Ingrid Seymour - Ignite the Shadows

She takes my hand. Her touch is feverish, intense. I stare at her alabaster fingers pressed against my olive skin, my dad’s skin. I wonder if she hates me because I remind her of him, of what she can’t have. Or maybe expecting her to compare me to Dad is too much to expect. I’ve never been enough like him to make her happy. Never been at all like her to make her proud.

I always wondered what my brother would look like—if he would be like Dad, like me. I never thought we could be so different. In every imaginable way.

“Sorry,” I say, pulling my hand away. “I …”

Lie .

Relax .

“I was … I needed to think.”

She exhales and beams in a way I haven’t seen her beam in years. She lights up the room and I’m eclipsed, obscured by new reasons.

“I contacted the police. It was him, Marci. It was him. That awful man is dead. And Max … your friend has to be Max. They’ll begin an investigation.” Her voice cracks with joy, her cheeks glitter with tears made of hope.

Me? I feel myself go pale. I’m a ghost.

“Tell me about him.” Mom grabs me by the elbows, pushes me into the living room and stuffs me in the sofa. It’s kindergarten all over again, where eager kids pestered me until I share all my secrets.

“No,” I say.

Her lips make a small circle, her eyebrows a crease above her nose. “No? You know him, right?”

“I … don’t think so.”

“You’ve had classes together, I would guess. Is he … tall? Smart? Kind?”

My eyes find a speck on the far wall. “He looks like you,” I say and after a pause, “can I go? I didn’t sleep good last night. I’d like to rest.”

Mom stands, frustration painting her face red.

“I don’t understand you. Aren’t you glad we’ve found him?”

“I am, Mom.” I nod, my voice monotone. “It’s good to see you happy. I think you’ll like him.”

Mom, I don’t have to be strong for you now, don’t have to pretend I’m okay. You got your heart’s desire. And maybe when you’ve traveled that road you’ve craved, your regrets will be for me.

Closed casket .

I look away from it, fidget and ignore Mom’s restless energy. Her eyes are glued on the blond boy in the black suit. The boy who sits very still staring at the carpet, blue eyes void of the cocky liveliness I’m used to seeing in them.

Mom is dying to talk to him, to spill years of longing onto his lap. But she sits there, smiling and frowning all in the same second, containing her desire to tell it all.

A few brave classmates approach Luke and offer their condolences. He barely acknowledges them. I wonder what I should do; what he will think of my silence once he learns the truth?

Deep breath .

I decide to be brave like the others. I’m about to walk his way, when Luke stands, stuffs his hands into his pockets and walks away. Mom watches his every move.

“Where are you going?” she asks when I stand.

“Restroom,” I lie. “Be right back.”

As I pretend to go toward the bathroom, my gaze follows Luke. He goes through a set of French doors that lead outside. Unnoticed by Mom, I sneak into a corridor. The funeral home is an intricate maze of dreary halls, parlors and visiting rooms. I find another door that leads outside and step into the quiet evening.

Luke is reclining against a tree, chin on his chest, shadows splitting his face in odd angles. The sharpness of his features, the gloom around him make me shiver.

Be brave .

I don’t want to catch him by surprise, so I walk with meaningful steps. He looks up, an annoyed expression on his face, which disappears when he realizes it’s me.

Why?

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he says back.

“I—I hope I’m not bothering you.”

Luke shakes his head and shows me a tiny smile.

“Um …”

Meaningful words.

Don’t exist .

“You don’t have to say anything,” Luke tells me in a quiet whisper.

“I’m sorry,” is all I can think to say.

Your father was a thief, but I’m sorry you have to go through this. I’m sorry you’ll have to go through so much more.

Luke blinks several times, then looks up at the branches above. A tear spills over, and he slaps it away, quick and proud.

Something beyond my control takes my hand to his arm. He startles a bit, looks at my fingers, then into my eyes. I hold his gaze, sense the iron bars that cage his pain. Too much to bear by himself when he doesn’t have to.

More tears streak his cheeks and when he looks away, my arms find their way into a tight embrace I didn’t know I had in me to give. In the first instant, his limbs become stone, but they melt quickly, like pieces of ice next to kindling flame. He rests his cheek on my head, but leaves limp arms hanging at his sides.

It’s not his fault Mom preferred the idea of him to the reality of me. It won’t be his fault if he hates me when he finds out the truth. The truth that will make his life up to this point a lie.

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