Ryan moved a piece of hair away from my face. "My father," he said.
"Your father," I repeated in disbelief. Sickened. He rolled to the side and gathered me close, pulling the quilt over us. I had told him my story in all its pure truth. And now, wrapped in each other's arms, he told me his. As he spoke of the beatings, the scars, the burns, and the cages, I learned that he, too, had suffered terribly, yet had somehow survived and even thrived, and I fell even more deeply in love. He was damaged, but not broken. He was beautiful and brave, and despite the pain he'd endured, he had managed to retain a heart filled with love and kindness. We will never be perfect or without flaws, the lives we've been given are not like that. But, Lily, in my heart, you are perfect for me. Perfectly mine.
And I was his forever, in this life or any other.
**********
I came slowly awake, attempting to open my eyes but squeezing them shut when the sudden light caused my head to throb with pain. I tried to bring my hand to my forehead, but it pulled against a restraint. My eyes popped open and I groaned at the sharp burst of pain, blinking against the light. I was in my bed at my grandmother's rental home, and my hands were tied to the bedpost with rope. I was still dressed in the clothes I'd worn the night before. My blood pressure spiked, causing my heart to hammer in my chest. My eyes adjusted to the light as I worked to control my breathing. What was happening? I grasped at my memory. I felt so woozy, as if I'd been drugged. Thinking hurt. Oh God. I'd come home from Ryan's the night before . . . we'd made love. Ryan. I'd been so happy. Ryan had wanted me to stay the night with him, but I wanted to be respectful to my grandmother, and so he'd driven me here. He'd kissed me good night . . .
The door opened and I went completely still, tense. Jeffrey walked in, wearing a white suit with a nametag. My vision blurred as he came closer and I let out a strangled sound of fear. His nametag had the Whittington logo. Oh God, oh no. What was happening? "What do you want?" I asked. "Why am I restrained?" I pulled against the rope. My voice sounded thick, garbled, as if I was listening to it from underwater.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and brought a finger to my cheek, stroking it. "You're so beautiful, Lily," he said. "So beautiful, but so damaged. So sick."
"I'm not damaged," I tried to say but wasn't sure if I'd managed to or not. He continued to stare at me with a look of such raw hunger, or was it anger? I couldn't tell. It was just like that other man—the one who'd hurt my mother. The world pulsed around me, the details of the room morphing into the black outlines of a scrawled drawing. I groaned.
"There, there," he said. "I don't mind that you're damaged. I like it, Lily. I like it a lot." He leaned in and kissed me, probing my lips with his tongue. He tasted of cigarettes and stale breath. I felt bile rise in my throat.
I turned my head, forcing the word, "No," out as harshly as I could, but it came out more a whisper than a yell. Anger flashed in his expression, and he raised his hand to slap me. I braced for it, but suddenly, a door closed somewhere else in the house and he looked over his shoulder.
"I'll be back," he said, standing quickly and exiting the room. I tried to yell, but my voice didn't seem to be working. And what if the noise hadn't been my grandmother? What if it was just a car door slamming or something? Was she even here? Would yelling make him return? I needed to get free. I pulled at the restraints, but the knots were tight. He'd left some give in them, but not much. I needed a tool . . . something . . . I looked around wildly. There was nothing on the bedside table except a lamp, nothing I could reach. I felt tears burning at the backs of my eyes. Oh God, oh no. Taking a shuddery breath, I lay still. My eyes suddenly popped open. The arrowhead. It was in the pocket of my shirt. Please, please don't let it have fallen out. With some effort, I brought myself up to a sitting position, the world dimming with my exertions. I breathed deeply, some clarity returning. Okay, okay.
Bending my wrist until it felt like it might snap and stretching my hand, I grasped on to the edge of the small pocket. I let out a whoosh of air and strained some more, sweat breaking out on my forehead at the exertion and the pain of my bent hand. When my fingers brushed the edge of the arrowhead, a surge of hope exploded inside me, and I pushed myself up farther . . . farther, my index finger and my thumb grasping the paper-thin edge in a pincher grasp. It was still there; it was still there. I took a moment to try to relax, my heart rate slowing slightly and my trembling decreasing. I moved my hand slowly upward, the barest edge of the arrowhead gripped in my two shaking fingers. When I brought it completely out of my pocket, I turned my hand slowly and let it fall into my palm, clenching it tightly and letting out a harsh breath of victory. A bead of sweat dripped down the side of my face. I thought I could hear footsteps upstairs, the clang of something metal against metal. Getting a good hold on the arrowhead, I held it in a tight grasp, turning my hand toward the rope on the frame so I could begin sawing at it. The arrowhead looked so delicate, as if the slightest pressure might break it, but it didn't break. It began sawing through the fiber of the rope and I almost started crying with relief. Now I just needed time. I upped my efforts, sawing at the rope with speedy strokes.
After five minutes or so, my wrist broke free, to the sound of the tiniest of dings as the arrowhead hit the metal of the bedpost. I sagged back against it, tears running down my face and sweat making my clothes stick to my body. I fought to stay alert. I was so woozy, so woozy.
I untied my other hand and stumbled off the bed, grabbing the bedpost so I wouldn't fall as blood rushed to my head. The world swam in front of me for several moments until it finally cleared enough for me to move forward, pushing my feet into the slippers on the floor. I headed toward the door, but heavy footsteps coming toward my room caused me to turn, stumbling toward the window. I pushed it upward, the scrape of the wood making my blood run cold. A blast of frigid air hit me in the face. I was crying outright now, almost sobbing as I climbed over the sill and fell clumsily to the ground, picking myself up and beginning to run as I heard him yell something behind me, his voice laced with rage, caught by the howling wind and tossed away somewhere behind me. It was snowing. Oh God, it was snowing, the ground already dusted with the barest cover of gleaming white. Everything shimmered and glistened around me. So cold, so very, very cold. I ran on, stumbling once and crying out, picking myself back up. I didn't know which direction to go, was turned around, blinded by the snow. Something flew by my head and I yelped, stumbling again, but when I opened my eyes, I saw the glow of owl eyes looking back at me and heard its quiet hoot as if it was telling me to follow. And so I did, following the shifting air in front of me, the movement left behind by the bird's wings. It felt as if the tears were freezing on my face and despite the fact that I was running, I was shivering with cold and with fear. And I was so dizzy, so turned around, so alone, so scared. I ran and ran, until I came to a big, heavy, iron gate. Mercifully, the padlock was hanging from the chain, unlocked. I gasped out a relieved breath and squeezed through the opening, running once again, slipping, moving toward the dark wooded area in front of me, the hoot of the owl finding me again in the dark. I ran toward the sound, letting it lead me, wondering if the man was closing in. Hide, hide, hide my terrified mind chanted.
The branch of a tree hit me in the face and I let out a small scream, pushing it away. I looked behind me and gasped to see not my grandmother's rental, but Whittington standing in the distance, massive and gothic, looming against the dark sky, the moon covered by clouds, the flurries of snow almost obscuring it now. This had happened before. A wave of dizziness hit me, causing my thoughts to scatter like feathers in the wind. And yes, now I could hear someone pursuing me and so I pushed forward, running between trees, over stones and small twigs that caught at my feet and caused me to stumble again and again, hearing one last, distant hoot that faded away into the black night.
And then I saw someone in front of me. He appeared out of the darkness, a beacon of light walking toward me through the white, swirling air. It was
a man, a man in a heavy coat and boots. It looked like he had several blankets around his shoulders as he trudged through the blizzard, straight toward me as if I alone was his destination. My heart almost leapt from my chest, but I didn't move. Time stilled, holding me in some kind of wonder I didn't understand. I glanced once behind me and then turned toward the man again. The man who'd been out here in the snow. Why? I strained my eyes as he drew closer and when I saw it was Ryan, I cried out, a wild sound of joy and relief that broke the silence of this hushed, winter night. I ran toward him, and he caught me in his arms as I sobbed out his name, both of us sinking to the ground where he held me in his lap. "Shh," he said against my hair. "Shh, Lily."
"He's coming after me," I cried.
"I know," he said, but there was no distress in his voice. "He'll be gone in a minute."
I looked behind me, as understanding began to dawn. "He doesn't exist," I breathed.
"He did, once upon a time, at Whittington. But he's gone now. We escaped a long time ago. Whittington's closed."
I glanced back at Whittington and realized he was right. It was dark, abandoned. I raised my face to his, calming, trusting him with my whole heart. He loved me. He always had. Perfectly mine. "It's snowing," I whispered.
He smiled so gently. "I know, baby." He kissed my cheek, caught a tear on his lips. "I know."
He held me in his arms for several moments, his warm lips pressed to my forehead. "Last night, we were together on the bridge," I murmured.
He raised his face from mine, smoothing my hair back. "We were together," he said. "There was no bridge."
Where do you land?
In your arms. I land in your arms, and you land in mine.
My heart rate slowed as the dark world cleared, the snow fading into late morning sunshine. "We're back," I said. "Oh Ryan, we're back."
"Yes," he answered, kissing my cheeks, my forehead, my chin and my nose. He smiled. "We are. We're back." The air grew warmer, the sharp scent of pine and damp leaves registering, his arms tightening around me, pulling me closer.
"Yes, we are," I repeated through my tears, my lips turning up into a trembling smile. My savior. My love. He must have come back right before me. "Are you okay?" I asked softly.
"Yes, I am now." He smiled.
After several moments, he helped me to my feet, taking a blanket from around his shoulders and wrapping it around me. I leaned on him as we walked, feeling stronger, my mind clearing. I inhaled a deep breath of air, looking at the man walking beside me, the man who I loved to the depth of my soul.
"Thank you for coming for me," I said.
"Always," he answered.
EPILOGUE
Lily
"Wake up, my love," I whispered, kissing one of the purplish, circular scars on Ryan's back. He rolled over, smiling a sleepy smile. I put my hand on his shoulder and propped my chin on it, gazing into his blue eyes. As blue as the limitless sky. I took in the lines of his handsome face, my heart aching with tenderness. He was mine. Mine to fall in love with a hundred times over.
"We should go," I said, stifling a yawn. "Winter will be here soon. There's snow on the ground this morning. Just a light dusting, but whoever owns this lodge will be vacationing here. We've used it long enough."
"Hmm, okay," Ryan hummed. "But not before," he flipped me over and rose above me as I let out a surprised burst of laughter, "I ravish you a time or twelve in this huge bed."
I smiled softly at him, trailing a finger over his cheekbone, down his jaw, my thumb rubbing his full bottom lip. He kissed it and then nipped it lightly, his eyes darkening with promise.
"There's time for that." I smiled. "Take me home."
We made the five-mile walk through the cold, fresh air of the woods, hand in hand, talking about everything and nothing. A brisk wind rustled the mostly sparse trees and the very last of the late autumn leaves fluttered down around us.
Later, as the sun set over the forest beyond, the sky unabashedly gorgeous, flaunting herself in shades of mauve and lavender, I stood in front of the window on the very top floor of Whittington. There was a fire blazing in the fireplace, warming the room and making it dance with shadows and light. Miles Davis played softly on an old Victrola I'd found in the basement. "I wonder who we'll be next time," I mused. Ryan came to stand right behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder.
"I don't know," he finally said. "Maybe a doctor from Ohio." I considered that. Always someone who could go back and help him then. Oh, Ryan, my sweet, tormented love. No matter how many lives we led, some things remained constant. Always so much truth amidst the make-believe, but always having to come back to our true selves, our true stories, before we could walk out of the darkness. Always, always . . .
I smiled, turning in his arms. "Perhaps I'll be a nurse." I tilted my head up, thinking. "A blind nurse! You'll have to lead me around, of course."
"How can you be a blind nurse?" He smiled against my skin as he nuzzled my ear.
I shrugged. "As easily as I can be a ghost. We'll figure it out as we go along. As usual."
Ryan chuckled. "If only it worked that way. If only we could choose."
"If we could choose, I'd stop making your girlfriends so pretty."
He grinned, kissing my neck quickly. "They all end up looking like you anyway. I can't help it."
I smiled, but my heart squeezed slightly with sudden sadness. I thought of Nyala and how, though she wasn't real, I'd grieve for the loss of her all the same. And I knew Ryan would do the same for his version of Holden Scott, the football player. The price we paid for being sensitive souls. Perhaps made too sensitive for this world, our emotional volume set too high, drowning out the real world far too often. But in recent years, less often than before.
Perhaps we'd just be ourselves for a while.
"Do you get tired of it, Ryan? Saving me?" I glanced up at him and then away, but he put a finger under my chin and tilted my face, forcing me to look into his eyes.
He shook his head. "No. I made you a promise, and I meant it." He smiled a heartbreakingly sweet smile. "Most people only get to fall in love with their beloved once. I get to fall in love with you over and over in a hundred different lives. How lucky am I?" he finished on a hoarse whisper.
I leaned my forehead against his, holding back my tears.
"Do you get tired of saving me?" he asked.
"No," I said, shaking my head. "No. I'll venture into any darkness if I know you're there." Something about it even felt . . . healing. And I wondered about grief and madness again, how just as grief was both a malady and its own medicine, perhaps, too, madness was the same. Maybe if you walked toward it, rather than away, maybe if you dove right in and let it take you where it wanted, someday you'd walk out whole and healed. Or maybe that was only my fanciful mind speaking.
"I'll always come for you, Lily. Every time. I would travel through hell itself for you. Do you trust me?"
"With my soul," I whispered, smoothing a dark golden lock of hair off his forehead, my gaze washing over his face, his beautiful, beloved features. I kissed him softly, thinking back to the digital date display on the cable guide on the TV at the vacation lodge. "We weren't away for long—less than three months," I said.
"Is that good?"
I shrugged. "Hmm. I don't know. It doesn't have to be good or bad, I guess. It's just the way it is, for now anyway. And either way, I'll love you forever, no matter what. I'll love every version of you. Your soul doesn't ever change. I see it each and every time. I see it when I close my eyes. It calls to me in the darkness. I'll see it even when I'm blind." I smiled. "It's that bright."
"I see yours, too, my beautiful Lily."
"I know," I said, kissing him again. "I knew it when you picked me up out of the snow and carried me to that small cave carved into the rock and kept me warm. As if it had been made only for us by someone long ago who knew we'd need it someday. That we'd be out here all alone, reaching for each other in t
he dark."
"You weren't only lost in the snow—"
"No, in my mind, I was the daughter of a family visiting Whittington that day and you were the son of a rich executive from Connecticut. You'd climbed into our trunk. The cave was my family's stable."
"You found me. And then I found you. It's where we first fell in love."
"Yes," I murmured, remembering that day, remembering how cold I'd been, how scared, how lost. Remembering the world I'd created and how he'd found me there that very first time. "The doctors who used to work at Whittington would say we're still crazy."
He gave me the barest glimmer of a smile. "Yes, I suppose they'd see it that way."
"But now Whittington is our home, it belongs only to us."
"Hmm," he hummed.
"Anyway, I think maybe they're the crazy ones. Because they can't make that forest out there San Francisco, or Boston, or . . . Hawaii," I said, smiling at the last one, thinking of the island warmth in the middle of winter.
Ryan laughed. "Wherever it is we go, that's where we'll fly. We'll just fly away."
I put my hand on his cheek. He was my fate, and I was his. "And then we'll come back. To each other. Always. Again and again and again."
The poem referred to in this story (in its completeness) is:
She Walks in Beauty
By Lord Byron (George Gordon Byron)
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.