Echo

by E. K. Blair

“How so?” His voice mellows with the change in mood.

  “Wondering if I want to open this door that’s been closed my whole life.”

  “We don’t have to do this,” he tells me. “If you’ve changed your mind or you want to wait . . . it’s up to you.”

  “Seems weird,” I remark. “Sitting here with you—practically a stranger—and yet you know about my mother when she’s nothing more than a question mark for me.”

  “She doesn’t have to be a question mark. But if you’re not ready . . . ”

  “I thought I was. Now I’m not so sure.”

  He stands up, walks over to the credenza, and picks up a manila envelope. My eyes follow him as he moves to me and sits by my side. Placing the envelope on my lap, he says, “I don’t believe there’s a right or wrong choice here, but if you do find yourself wanting to open the door to the mystery, it’s all in there.”

  I run my hands along the paper that separates me from my mom, and my apprehension grows. It’s the conundrum of whether this envelope holds hope or dejection. Will this lead me to answers or just create more questions? And do I even care? It’s not like she means anything to me, right?

  And then I wonder why I never did care enough to learn about her. Maybe it’s because Pike was enough for me to fill that void of family. I mean, he never could fill the void of my father—nobody has the power to do that—but Pike did become my family. He was my protector and comfort, and I didn’t feel like I needed anyone else because he was enough.

  But now he’s gone.

  And so is Declan. Even though he keeps me around, he no longer belongs to me. But did he ever?

  These few weeks since everything came crashing down, my loneliness has grown to a point of neediness. And now a part of me feels like I need this, whatever it is that’s inside of this envelope.

  “Tell me, Lachlan, are your parents still alive?” I ask in melancholy, confused about my feelings, wondering if there’s anyone else here on this planet that can relate to me.

  “Yes.”

  “Big or small family?”

  “Big.”

  “Close?” I question.

  “Yes.”

  Sad warmth creeps along my cheeks, and I take a moment to push the feeling aside before speaking again. “I never had that.”

  He doesn’t respond, but what is there to say?

  “Would you like a distraction?” he offers, and I sigh in exasperation, “Please.”

  His smile is friendly as it grows, and he takes my hand, guiding me to stand.

  Handing me my coat, he says, “Let’s get out of here.”

  He then takes me to Caffé e Cucina where we indulge ourselves with cappuccinos and kouignoù amann, which Lachlan promises I’ll enjoy, and the French pastry doesn’t disappoint.

  We spend a leisurely few hours getting lost in conversation. He tells me stories about his time with Declan at St. Andrews, as well as a few funny tales from his own childhood in Scotland. I ask questions about the culture, as does he about life in the States. It surprises me to find out he’s never been to the US. I tease him about eating beans for breakfast, and he teases me about the fact that getting a thirty-two ounce soda, or as he calls it, fizzy juice, is a commonality in the States.

  Lachlan provides me with a good afternoon, doing exactly as he said he would by giving me a distraction. I haven’t spent much time with him overall, but it’s nice to feel like I have friend here, someone I can talk to and laugh with. Lachlan makes it easy for me to feel relaxed in his presence, and I enjoy our friendly banter.

  But now, the joviality is gone as I sit here, back in my room in Gala. Since I returned, I’ve been sitting here with this envelope, debating on whether or not I should just throw it away, trash it, burn it. Or should I open it and read it. I asked Lachlan, since he knows what’s enclosed, if it was worth me reading. His response was vague, telling me that people find comfort in various ways, and only I could make that decision.

  And I did. You see, as much as life had failed me, as much as I wanted to pretend I didn’t waste my time on hope anymore—I still hung on to it. And that evening, sitting in my quaint room at the Water Lily Bed & Breakfast in Galashiels of Scotland, I made my decision and allowed that hope to bloom inside of me. I thought that maybe, just maybe, I had a mother out there that wanted me but could never find me. That maybe the envelope held the key to my maternal Godsend. But what I learned next frightened me, and let me tell you, I wasn’t a woman who frightened easily.

  The first thing I see when I pull out the contents from the envelope is a mugshot of my mom. I recognize her face from the photo I’ve always had of her. But in this picture, she looks wrecked with a blotchy face and ratty hair. I stare into her eyes, eyes that look like mine. Along with the mugshot are a stack of court documents, a birth certificate, and a contact printout for Elgin Mental Health Center.

  The State versus Gweneth Archer catches my eye when I begin to read. Her name’s Gweneth. She’s always had a face from the one picture I have of her, but I’ve never known her name until now. I start scanning the court documents, and my stomach begins to twist when I hit certain words. With jittery hands, I flip through the papers. My heart rate picks up in shock and confusion as my eyes dart back and forth, unable to focus on the sentences.

  Defendant . . . Child Neglect . . . Abandonment . . . Illegal Sale of a Child . . . Communications Fraud . . .

  Disbelief consumes me as I read the words. I grow frantic as I continue to scour through the papers. I will my eyes to focus on the words, but I feel myself on the verge of flipping out.

  This can’t be real. This can’t be true.

  Mental Illness . . . Postpartum Depression . . . Manic Depression . . .

  I keep reading, and with each word my mind fights to process, I come unhinged. The room begins to tunnel around me, and my chest tightens, making it difficult to breathe.

  Prosecutor: “Mrs. Archer, did you negotiate the sale of your two-month-old daughter, Elizabeth Archer?”

  Defendant: “Yes.”

  A hysterical explosion of tinnitus ricochets in my head, piercing, shooting an unrelenting blast of pain. My hands clutch tightly to the papers as my vision teeters in and out of focus. I squint, determined to read further, but I’m fading out fast when my eyes scan: Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity.

  The papers drop, scattering across the floor as my hands shoot up to my ears in an attempt to mute the high-pitched ringing, but it’s coming from inside my head. It’s splitting my skull as it builds. The welling of every emotion inside of me creates an unbearable pressure, and I need release.

  I can’t take it.

  It’s so loud, so painful, too alive, too much.

  Oh my God! She sold me.

  Shuffling over my own feet, I have no balance as I move across the room. I can’t hear anything aside from the squealing in my ears. I stumble and catch myself from falling, gripping on to the closet door handle. Gasping for breath, my eyes blur, and I begin crying—sobbing—wailing—screaming.

  She never even wanted me.

  Standing in the doorway to the closet, I grab on to the doorframe and hold tightly as I drop my head. My vision diminishes in a wild haze, and it’s too much to contain. I can’t handle the overwhelming hysteria inside of me anymore.

  I can’t do it.

  I’m going to rupture.

  I can’t do it.

  I can’t.

  Lifting my head, I dig my nails into the wood, splintering it with my forceful grip. In quick motions, I reel my head back, grit my teeth down, and use every ounce of force inside of me as I violently slam my head into the doorframe. Drawing back, I bear down and do it again, smashing my forehead into the solid wood. My vision bursts in pops of light.

  There’s a pounding knock on the door, but it sounds miles away.

  Thick, warm blood runs down my forehead, over my eyes and nose and cheeks. My body gives out and slides down to the floor. The ringing dampens and my body tingles in g
ratification as the blood oozes from my gashed head.

  I faintly hear the door handle to my room ricketing back and forth, and then there’s banging.

  “Open the door!”

  I can’t focus on the voice yelling outside my room as the ringing returns to my ears, and the words I just read run back through my mind. Leaning my head back, my eyes begin to burn with the mixture of my tears, blood, and makeup. The sounds that engulf are out of control and torturous.

  The banging grows louder, and I move my eyes to focus on the door.

  “Open the fucking door!”

  I don’t even flinch when I hear the crashing and splitting of wood as the door is being kicked down because I’m too far gone. I’m lost inside myself and nothing feels real anymore.

  Another kick, and I watch in a daze as Declan storms over to me.

  “Oh my God!” I hear a woman shriek, and I know it’s Isla, but I keep my attention solely on Declan.

  “Jesus!” he panics when his hands come to my face, but it all seems like a dream.

  I can’t even feel his touch; my body singes in radiant tingles, but somehow the flesh is utterly numb.

  “I need wet towels!” he shouts, and the ringing inside me settles to a low, monotone hum. It’s incessant.

  “Should I call a medic?”

  “No,” he snaps at Isla before dabbing the wet towel to my face.

  I feel nothing though.

  Is my heart even beating?

  I know it must be when I finally feel the pressure of touch, but it isn’t from Declan. I roll my head to the side, and Pike is here with me. He takes my hand in his and holds it tightly.

  “You’re here.”

  “I’m always here.”

  “Yeah, darling. I’m here. What happened?”

  I faintly hear Declan’s voice, but it’s almost an echo as I concentrate on Pike.

  “I miss you so much,” I say as I begin to weep through a new slew of tears.

  “Talk to me.”

  “I’m right here, Elizabeth. Don’t cry.”

  “She never wanted me,” I choke out.

  “Who?”

  “Who?”

  “My mother. She sold me.”

  “Fuck her. You never needed her anyway.”

  “Shh . . . Just breathe, okay?”

  “I need someone though. I’m so alone,” I say to Pike.

  “You’re not alone,” he insists and then nods his head towards Declan.

  I briefly look over, and his hands are still on me, pressing a towel firmly over the top of my head. When I look back to Pike, I admonish, “He doesn’t want me. He only pities the pathetic waste he now knows I am.”

  “Elizabeth, what are you talking about?”

  “He cares for you. Why else would he be here right now?”

  “How could he care about me after what I did?”

  “Love is love. It doesn’t just vanish.”

  “How can you be so sure about that?”

  His hand squeezes mine, soothing the chills that now start to wrack me and leans over to whisper softly in my ear, “Because even though you shot and killed me, I still love you with every little piece of my heart. I still want to give you the world.”

  “How can I be sure of what? What are you talking about?” Declan’s distant voice questions me, thinking I’m talking to him.

  “Is she going to be okay?”

  “She’s fine! Please go and give us some space, will you?”

  I barely hear Declan and Isla, but my eyes never leave my brother’s as more tears fall. How can he still love me when I’m so unlovable?

  “I’m so sorry,” I cry. “I want to take it back so bad, Pike, but I can’t! I don’t know how.”

  “Darling, look at me. Who’re you talking to?”

  “Tell me how, Pike. How do I go back and fix this?”

  “You can’t.”

  The finality of my choices, knowing they can’t be undone, is a horrendous weight I carry with me now. A weight I doubt I can carry for much longer.

  “Elizabeth, look at me! Focus!”

  “Look at him, Elizabeth.”

  “He doesn’t love me. It hurts to look at him.”

  “He hides it, but if you look close enough, you can see his cracks.”

  “But what about you? I want you to stay. I want you back,” I plead like a small child begging for something that’s impossible, but I beg anyway.

  “You have me inside of you. I can’t get any closer than that.”

  “God dammit, look at me!”

  “You’re scaring him,” he tells me in a calm voice and then urges one last time, “Look at him, Elizabeth.”

  And when I do, one touch is exchanged for another. My hand grows cold as my face warms under Declan’s touch, and I begin to sob uncontrollably at the switch.

  “I’M SO SORRY,” she wails, but she isn’t looking at me. “I want to take it back so bad, Pike, but I can’t! I don’t know how.”

  Did she just say Pike? What the fuck is going on?

  “Darling, look at me. Who’re you talking to?” I ask as I press the now blood-soaked towel on Elizabeth’s head, trying to clot the bleeding. But it’s as if she doesn’t even hear me when she continues to talk to nobody.

  “Tell me how, Pike. How do I go back and fix this?”

  “Elizabeth, look at me! Focus!” I yell at her, needing to get her to snap out of whatever hallucination she’s having.

  “He doesn’t love me,” she goes on. “It hurts to look at him.”

  Fuck, what’s going on with her? She’s scaring the shit out of me with her cryptic eyes and this arcane conversation.

  “But what about you? I want you to stay. I want you back.”

  “God dammit, look at me!” I yell again, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her.

  Slowly, she finally turns her head and raises her eyes to mine. My hands now cradle her face, and after a couple blinks, she crumples over and starts bawling—completely broken. I hold her as my heart pounds in turbulent beats, confused as shit.

  The adrenaline in my system slowly wanes as I sit on the floor with her. Her blood is everywhere, and I still don’t have a clue as to what the hell happened in this room before I kicked down the door.

  Her body suddenly jolts, hands cup her ears, and her face pinches as she releases a ghastly scream. Horror storms through me, and I grab her shoulders to pull her up.

  Her eyes are clenched shut as she cries out, “It’s so loud! Make it stop!”

  “Make what stop? Tell me what’s going on,” I urge.

  She reaches her hand back behind her, and as I’m trying to get her to open her eyes and calm down, I’m horrified when I catch her clawing at her scalp. She writhes, hissing in an agonizing breath. Urgently, I scramble around her, grabbing her arms to restrain them behind her back. She struggles to get loose, but I tighten my hold when I see the grotesque scab that she’s dug her nails into and ripped off.

  Fucking Christ, this girl is having a complete breakdown.

  “Stop fighting me,” I demand harshly.

  But she doesn’t stop as she cries out, “It’s so loud. Let go of me!”

  “Breathe. Stop fighting me and just breathe.”

  I then let go of her arms, but quickly pin them to her sides when I band my arms tightly around her chest, taking control over her. It’s harder for her to fight me and jerk around from this position, but she keeps trying. So, I hold her until she begins to tire, all the while, doing my best to keep an even tone as I continue my attempts to soothe her, repeating over and over, “It’s okay . . . You’re safe . . . Breathe.”

  When her body weakens, losing the tension, and sinking back into me, I release my firm hold on her. She’s quiet and pulls in long, deep breaths. I don’t know what the fuck is going on with her, but I do know she’s losing her shit. The fact that she’s hiding away here and inflicting these attacks on her body is beyond disturbing. One has to wonder if she’s suicidal. And the fact t
hat I just caught her having a full conversation with someone that doesn’t even exist anymore is insane.

  I don’t know what to do, but I know I can’t leave her alone here. God only knows what she’ll attempt next. So, I stand and gather all the papers that are strewn on the floor, then scoop her up into my arms. Her blood is all over me and streaked down her face. Her body folds into me, and I get her the fuck out of here.

  “Is she okay? Where are you taking her?” Isla asks in worriment as I make my way to the front door.

  “She’s fine. I’m taking her to my place.”

  Walking out into the biting chill of the night, I put her in my SUV. She doesn’t speak; she’s completely absent. I strap the seatbelt around her and start heading to my house.

  While I drive, I pull out my cell and make a call to a friend of mine whose wife is a doctor. I stress to my friend the urgency of the situation, and after he explains what’s going on to his wife, she agrees to meet me at the house.

  Once we make it back to my place, I carry her in my arms upstairs to get her in the shower and cleaned up. She’s totally withdrawn as I begin to remove her clothing. When I have her stripped down, I’m appalled by what I see.

  She’s covered in a vast array of bruises: blue, purple, green, yellow, brown. They’re all over her chest, stomach, and thighs—blotches of muted colors.

  “Did you do this to yourself?” I ask, but she doesn’t respond. She keeps her eyes downcast and doesn’t utter a word. “Look at me.”

  But she doesn’t.

  I duck my head to try and catch her eyes, but I get nothing but desolation. Turning on the water, I strip my clothes off as well and then help her into the shower. She stands, unmoving, as I wash her. The water turns red as it runs over our bodies, taking the blood down the drain.

  I keep moving to distract myself, but after we’re both clean, everything slows. Standing under the hot water, I see a girl I’ve never seen before. She’s severed and lost and weak. She’s nothing like the woman I met in Chicago—Nina. And I begin to wonder how different these two people truly are.

  Who is Elizabeth? Is she anything like Nina? Strong? Snarky? Funny? Smart? Who is this girl standing in front me?

  I run my hands over her cheeks and cup her jaw, angling her head up to me. Her eyes shift to mine, and as I look into her, I murmur, “Who are you, Elizabeth?”