One book I couldn't let go off was the book she used to read stories from when I was a little girl. Or at least I thought it was that book, until I realized none of these were written as stories she used to tell me. The concept was more or less the same, but these myths were written as if the author had lived through them together with these heroes.
They were written as if Greek Gods were real and not just pre-Christian deities created by humankind because they needed something to believe in.
I wasn't a religious person, no matter which religion was in question, and seeing these stories so realistically written sent shivers all over my body as I sat down to read them. And I didn't miss the ripped-out pages where the story of Hades and Persephone was supposed to be, or the unfinished one about Demeter, Persephone's mother. It was uncanny, this feeling of sadness the moment I touched those pages as if something inside me wanted just them.
Nothing made sense anymore, least of all the fact that Nevermere Island technically didn't exist. Well, not just technically.
It did not existat all. It wasn't on any of the maps, and the internet didn't share much except for a few weird forums that made my head hurt more than they resolved anything.
One person wrote that the Nevermere was just a myth, a story told by sailors that came too close to death. Another person said her mother visited it when she was younger, but no one could explain where it was or how to get there.
I was reading through yet another forum when the shrill sound of my phone's ringtone had me jumping up from the couch, pulling me back from the weird stories I had found online.
The papers scattered around me as I stood up and one of the books that were on my lap fell down on the floor with a thud. It was a book about the Greek Gods. The book with ripped-out pages and probably the one that was giving me the biggest headache.
It opened in the middle, where the story of Hades and Persephone was supposed to be, and as I walked around the table toward the shelf on the right-hand side of the room to pick up my phone, I couldn't stop thinking about all the stories my mom had told me. She rarely ever told us stories about Disney princesses or the stories written by the Grimm brothers.
It was always Greek mythology and always the stories about heroes and the Gods and their wicked ways. But why? Why would she spend so much time telling us about those even when we grew up, urging both Thalia and me to learn as much as possible about ancient Greece?
Picking up my phone, my eyes zeroed in on the name showing on the display, making me smile for the first time today. Or was the first time in the last two days?
"I'm still alive," I said as I pressed on the green button to answer the phone. "You don't have to send the police to look for me, Ingrid."
"I really hate you today. We agreed you'd be checking in daily with me, didn't we?"
"We did," I sighed, and sat down on the couch, picking up the fallen book from the floor. "But I was kinda busy." That was the understatement of the year.
It took me a moment to realize that the only light in the room was the one coming from the screen of the laptop I had open, and as I looked out through the window I could see the streetlights turned on and the darkness surrounding the neighboring houses. "I've been going through my mom's boxes,Ingrid," I said after a small pause, letting both her and me digest what I've just said.
She, more than anyone else, knew how difficult all of this was for me, and she understood probably better than most people how I felt. Which was why she didn't push for the longest time, until it became obvious that I needed someone to push me, or rather to pull me out of the darkness I had secluded myself into.
Ingrid lost her entire family in a fire when she was barely ten years old, forcing her to move from Colombia to the United States where her uncle lived with his family. She would always say that she had an amazing life and they were great, but they weren't her parents no matter how much they tried to fill that void in her heart.
So, yeah. She understood me better than any of my other friends, and she tried to be there as much as possible. We weren't living in the same city anymore, not with me moving out of New York, but she was the closest person I had right now and I didn't mind her demands to check in daily.
"I'm sorry I didn't text you."
"I thought you were dead," she said after staying silent for a minute. "I really fucking thought I would need to get down there and I'd find your body somewhere on the floor, Ira." I winced at that, because the last thing I wanted was for her to worry about me. She had enough on her plate, what with a small child and a husband who had just lost his job, and I didn't want to be yet another person she had to think about.
Not right now.
I took a deep breath and leaned back against the cushions. "I'm okay. Well, as okay as I can be, I guess." Reading through my mom's journals didn't suddenly erase the fact that they weren't here anymore, but it was something.
Maybe it was silly, but going through her journals made me feel as if she was still here. No matter how fucked up theinformation was there, it was as if a part of her was there with me as I read through them, and I was both angry and sad she wasn't the one to tell me about this secret.
And it definitely was a secret, given that neither she nor my dad found it necessary to tell me the truth. I couldn't understand their reasons, but I'm sure they had a damn good one, and I refused to stay angry at those that couldn't even defend themselves right now. They couldn't tell me why they hid the truth. She couldn't tell me why she ran away or why my biological father stayed behind.
"I found something, Ingrid. Something… Man." I leaned forward, placing the phone on the table right next to the laptop, and put the call on speakerphone. "I don't know where to start. I don't even know if I can say this out loud." I wasn't sure I could admit it fully to myself.
"What happened?" Ingrid immediately asked, and I could hear the rustling in the background as if she sat down. "Are you okay? Do you need me to come there?"
"No, I… I just don't know how to voice it. It still seems surreal even thinking about it." I pressed a button on the keyboard, letting the laptop screen illuminate, and then I unlocked it. "My father," I started. "My father, Benjamin, isn't really my father," I blurted out, unable to voice it in any other way. I was pretty sure I was operating in a state of shock.
"Did you just say your father isn't your father?" Ingrid asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Are you drunk, Ira?" Yeah, I was asking myself the same thing.
That, or if I was actually hallucinating.
"No." I chuckled, seeing the post about Nevermere Island I haven't opened before. "I wish I was. I'm not high, or drunk, and I'm not hallucinating, Ingrid." I hovered over the title and clicked on it, seeing a longer post than the other ones. "I started reading her journal from 1996," I added, ignoring the text onthe screen for now. "And she admitted it herself. Someone called Atos is my real father, not Benjamin."
