Prologue
Emory
"Even in the darkest depths, hope can be the hand that pulls us to thesurface."
Dark, cold, weightless... lost in a stygian ethereal realm. I feel my arms floating, a tugboat trudging into an equanimous sea. My chest is burning as metaphorical flames are caning my lungs, and numbing silence entrances me. Strands of my sandy blonde hair dance with the flow of the water. Like a blanket, it surrounds me, begging me to surrender to its cold embrace.
I pull at my seatbelt one last time, my vigor dampened by prior efforts. Hoping it gives, praying I will be able to swim to safety... to no avail. I look around one last time before my chest begins to heave. It tightens as the air escapes, and water fills my respiratory system. My eyes get heavy as all the energy drains like a pinhole in a balloon.
Suddenly, I feel pressure around my waist, prying me from what was meant to be my watery grave. I hear the sloshing of the water partitioning, yielding beneath my savior's shoes. The snow sinks as it welcomes the weight of my body. Sirens, like banshees, blare. Evelyn’s tear-stricken screams gradually amplify as she draws nearer, calling my name, howling like a lone wolf baying at the moon.
Another voice drowns hers out... softer... closer. "Emory," it whispers my name—dripping with concern and laced with a hint of anger, cloaking his fear in a false sense of calm. "Emory," the velvety notes float on the soft winter breeze. For a moment, everything else is quiet. A safe feeling washes over me.
He speaks again, "Close your eyes, Dove,” like lyrics to a song I never knew I needed. I zero in on the word ‘Dove,’ or did he say ‘love’? A diluted English accent and a concussion make it difficult to decipher. I drift to sleep listening as he begins to sing, and for a moment, I am warm in the arms of a stranger—a stranger who saved me.
Chapter 1
Emory
"Family wounds run deep. but so does the love that binds us throughevery storm"
It has been one week since the accident—that dreaded car accident that imposed itself so selfishly on my life. Not much has changed. Who am I kidding? Everything has changed. My mom now spends every waking moment with her new boyfriend, Peter—he is brawny, and as a police officer, it’s expected. He stands about six feet tall with fiery red hair so bright it makes his emerald eyes glow. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to sound like I am complaining, it’s just been years since our mom was able to express herself to anyone who wasn’t Evelyn or myself. She had been so miserable after our father disappeared.
I want to say, we were only ten when he left. It was a Tuesday in the middle of spring. Evelyn and I had just walked in from a long day at school, to find our mother passed out at the edge of her bed.Her face flushed, her eyes red from crying, snot pouring from her raw, crimson nose. We woke her up, trying our best to be gentle.
When she finally told us what happened, my sister and I could barely keep from crying ourselves, fearing it was our fault for his leaving. As a form of reconciliation, we would receive letters sporadically. Nevertheless, they stopped just as quickly as they started.
∞∞∞
Jumping forward a few years, we discovered our mom wailing on the kitchen floor, and that is where the abhorrence for our father stemmed. Every night after, she would sit up staring at his photo, crying for the gods to bring him back. Occasionally, I would still catch her, teary-eyed, looming over his portrait. One would think, after that, a hatred would form. Instead, when my sister or I would show distress or disdain, she would tell us, "It's not your fault. He loved the two of you so much," or "Don't ever speak of your father in that way.” You know, the way you would if a loved one had died, or something along those lines. In my mind, he was off somewhere, living life without the responsibility of twin girls.
Evelyn was born precisely five minutes after me. We were different in many ways. I loved to keep my dirty blonde hair at shoulder length, so it fell strategically around my heart-shaped face. My sister, on the other hand, was adorned with stunning Brunette hair that trickled down her back, making her already shimmering sapphire eyes brighter.
She stood a whole head taller than me and had no problem keeping her athletic build just that—fit. I was of short staturewith a solid build. We also shared the unique connection where we could sense each other's pain. Our mother didn’t believe us at first. That was until the night of Evelyn’s first major incident.
It happened a few years ago, we were maybe eighteen. My mother and I were dancing in the kitchen, singing to fifties hits. We were swirling and twirling as it belted from our stereo. She grabbed my hand, spun me twice, and dipped me just as the song ended, then faded out. A familiar melody took its place—it was Evelyn's song, which would often be played during her absence when thoughts of her would arise, and the sense of missing her became overwhelming.
The sorrowful melody bled from the speaker, invading my ear canals, until I acknowledged it was “Kentucky Rain” by Elvis Presley. Once it sank in, a sickly feeling twisted my stomach, and tears prickled the back of my eyes. Then, like a semi, it hit me—claws from the darkest demon, long and sharp, ripping the self-made water from my ducts.
I cried so hard that Niagara Falls would have been overshadowed in National Geographic, from the outpouring that bounded down my face. As I felt the panic ripple over my skin like the shockwave after an explosion, I was jolted back to reality and then pivoted left, facing my mom, and the terror painted across her angelic porcelain image. My voice broke. My mind was frantic. I pleaded for my phone. The need to get a hold of her was dire. I had to make sure she was safe.
Once at the hospital, the nurse relayed the news to us. It was a five-car pile-up, yet she walked away unscathed. Our mother never doubted us after that. So, you can only imagine the betrayal I felt when I heard Evelyn had checked herself into rehab. I was floored. I didn't even know she had a problem. All I knew was that she blamedherself for the accident. I tried to reassure her it was not her fault, but she wouldn't listen. I don't remember much. All I remember is:
It was December 21st, the first day of Yule, also known as Mother's Night. My father was Asatru, meaning he believed in the “Old Ways,” at least that’s what I remember he called it. Our mom continued with celebrating the wheel of the year to symbolize “keeping his memory fresh.” That night, a friend of ours was having a baby shower. Evelyn and I stopped at the store to get a gift, then headed over. She lived just over the bridge on Bird in Hand, about an hour or so from our house in Dover.
It was cold, even for Pennsylvania weather. The snow fell in sporadic spirals, sticking to the already blinding, white knolls. The party was great. A handful of ladies showed up, and we drank and had a merry time. I may have had a little too much to drink, and that is where things start to get fuzzy. Lily’s voice rang out above the dwindling hustle and bustle of the late-night function. “Hey Emory!” She pulled me aside.” The storm is picking up, and it’s starting to look pretty rough outside. Do you and Evelyn want to wait it out? See if it lightens up?”
I peeked over her shoulder and out the frosted window that was displayed across the living room. When I looked back at Lily, I gave her a gentle nod, then ran off in search of Evelyn to inform her of the situation presented before me. I found her upstairs, sleeping next to the toilet in the guest bathroom. At that moment, I called out for Lily. I knelt alongside my sister as I tried to wake her.
When I realized she was still breathing but not waking up, I assumed she was more intoxicated than I was. Once Lily was within earshot, I asked if there was a place for Evelyn to sleep it off. Lily’shusband, Brent, carried her to the couch in the den and laid her down softly. As I sat in the chair beside her, I too succumbed to sleep.
∞∞∞
I am awoken by the buzzing of my phone, on the cushion beside me. I pulled it out of my pocket to examine the bright LED screen, squinting through the sleep that crusted my eyes. I barely made out the word ’mom’ before I was berated by her not-so-quiet, blubbering on the other end. “Where are you two? Are you okay? Why didn’t you message me?” Like nails on a chalkboard, her voice exacerbated the migraine that was once subdued.
I groaned, “Sorry, Mom. We will be heading out there soon. Must have fallen asleep. We just wanted to wait for the weather to clear up until we knew it was safe. See you soon. Yep, love you too. Bye.” I hang up as I reach over to shake Evelyn awake. She released a low growl as she turned to face me.
I jumped back at the sight of her, and man, did she look like shit. I wondered if she was still drunk. No matter—we had to head out. “Do you need me to drive? Mom is freaking out, and it would be best to hit the road.” She rolled to her side, making it easier for her to carry on a conversation with me. Her eyes were like an ocean bleeding the blackest ink as her makeup ran down her face. “That bad, huh?” I asked. She used the sleeve of her sweater to wipe her nose.
