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Edith smiles. “The fact that you’re afraid she’ll turn you away already tells me how much you want to be with her, and that’s enough reason to go to her, isn’t it?”
I don’t answer.
Edith touches my arm. “Go, Dr. Knight. It’s Christmas, after all.”
I look at her. As much as I hate to admit it, I know she’s right. It’s Christmas. I may not love it, but there is someone I love and want to be with.
Oh, Rainier Knight, how can you only realize this now?
“Thank you, Edith,” I tell her.
She nods. “Even doctors need saving sometimes.”
True. We are human, too, after all.
And now, it’s my turn to save Ellis – not from her family or from a murderer but from being alone under the mistletoe at Christmas.
Wait for me, Ellis. I’m coming.
Chapter 25 ~ Flight
Ellis
Ever since I came to Northup Manor – no, ever since I found out I was adopted – I’ve been waiting to learn more about my real mother, to find out what kind of woman she was. I’ve been curious about my father, too, of course, but I felt like if I knew my mother, then maybe I’d know myself better.
Now, I finally have the chance.
I’m in my mother’s old bedroom. Vivian told me about it the day after I moved into my own room and she’s been searching for the key. This morning, she finally found it, so here I am.
I draw a deep breath and take everything in – the wallpaper with the blue butterflies, the canopied bed, the nightstand with the lamp shaped like a rose with a butterfly on it, the shelf filled with books, the rocking chair with the butterfly pillow, the gilded mirror, the origami butterflies on the windowsill.
Butterflies. So many butterflies. I guess this really was my mother’s room.
I try to imagine her in it. I imagine her reading a book on the bed. I imagine her sleeping amid the sea of pillows. I imagine her sitting on the rocking chair, looking out the window. I imagine her dancing around.
I know she ran away. I know her childhood wasn’t perfect, but I’d like to think she was happy here. If she was, maybe I can be, too. After all, this is my home now, too.
I sit on the bed and let out a sigh as I run my fingers over the blue quilt.
I thought I would be happy here. I thought I finally had everything I wanted and needed. Ever since Rainier left, though, I’ve been feeling… blue just like this room. Something’s been missing. Even though the house is filled with nice things, it feels empty. Even though there are reindeer and angels and shiny ornaments everywhere, it doesn’t really feel like Christmas.
I’m beginning to wonder if maybe it was Rainier who made this house feel like a home to me and not the Northups.
I’m glad to have met them. I’m happy to be with them. And I want to spend Christmas with them. I just… want someone else, too, someone who belongs just to me, who I can cuddle with in front of the fire after everyone else has fallen asleep and only the lights on the Christmas tree are on, who I can kiss under the mistletoe.
I look at my mother’s picture on the nightstand.
“I shouldn’t have sent him away, Mom.”
As I stare at her picture, at her smiling face, my chest grows tight. I wish she were here. That way, even if I didn’t have Rainier, I know I wouldn’t be lonely. I wish she could tell me what to do, or at least whisper words of courage to me now that my life has changed. I wish I could have done even just one thing with her.
I grab the picture frame and run my fingers over the glass. Then I press it to my heart.
“I wish I could have known you, Mom.”
Tears begin to sting my cheeks. They keep from falling, though, when I run my fingers across the back of the picture frame and feel something bulging.
I turn it around. The back of the frame seems to have been taped and I can feel something thick beneath the cardboard.
Curious, I peel off the strips of tape and finally manage to open the back of the frame. There’s another picture beneath the one in front, also of my mother, this time on a horse. In between the two pictures, there’s a small notebook with butterflies on the cover.
As I flip through the pages, I see words scribbled in a child’s handwriting. I read the ones on the first page and realize it’s a diary.
My mother’s diary?
I begin to read it, turning one page after another. The more entries I read, the more I feel I know my mother. The more I like her. The tears vanish from my eyes and a smile forms on my lips.
