Beane Odette - Reawakened - A Once Upon A Time Tale

Again they rode in silence; only this time Emma couldn’t wait to get home, get back to her normal life. She looked at the back of Regina’s head, her hair perfectly sculpted and trapped in place. You can’t just insert yourself into someone else’s life. Maybe this woman was a bitch, sure, but she had raised Henry. Emma owed her respect. She owed her space. She had been out of line. Find him, get out — that’s what she would do.

She had nearly said something to this effect when Graham chirped up.

— Here we are, then, — he said. They’d arrived at the school.

Mary Margaret Blanchard looked, somehow, exactly like Emma had expected her to look based on her name: petite and pretty, with close-cropped dark hair, at once both demure and — judging by the sparkle in her eye — potentially somewhat feisty. They arrived just as her class was filing out of the room, and when Regina asked her about her credit card, she paused for a moment, thinking. Emma could see that she was remembering the precise moment Henry had tricked her and stolen it, even before she went to her purse to check. She nodded, looking through her wallet.

— Clever boy, — she said. — I never should have given him that book.

— What is this book I keep hearing about? — Regina said.

— It’s a book of stories I thought might help Henry, — she said. — He’s a creative boy. He’s special. We both know that. He needed stimulation.

Regina seemed to have heard enough, or to have detected an insult in what Miss Blanchard said. She huffed, shook her head, and turned to Graham.

— Come on, let’s go find Henry. This is useless. — She turned back to Mary Margaret. — What he needs, Miss Blanchard, is a reality. Facts. Truth. He doesn’t need stories.

Mary Margaret said nothing, merely raised her eyebrows. Regina stormed out of the room, followed by Graham.

Mary Margaret smiled kindly at Emma.

— Welcome to Storybrooke? — she said, and this time it sounded more like a joke, and Emma smiled. Feisty was right — she liked this woman.

— I’m afraid this is partly my fault, — Mary Margaret said, crossing the room and beginning to organize her desk. — He’s been so alone lately. I just thought he needed stories. — She thought about this for a moment, then looked at Emma. — What do you think stories are for?

— Burning up some time? — Emma offered. She thought it was a strange question to ask.

— I think they’re a way for us to understand our own world, — Mary Margaret said. — In a new way. — She shook her head. — Regina is sometimes hard on Henry, but his problems go so much deeper than that. He’s like so many adopted children — angry, confused. Wondering why anyone could have ever… — She stopped herself, realized who she was talking to. Emma had felt herself tearing up and was glad Mary Margaret hadn’t said it out loud. It was the chink in her armor, talking about parents.

— It’s okay, — Emma said quickly. — It’s old news.

— I don’t mean to judge, — Mary Margaret said. — I apologize. I think I gave Henry the book just to give him what no one around here seems to have. A new feeling. The feeling of hope.

She sounded sad — strong and sad at the same time. Emma realized that Mary Margaret was talking about herself.

— You know where he is, don’t you? — Emma said.

Mary Margaret cocked her head and sighed.

— Well, — she said. — I can’t say for sure. But you might want to try his castle.

She did.

Henry’s «castle» was a bit of a dump.

That’s what Emma thought, anyway, as she pulled up to the playground near the edge of town. It was beside the ocean and it overlooked the breakwater. From her VW, Emma could see Henry sitting on the second floor of a shoddy wooden structure with a single spired roof. He was cross-legged, staring down. She reached for his book.

— You can’t keep running away, kid, — Emma said to him, once she’d trudged up to the rickety structure. — People will worry.

— No they won’t, — he said. — They don’t care.

— I got your book, — she said. — You left it in my car.

He took it and said, — This is supposed to be the start of the final battle. The whole big thing.

— At some point you gotta grow up and move past this stuff, Henry, — she tried. — Stories are great. But eventually you have to look at the real world. — She didn’t like how much she sounded like Regina, but it was true — it wasn’t good to believe in things that weren’t true. It left you vulnerable. That was pretty much the only life lesson she had to offer, and she lived by it.

— You don’t have to be mean.

— Kid, that’s not…

— But it’s okay, I know why you gave me away.

Emma felt her throat tightening. He was looking at her now, a sweet smile on his face. God, Emma thought. This kid knows how to get me.

— You wanted to give me the best chance I could have, — he said. — I know you did it for me.

She couldn’t keep the tears from welling in her eyes. She wanted to pick him up and hug him, hold him to her chest. She’d given him away once, and now here she was, doing it all over again… and somehow, it didn’t hurt any less this time around.

She managed to say, — How — how do you know that, Henry?

— Because it’s exactly why Snow White gave you up, — he said, proud of himself for his logic.

Emma looked at the book in his lap. Stories to help us understand our world. Mary Margaret did have a point about that.

— We have to get you home, Henry, — she said. — I’m not in that book. There’s not gonna be a final battle. But I am real. And I do want you in my life. Somehow.

— Don’t make me go back there.

— Where? — she said. — To your home? Where people care about you? I never had that. They found me on the side of a highway. That’s where my parents left me. I was in the foster system when I was your age. The closest I ever came to having what you have is three months here, three months there. And then I got sent back. You have something stable, something good. You’re safe, Henry. You’re wanted.

— They didn’t leave you on the side of the highway, though, — Henry insisted. — That’s just where you came through. In the wardrobe.

Emma had no idea what wardrobe he was talking about, but she could see he wasn’t going to be able to give up his fantasy. Not yet. Maybe soon, maybe in a few years. Maybe when he found out about girls. But she was tired of trying to talk him into a reality.

— Come on, kid, — she said, holding out her hand. — Let’s get you home.

— Stay with me.

Snow White had found him on the floor, bleeding, barely conscious. He’d been run through, and he lay still now, quietly staring at the ceiling, his breath shallow, his eyes glassy. Snow held her beloved’s hand, weeping. She was now too weak to move — she had used all of her energy to get to him. The Queen’s soldiers had invaded the castle, searching the wardrobe and the rest of the workshop, ignoring her as she tended to her dying husband. But he had succeeded. Baby Emma was safe. The wardrobe had gone through to the other side. She kissed him on the cheek.

— Stay with me, my love, — she whispered.

— Oh, how truly lovely.

Snow White shuddered at the sound of the voice. She’d heard it her whole life; she’d heard it grow colder and colder over the years. She’d heard hope and happiness seep out of it day by day. She’d heard it at the wedding.

Snow looked up at the Queen, who was looking disdainfully at one of her own knights.

— The child? — she said. — Give her to me.