comment. Afraid of her? Did she mean he is afraid of me?
“Besides, who knows how long it will last,” Mom says. “It could be months.”
Dad lets out a deep sigh and one of them, probably Dad, starts tapping the table nervously. “Not until it’s started,” he says. “She can’t know until it’s already begun.”
The memory fades back into the fast moving stream, but I wonder about it again. I’ve thought about it many times since. I’m pretty sure they were talking about me. Pretty sure. Some things seem to fit perfectly. “She.” Sounds like me. “Keep her safe.” Sounds like me. “Shouldn’t talk about it with her.” Of course they wouldn’t want to tell me about things, they never do—to keep me safe, to keep me from worrying, or a hundred reasons. My family has a lot of secrets.
“You’re afraid of her.” These words keep playing back in my mind but I can’t get the pieces to fit. That doesn’t sound like me—at least, I don’t want it to. I never shared what I heard with Tig. I think it is because I feel it is deeply important, and I don’t want him to make it less important with his sarcasm. So I have kept it to myself and wondered. Today’s events put the memory in a new light. They might have been discussing the rebellion. A new weight that has nothing to do with my hurts or my pack settles in my stomach. Dad is afraid of me; for some reason, he doesn’t trust me.
We walk and walk. Tig says we are passing through a cavern now, or the river has widened, or now we are back in a tunnel. I can’t respond. Another memory surfaces from the swirling torrent running through me. This one was more recent, just a few weeks ago.
Mom has the chest open. She catches me as I walk by, pulling me close. We’re both quiet for a long second. I am stiff, wishing Mom wouldn’t treat me like a little girl. She runs her fingers through my brown hair. It is past my shoulders now. The silence is only broken by Tig sharpening his claws on his chair. Mom finally releases me, and I feel her turn back to the chest in front of us.
I am about to head for the door when I realize the smell of red is in the room. “Mom,” I feel for the wooden chest, “may I?”
Mom takes my hand and places it on the red dress, folded neatly to one side of the huge box. She knows I love that dress. I told her about my picture, and she said it was at the Year’s Beginning Feast, when I was almost two. “Mom, the picture is still there, but it’s starting to fade. Sometimes I can’t even get you to come into focus anymore.”
Mom says nothing, but continues to guide my hand through the silky folds of the red dress. “I feel that if I lose that picture, I won’t have anything else from your world of color, and I’ll get lost in my world of darkness.” I say this all in a rush, as if I have been meaning to say it for a long time.
“Maybe I’m not even a part of your world, Mom. Maybe I’m alone in my world, and the best I can do is sometimes reach out of my world to touch or feel a part of yours.”
Mom picks my hand up from the silk folds and presses it to her mouth. “And now? Do you feel that you are dreaming now?” she whispers.
I shake my head. “I’ve only ever smelled and felt the red dress here in the color world. I know this is real.”
Mom pulls me close and wraps me into her arms again. “Ess, I know you don’t always feel that you’re part of, or even belong to this world of color, but listen to me,” she moves her lips close to my ear. “You are Essie Brightsday, daughter of Killian, daughter of Keira. According to the laws written about our world from the beginning of our history, to be named means ‘one with a part to play.’” Mom pauses and strokes my hair. “You’ll only play a role in this world of color if you accept that you’re a part of it, Essie,” she whispers. “Even if you can’t see it.”
Her fingers whisper through the folds of the red dress and then they press a
“Besides, who knows how long it will last,” Mom says. “It could be months.”
Dad lets out a deep sigh and one of them, probably Dad, starts tapping the table nervously. “Not until it’s started,” he says. “She can’t know until it’s already begun.”
The memory fades back into the fast moving stream, but I wonder about it again. I’ve thought about it many times since. I’m pretty sure they were talking about me. Pretty sure. Some things seem to fit perfectly. “She.” Sounds like me. “Keep her safe.” Sounds like me. “Shouldn’t talk about it with her.” Of course they wouldn’t want to tell me about things, they never do—to keep me safe, to keep me from worrying, or a hundred reasons. My family has a lot of secrets.
“You’re afraid of her.” These words keep playing back in my mind but I can’t get the pieces to fit. That doesn’t sound like me—at least, I don’t want it to. I never shared what I heard with Tig. I think it is because I feel it is deeply important, and I don’t want him to make it less important with his sarcasm. So I have kept it to myself and wondered. Today’s events put the memory in a new light. They might have been discussing the rebellion. A new weight that has nothing to do with my hurts or my pack settles in my stomach. Dad is afraid of me; for some reason, he doesn’t trust me.
We walk and walk. Tig says we are passing through a cavern now, or the river has widened, or now we are back in a tunnel. I can’t respond. Another memory surfaces from the swirling torrent running through me. This one was more recent, just a few weeks ago.
Mom has the chest open. She catches me as I walk by, pulling me close. We’re both quiet for a long second. I am stiff, wishing Mom wouldn’t treat me like a little girl. She runs her fingers through my brown hair. It is past my shoulders now. The silence is only broken by Tig sharpening his claws on his chair. Mom finally releases me, and I feel her turn back to the chest in front of us.
I am about to head for the door when I realize the smell of red is in the room. “Mom,” I feel for the wooden chest, “may I?”
Mom takes my hand and places it on the red dress, folded neatly to one side of the huge box. She knows I love that dress. I told her about my picture, and she said it was at the Year’s Beginning Feast, when I was almost two. “Mom, the picture is still there, but it’s starting to fade. Sometimes I can’t even get you to come into focus anymore.”
Mom says nothing, but continues to guide my hand through the silky folds of the red dress. “I feel that if I lose that picture, I won’t have anything else from your world of color, and I’ll get lost in my world of darkness.” I say this all in a rush, as if I have been meaning to say it for a long time.
“Maybe I’m not even a part of your world, Mom. Maybe I’m alone in my world, and the best I can do is sometimes reach out of my world to touch or feel a part of yours.”
Mom picks my hand up from the silk folds and presses it to her mouth. “And now? Do you feel that you are dreaming now?” she whispers.
I shake my head. “I’ve only ever smelled and felt the red dress here in the color world. I know this is real.”
Mom pulls me close and wraps me into her arms again. “Ess, I know you don’t always feel that you’re part of, or even belong to this world of color, but listen to me,” she moves her lips close to my ear. “You are Essie Brightsday, daughter of Killian, daughter of Keira. According to the laws written about our world from the beginning of our history, to be named means ‘one with a part to play.’” Mom pauses and strokes my hair. “You’ll only play a role in this world of color if you accept that you’re a part of it, Essie,” she whispers. “Even if you can’t see it.”
Her fingers whisper through the folds of the red dress and then they press a
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