ChapterOne
Be Brave
It all happened like this.
One simple summer that changed me immensely. Or perhaps you could say, it wasn’t a change. I merely discovered some things that were already there, just hidden from the world and myself.
When those three monthes ended I was not who I was when it had begun. None of us were.
And it started with but three simple words.
Be brave, Annie. Always be brave.
That’s what everyone was always telling me. “Be brave, Annie, be brave.” Although I must say with some, the message was interpreted quite differently.
“Don’t be a coward, Annie. Don’t be a coward.”
But nonetheless, I knew that it was my true meaning in life.
To find my courage. My bravery. And I will admit I have not found that yet.
I am Annabelle Ingrid Phoenix.
Fifteen years of age, though if I will be truthful, I am as brave and daring as a small child.
But I hope I will overcome that.
I often look to my brother, Henry Austen, for I am not ashamed to admit he is much braver than I. He deals with a lot of grief on his own, too. By grief I mean my mother.
My mother Annabelle is gone now but will always be a treasure buried deep within me and my brother’s hearts. Felix and Claudia would never understand that. They were young then. I love them, of course, but I was different from them. They had what you might call an air of childish innocence.
I did not. Nor did Henry.
I watched my mother become lowered into the soft springy earth and then buried under layers and layers of dirt like you might do to a seed. That dreaded vision will always be in some vague corner of my mind no matter how much I wish to forget it. The sound of her singing the river lullaby to me will always echo in my ears.
That dark morning, I scattered seeds over her grave, and now, after all these years, there are still white daises who dance around her gravestone by day.
I imagine them singing to her by night.
Back to me being brave.
I know I am not brave because I have met brave people. Those who you will meet too, if you don’t turn away just yet. But right from the moment Father called me into the parlor to sit and listen I knew I would never be brave.
He paced the floor. He always did when he was nervous or upset or simply had an empty hole inside him for fear and doubt to linger there.
Sometimes it was closed. Now was not one of those times. These days, it was always open, always vulnerable. Because he was always upset.
“Ingrid.”
He said my name like you might say the name of a tree. His face looked like a blank slate right about now. I ached to try and draw some color onto him. Just a little bit of life and sunshine. He called me Ingrid because saying my mother’s name, my name, was too painful.
“Ingrid, please forgive me.”
An odd way to start a conversation.
“You have been raised comfortable and wealthy all of your life. But you know we’re struggling and…I can’t seem to keep up.”
His hand shook a little. I thought I must have imagined it. My father was always strong. Like a vast wall. And that was not always a good thing.
For when my mother died, and he built up that vast wall, it kept me and my siblings out. And through the wall he could not hear me calling his name. He heard nothing through that wall.
“We are going to move, Ingrid. Very far away. We’ll have a fresh start. I will find myself an occupation and we will build a new life.”
“Build a new life?” I said.
“In America.”
I blinked. What a strange thing to say, so suddenly. I must’ve been dreaming.
“America?” I asked, wondrously, as if in a dream.
I don’t believe it. “Are you serious Father? Are we really to leave?”
“It’s in the country, Ingrid. It will be different, much, much different, than Boughsberry. America is very far away. We’ll find a little house on a hilltop, perhaps, or on a quiet street. It will be small. But we have no choice.”
I believed him.
I didn’t need to ask any more questions after that.
It was almost dark when I found my brother sitting against a tree staring off into nothing. Perhaps he was angry with father. Perhaps he knew.
“Henry?”
For a minute, nothing.
Then, “Did Father tell you?” he asked, numbly.
“Yes.” I took a seat beside him. “It’s scary, isn’t it?” I laughed at myself then. “I’m not very fearless, am I?”
“It’s fine,” he said, again in his numb, sad way.
“We’ll be alright.”
It took as much to convince myself as it did him.
“Maybe.”
Father told each of us goodbye with a kiss and a promise that he would meet us there as soon as he was able. I stood beside the car and he came to me with uneven, slow steps. With a hand that only I saw was trembling, he brought a finger to my cheek and stroked it gently. He ran his fingers through my hair and brought me to him. For a moment I felt young again, which really, I was. But lately, I hadn’t felt it.
“I told Henry to look after you children,” he whispered, “but you know he’s not completely…well, I’m not, either.”
“I understand,” I told him. “I’ll help him.”
He let me go. “That’s good. There’s my sweet Annabelle.”
He said my name.
I could hardly do anything more than look into his eyes as he looked into mine. “Somehow, I know,” I said.
“Know what?”
“That when I see you next I’ll have changed.”
He blinked. His fingers shook again.
“Father?”
He looked up at me painfully.
“Are you alright?” I asked and touched his cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Then he turned and walked away from me, his hand rubbing the spot I had touched.
Somehow, I knew. Deep inside of me.
Father wasn’t coming to America.
“Father?” I whispered, my voice catching. “Father?” I looked around the side of the house but he was gone.
My brothers and sisters joined me and I told them nothing.
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