The Heir Page 3

  Where is the warmth? Why can I not feel it with him? Not even my feelings of love for Ryker could reignite the flame that had been scorched out of me. His fingers on my skin felt like whispers of an old life that I could never get back, an old me that had a journal filled with Emma + Ryker forever and other unpenned hopes of what I had thought someday could be between us. It felt foreign, then, that I could have those kinds of thoughts. I looked up into his eyes, watching him as he studied my face. He smirked at me, and playfulness danced in his eyes, and for a few blissful moments, his touch traced warmth on my face. Finally. I wanted to bottle up that feeling, a feeling I knew couldn't last because I was broken, with a hole inside. I closed my eyes and breathed him in. He smelled like summer, a strong scent of warmth and trees that made me think of an almost forgotten tune. His fingers left my face, and I felt the loss of his touch in my soul as everything that had been melting froze back over, leaving summer behind. I opened my eyes.

  “I should go," I offered, thinking that in the saying of it, perhaps against all hope, I might have had some of the feelings spring back to life and unthaw the endless frozen winter inside of me. He was everything to me, especially now, right? I thought. Then why did I feel this way? When did I start feeling this numb? He was right there in front of me, and I was in another world.

  “Don’t ever apologize to me. I am here for you, Em. Don't forget it.” He tucked a strand of loose hair behind my ear. I waited for the warmth, for his touch to bring me that peace, but it didn't. “Your locker, 7:15 tomorrow morning,” he demanded.

  “Yes,” I whispered, still too stunned that in one moment he had brought to me that peace, but in the next—nothing.

  He let go of my hand, and I thought I would tumble off the face of the earth—because even though I didn't understand my feelings, I did feel the loss of him when he let go. Loss—would it be the only emotion I would ever be allowed to feel?

  He walked down the steps and turned slowly, looking back at me.

  “See you later.”

  “Bye, Ryker.”

  He walked down my porch steps and raised his hand in a wave. “See you tomorrow,” and he was gone, swallowed up in the blackness of the night. I—I—felt nothing but misery and the deathly sting of pain in my gut that even Ryker couldn't make feel better. I watched the stars for a little while, wondering when my wish for all of my pain to end would come true, like my father had always promised.

  I fell asleep that night, thinking about my father, and when ever I did that, I often dreamed of the last memory I had of him. I woke up around five in the morning, screaming into my pillow, almost suffocating myself with the sobs and screams as I tried to push away. Mary was beside me and stroked my hair.

  “It is okay, Emma. You are safe; you are home,” she whispered softly. Had I woken up like this before in front of her? I remembered waking most nights to darkness and loneliness. I could not remember every night since that horrific one. That night had been ingrained in my brain, a memory of my father, the last image I had of him, could never be seared from my soul. Why couldn’t I have forgotten those horrible memories, and have kept all the good ones from when my parents were alive? It wasn’t fair.

  I didn't realize what had happened until it happened. It was as if I was watching it happen to me, like a dream. One moment I was asleep in the back seat of my father's black work car; then the next, I was awake, and death and destruction were all around me. Even though months had passed, it still felt like I was living in a sick, never-ending nightmare.

  Our car had flipped a few times across the center divider of the freeway. I had blacked-out for most of it. I didn't recall much, but I had some memories, like the one that haunted me. The memory was that of my father hanging in front of me by his seat belt, pinned against his airbag which was useless in such a horrific crash, but it had kept him in his place. He was limp and lifeless. I knew he was dead as soon as I saw him, and I tried to call out to him, but I could not find my voice. All I could hear and see was his watch. His arm dangled, and blood dripped from him. He had dozens of cuts and gashes that I could see from my position. Some blood splatters fell directly on the face of the watch he had worn every day. I watched in shock and horror as my father bled out upside down to the haunting ticking of his watch. It was as if that watch taunted me: Watch as I mark each second of life as it flows from your father, little girl.

  I was pinned; there was nothing I could do, because even with my eyes closed, I could still hear those sickening ticks and see those splatters of blood in my mind.

  I knew that watch so well. My mother and I bought it for him for his birthday years before, and our names were engraved on the back. It had been a sweet gift, but that sweet memory could not eliminate the new one, because forever, I would hear those ticks, keeping time with the blood dripping life from my father onto the face of that watch. It made me sick. I could never get that image out of my head, no matter how hard I tried. My dream of that horrific night ended the same way it always did: black boots on the outside of my side of the car window and a deep echoing voice that said: “Yes, they are dead; it is confirmed.”

  I told Mary that night of my dreams; I had never told anyone else before of the dreams that plagued me almost every night. It felt good to tell someone. She cried. I cried, and I fell asleep in her arms.

  The next day, there was not a single clock in our home that ticked to a steady beat. She must have gotten up early and gone to the store because on the mantle in the living room, where a face clock had been the night before, was a large digital clock. I smiled, and I felt like I could breathe a little more easily.

  Princes and Knights

  I FELT ROBOTIC IN MY everyday life, but at least my tears have ended, I thought. That night Mary held me in her arms and we both cried together had done something to me. I knew that I really wasn't alone, even though my parents were dead. I did have Mary, and I held onto that.

  Unfortunately, Ryker was going to be gone for most of the summer. I assumed that was what Mary was going to talk to me about that evening when Ryker was over. When my parents were alive, Ryker’s Dad and my father, usually planned vacations together, but with Mary’s work schedule and my parents’ deaths, our plans were to have a quiet summer at home. That left me and my aunt alone, tending to the flower shop. I spent most of my hot summer days sifting through my parents’ old things. That is—when I wasn’t cutting flowers and arranging bouquets.

  “I will be back before you can even miss me.” Ryker held my hand as we sat leaning against the tree in my backyard, and I was acutely aware that our hands, intertwined, didn't bring any of Ryker’s warmth to me. I wondered why his calming warmth was so hit-or-miss. I also wondered if I was insane for expecting it, which was a real possibility. I couldn't help but feel a little betrayed: he was leaving. I knew that the world was still spinning and everyone needed to move on, but still, I needed Ryker, and guiltily, I needed the possibility that one of our innocent touches would bring me that warmth I longed for.

  “You are a traitor,” I said, going with honesty. He placed a hand over his heart as if I had shot him. I smirked, not able to laugh, but it was enough for him, because he laughed.

  “You wound me, princess,” he replied with a fake frown.

  “Not this again,” I rolled my eyes and stood up.

  “What?” he asked with a chuckle.

  “Princess? Really?”

  “Hey, that's all you wanted to play in elementary school,” he said as he crossed his arms over his chest.

  I looked at him, really looked at him for what seemed like the first time in months. His blond hair was longer than usual. He had faint dark marks under his eyes, and he had stubble on his chin. He was always a little disheveled, but in an appealing and alluring way. He was an incredibly handsome boy, but his eyes held worry and sadness. I wished I could wipe it away, but how could someone who was broken like me ever be able to help someone else?

  “Yes, yes, I still hate you for not p
laying along with me and being my prince.” I folded my arms at him.

  “So cliché, Em, seriously. Plus, who wants to be a pompous prince when they can be a dragon-slaying knight?” He asked as he stood.

  “Every girl wants to marry a prince—duh,” I answered, rolling my eyes. I was sure that was a universal truth.

  “What's so good about a prince?”

  “Well, for one, they are hot.”

  He frowned. “I'm not sure that’s an actual fact, Em.”

  “Um, yes, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Beauty and the Beast—“

  “Let me stop you right there. The beast? Come on, Em—it's in his name—not hot.”

  “He changes in the end back to his true form! Doesn't count when they are cursed. He was truly handsome, just cursed.”

  He rolled his eyes as I tried to explain. Belle was my favorite fairy tale character, and he was not going to ruin Beast for me. Ryker and I had enjoyed a few movie marathons before school was out for summer; apparently, that was something that we used to do before my life became a tragedy—at least that is what Ryker explained to me. I was surprised that I actually remembered those fairytale stories, but as we watched a few together, I did remember them.

  “But again, cartoons—not real people.” He grinned as if he had triumphed.

  “I've never even seen a movie with a handsome knight that marries a princess. I thought the knight rescues the princess for the king? Or for the prince?” I really thought I was making a great point.

  “Your lack of knight knowledge offends me,” he faked disgust, “ever heard of Arthur?”

  “King Arthur? Yeah, he's royalty—don't see where you’re going with that one,” I replied with a sneer.

  “Well, he wasn't a prince—moved from peasant to knight and then to king in, like, one heartbeat.”

  “Yeah, but royalty—” I said, rolling my eyes at him like he was an idiot.

  “I just thought when you grew up, you would get over the whole prince thing. Very disappointed, Emma Warren.” I couldn't tell if that was a joke or not; he seemed a tad irritated.

  “I don't think girls ever grow up enough to forget about Prince Charming.”

  “Yeah, that's apparent.” His tone changed, and I noticed that he really did look a little bothered. It seemed that our playful conversation had become not so playful for him. I moved to his side and pushed my side against him softly, giving him a nudge.

  “Hey, it's not like there are real princes around here. I'm aware it's a fantasy; we are here in America after all—land of the free and land of no tyrant kings with charming, handsome princes anyway.”

  He still looked irritated.

  “Ry? Are you mad? Seriously, if we ever play princess again—”

  He looked up at me with a smirk.

  “I'll let you be my knight, and I won’t even mention a prince, okay?” I smiled my biggest smile, shocked by how easily I'd fallen back to the old Emma again, talking to Ryker about princesses and knights—a completely random topic of conversation. I needed that.

  “Promise?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  He bowed.

  I laughed, a sad, strangled laugh, but it was something—progress? He touched my shoulder, sending his warmth through me. Finally, I thought. I needed his warmth. I stopped my sad attempt at laughing to focus on his warmth.

  “You’re an idiot, you know that?” I reached out to touch him again because I needed more warmth. I wrapped my arms around him and let the warmth from him unthaw me for a bit. I didn't feel my heartbeat, nor did I feel my blood pumping, but being warm was an improvement from the daily empty cold that haunted me within.

  “I'm gonna miss you,” Ryker spoke into my hair.

  “I'm going to miss you, too. You sure you can't convince your dad to let you stay?” I looked at him, pleading.

  He gave me a sad smile as he touched my cheek, feeding me even more warmth.

  I leaned into him.

  “I wish I could,” he whispered, his face was so very close to mine at that moment. We looked into each other’s eyes, and a little tune that reminded me of Ryker played in my head, so quietly, so softly, almost as if it were a shadow of a song and not a complete melody, but I hung onto it anyway because it reminded me of him. I seemed to have created a theme song for him in my mind. It was strange, but I had made it up long before, and, of course, I would never tell him that embarrassing fact. He looked at my lips, and I looked at his. He licked his lips and then lifted one hand from around my waist to tussle his hair, and I stepped back—cold again. I felt the snake within me curl tighter around my heart, making it more difficult to breath. What just happened? Did he want to kiss me? I waited for excitement, butterflies in my stomach, to come—but I felt nothing, nothing but the snake within burrowing inside deeper and deeper. I tried to ignore it. Did I not want his kisses? What would it be like, kissing Ryker? Would it feel like fire and warmth? I cringed at my thoughts. I couldn't use him, just to make myself feel better. He deserved a girl who was whole, who had a heart to give, not someone like me who used him like a heating pad. I hated myself at that moment.

  Ryker left the next day, and while I wasn't happy about the Ryker-less summer ahead of me, I started to think that perhaps it was for the best. He was a crutch for me. When I was at my lowest, I searched him out—and his warmth. When I wanted to curl up into a ball and die, he was there, telling me all would be well. Maybe I needed to get over things on my own, without my knight in shining armor to rescue me each time I needed saving.

  Who

  UP IN THE ATTIC, I found the dusty cobweb-filled boxes from my parents’ pasts. The therapist that Mary made me see, “and just for a little while,” she had promised, had told me that the process of mourning came in stages, and blah-blah-blah—yeah, not going to lie, I wasn't fully listening. However, Mary did remind me that going through some of their things could be healing and therapeutic. So every week when I was not working at the flower shop, I would sift through the items in that dark, dusty attic. It made me, at first, feel incredibly sad, and I was annoyed at Mary and that stupid therapist for suggesting it. The days were getting hotter, and I was covered in dust and sweat after each attic adventure. I had been surprised at the lack of baby pictures of my father and mother. Actually, there were not any pictures at all from their youth. Not just no pictures, but there were no toys and no small trinkets from their childhoods, not even clothing—no pictures of their parents—nothing. I realized that while, yes, I knew that both sets of my grandparents were dead, I had never once seen a picture of them. I wondered why that was.

  “Mary, why didn’t my parents have any pictures of my grandparents? I cannot find a single one.” Mary had just gotten home from the flower shop and was resting on the couch.

  She sat right up, her face paling.

  “Mary?” I asked, confused at her reaction.

  “Uh, well—you see, dear.” She had a cup of water in her hand, and she set it on the table as she turned to me. “There was a fire.”

  “A fire?” I whispered, sitting beside her and closing my eyes. Why had I never heard that story before?

  “Before you were born, there was a fire, and most of their pictures and things were destroyed.” Mary took a sip of her water, and I watched her in silence as she did so, and then watched the water move about the glass as she shakily set it down on the coffee table.

  “But, you must have at least one picture of your parents, right?”

  “I was living with your parents at the time. We all lost everything.” Mary wasn’t looking me in the eyes; her strange behavior had to be due to the pain which was so apparent, I thought. I didn’t press further. I realized that to lose images of the ones you loved would be completely heartbreaking. I couldn’t imagine not having my parents’ images to look at when I needed a reminder of them, or when I missed them. I left her alone and walked to my bedroom, mourning for myself as I came to the realization that I would never see the faces of the people wh
o gave my parents life.

  The next day, I found myself back in the attic. I sifted through my father's college books that weighed the same amount as a small car, wondering why he had saved them. The books were mostly science, biology, and other medical stuff. I flipped through the pages of his books, wondering if he had touched the same pages in his youth. All those books, while priceless to him and to his career as a physician, were not priceless to me. I would not be keeping those books, and somehow it felt right as I carried them downstairs and placed them in the trunk of Mary’s car and then closed it. It felt right that I should donate them so that others, who were interested in the same things as my father, might benefit from their pages.

  The following morning, I opened a box full of my mother's things. They were less heavy, but were a jumbled mess—as if she was gathering her life up as fast as she could into this brown cardboard box. Her box held lots of letters. The collection of letters ranged from letters from my dad, to letters from friends, to birthday cards. There were also programs from plays that she had seen and even a few movie tickets were in the mess. It felt good and yet miserable to look at my parents’ lives in those boxes. I carried the letters from my father to my mother and set them on my bed. I wanted to read them before bed that night. As I walked down the hall and placed the small box of letters down on my bed, Mary appeared in my doorway.

  “I worry that you are going through their things too fast, sweetheart.” Mary leaned against the doorframe, looking at the box on my bed.

  “I just—I just want to get it over with. I mean, it’s hard being up there, but I just want to go through it all and then, hopefully, move past all the things I never knew about them and try to get to the place where I can be who they wanted me to be.”