Once, We Were Stolen
Page 33
“Thank you so much, Ben,” he said softly. “You’ve given me more than you can possibly know.”
I hadn’t planned on laying out my forgiveness like a gift. I hadn’t been entirely sure I was ready to give it, but I was glad I did. I left then. My list of questions seemed irrelevant.
Life plays tricks on you. It deals you cards you never learned to play, in a game with rules you aren’t sure of. You never know for certain when something will slide over and knock you down. But you keep playing. I know this much is true. You have to keep playing.
Vi took herself out of the game. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. She hides herself away in that house so much that it’s as if she were still living with Jeremy. Not much has changed, besides the fact that she has less company now. I worry about her. I worry, because I’m the little brother. I’m the one who everyone thinks it should have affected more. Maybe so, but I’ve found a way to cope with those nicks in my armour. Vi’s got chipped away entirely, and now she lives in fear. She allowed her anxiety to grow around her like a shoddy shield that won’t protect her from anything.
On the way home from visiting Jeremy, I decided I should visit her as well. I don’t do it often enough. Sometimes it’s hard to be inside that house, to think of the memories we were robbed of having within it. To sense the missing presence of our mother as strongly as if there was an absent window or a broken door.
It didn’t take me long to get there. I always feel the need to knock now. I still have a key; I haven’t taken it off my keychain just in case, but it’s not mine to walk into anymore. It’s Vi’s house, and she doesn’t fill it fully; it’s a whole lot of love short of a home.
The doorbell is broken. It has been for months. When I offered to mend it, she’d brushed me off and told me she would take care of it. Her stubbornness had increased over the years.
I knocked. No answer.
“Hey Vi,” I called out, wondering if the door was thin enough for her to hear from wherever she was hiding within. I considered announcing who it was, then realized she could figure it out. No one came to visit these days. Vi didn’t like strangers coming to call, and she wouldn’t let people close enough to become something other than a stranger. She lost the ability to let down her guard and allow people to see who she was. Maybe she was too ashamed, too afraid of what she would confess, what would come out of her if they stayed long enough to listen.
I circled around the house to see if she was sitting on the back deck. I’ve stumbled upon her like this before and been startled by the blank, flat look she greeted me with as I rounded the corner. It was as if she didn’t know who I was and didn’t care to. She didn’t look worried or concerned, just indifferent. Detached and remote; gone to a place I can’t reach her.
Today, there was no one back there. But I heard something. A rustling, a whispering. It reminded me of something far back in my memory. A shiver crawled down my spine and I turned quickly. Nothing was behind me. Just trees and the world. I heard it again and couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling that was draping itself around my shoulders like an unwanted cape.
There is a basement window that faces the backyard. It was right below my feet, just to the left of the back door. That’s the cellar. It’s where Mom used to keep all of her wine.
Something caught my eye in that window. Something shimmered. I looked down. There, staring back at me, were two pairs of eyes.
Once, we were stolen. But one of us never made it out.
EPILOGUE
Violet was institutionalized. I turned her in, and rescued the little boy and girl being held in her basement. They had been there for a month. Violet hadn’t shown them the mercy Jeremy did; they were still pissing and shitting in a pot and crying for their mother every night. Their family welcomed them home with open arms, and the media frenzy began anew.
Jeremy was released from prison one year after I made my last visit and discovered Violet’s secret. Having been locked up for over two decades, Jeremy had no place to go. There was no halfway house for him, he couldn’t call his family, and he had no friends to speak of.
One day, Jeremy showed up on my doorstep. His shoulders were stooped and he looked at the ground sheepishly. He asked if he could stay the night. He had nowhere else to go.
I stepped back and let him in. He stayed with Arthur and I until he found a place of his own two weeks later. Now, the three of us have dinner together once a week and talk about everything but the past.
Jeremy and I visit Violet in the hospital. We bring her flowers. We talk about the weather and tell stories, and she sits across from us but she doesn’t hear us.
Her bright eyes have turned dark grey and they stare at the wall. Her wasted body lies almost motionless as she drowns in the days, absently thumbing the shooting star that still graces her collarbone.
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DEDICATIONS
For those who know me, thank you for your unending support. My sincerest gratitude goes to all who supported my Indiegogo campaign and gave this project some legs. That includes Rachael Raven, Greg Mullins, Emma Jackson, Stephen Jardeleza, Christopher Symons, Danielle Houstoun, Jeff Symons, Em Jardeleza, Kristin Sawyer, Bruce Raganold, Erika Barber, Shannon Bush, Scott Read, Katie Frost, Lisa Elder, Troy Hughes, Chris Jardeleza, Doug Michaelides, Courtney and Carol Wendt, Samantha Schmidt, Brogan Van, Tim Bryant, Ryan Stuckey, Terry Jardeleza, Elizabeth Howell, Rob Elder, Douglas Irwin, Chris Goulet, Rayanne Lees, Lisa Symons, Greg Kolz and Kassie Greeley. I couldn’t have done it without all of you.
My brother Cameron Symons ensured the success of that campaign with support I couldn’t have dreamed up. He was the first to read the quivering mess of a first draft that no one should ever have seen. Still, he told me he loved it. I’m lucky in life to have him as a brother. Thank you, Cam.
To Emma Jackson and Samantha Schmidt for being early readers and my own personal support team. Life would not be nearly as good without you two in it.
To my editor, Ellen Keeble, who taught me to show not tell and to cut out the quirky bits that no one but myself would find entertaining. This novel is a million times better because of you.
To my graphic designers, Emma Lovell and Jen Morgan at Charm Media, who created a book cover as haunting and beautiful as I’d imagined.
To my family that has always believed I am a writer. Thank you for giving me the confidence to make it happen.
To Stephen Jardeleza, the most patient and supportive partner I could ask for. You inspire me every day.
Thank you also to those I don’t know. I have always relied on the kindness of strangers, trusting more than (some thought) I should. I’ve left things unattended, lost things, dropped things, and have usually come out on top. People call me lucky, and I am, but I also think it’s because of the good in people that shines through when it counts.
Thank you for taking a chance on me, a perfect stranger trying to get her words out right. I am floored by the generosity that has allowed my first novel to see the light of day. Thank you for that. I’ll never forget it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Courtney Symons lives in Ottawa, Ont. where she works as a journalist. Her work has been published in various print and online media including the Ottawa Business Journal, the West Carleton Review, Metro Ottawa and The Landowner.
She writes non-fiction all day and comes home to write fiction at night. This is her first novel. Follow her on Twitter @CourtneySymons or @OnceWeWreStolen and on Facebook at Once, We Were Stolen. Visit her website at www.courtneysymons.com (a work in progress) and learn more about her at www.about.me/courtneysymons.
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