Risking It All

by JM Stewart

  Malia and Lila, seated to her right, discussed Lila and Chase’s latest attempt at in vitro fertilization. The children seemed to eat on the run, jumping up from the table to go and play, only to return for a few bites of food, before running off again. As usual, the place was barely controlled chaos.

  She’d come tonight hoping to lose herself in the warmth and love she always found here, but she couldn’t relax, and she couldn’t seem to bring herself to join in. She felt like the odd man out. She had a rousing suspicion everyone knew what was going on. There was a distinct shift in the way they treated her. Sympathetic glances abounded, darting between her and Kyle, who sat on the opposite end of the table. Something she’d done on purpose. She hadn’t spoken a word to him since she’d left his apartment more than a week ago. It hurt too much. Simply being in the same room with him made her chest ache. She didn’t know what to say to him, how to get past this. Her entire life was a lie, and he’d known, and she didn’t know how to forgive him. Or even if she wanted to.

  So far no one had said anything, though, and she waited for the shoe to drop. It wasn’t like the Morgan clan to avoid an issue. They pretended nothing was out of the ordinary, attempting to include her in the conversation, but Malia had hovered all night. The pity-filled glances made her feel like the ugly secret nobody wanted to talk about.

  A half hour later, the meal began to wind down. Lila and Becca retreated into the kitchen with the leftovers, and the children went outside to play. Their squeals and laughter drifted in through the open screen door. Kyle continued to hover. Still seated at the end of the table, he sat back in his seat, hands folded loosely over his stomach. He and Chase appeared to linger over their dessert, chatting while sipping what had to be lukewarm coffee by now. He watched her, though. His gaze continually flicked in her direction, telling her he lingered on purpose.

  More than a little uncomfortable and needing something to do, she rose from her seat and moved around the table, gathering dishes before taking them into the kitchen. Lila and Becca stood at the far end of the small space, piling the leftover roast and potatoes into plastic containers.

  She shot Lila a smile as she crossed to the sink and set the dishes in the basin. “Dinner was delicious, Lila.”

  Lila faced her, smiling a little too politely. Becca simply froze. Tension rose over the room as both women stared, but neither spoke. Clearly they’d been sworn to silence. No doubt by Malia.

  Cecelia sighed as she picked up the sponge and added a bit of liquid soap. “Just say it. Please. The silence in this house is killing me. In the twenty years I’ve known you all, you’ve never once held your tongues. Please don’t start now. I’m starting to feel like the elephant in the room.”

  As if given the permission they waited for, both women abandoned their containers and rushed to her side, wrapping Cecelia in a hug. They squished her between them, so tight for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. When they released her, Becca’s brows creased in worry. “Are you okay?”

  Lila took her hand and squeezed her fingers. “We’re here for you, sweetie; please know that.”

  Tears sprang in Cecelia’s eyes. She swallowed hard, shoving down the sudden need to cry, and nodded. “I’m fine. I promise.”

  “You two are supposed to be giving her space.”

  At the sound of her voice, Cecelia turned. Malia stood in the entrance to the kitchen, hands on her hips. Instead of a stern frown, however, amusement glinted in her dark eyes. She shook her head, her mouth pursing in an apologetic frown. “Sorry, sweetie. We’re not exactly being inconspicuous.”

  Cecelia looked between the three of them and sighed, letting her shoulders slump. “Everyone knows, don’t they?”

  Becca hitched a shoulder. “Hard not to. You and Kyle don’t usually avoid each other.”

  “I almost didn’t come.” She turned back to the sink and picked up a plate, using the sponge to wash off the bits of food.

  “I’m glad you did. Whatever happens between you and Kyle, you’ll always be family.” Lila rubbed her shoulder, shooting her a gentle smile as she moved back to the uncovered leftovers.

  Tears sprang in Cecelia’s eyes, gratitude filling her chest. She needed them tonight, needed exactly this. Suddenly she wasn’t sorry she’d talked herself into coming.

  She let out a shaky sigh. “I feel like a third wheel.”

  Malia crossed the space, stepping up to the sink beside her, and opened the dishwasher. She picked up the rinsed dishes and began setting them inside the washer. “Nobody wants to upset you. They know how hard this has to be for you.”

  Cecelia paused and turned to face Malia, unable to keep the emotions from tumbling from her mouth. “I don’t know what to do, Lia. It really hurts that he lied to me.”

  Malia pursed her lips, giving a sad shake of her head. “Men do stupid things sometimes. But sometimes they do all the wrong things for all the right reasons. Evan has strong principles, a distinct way of viewing the world, and he doesn’t hesitate to act on them. I honestly think that it doesn’t occur to him he might actually be wrong sometimes.”

  Cecelia turned back to the sink, set the plate she’d been washing into the side with the rinsed dishes, and picked up another plate. “How do you forgive him?”

  Malia shrugged. “Because it always comes down to one thing—do I trust him, deep down?”

  Cecelia glanced at Malia, the sponge in her hand pausing under the running water. “And?”

  Malia offered a gentle smile. “I do.”

  ***

  The following evening, Cecelia stared up at the ceiling, at the attic door looming above her. Blood whooshed in her ears, and the wooden hook in her right hand trembled against her thigh. The three-by-five-foot opening in the ceiling sat in the center of the main hallway running the top floor of the house. Made of a dark wood, it didn’t blend in with the white textured ceiling around it, and every time she passed it, a cold chill swept down her spine. The mere sight of it now had her shaking.

  She’d been afraid of that space since the first time she’d helped Gran store stuff up there. She’d been eight at the time, and the images in her dreams had haunted her up there. Now she knew why, but the thought of going up there still made her nauseated. But she had to. She needed the key pieces to this puzzle, and now that she knew Gran had known, she needed the rest of the story. It was here somewhere in this house. It had to be.

  She’d been in Gran’s room, forcing herself to go through the rest of her belongings. She couldn’t keep the space looking like a shrine. It just wasn’t natural. Neither was living in the past. Going through her jewelry box, she’d come across that chain with the key on it again. Something about it had reminded her of the key to Kyle’s nightstand. She’d thought so when she first discovered it. She had nothing to go on save an odd nudge deep in her gut, but she couldn’t help wondering. Kyle had kept that file he had on her locked in his nightstand drawer, with his gun. In a space he no doubt knew she’d never accidentally run across it. Gran had done the same thing with those necklaces she’d found. What if there was more?

  There was a tiny little room in this attic, almost a cupboard, really. A door she’d seen the first time she’d come up here as a child. It reminded her of the door Alice ran across in Alice in Wonderland. Small enough to fit someone the size of a large rabbit. Or so she’d thought at the time. The one and only time she’d gone up there, Gran had done what she’d always done—distracted her and drawn her attention elsewhere.

  Now she needed to know.

  The pole trembled as she extended it to the hook on the ceiling. The door came down with a creak of old, worn hinges, and she reached out to extend the attached ladder. Lifting her foot to the bottom rung, she closed her eyes, drew a deep breath to calm her hammering nerves, and then released it and opened her eyes again, forcing herself to move up the ladder.

  As she stepped off the last step, the attic opened up around her. She bent at the waist to keep from banging her head on the pitch
ed walls. With wood-beam walls absent of insulation and plywood flooring, it resembled an unfinished room. It wasn’t much bigger than her small bedroom downstairs, either, large enough for several tall boxes and black trash bags, full of what, she couldn’t recall.

  A small, square window sat on the far wall, and the light from outside illuminated the space. Small particles of dust danced in the light streaming in along a rare sunbeam, swirling in the air. Her hands renewed their trembling. Her heartbeat throbbed in her temples, and sweat prickled hot along her skin.

  Standing there, something itched at the edge of her consciousness, and her gaze went unfocused, the dust particles blurring as images slid to mind. They came as if from a distance, like a movie playing through her thoughts. The small, cramped space in her dreams formed in her mind’s eye, with similar dust particles floating in the air. Angry male voices shouting their demands came from somewhere close. Fear leaped into her chest, icy hands closing around her throat.

  The crack of a gunshot rent the air, and she jumped, sinking into a tight crouch on the floor, trying to make herself as small as possible. The sound reverberated through the room around her, and in the snap of a finger, she was five years old, seated in that cramped space between the walls. The dust particles danced before her eyes in the thin beams of light. Her heart hammered, thudding loud in her ears, and she held her breath, praying they couldn’t hear her breathing. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  Another gunshot rang out, and she jerked. Tears welled in her eyes, her fear holding her frozen. The acrid scent of gun smoke filled her nostrils.

  “Where’s the girl?”

  “Maybe she escaped.”

  “We’re dead if we don’t find her! He said no loose ends!”

  Heavy-booted feet thumped across the floor, moving closer, and a shadow slid in front of the hole in the wall, cutting off her source of light.

  Her chest seized, and tears streamed down her cheeks. A terrified sob rose in her throat, but she covered her mouth, squeezing tight. Mama said to stay quiet, as quiet as the deer in the forest.

  The body moved again, the footsteps now fading away from her, and the light once again flooded the small space. Somewhere a door slammed, and Cecelia jerked again, her eyes popping open. Blood whooshed in her ears, and her breath came in harsh, ragged pants. She darted a glance around, searching her surroundings in confusion. The attic slowly came into focus again.

  Home. She was home. She released a shuddering, relieved breath as her tears renewed themselves, dripping hot down her cheeks. Episodes like that had been happening all week. According to the research she’d done at the library, it meant she’d hit a trigger. All she knew was something would transport her back in time, to a place she didn’t quite remember. Emotions she didn’t remember feeling would swamp her. Sights and sounds would bombard her. It was like being there all over again, confronted by memories she hadn’t realized she’d forgotten. Strange yet familiar.

  Every time it happened, she craved Kyle’s presence, his safe embrace. More than once, she’d rolled over in the darkness to reach for him, only to open her eyes and remember she was alone.

  Like now.

  Exactly why she needed the answers. The sooner she had the complete puzzle, the sooner she could confront her demons and the sooner this living nightmare would end.

  She swiped at her eyes and pushed to her feet, then reached into the right pocket of her jeans and pulled out the chain. On the far side of the space, one of the walls came inward, as if someone had built a tiny closet into the unfinished wall. The front side contained a set of three feet tall white wooden doors. A small golden latch bolted to the right door, and a padlock held them both shut.

  Key clutched in her hand, she crossed the space and crouched in front of it. She drew a breath. Please let this work.

  The key slid easily into the lock and opened with a pop of rusty metal. Removing the padlock, she sat on the floor and set the lock beside her. Her hand trembled as she pulled open the small door.

  A puff of stale, dusty air drifted out, bringing with it the musty scent of dampness and mildew. Within the space sat a cardboard box no bigger than a milk crate. She reached in and pulled it out, setting it between her legs. Her heart hammered. In fear. In excitement. In the giddy newness of discovery. It was like finding a treasure.

  Inside the box sat a handful of items. A weathered blue backpack, painted with the name Marie. It sat beside a cloth doll with brown yarn hair, tied in braided pigtails and sightless blue eyes that seemed to smile at her. In the doll’s lap sat a pink, round-topped jewelry box. She knew from memory that the jewelry box would have a tiny ballerina that spun to tinkling music when you lifted the lid. Becca had one once upon a time. Beneath it all sat a folded, red-plaid blanket.

  She stroked a trembling finger along the name on the backpack, written in nail polish in a child’s hand. Marie. That was her name. She reached in to pull out the doll, holding her between both hands. The dusty face blurred before her, and she clutched it to her chest, hugging it. She had no memory of this. Of any of this.

  She blinked back the endless tears and set the doll in her lap, then pulled out the jewelry box and opened the lid. As expected, bright pink felt covered the inside of the small compartment, and an inch-tall ballerina wearing a lace tutu stood in front of a two-inch-tall oval mirror. On instinct, she lifted out the felt drawers. On the bottom sat an envelope with, of all things, her name written on it. Cecelia.

  Her heart renewed its hammering, and her fingers trembled so much that it took her three tries to pull out the envelope and open the seal. Inside was a letter, written on a piece of notebook paper. Unfolding it, she instantly recognized Gran’s soft, flowing handwriting. Hurt squeezed at her chest. Gran had known she’d find this.

  She swiped at her eyes and then forced herself to read the letter.

  My sweet, sweet Ceci,

  I’ve tried to write this letter a thousand times. I’ve wanted to say these words to you a thousand more. Over the years, fear has held my tongue. Now I’m an old lady, and I know I won’t live forever. This fumbling letter is my desperate attempt to unburden my heavy heart, my last act of contrition, but I know I’m taking the coward’s way out by writing it.

  As you grew, I watched you struggle, watched the way the weight of not knowing your parents hung on your heart. Some part of you still remembers, even if you’re not aware of it, and I’m terrified the day will come when it will all come flooding back. And I won’t be there to help you through it. If that day ever arrives and I’m not there with you, I hope by some miracle of God this letter finds you. I’ve hidden it in a place I know you would one day discover.

  I hope equally as much that that day never arrives. It’s a cruel fate you’ve been given, my dear, and a hard task God has set before me. Chances are, he’ll never find you. But he wasn’t supposed to find them, either. God forgive me for lying to the one I love the most, but I couldn’t take that chance. All that mattered was keeping you safe. I lost my only son to a cruel man, and by some miracle, God chose to spare you. I’m told the man who killed your parents sits in prison, but the thought of him finding you is more than this old heart could bear.

  I realize none of this likely makes any sense to you. I’m sorry I kept this from you. I know you must be very angry with me. Just know this: I love you, my dear, and I hope someday you can forgive an old worrywart for being a little overprotective. I couldn’t bear to lose you, too.

  PS: If you’re reading this, then you’ve no doubt discovered the necklaces. The heart-shaped one was your mother’s. The one with stars was yours. She used to sing to you at night. Search your memories, Ceci. You remember the words. It was always your favorite.

  All my love,

  ~Gran

  Cecelia set the letter aside, her vision blurring. As she tried to make sense of the words, tears finally broke free, hot drops leaking down her cheeks. Hurt flooded through her. She wanted to be angry with Gran. She’d purposely kept import
ant details from her. But how could she? Her grandmother had lost her only son and gave up her life to protect her only living relative. That had been Gran’s goal her whole life—to keep her safe. Under the same circumstances, she couldn’t say she wouldn’t have done the same thing.

  But it didn’t change the end result. She still didn’t know who she was, and she was still alone.

  She wrapped her arms around herself. What she wouldn’t give to have Kyle here with her, to have his strong arms around her. Maybe then she could stop shaking. Maybe then she could finally feel safe. He’d always made everything right again. But how could she get past the betrayal? Could she ever forgive him? Did she even want to? Her entire life, everyone she’d ever loved had lied to her. She was about to become a mother, yet she didn’t even know who she was. It was like someone had played God with her life, tipping her entire world on its end, and left her struggling to right herself again.

  She didn’t know the answer to any of it. She only knew she missed him. Oh God, how she missed him. She didn’t know how much longer she could do this alone . . .

  ***

  He’d come full circle.

  Kyle stared at the empty left side of the bed, the sight taunting him. It was three in the morning, and he’d been laying in the darkness for more than an hour now. Work had been exhausting, but like every night, he couldn’t get his mind to shut off. He’d had little success in the sleep department lately. It was nearly impossible without Ceci’s warmth against his side.

  Occasionally the wind whistled as it blew through the building’s eaves, and a car would go by, its lights fanning the ceiling. Otherwise, the night was quiet, too much so. The utter silence grated on his nerves. It was too much time to lie there and think.

  A week and two days had passed since Ceci left his apartment. Other than dinner on Sunday, he hadn’t heard a word from her since. She wasn’t taking his calls. Still, he called her every day, left her dozens of messages, but so far, she hadn’t called him back. He couldn’t exactly blame her, so he forced himself to stay away, to give her time. He prayed that someday she’d forgive him, but storming her house and demanding they talk would only serve to push her further away.