Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
I glance up to make sure my mom or a nurse aren’t coming to retrieve me before opening the well-worn bound pages and start reading.
To the muse that danced in the snow at Greene and Grant, who inspired me to write this book.
A tear falls on the bottom of the page. I’m quick to wipe it, but not quick enough before it crinkles and leaves a wet spot. It landed beside what looks like a Cheetos dust fingerprint, so I don’t think Keats will be mad. But I retrieve a tissue from the nurses’ station before I continue reading, just in case it happens again.
I find myself entranced by his prose. Hearing Keats’s voice so vividly as the narrating main character has me turning the page for more. We never fully meet him from the outside although the other characters are so richly described that it’s like I can see them before me.
Scarlet still exists. She just doesn’t exist in my world anymore.
My breath ceases, and my heart aches. I’ve never been able to describe the pain of losing him after that night, but he did so eloquently.
I’m only halfway when I read lines that I want to read again. Tapping my nail under the words, I whisper, “I was captivated by her beauty erupting all at once. It wasn’t one thing in particular that drew me to her, but all of them that added up.”
When tears spill down my waterline, I tilt my head back and dab with a tissue. I close the book, needing time to process the complicated relationships of family, friends, and loss, and the love and heartache he’s written into every page. I don’t know if I feel broken or healed. Maybe both.
I smile because this book is incredible either way and has me seeing Keats in a whole new light. He’s not just talent. He’s had his own demons to fight. But he’s strong and steady, always supporting me the best he can be. I don’t blame him for getting upset earlier. I understand his fear of losing us. But I’m never going to let that happen. I’ve never felt so loved and so connected to another person. Hugging his book to my chest, I’ll always protect us.
“Ms. Stansbury?”
I look up to see the nurse in lavender coming to collect me. I quickly tuck the book back into the suitcase, making sure to wrap my shirt around it again to also protect this treasure he’s shared with me. When I stand, I take a breath and exhale, needing all the strength Keats gives to carry in with me to see my father.
Carefully touching my arm with her other hand on the knob, she whispers, “He isn’t awake, but your mother thought you should be in there.”
“Thank you.” I park my suitcase just inside the door of the darkened room. My eyes land on my father before I see my mother sitting at the far side of the room. “Hi,” I say as if I’m disturbing her peace in the corner.
“He’s going to be okay.”
I’m not sure whether she’s received official news or is manifesting good health, but it reminds me of Keats’s earlier promise. “I’m glad.” It’s weird to have emotions roll in with the tide when tragedy strikes. But then roll back out when I remember all the heartache that could have been avoided if he’d let me love who I chose instead of trying to make the decision for me.
Standing bedside, I don’t see my father. I see a man who wanted to control me. Does this man know how to love, or is that lack reserved for me alone? Maybe this was more of a business relationship, and I was just slow to realize it. Everything with him was transactional. I got a prize when I achieved his goals and was punished when I failed. So looking at him now, it’s difficult to know what to feel. But I have a new perspective.
“He’ll be okay,” I say for my mom’s sake and mine. He may not know how to love his own daughter, but thank God I haven’t lost the trait.
I turn to sit by Mom, but my hand is covered before I leave. I look back to see my father’s eyes open, the hazels that hold more brown than green, which is the opposite of mine. “Sosie,” he says, then tries to clear his throat with a rough cough that only makes things worse.
My mom rushes to hold a cup of water with a straw for him. He drinks with the two of us staring at him. His hand vanishes from mine when he jerks his head to the side to signify that he’s finished. Seeing disappointment crumple my mom’s expression is painful to watch. The circumstances she mentioned earlier are now more obvious in this setting. How was I to see the strain she was under when I was just trying to survive?