Embrace, Entice, Emblaze (2 page)

Dad’s company took up the entire fourth floor. When the

elevator doors opened, I spotted the familiar stainless-steel Eden Architects sign that had greeted me for the past eight years.

“Hi, Caroline,” I said, walking up to the reception area. “Is he in?” Dad’s receptionist smiled at me and raised her eyebrows. “Where else would he be?”

I found Dad in his office, cemented behind his drawing desk,

reams of paper unraveled in front of him. It was an image synonymous with my dad and one that I’d had to accept a long time ago.

I used to fight it— or rather, fight for his attention— but the truth was, the minute I had his full attention, I always felt suffocated by it anyway.

He was completely absorbed in whatever he was doing, and by

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the look of him, he’d been there awhile— tie gone, sleeves rolled up, ruler in one hand, pencil hanging loosely from his mouth. I was willing to bet that when he stepped away from the desk, he’d reveal shoeless feet.

I made it into the middle of his office without him even noticing.

“Hey, Dad,” I said with a wave.

He looked up and smiled, running a hand through his salt- and-

pepper hair as if it could somehow release him from a world of

lines, angles, and light reflections. He pushed his pencil behind his ear and emerged from behind his desk— socks only.

“Hi, sweetheart.” He cleared his throat. “This is a nice surprise.

Ah…How was your day?”

I hated that I could hear it, but there it was, same as always: the voice that said,
I’m glad you’re here, but I’m really in the middle of
something I don’t want to be distracted from.

I swallowed and pushed through it. It was all I could do. I knew if he knew I could hear it, he’d be mortified.

“Great!” I said, beaming with my news. “I got into the Fenton

art course. It starts just after graduation.” Finding out had been the main motivator for going to school today. The last day before break is usually a blow- off, and Dad never enforced attendance.

Well…Dad never enforced anything. But I had been waiting for

months to find out if I’d gotten in, and seeing my name on the

short list of two had made the day well worthwhile.

He gave me his genuine Dad- of- pride smile. “Of course you did!

There was never any doubt. You take after your mom.” His voice

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broke a little at the end. She’d been an artist too. He was rarely the one to bring her up. Like me, he preferred to leave painful things buried. It was easier that way…and harder. But the fact was, nothing was going to fix him. Her death had broken him completely.

“Thanks, Dad,” I said, eager for a change of subject.

He straightened abruptly and came toward me, then, reconsid-

ering, went back to his desk and sat behind it, gripping the sides as if to bolt himself down. Dad was finally losing it.

“I know it’s technically not your birthday until tomorrow, but

I’d like to give you something now.” He clicked his jaw from side to side, something he does when he has a deadline approaching or a big proposal going on. Then he took a deep breath and put his hand down on the desk decisively. Nudging his wrist was the one personal item Dad keeps in his office: a sculpture of a white door with red graffiti over the front of it saying,
No
nannies
allowed!
It was the first and only artwork we had ever done together.

By the time I turned thirteen, Dad had caused seven nannies to

quit by not getting home on time, forgetting to pay them regularly, and expecting them to work weekends. I had dispatched eleven.

What can I say, they weren’t up to the job. On the day nanny

number nineteen threw a hissy fit and stormed out, Dad and I

pulled out some clay and decided: no more. From then on, it’s been just us. Or rather, just me.

“Dad, I don’t want any more gifts,” I whined. Dinner and

the soon- to- be- bought dress were already more than I wanted.

Tomorrow was the only day of the year I
didn’t
want presents.

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“It’s not from me,” he said quietly, looking away from me. He

opened the bottom drawer in his desk— the only one that required a key. His movements were slow, almost pained. He lifted a small wooden box from the drawer and gently placed it on his desk. His hand trembled over the intricate carvings that decorated the lid.

My eyes began to sting and I had to blink quickly. Dad rarely

allowed his emotions this kind of exposure. He raised his hand

and, as it hovered in the air above the box, he made a fist and closed his eyes. It looked as if he were praying— something I knew he

didn’t do. I had only ever seen one thing make him look like that.

Finally, he looked up at me with a small smile. I blinked again.

“I was given instructions. I’ve waited seventeen years to give this to you. It’s from Evelyn…It’s from your mom.”

My mouth gaped involuntarily. “But…how?”

Mom’s death had been unexpected— a hemorrhage during

childbirth that couldn’t have been foreseen. She couldn’t possibly have left something behind with instructions.

Dad pinched the bridge of his nose then rested his hand under

his chin. “I honestly don’t know, sweetheart. That night, after I came home from the hospital”— he motioned to the small box—

“this was on the top of her chest of drawers. There was a note

resting on it that said,
For
our
girl
on
her
17th birthday
.” He took a deep breath. “Perhaps she was just organized; perhaps…I don’t know…She was an extraordinary woman…She sensed things

others couldn’t.”

“Are you saying you think she knew what was going to happen?”

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“I’m not saying that, sweetheart,” he said, absentmindedly

caressing the box. “And anyway, that’s not the point. She wanted you to have this and it was important to her that it be now.” He pushed the box across the desk toward me, standing as he did.

“I’ll…uh…I’ll give you some privacy.”

He slipped into his shoes and quietly left me alone in the office.

He had his hands in his pockets and looked so…alone. It occurred to me that Mom wouldn’t be too impressed with where we had

ended up.

The box was beautiful. It was a rich, dark mahogany with

splices of illuminating gold breaking through. The carvings on the top were detailed and finely crafted to create not a picture but a pattern, a sequence of wispy feather tips. The artist in me appreciated it instantly.

I’d never been given a gift by my mother. She’d never made me

warm milk, never wiped away my tears or put a Band- Aid on me.

She hadn’t saved me from the embarrassing outing with my nanny

to buy my first bra, and she hadn’t left me with a nifty stash of tampons in the bathroom cupboard that would never run out and

that I’d never have to talk about. There were a lot of things I’d never get from her, but I’d accepted that a long time ago. Finally
receiving
something from her, something purposely left for me and only me, was…awkward.

I sat down in Dad’s chair and ran my fingers over the top of the engravings as he had done. A shiver ran down my body. I wriggled in the chair and shook my hand out. “Get a grip, Vi.”

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When I opened the box, my heart sank. A tiny silver chain with

a small amulet lay inside. The last time I’d seen my baby necklace, it had been tucked away in the trinket box on my dressing table.

Apparently, Mom had it made for me while she was pregnant as

some kind of good luck charm. In every one of my baby photos,

I’m wearing this necklace. Dad had made sure Mom’s wishes were

followed— and then some.

Obviously, Dad had taken it from my dressing table. I started to wonder whether the rest of the contents of the box were from him, but then I dismissed the thought. He’d never felt the need for fake gifts before. It just wasn’t his style.

I pulled two envelopes out of the box. Both were still sealed,

though they were yellowed and worn with marks of consideration

along the edges. It must have killed Dad to have known about

them for seventeen years and not know what was inside them.

I wondered how many times he had run his fingers along the

seals, contemplating tearing them open. It was impressive that he hadn’t succumbed.

I opened the first envelope. Inside was a page torn from a book.

It was a poem.

You
must
love
no- thingness,

You
must
flee
something,

You
must
remain
alone,

And
go
to
nobody.

You
must
be
very
active

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And
free
of
all
things.

You
must
deliver
the
captives
And
force
those
who
are
free.

You
must
comfort
the
sick

And
yet
have
nothing
yourself.

You
must
drink
the
water
of
suffering
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, Mom hadn’t been religious. She’d

hated anything that pigeonholed people’s beliefs. I’d only been baptized because Dad’s family had insisted and he liked the idea of my attending the same high school he had.

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
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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 okay, 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.

Mom

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 an inch and a half wide and had similar engravings to the box. It was mesmerizing, more handsome than

pretty. Beside it was an identical circular mark on the wooden base 14

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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.