-- your night is my day ., neil

[emma scott]

Emma did not need a photograph to recall the planes of his face. His image was seared upon her consciousness, lingering within shadowed memories until something brought it to the forefront once more. The sound of a floorboard creaking against the stillness of the night; the scent of licorice and stale whiskey upon someone’s breath; a whisper where there should be silence – these were all it took to bring him to life once more. She had tried to convince herself that he was nothing more than a nightmare she had created. If it had been nothing more than a dream than one day she would wake in a different life. Instead of waking she found reminders of the truth wherever she looked: childhood photographs where he held her too close, fading scars along her wrists from where she had attempted to release all that poisoned her, and the articles that eagerly shared her tale. She often thought it was cruel that her name was never mentioned alongside his. Instead she remained “the young girl” – a moniker that could be transferred readily, erasing her involvement. Try as she might to forget, the moment Emma saw his face everything came flooding back.

It was foolish to have programmed his name for news alerts. She knew the story and it never changed. Her mother would claim innocence, he would cite forgiveness, and she would be brought back to afternoons and evenings that had threatened to never end. Despite the years that had passed her stomach still knotted whenever she stared at his smiling image. Cold sweat dewed her brow, every part of her tensed as though he would appear at the door of her room and invite her to play their special game once more.

When his image had greeted her that morning Emma had not been able to breathe. The headline heralded her mother’s betrayal: PAROLE PREDICTED FOR CONVICTED CHILD MOLESTOR. Bile burned against her throat as she stared with unseeing eyes at the monitor until, with trembling fingers, she moved the mouse and printed the article. Reason escaped her as she folded the paper and tucked it into her pocket. She needed to know what happened to him; to see how her story would end. If he was granted parole would she ever be free from what had happened? Emma often wondered if the same chains that held her in place trapped him, too. She could still hear the voice of her therapist telling her that it wasn’t her fault but Emma knew that wasn’t the case. She had wanted to play, wanted his love. There had never been tears of mourning or horror over what she had endured. Crying gave him power over her. It showed others that she was damaged. Instead she had learned to swallow the ache and press forward. But she needed to know. She needed the story to end.

Dressing quickly Emma had closed her computer and slipped from her room. She needed to be alone when she read this. Away from the curious gaze of her roommate and questions she would never have answers to. More than that, she needed to be alone in case her resolve faltered. No one was allowed to see how broken she truly was.

She followed the curving streets out of the town, toward a small park overlooking the coast. It was her favorite location in Saint Michel – the only place she didn’t have to pretend. She came here to be alone with her thoughts and memories. Once a date had tried to take her there so he could show her the spectacular vistas; Emma had rolled her eyes and said that it was dark and the water would merely look like ink. He hadn’t pressed her and the evening had progressed to his dorm without complaint. Such evenings, though frequent, left her feeling hollow and tainted. She would return to her room and shower until her skin was scrubbed red and raw, hoping that this time she would finally be able to rid herself of the filth. There was nothing that could ever cleanse her and she would fall into her bed and stare at the wall until exhaustion overtook her. Her fingers slipped into the tight pocket of her jeans and retrieved the article. She smoothed it as she sank into one of the low swings, allowing her feet to drag through the sand as she slowly rocked back and forth.

Her step-father was up for parole but both his lawyer and wife believed that it would be the first step toward an acquittal. Recent events proved that the young girl who had accused Donovan Schelter was unstable – her father had recently sent her to school abroad after he was unable to deal with her unruly behavior. They held no poor feelings toward the unnamed youth though; they were merely sad that she had chosen to destroy an innocent mans life along the way. “I’m your daughter,” Emma whispered to the paper in her hand. “How could you have destroyed my life?”

The sound of a young child’s laughter broke her thoughts. Emma’s head jerked up, the paper slipping from her hand in the process as she followed the sound. A young man pushed a stroller in her direction, his head inclined toward the toddler, listening as they babbled. Her heart lurched as she watched the scene. That was how it should have been. That was what parental love was meant to look. For a moment she could almost believe that such things were possible outside the realm of television shows and books. Such a life was a dream that she did not understand; her world existed in nightmares.

She had only met one person who genuinely loved their daughter, Neil Balcombe. The way he looked at his daughter often left Emma feeling unsteady, as though she were walking along thin ice. At any moment the soap bubble would pop and she would be thrust back into reality once more. She treasured his friendship more than she would dare to admit to anyone. During the rare time spent in each others company she was able to escape and be part of a life she wished she had known. What would he think if he knew of her tainted life? Emma was certain that he would turn and walk from her without a second thought, worrying about how she would impact his daughter’s life.

Her eyes widened in horror as she realized the reason he was headed toward her was because they had planned to meet. She had promised to bring cookies and had forgotten. All that had mattered was the damned article that was skimming along the grass toward him. She couldn’t let him read it! Jumping from the swing she ran toward it, desperate to preserve the only measure of happiness she had left in her life.

[neil balcombe]

Most days, Neil did not feel as though he was nineteen. Ninety, perhaps, give or take a decade, but certainly not nineteen. He felt old and wary, a man whose youth had faded with time and responsibilities. He no longer walked fully upright, shoulders unburdened by the cares of the world. Instead, there was a slight stoop in his posture; his gaze was cautious as he surveyed the world around him, dubious in thought and action. He no longer had only himself to worry about. He had to be careful.

As a young teen, he had envisioned himself, at nineteen, having the time of his life in university. He would have been partying, enjoying life, drinking in the beauty of the world around him with every passing moment. As they once had, pranks would have made up the backbone of his actions, forming a solid support of silliness to account for his lifestyle. He would have been smoking still, rather than having given that up. The occasional dabbling in drugs and alcohol—nothing serious, simply "safe experimentation," he would say—would still be a way of life. And, beyond all this, placed in the area of highest importance, was Lily. Had things progressed differently, had he remained the teenager he once was, he would have spent every waking moment tangled in the arms of the woman he loved. Minutes and hours would have passed with the rhythm of a slow heartbeat. He would have kept her in his arms, protecting her, protecting himself from her departure. Had things been different, there never would have been a departure. Had things been different, he thought, she would still be there, with him. Nothing else, save her, would have held any importance. Indeed, he still wondered, at times, how anything could.

His life had not followed the expected path. Instead of running along the sidewalk with his partners in crime, he now walked slowly, humming, pushing a stroller. Instead of kissing Lily passionately, he found himself kissing the forehead of his daughter as he bounced her lightly in his arms. Instead of staying out late, drinking, smoking, enjoying the things he once had, he now played patty-cake, watched Disney movies, and went to bed at nine p.m. Things had changed, certainly. But, looking back, Neil found himself unable to believe that it had not, in some measure, been for the better. His world was now focused solely on his daughter. Peyton had shifted places with the girl who gave her birth, vying for attention with her sweet smiles, and receiving it without question. He was unable to be unhappy, blessed as he was with his daughter. Regardless, he still found himself thinking of the past, wondering, imagining. At times, he still found himself wishing for the way things had once been.

The world, in its change of course, had sped up. Life no longer eased by in a slow trickle of love and happiness. Instead, the days rushed past, carrying his daughter through the early stages of life in what felt like a series of quick blinks. One moment, she was a newborn, the next five months, then ten, then a full fifteen months. He could remember when she lacked the ability to lift her head. It had bobbed and slipped, supported only by his steady hand at the back of her neck as he held her. Now, he found himself staring in awe as she toddled along, giggling and babbling in baby-speak. Her little legs, though not entirely stable, carried her where she wished to go. She was no longer wholly dependent on him. What bothered him about this, Neil was uncertain. She was still his child, still dependent on him for nearly every need. Even transportation, in the long run, fell into his hands, though she now possessed the ability to walk any short length on her own. Perhaps, he thought, the problem was that it would only continue. Time was taking his baby from him already. It was only a matter of time before she was off into the world, on her own. He only prayed that she would not follow too closely in his own irresponsible footsteps.

Neil didn’t know how the time had gone by so quickly, but that did not erase the fact that it had. In his nineteen short years, he had become an old man. He no longer knew what it meant to be a child. As an adult, he had responsibilities. As a parent, he had even more. To be in charge of his own life was a daunting enough task, but to be the sole protector of someone so young and vulnerable? That was downright terrifying, though simultaneously the greatest blessing of his life. He wondered constantly at the memories that clouded his head. Surely he could not have misread Lily so much. Surely she had been the woman—girl, he amended silently as he thought of how young they had been—that he’d loved for so many years. How had he not foreseen this? How was it possible, after nearly a year and a half, that he still missed her as though she had only left yesterday?

That any parent could give up a child was unfathomable to him. His own father had done it in when Neil was only a small boy. He had vowed to never do the same to his children. He had envisioned an idyllic cottage, complete with white picket fence and a smiling, nurturing wife for his three perfect children. He had resided in a dream, and had been awakened by reality.

Peyton squealed happily from her seat in the stroller, clapping her hands together in glee as a butterfly flitted its way through the air very near her face. Neil paused to regard her, a smile teasing at his lips. How could it be possible, he often wondered, to love one little person so much? The giggles that swirled through the air, sent forth from her innocent lips, brought chuckles of his own. He watched her carefully as he pushed the stroller along. Her bright, infantile babblings nearly undid him, threatening to split his heart in two as happiness burst forth from it. With her so near, the ache in his heart dulled considerably. A miniature replica of Lily, she remained a fragment of what had been. He would keep her forever, if he was able.

As his gaze lifted, it caught sight of another person. She was so very unlike Lily, gentle and delicate in comparison to Lily’s own stubborn, harsh manner. Emma was a good girl, he had already determined. Surely, when adults spent time in her presence, they found themselves smiling, shaking their heads, and murmuring, “What a good girl she is.” There was no other description for her, he thought. He could think of Emma only as what she appeared to be—what she was, he felt quite certain. She was sweet, intelligent, and gentle. She was, in all actuality, the kind of person he wished for his daughter to be around. Perhaps, he had considered on more than one occasion, Peyton would learn from the example of people such as Emma as she grew. If he kept good examples close at hand, surely she would shy away from his own tendencies and bud into the wonderful young woman he knew she would one day be. Beyond this, he enjoyed Emma’s company. Witty and pleasant, he found her presence refreshing. She was so unlike the people he had once associated with. He found hope in her presence… hope for himself, and for Peyton.

As he walked toward her, Neil noticed an interesting turn of events. She had been holding a paper of some sort—an assignment, he supposed, though it really could have been anything—but it slipped from her grasp, tumbling and wheeling through the grass, directly toward where he walked. He watched curiously as it drew nearer, followed by Emma rushing to catch it. He half-smiled, stooping to grasp the paper in his hand as it slid toward his feet. He made a point of not looking at it, though curiosity burned in his mind, insisting that it might be something interesting. It was none of his business. Surely she would show him if she wished to. And, though he would not ask her to, he hoped that she would. He was, by nature, a curious person. Secrets were not particularly welcome in his world, though he had developed a tolerance for them over time. Silently, he turned the paper face down and held it out to her.

“I arrived just in the nick of time, huh?” He smiled at her, gently teasing, and moved to unhook Peyton from the stroller once Emma had taken the paper. “It’s not every day I get to be Prince Charming, you know.” A chuckle bubbled within him, escaping in a short, quiet burst as he lifted his daughter into his arms, softly kissing her forehead. “How are you today, Emma?”

[emma scott]

The paper skimmed across the rustling blades of grass like a sail over a still ocean. Upon it rested the life she had built for herself here. Neil was so far removed from the truth of her. His world orbited around his daughter, Peyton. Unlike the other guys at school, Neil could not be found at the local pub or seedy night club. Conversation with him was not peppered with innuendos and clichéd flirtations. Despite her better judgement, Emma felt safe around him, as though for a moment she could let her guard down and merely exist. His embraces never lingered too long and he treated her like she might be something of value rather than a cheap thrift store find that someone else had discarded without a care. There was only one reason for this: Neil didn’t know. When he looked at her he didn’t see the scared and confused little girl sitting in her princess-pink room with her step-father as he ‘played’ their game. Nor did he see the doubt and confusion that shouted in her mind as she tossed her hair and followed a boy back to his room now. Neil didn’t know and Emma was desperate to maintain whatever illusion he’d created about her for as long as possible.

A distressed moan escaped her lips as the paper shifted its path and headed toward her friend and his child instead. It curled around the toe of his shoe and Emma could almost hear the world she’d created shatter about her. Haphazard excuses flooded her mind as she watched him stoop to retrieve it. She needed to research for a law project at school. It was a scrap paper she had picked up at the library and she didn’t want to litter. Asinine and implausible, the lies continued to flood her consciousness. Her name was never mentioned in the article, and she had changed her last name. Even if Neil scanned the article he would not connect her to the story. She was ‘protected’ by law but no longer felt safe.

Neil, however, never even glanced at the words on the paper, handing it to her face-down instead. “I arrived just in the nick of time, huh?” he joked, moving toward the front of the stroller to focus his attention back on his daughter. He crouched before her, smiling at Peyton with such utter devotion. A pang of longing ripped through her chest as she watched him tend to his daughter. She wondered if that was how it was for everyone or if Neil was the exception. Her biological father had tried to fix all that he deemed wrong with her, but it was too late. The damage had been done. Some scars fade with the passage of time while others, though invisible, continued to ache. She often felt as though she was an amputee; the part of her that was supposed to be comprised of her childhood had been taken away and could never be replaced. “It’s not every day I get to be Prince Charming, you know.”

A practiced smile graced her lips as she slipped into her well-practiced persona once more. If she appeared as though her life was in order no one questioned her, and questions were deadly. “Prince Charmin’s overrated anyway,” she teased in her light drawl. “But I’m bettin’ Miss Peyton would disagree with me. We’ll have to get you all gussied up so you look the part, though.” Without losing her poise, lest he glance in her direction, Emma carefully folded the paper into a small, neat square and tucked it into her back pocket. “Thank you for savin’ the environment. I’m sure Mother Nature is much obliged.”

Neil chuckled lightly as he lifted Peyton from the stroller. His lips brushed lightly across his daughter’s forehead and Emma instinctively flinched. Despite knowing that Neil would never hurt his daughter his affections towards her never failed to cause the past to resurface. Was it possible that all men started out with only good intentions? Perhaps something about her had caused a shift within Donovan, causing him to be unable to control his actions. Years of therapy had not been enough to erase the niggling thought that there was a reason it had been so easy for people to throw her away.

“How are you today, Emma?” Neil asked, interrupting her thoughts as he turned his attention back to her.

“Much better now that you’re here,” she replied. “Though I must confess that I entirely forgot all about our plans ‘til just now. I didn’t even make cookies.” Emma’s face shifted to what she came across as a playfully penitent expression. Flirtation came easily for her when she was trying to deflect attention. “So I suppose I am indebted to you even further. How are you?” Before he could answer, Emma and leaned toward Peyton. “How is my sweet girl doin’? You better not be givin’ your dad any trouble, now. You’ve got to give him a few years peace before all the little boys come a-callin’.”