he did, it felt weird not explaining as much as I could. And…if ever I wanted someone to kno
w, it would be him. So now I was screwed because I didn’t want to say anything but…I did.

  Lincoln pulled the fresh pasta out of the boiling water and started tossing it through the cooked chicken, adding lemon, feta and lots of basil. The aroma filled the air and I smiled, remembering the time he’d tried to grow his own basil in pots and failed dismally, killing all three plants within weeks and sending me into hysterical laughter. He still gets cranky about it, which still makes me laugh.

  He sat me at the table and gave me a fork. I watched him eat. He watched me pick. I felt bad that I couldn’t stomach much. He never complained though, just took the plates away and returned with a mug of coffee which my hands went to like a magnet. Something about the bittersweet smell of roasted coffee beans always reminded me of when I was a little girl, when Dad actually made it home before I’d fallen asleep. He always smelled of coffee and day-old aftershave, and to me it was bliss. As soon as I could figure out how to boil a kettle, I started drinking coffee.

  Finally, I looked up from my cup. ‘I want you to know.’

  His eyes watched me, my fingers gripping the mug tightly, my knee bouncing under the table.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I nodded and willed myself to calm down, to go to that place, the one that would remove me just enough. It always starts the same way – choosing a spot to focus on; in this case, my coffee cup. Then I take a deep breath and steady myself so that when I start speaking, I’ll be able to hold my tone, not crack and whimper.

  ‘Who was he?’ he said softly.

  ‘A teacher from my old school.’

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, treading carefully.

  ‘He called me back after class to discuss an essay I hadn’t done well on.’ And just allowing my mind to go there, allowing it the freedom I so rarely did – I was suddenly fourteen again, trapped in his classroom, trying pathetically to fight him off. I could feel his fingers digging into my arms, holding me down. Could see the look of relentless intent in his eyes; smell the cheap, spicy aftershave mixed into his slick, sweaty skin.