Chapter 8 - The Eve of the Storm
Midnight found me sitting on the floor of my hotel room at the Alder House—I had booked a staff room for the weekend to avoid the commute between Capitol Hill and Volunteer Park.
The small brown kraft box sat in the center of the bed.
I untied the jute twine, peeled back the thick paper, and lifted the lid of the cedar box.
Inside, nestled in shredded wood shavings, were two hand-carved wooden brooches, polished to a deep, luminous amber sheen.
One was a raven with its wings spread, its eye formed from a tiny sliver of abalone shell that caught the lamplight in flashes of turquoise and violet.
The other was an otter, curved gracefully in mid-swim, its form sleek and playful.
Beneath the brooches was a piece of hotel stationery with Everett Lane’s neat, architect-like block printing:
*“Jenna,*
*The raven brings light out of the dark box. In our Northwest stories, he stole the sun and threw it into the sky so people could see each other.*
*You threw the light back into my house.*
*The otter is for your sister. Otters build homes with their hands, and they never let go of each other when they sleep in the current.*
*Tell her that her hands are beautiful.*
*— Everett”*
I sat on the edge of the mattress, holding the small cedar otter against my chest, feeling the smooth bevels where Everett’s chisel had followed the grain of the wood.
The tears that had been threatening to spill all week finally broke through.
I cried for the eight-year-old girl with the library book under her bed, terrified that her sister would be lost in the silence. I cried for the twenty-one-year-old who thought love meant being useful, and for the thirty-year-old who had almost let herself be turned into furniture at her sister’s wedding.
May you like
I cried until the knot behind my ribs dissolved completely, leaving behind an empty, clean space where my own life could finally begin.
***
