And I cry.
I cry like I did when I was five years old and watched my daddy as he was being handcuffed and taken from me.
I cry because that’s what you do when the person you love most in this world doesn’t love you back.
Declan strokes my hair, petting me while he presses his lips to my ear, whispering gently, “Shh, baby.”
I allow my mind to focus on his touch, on his smell, and on the sound of his voice. He rocks me in a slow sway, comforting me, and I grip my hands to his back, fisting his shirt with my fingers. And through my cries, I ask, “Why did he do this to me?”
“I don’t know, darling,” he responds. “But we’ll find out. I’ll get you answers.”
“I don’t understand why he never came for me. He’s been alive this whole time—my whole life—and he never came for me.”
“Maybe it’s not what you think,” he says, and I look into his eyes and weep, “How could you not come back for your child?”
He doesn’t say anything else, he’s probably scared he’ll dig the knife in deeper. Instead, he stands and scoops me up in his arms, cradling me against his chest. As he walks us back to the car, I rest my head in the crook of his neck and let the tears fall.
He puts me into the car, buckles me in, and not another word is spoken. When we arrive back at our hotel room, he takes over. I’m dead inside, so he bathes me, brushes my teeth, and puts me to bed—all in silence—all while I cling to him.
Because without him, I don’t exist—and I need to exist.
I’M WALKING ALONG a busy city street. I’m not sure what city I’m in, but it’s filled with noisy cars and too many people to count. I don’t know where I’m going, but I go. I follow the crowds. Maybe they know where they’re headed.
We all stop at an intersection and wait for the crosswalk sign to light up. Leaning against a large flowerbed that hugs the perimeter of a tall building, I look down to see pink daisies. I grab one of the stems, pluck it from the soil, and watch as a little caterpillar emerges.
I smile when I see my friend.
“There you are, Elizabeth,” he greets in his British accent.
“Carnegie!”
I lower my hand for him to crawl onto and then lift him up to my face.
“I’ve missed you,” I tell him.
“It’s been much too long.”
I stumble on my feet when a bicyclist nearly sideswipes me. Looking back to my hand, Carnegie is no longer there. I scramble, skittering my eyes along the sidewalk, turning in circles.
“Carnegie?” I call out, but he’s nowhere to be found.
I’m jostled again, this time by a man as he rushes past me.
“Hey!” I shout, and when the man turns to apologize, I see his face. “Dad?”
“Sorry, miss,” my father says as if he doesn’t recognize me.
“Dad! It’s me!”
He turns, no longer acknowledging me, and I chase after him.
“Dad, wait! It’s me!”
He’s only walking, but somehow the gap between us widens, and I’m losing him. I whip around a corner and nearly lose my footing. When I right myself, I catch my reflection in the mirrored glass of a building.
I’m five years old and still wearing my glittery princess dress from our last tea party. Turning back in the direction my father was heading, I run while continuing to call out to him. I weave through the crowds of people, dodging elbows, and pushing my way through.
“Daddy!”
I finally catch up to him when he’s stuck at a crosswalk.
“Dad,” I say when I walk up to him.
He looks down at me with an aged face and silver hair. “Little girl, are you lost?”
“No, Daddy. It’s me, your daughter.”
He shakes his head. “No, little girl.” He then points his finger to a blonde-haired child across the street waving at him. “That’s my daughter over there.”
I wake with a start.
The room is black.
My heavy breaths are the only sounds I hear.
I roll over, my body numb.
Declan is sound asleep, and when I slide out of bed to get a drink of water, I see that it’s five in the morning. I’m rattled by my dream as I sip from a bottle of water while I sit in the living room. I stare out the window at the full moon, and it feels strange to know that only twenty minutes away, the same moon hangs above my dad. Although I doubt I ever cross his mind like he crosses mine.
I think about the girl in my dream—the same girl I saw him call princess last night in his driveway. She was young, maybe eight or so. And the more I think about her, the more my hands tingle in acerbic bitterness. Vile thoughts run rampant, thoughts of kidnapping her, thoughts of killing her.