Coral’s ears perked. She sat straighter in her chair. She searched for malice in Miss Brandes’s eyes but found only eagerness.
This human was complimenting her? What was the catch?
“The winning entry goes on to the state competition. From there, first place would get your work published in a nationwide anthology.”
What did Coral care about contests and anthologies? She’d never been good enough to fit within her own family. How was this different?
Miss Brandes closed the file and laced her fingers over it. “You have a chance to start fresh here. Your grandmother filled me in on some things.”
Of course she had. More distrust grew for the woman who’d helped raise her.
“I wonder how you’d feel about me referring you to a therapist. She travels, but she’s in town the second and fourth Tuesday of every month. She also does video chat sessions if that works better for you. Your grandmother says you deal with anxiety? Is that why you didn’t share last night?”
Why must they insist on meddling? Didn’t they know there was no cure for the Disease?
Coral shook her head. “I didn’t want to share.” What would she say? That her sister had been taken by Red Tide and now Coral wished it had taken her instead?
“I see,” Miss Brandes said. “You know, a lot of writers deal with anxiety when speaking in a large group. They find it much easier to express their voices on the page.” She backed away from the desk and rose to her feet. “Consider the contest, okay? I’m here to talk if you need me. And if you change your mind about the therapist, here’s her card.”
Coral took the small piece of cardstock and stuffed it in her bag without a glance. “May I go now?” She couldn’t stay in that office one more minute. It was too much to try to understand why this strange woman was being so kind.
“My door is open.”
When she was free, Coral swiped at her dry eyes and ran to the coastline. Shells bit at her soles and the water tugged at her ankles. She looked up at the white houses along the hills with walls of windows and balconies that overlooked the ocean. Then she wrote. She wrote until she couldn’t write any more.
For an afternoon, Coral forgot about the prince she was supposed to find and the hatred she was meant to have.
Instead, she thought of colors, and the music they once made.
Twenty-Six
Brooke
After
I find Jake alone in the gathering room.
It’s different, warmer than my previous venture here. Another two months until summer, but I can already feel the new season inside this room. Yellow daisies dress the windowsill and the heat from the afternoon sun bathes every surface in an orange hue.
I welcome the colors that have started to grow vibrant again with winter’s end.
“Our first real one-on-one.” Jake draws my attention away. “I can hardly believe it.”
“Me either.” Nerves unearth old insecurities. I find my neutral perch on the chaise I sat on my first day. This time I fold my legs beneath me and sit back, allowing myself to get comfortable.
Jake sits across from me, and I brace for the thousand questions she’s kept at bay these months.
I fidget with the tassel on a throw pillow.
“Nice bracelet,” Jake says. “Is that new?”
The question takes me aback. I glance at my wrist. At the pearls I’d tossed in a drawer earlier this year. Why did I put them on this morning? Nostalgia?
“They were a gift.” I don’t elaborate.
She doesn’t push me. “You must have so many stories, Brooke.”
I start, stare. This is the part where I’d normally let off a smart remark, up my defense. But I’m tired, and despite the fact that freezing to death is months behind me, I’ve never quite been able to shake off the cold. I tuck my socked feet in between the cushions and sigh.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
I avoid her gaze, but a glance sideways reveals she holds no tablet. No clipboard. No recorder. I’m still skeptical, but . . .
Has Jake ever given me a reason not to trust her?
“Why did you save me? You knew I wanted to die.”
“I knew you thought you wanted to die.”
“Same thing.”
“Is it?”
I rub my arms, shift so the sun finds my skin. “I don’t know.”
Jake stands. She lifts the lid off the ottoman a few feet away, withdraws a knit blanket. She sets it on the edge of the chaise, a few inches from my thigh. An invitation.
Finding her seat again, she nods. “It’s okay not to know, Brooke. That’s the first step toward healing. Knowing that we don’t have all the answers all the time. Understanding there isn’t always a why and sometimes we feel the way we feel because we do. And that’s okay.”
I want to believe her. So. Much. I’ve been prodded with questions from the doctors at the hospital. People from my past told me to move on. But Jake has allowed me to be exactly where I am.
And here I wanted to believe she was another villain in this tragic tale.
“What do you want, Brooke? Right now. Right here. Do you want to die?” Her forward question holds nothing back, but a sensitivity lingers there too.
I don’t respond for a stretch. Then, “I want to start over.” It isn’t until I say the words aloud that I realize they’re true.
“Fathoms is the perfect place to do that. When I received a call about you last fall, asking if we had an opening, I sensed you were someone special.”
It’s the first time we’ve talked about it. What brought me here. And who I left behind. “She wanted what was best for me, I think.” I only wish I noticed sooner.
“You’ll be eighteen in December.” Jake clasps her hands between her knees. Hunches her back. “We’re here for the now, but we also try to help young women like you who are nearing adulthood. I know the idea of school can be overwhelming, but we have opportunities. College campus visits take place over the summer. We set you up with a student mentor. It’s a great experience and one I highly recommend.”
A few months ago I would have laughed at the idea. Rolled my eyes. Now expectation and possibility swell, awakening something inside. “Okay.”
“Glad to hear it. Course tutors come in on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I’ll shoot a message to your tutor and let her know you’d like some program information. Do you have any particular interests?”
“Reading. And writing. Sometimes.”
“Have you ever thought about writing down what happened?”
I shrug. I’ve more than thought about it. “I’ve tried. But it’s like reliving the past. Going through everything all over again. I can’t even talk about it. How am I supposed to write it down?”
“That’s one way to look at it.” Jake taps her lips with one finger, then gestures toward the bookcase. “But what about writing it as if it happened to someone else?”
“Someone else?”
“You know, like a story you’re removed from. It still becomes concrete. Valid. Permanent. But putting those experiences on a page, through the eyes of your characters, the control shifts. Rather than those thoughts controlling you, you have the power. You’re free.”
Free? Impossible. “I’ll think about it.” I haven’t written anything in ages. How will I know where to begin?
“That’s all I ask.” She rises, then pauses at the sliding barn door. “When you use your voice, whether through speech or the written word, it has a way of healing. And healing is what we’re all about here at Fathoms.”