Chrysalis

Chrysalis

Book One of The Ribbons Series

Meghan Davidson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Meghan Davidson

Dedicated to Patricia Grant, without whom I could not have realized so much of myself.

Thanks to my creative and editorial team, including Kenneth Smith and Caroline Nelson, and to my ever-supportive family and friends for their ongoing encouragement and patience.

Cover art by Kenneth Smith, featuring Hannah Atwater

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Anniversary

Run

Class

Cope

Sight

Hangover

Reconstruction

Recollection

Anchor

Handshake

Barrier

Backlash

Farewell

Offer

Shred

Buried

Rescue

Chapter One

Anniversary

My dreams plagued me. Particularly around this time of year. Spring haunted me.

April 11th. The anniversary of the accident. I saw it in my sleep, over and over, in the weeks leading up to the date, reliving each nanosecond through an eternity. The way everything was coated in rain like oil over the skin of a fish, heavy and clinging. Some nights it was iridescent, too, but in shades of gold and black. The whole world was quiet, the rain reflecting color in light from an unknown source. Until the windshield broke. The scream of the glass breaking was supernatural, the splash of black-gold rain a millisecond before the shards sank deep into my face. Another moment before the world turned upside down, invisible boundaries of the world crunching in as the spinning accelerated. And the the bloody, cut visage of the man in glasses. But more stark than this was the expression of abject horror in his face. Not pain, I realized in these eternally long moments of my dream. Just absolute, helpless fright.

I realized in waking this was my father’s reaction to the injuries I had sustained when the car was rolling. And a moment after this I had lost consciousness. I stayed that way for nearly two weeks. There ended my personal account of the accident that killed my father. There began the unusual rebirth of myself, though I had no way of knowing it then.

I found myself staring at my ceiling before I realized I was awake. The dreams were usually worst just before the Anniversary, and this being the 11th itself I hoped I would be rid of them for the rest of the year. My heart still beat uneasily against my ribs, and my breath was still too short and gasping to be called calm. I watched the shadows cast by the maple outside my window dance over the ceiling until my breathing evened out.

I could hear my mother rustling in the kitchen just below me, setting up breakfast. She rarely cooked, but once a year it was different. The Anniversary was the only day each year that was entirely dedicated, start to finish, to the memory of my father. This had been nearly impossible the first few years, but had turned into a day of healing. A kind of perfect grief, I supposed.

I sat up and my eyes fell on my bookshelf. The top two shelves were packed with my literary adventures, most of them prescribed by the curriculum of my overzealous English teachers, though I did pride myself on the half-read copy of War and Peace jammed into the corner. But the bottom shelf was full of another adventure altogether. Journal after journal piled after journal jammed the shelf, with one or two thrown on top after room had run out. I slid off the bed and knelt before them, running my finger along their spines until I found the first of them.

It was small, maybe an inch thick and hardly the dimensions of a postcard. It had a frame set into the cover of it, and as I pulled it out the sight of the photo within pricked at my eyes. It always would, I knew. I had taken the photo myself, as my father had scooped me into his arms to hoist me into the air. The angle caught the smile lines he had attempted to hide with the thick frames of his Buddy Holly glasses, though the sun behind him had sent odd lines of light through the photo. I traced the lines of his smile as my breath returned to hiccuping unease.

I flipped the journal open to the first entry and felt exactly as I had when I had written it. Immeasurably alone. I heard what my mother had said as she handed me the book at the memorial, my first day back from the hospital. Write what you feel. Tell him. As I ran my fingers over the words, I could feel the grooves the pen had made in the paper as I had struggled to express how I felt. Needing so much for him to read this or feel this or hear this.

Dear Daddy, I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.

The same line, repeated for pages and pages. Then a new date, followed by the same lines. I couldn’t help thinking that no matter how my vocabulary had grown, no matter what other sentiments I had expressed in the journals to follow, nothing expressed my loss or love like this one. I closed the journal and reached for my current one, a spiral notebook with the word Journal scrawled over the front.

I flipped to the middle, where my last entry had ended. I rummaged for a pen and clicked the ink forward.

Another dream last night, Daddy. It’s hard to see it, over and over again like this. Like I can’t trust myself to remember you. It hurts so much, still. Mom says we should celebrate your memory today, celebrate the good things. But how can I, when all I see is the accident?

I paused. In fact, I realized, all the good things were already here, in this ridiculous catalog of self-chronicles. I shut the notebook and grabbed an older one at random. Today I would celebrate my own memories.

Downstairs, it smelled like banana pancakes. Mom was heaping stacks of them onto two plates. The griddle was steaming from the excess butter, and there was batter everywhere. I grabbed the syrup in my free hand and pulled a chair up to the table. Mom smiled at me as she juggled two plates, the butter, and a jug of OJ over to me.

Good morning, sweetheart, she sighed as everything tumbled out of her hands and onto the table. She turned to collect two cups and an 8x10 picture frame that held a photo of the family on some summer vacation I couldn't remember. I was covered in sand, my nose brightly burned and my bathing suit a stellar neon pink. Dad was hoisting me into the air while I held my best Superman pose, Mom was wrapped around his waist. She was laughing, so her eyes were nearly shut, but her wild curls made a mess across Dad’s chest and her wedding ring sparkled from where her hand rested on his tummy. It was probably the happiest family photo I’d ever seen. This was also why Mom picked it for our Anniversary. I silently thanked the miscellaneous tourist who agreed to take our picture. You nailed it, buddy.

Morning, Mom, I answered, taking the cups and filling them while she stood the photo up among the daisies and dandelions she had picked for our centerpiece. She stroked the frame with one hand absentmindedly as she sipped on her juice. Her wedding band sparkled there, too. I reached over and squeezed her hand. I could see the tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

Well, Maggie. What do you have planned for today? she asked lightly, stroking my hand with her thumb. It sounded innocuous, but she meant to ask how I planned to spend my grief. I waved the journal at her.

I’m going to remember Daddy. She smiled at me.

Tell me about him. She let go of my hand and began to butter her pancakes. I stroked the spine of the journal, wondering if I should read a passage. No, I thought. These are my words in here, for Dad alone.

I remember the first day of school, I said at last. I cried so hard!

Oh Maggie. I had to change your shirt twice that morning! And then you just used your pigtails to dry up your tears instead! Mom giggled.

And Dad finally got me to stop by letting me wear his tie... It smelled like him... It was the purple one with the blue stripes... My memory swept backwards to that morning some long August ago. I had a My Little Pony lunch box and pair of Mary Jane’s with those frilly top socks. Mom was wringing her hands and pacing. She might have been as nervous as I was. Dad knelt down next to me, loosening the knot of his tie. He smelled like Old Spice as he looped it over my head.

This is my lasso, Maggie, he explained in his warm, papa voice. This means as long as you have this, I’ve gotcha. Nothing can happen to you as long as I’ve gotcha. The hiccuping sobs had eased then. He stood back up and wrapped an arm around Mom, kissing the top of her frizzy head. She waved to me, Dad winked, and I headed into a classroom full of kids bawling like I had just done.

The lasso, Mom sighed, and I could see her remembering too. Her eyes drifted away and clouded over, but a smile teased the edge of her mouth. She had so many more memories of him than I did. A stab of jealousy mixed with pity welled in my chest. I released Mom’s hand and busied myself with the pancakes.

I remember the day we found out we were pregnant, she said suddenly. We hadn’t been married that long and I didn’t know how he was going to react. But... it was like he already knew... She clamped a hand over her mouth, to hold the sobs at bay I guessed. A moment later she was collected again. We were so happy to be having you, Maggie. I’d never seen his eyes light up like that. It’s hard to explain, but you were his pride and joy before you ever got here.

Thanks, Mom, I whispered. The jealously dissipated, leaving a pool of guilt in my middle. Mom smiled and gestured to the journal.

I’m kind of surprised you’re still keeping that up, she admitted. Patty said it would probably drop off after a few years, once you were through the hardest part.

I dunno. I shrugged. It never felt like he was really gone. Just sort of... away... It was tough to explain. I saw concern crease my mother’s forehead. Patty - the shrink - had given her warning signs to watch for, indications that I wasn’t coping. Pretending Dad was still around ten years after his death was probably one of them. I sighed and shook my head. No, I mean... I mean this helps me keep his memory around... um... I covered hastily. It wasn’t like I didn’t know what death was. Mom’s forehead crinkles deepened as she scanned my face.

Maggie, honey, she started, reaching for my hand.

It’s fine, Mom, I’m sorry, I said, pulling away. I shoveled more banana pancake into my mouth, trying to buy enough time for the subject to pass. She would never understand the way it was was with the dreams, how real they were. Sometimes I was surprised I wasn’t in the hospital when I woke up. The journals were more than a coping mechanism. It was like they helped me talk to him, just outside my consciousness.

Okay, Mom sighed. We went back to eating in uncomfortable silence. It was a blessing when the doorbell rang.

Who’s... I started, around a mouthful of pancake.

That’s odd, all my regulars know I’m closed today, Mom murmured, turning toward the door.

I’ll get it, Mom, don’t get up, I said, welcoming an excuse to leave the table. I scooted my chair back and walked a little too hastily to the door, realizing a little late that not only was I a just-out-of-bed rumpled mess, I was also still holding my fork. I sighed and eased the door open anyway.

On my front step, staring with a frown at the cheaply glowing Psychic-Tarot-Fortunes sign in our front window, was the most stunning man I’d ever laid eyes on. Probably the most stunning on the planet. He was tall, over six feet by my guess, and built slender and strong, all lithe musculature and not an ounce of extra flesh anywhere on him. He wore a t-shirt and jeans, despite the early April chill, and a bracelet of woven leather that threw into sharp relief the muscles of his forearm. He turned toward the creaking of the door as it opened, and a lock of his thick black-brown hair fell into his eyes. He pulled it away, revealing sharp, glowing green eyes that forced my breath to halt in my throat. He blinked once, and my breath restarted. As he reopened his eyes, they grew wide and his mouth dropped open in shock. I blushed, remembering my appearance, and ran a hand through my hair in a vain effort to straighten it out.

Can I help you? I asked, my tone slightly sharper than I meant for it to be. It didn’t help that he continued to stare. His mouth closed and he swallowed hard, looking back to the flickering sign in our window.

Are you...? he started, pointing to the sign. His voice was a little gravelly, deeper than it should have been for his age, which I guessed was in the