Her words cut deep into my heart, but there was something in her tone that convinced me. Whatever else she’d been doing to Papa, I was certain now that he hadn’t had a heart attack.
But how? And why? Did she wait until she was sure she was pregnant? What was the point of that? My chest tightened at the thought of my unborn sibling, innocent and unaware of the kind of life he or she was going to come into.
Arabesque’s gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, then she turned on her heel and left, and I pressed a hand to my mouth, fighting against the rising panic. My father was gone, and I was alone, trapped in a house that was no longer my home.
Scrambling to my feet, I fled to my room and collapsed on the bed, covering my ears so I couldn’t hear the sounds of destruction, hear them erasing Papa. As my heart shattered into a million pieces, I made a decision. If nothing else, I would protect my unborn sibling, the last piece of Papa. There was no one else to do it. I had to make sure thattheydidn’t snuff out his or her light before it even had a chance to shine.
I would also find a way to make Arabesque and her daughters leave, to reclaim my home, my memories, and my parents’ legacy.
As night fell, the house grew quiet again, and I grabbed the only opportunity I was likely to get. Creeping out of my room, I hurried down the hallway as fast as I could and slipped outside.
The night air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and the hint of coming rain. I crouched in the shadows, my heart pounding as I watched for any movement. The world seemed to hold its breath with me and, after a moment of stillness, I moved toward the trash bins, my senses on high alert.
In the mess of discarded memories, I found a familiar shape, the large conch shell that had always sat on Papa’s dresser. Next, a purple ribbon, then a pudding stone, and finally the fishing rod. It was the hardest to look at. All that was left was the handle and reel, which had a crack in the cover.
Trash tothem, maybe, but not to me. Never to me.
Knowing I had to return before I was seen, I slipped back into the sleeping house, careful to skip the spots of the floor that groaned. As I closed my bedroom door silently behind me, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Face pale, eyes red-rimmed, curls tangled and wild. I looked like a ghost.
And if I’m not careful, that’s what Arabesque and her horrible daughters will turn me into. Just like they did to Papa.
I opened my closet door and sat on the floor, my back against the wall, surrounded by the fragments I’d salvaged. The conch shell’s pastel interior gleamed as I turned it over in my hands. It whispered of laughter and sand and warmth as I pressed it to my ear, letting the memories wash over me like the waves it had come from.
My fingers drifted to the reel next and mourned for the loss of the rod. Papa’s faithful companion on countless dawn trips to the lake. I remembered the way his hands had guided mine, patient and steady, as he taught me how to cast.
You’ve got a knack for it, kiddo,he’d said, his voice warm and full of pride.
I ran my thumb over the reel’s damaged area, catching my skin on a metal burr. The pain was sharp, but it wasreal. As real ashehad been, despite Arabesque’s efforts to erase him.
Setting it down, I picked up the first-place ribbon, the purple fabric silky against my fingers. I remember how Papa had beamed with pride to see it lying next to his apple pie at the fair.
You’re my real prize, though, Seri,he’d whispered in my ear.
Last but not least, the pudding stone, almost as big as my fist and flecked with reds and yellows and black. Mama’s wolf, Feather, had found it on one of our long weekend rambles. Papa had tumbled it until it was smooth and shiny, and it had always made me think of gumdrop nougat candy. A sobby little chuckle slipped out as I remembered Papa’s story about how I’d tried to bite it when I was five.
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked outside my door, the sound making me flinch. I held my breath, praying no one had heard me. My stepsisters would delight in finding me like this, vulnerable and weak, and Arabesque? I didn’t even want to think about whatshe’ddo.
I knew I’d eventually have to face them, to pretend I wasn’t breaking, wasn’t drowning in grief and fear, but for now, I savored my precious treasures. Other than photo albums and books, this was all I had left of Mama and Papa. Of us. Of the life we’d had beforethem.
I pushed myself to my feet and stored each item in the back of my closet, covering them with an old blanket, then climbed into bed and closed my eyes.
“Please, keep me safe,” I whispered into the darkness, hoping the plea reached the Moon Goddess’ ears.
#
Two days passed, each one a blur of numbness and pain, until I found myself alone at the family cemetery one afternoon, the earthstill fresh over my father’s grave. The sun hung low, casting long shadows that stretched like skeletal fingers across the ground.
The smooth granite headstone stood firm against the shadowed forest, cold and unyielding like the truth settling in my bones. Papa was gone, laid beside Mama to sleep for eternity. My fingers trembled as they traced the letters of his name. The fall breeze carried a biting chill, or maybe it was the emptiness inside me stretching wider, consuming what little warmth remained.
A slow clap shattered the silence, and I jumped to my feet. Whirling around, I saw Arabesque at the cemetery gates, her eyes gleaming with something I couldn’t understand as she clapped.
“Touching. Really.” She dropped her hands, but stayed where she was. “You’ve wasted enough time grieving, however. Time to go back to work, my dear stepdaughter.”
“Youdid this.” I swallowed hard, forcing down the anger rising in my throat.
“Did what, dear?” She tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Gave your papa the honor of a burial? Of course I did. I wouldn’t be so cruel as to leave the father of my unborn child to rot in the morgue.”
“Youkilledmy papa.” My hands curled into fists, nails biting into my palms.
