“Is it because your name is Echo that you’re repeating things?”
I laugh, not so much because he’s funny, but because the unthinkable happened. For years my parents, my therapists, my teachers, my friends...anyone...used my need to please to get whatever they desired. I lay down and died for anyone at any time and somewhere along the way, I found a backbone.
I did change this summer. I am different.
“I’m serious, Echo. When I ask questions, I want answers. It’s how this whole teacher/student relationship works.”
I get it, but... “Not with this one. This one is personal, and you know it.”
“They’re all personal,” he says.
“Some more than others. If you push me, I’ll answer, but I can’t promise the answers I give you on this one will be true.”
“Touché. We’re clear, then. Anything after this is on my terms.”
“I understand.”
“So the purpose of having this conversation...”
I’m nodding for him to continue though it’s hard to concentrate because I’m still reeling from the I’ve-changed moment.
“I like the idea of you taking business courses so I’m trying to work it out with your college to see if you can take them online while you study your art here. In fact, I like the idea so much I might implement the new plan for others next fall.”
That’s an awesome surprise. “Great!”
Hunter eyes me warily. “So that means you’re accepting?”
I bite the inside of my mouth. Noah and I are walking a tightrope, and I have no idea what’s going to happen to us. Maybe we’d work if I stayed in Kentucky. Maybe we’d fall apart if I stay here. But Noah’s right. The advice I gave Noah about himself is right. I need to decide for me. Noah and I will last if we truly love each other, but we’ll collapse if I do everything to please him. “Yes. I’m accepting.”
Hunter raises a brow. “Your boyfriend isn’t talking you out of it?”
My spine goes rigid. “My boyfriend supports me.” Then my stomach drops. I slapped him and pushed him away last night, then Noah broke into the gallery for me. He does support me...more than I can comprehend.
“Good,” he says. “By the way, for paperwork purposes, what’s your last name?”
Oh, crap. Just when things were starting to go well... There’s no stopping the train wreck now. “Emerson. My name is Echo Emerson.”
Noah
After five minutes of glaring at a statue of St. Therese the Little Flower, I rub my eyes and push past the red curtain and squeeze onto the cramped wooden bench. The divider that covered the small window between us slides open. Because of how we both sit and the dim lighting from above, I can only catch a glimpse of my uncle’s profile.
“In the name of the father, and the son and the holy spirit,” he says, and I cross myself out of a long ago ingrained habit and hear my mother tell me that I should kneel in the confessional.
One second.
Another.
“Well,” he urges.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been...” This is insane. “It’s been...” Four years since my last confession. Four years. My mother was pissed at me because I hadn’t been to confession. In middle school, I had already started to question my faith.
Another way I failed my mother, and I continue the tradition by failing Echo. I scratch the spot over my eyebrow. “I don’t believe in God, so it doesn’t matter.”
“Sorry to hear that, but for the record, He still believes in you.”
Bullshit answer. “Give me the story about my name.”
“Noah, I didn’t bring you in here to listen to your confession, though I would be more than happy to take it. I brought you in here because there’s another question you’re here to ask, and I made the assumption you’d like to have this discussion with an air of anonymity.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means the question you have is one that you might not want an audience for.”
Uncomfortable, I bend forward and rest my hands on my knees. That tense rhythm that Echo continually harbors spreads into my veins. “Why did my mom leave?”
“And why are we aware of your existence when you didn’t know about us?”
Is there anyone who isn’t privy to the inner workings of my life besides me? “And that.”
It’s a heavy pause. Weighted enough that I consider retracting the question. My mom smiled all the time. My mom laughed almost every night. My mom had a secret that she may or may not have ever told me.
“Our father abused her.”
I press both hands to my face as if I could erase his answer. “Abused her?”
“The devil is in the details with this one. There are some things that are better off left with the dead.”
But the imagination could be worse. My mom.