Lost Hope

My legs swing back and forth as I sit on the swing’s rubber seat. The breeze blows through my medium-length brown hair. The air is a little chilly for a fall morning. But I continue to sit on the swing, trying to get as high as I can. Each thrust brings me closer to the highest I have been on a swing.

“Can I join you?” a little girl asks.

She looks similar to me—petite, with bright blue eyes and brown hair that falls to her shoulders. In her presence, I feel an overwhelming urge to be her friend. I don’t have many friends.

“You look lonely,” she adds, tilting her head to the side slightly.

I give her a friendly smile. “The seat is all yours,” I say politely. “My name’s Emma.” I introduce myself after I lower my swing to be even with her.

Her round face smiles at me. “I know,” she says innocently. “I’m Duchess.”

I giggle. “I haven’t heard that name before.”

She responds with a hum, as if she gets that answer a lot. “You gave me the name, Emma.”

I dig my feet into the dirt to stop my swing. What does she mean I gave her the name? My brows come together in confusion.

“You don’t remember me, Emma?”

I shake my head.

I have never met a Duchess before. Surely, I would remember a Duchess if I met one. That is not the kind of name you have here in Texas. There is something about her, though. I know her. She looks remarkably like me the more I look at her.

“I’m your wolf, Emma,” she says innocently.

Just like that, the girl turns into a wolf.

The buzzing of my 6:30 a.m. alarm goes off. I roll over in my oversized bed, letting out a big yawn. My eyelids flutter open as the morning sun peeks through the window behind the headboard of my bed. I sit up, with my blankets a mess, and take a look around my room. As I walk over to my closet, a small headache draws my attention to the dream I had. It felt real. I feel compelled to talk to my father about the dream. Do I really have a wolf named Duchess?

Sifting through my clothes, I hear my mom’s small voice calling.

“Emma!” my mom yells. “Get your butt down here!” There’s a short pause, as if she’s debating the urgency of my arrival. “Now!”

In a rush, I grab a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt and pull them on as I head out of my closet.

“I’m coming, Mom!” I respond while still trying to get my shirt over my head.

Just as I get my shirt over my head, I run into the doorframe of my closet. My left hand immediately cups my forehead as I mutter, “Ow.”

Quickly, I check myself in my vanity mirror for any indication of redness or bruising. When I remove my hand from my forehead, there is a small red mark, which is already beginning to fade.

Why am I so clumsy?

I grab the book I left on my dresser by my door, so I can read to Willow.

My mother calls from the bottom of the stairs again. “Emma, your father and I need to talk to you—now!”

I don’t like when my mom starts yelling. It usually means that something important is happening and that I might not like the news. For example, last year, my mom started getting after me about making sure I stayed inside more instead of playing outside with other kids.

I run downstairs, anxious about what my mom and dad want to talk to me about. At the bottom of the stairs, my parents stand with opposite expressions.

“Yes?” I ask, questioning my mom’s sad face.

My mother is dressed down from her usual business look. Her light brown hair is tied loosely in a low, messy bun. She’s wearing loose-fitting black dress pants and a loose-fitting, long-sleeved white shirt that sits low enough in the back to expose the top part of her tattoo, which I never get to see. Her moon-colored eyes are glazed over with something more than sadness.

My dad, however, is dressed in his usual jeans and a red flannel shirt with rolled-up sleeves. His brown hair is tousled, as if he has been running his fingers through it.

Dad answers my question before my mom gets the chance to open her mouth. “We’re going on a trip for a week.” His voice seems sad and uncertain, but his face shows excitement.

Something’s wrong.

“Will I be going too?” I ask Dad cheekily, trying to ignore the sadness that engulfs the space between us. He would tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t he?

Yes, a voice in my head responds, but I mentally shake it away.

My mom’s eyes start to water. “No.” She lets out a long, heavy sigh. “I’m afraid not, pumpkin.”

This has to be more than just a vacation.

Tears well in my eyes as I give in to the pressure of the deep sea of sorrow. My bright blue eyes wander over to the luggage behind them. I walk through the gap between my parents, toward their luggage, and fall to my knees.

They’re not leaving for a week! a voice screams inside my head with frustration.

Hot, salty tears run down my face like a free-flowing waterfall. “Where am I goin’ while you’re away?”

This can’t be happening. What did I do to make them not love me anymore? Did I simply mishear what Dad said? Why ain’t I going with?

The many questions make my small headache worse.

I sniffle and wipe away any stray tear that still runs down my wet face. “You’re never coming back home, are you?” I ask when they don’t answer my first question.

I don’t look at my parents; I just stay on my knees with my head down in front of their stuff. Tears well up in my eyes again at the thought of never being able to see my dad and mom again. There is still a nagging feeling that something is wrong.

Mom walks over to me and gives me a sad smile while bending over to my height. This isn’t like my mom. She never gets this torn up about going on vacation without me. She opens her mouth to say something but releases a breath instead.

“How can you say something like that, Emma?” she asks finally, hurt that I would accuse them of such a thing. “Hey.” Mom’s light brown eyebrows come together in an upward motion. “Your dad already called Clary to come babysit you while we’re gone, OK?”

She still has that sad smile, and it is really starting to scare me.

Wincing from my growing headache, I look at Mom, concerned. “OK.”

I want badly to believe her, but I don’t. Everything inside me is screaming to search for answers, but I put up a mental wall.

Mom starts to speak again. “Sweetie.” She lets out a content sigh. “Why don’t we take you to your room? You look awfully tired.”

It is still really early in the morning.

She adds, “Clary will be here at about five o’clock tonight.”

Dragging my feet down the hallway, I stare at a family photo that hangs by my bedroom door. I grip the door handle. Thinking I’ve turned the handle, I walk right into my door with a thud and drop my book.

Jeez, I really need to stop running into things.

After picking up my book, I open my door while my parents walk up behind me.

Dad walks into my room after me and takes a seat on the edge of my bed. My father’s expression is sad this time.

“Em, come here.” He pats a spot next to him. “Why don’t you sleep a little longer?”

“OK, Dad.”

I make my way toward him after placing the book I wanted to read to Willow back on the dresser I got it from.

Dad gets off my bed and walks to the door, where Mom is leaning against the frame.

Why do they have to do this to me now? I wonder.

Quickly, I jump out of my bed and run over to them. Afraid I might never see them again, I give them both a big squeeze. I love my parents equally, but I’ve always been more of a daddy’s girl. My dad and I have done a lot together. We built a cabin that’s like our second home in the depths of our woods. We go out there every day to take care of our little farm. Mom only comes out every few weekends, when she doesn’t have to work.

Giving my dad one last squeeze of a hug, I place my chin on his chest and give him my big, sad eyes. “I love you,” I say to him one last time, hoping he knows that there is always a place in my world for them.

I will one day forgive them for what they are about to do. Or one day I will understand their reason for it. Even though there’s a possibility that I am making this all up, a part of me knows they won’t come back. Not yet at least. My tired eyes sting as tears form again. Not only am I a klutz, but I’m also emotional.

Dad brings his massive hands to my face and wipes away my tears with his thumbs. He painfully chuckles as I still have my arms tightly wrapped around his waist.

“I love you too, my snowflake.” He picks me up and takes me to my bed. “Take care, sweetheart.”

As I close my eyes, Mom and Dad walk out of my room without a word. It just doesn’t make sense. Why would they leave before Clary gets here? What did I do to make them leave so suddenly? They normally plan details ahead of time if they are going on vacation. More and more unanswered questions fill my head as I fall into a deep sleep.

I fall onto the floor from turning in my bed.

“Ow.” I groan with my face against the floor.

I get up to see the clock. It’s past five, so Clary should be downstairs. I run down the stairs, to the room that held my parents’ bags. I look around, anxious to see her, but I’m met with silence.

Huh, that’s odd.

The house is abnormally quiet, almost too quiet. It’s unsettling. There is usually more life here, especially when my parents are out and Clary is over. There’s usually music going while my mom sings along. My dad tells her she needs to stop because her singing is unpleasant. I normally cover my ears while saying, “La la,” to tune her out. But there’s none of that.

When Clary is here, usually, the TV is playing with the volume down low enough that it won’t wake me if I’m sleeping. Sometimes she types away on her computer because she has homework due the next day. Lately, though, now that she’s a teenager, she argues on her phone with a boy she claims she’s going to break up with. But there’s none of that.

“Clary, you here?” I yell throughout the house, breaking the uncomfortable silence, hoping that maybe Clary is here and that she just wanted to chill and not really make any noise.

I’m met with nothing but more silence.

Maybe Clary is just running late?

My stomach growls at me in hunger. I decide I should probably eat something. I walk into the kitchen and search for something to eat. Toasted oat cereal sounds good. I grab a chair from the dining room, drag it to the kitchen, and place it in front of the cabinet, next to the stove, where the cereal is.

The box of my cereal and a white ceramic bowl have been placed close enough to the edge for me to grab. Mom always makes sure I can reach them without help. After I grab the box and the empty bowl, I close the cabinet and get down from the chair. While preparing my bowl of toasted oats, I decide to wait for Clary a little while longer.

She has been late a couple of times before; I just never told my parents about it, because I like her too much not to have her as my babysitter anymore. I learned after I told my parents when the last sitter I had showed up late. Clary has been a few hours late at the most, but I usually give her until the next day. I don’t have high expectations like my mother does. If she isn’t here tomorrow morning, I will have to get ahold of my aunt and uncle.

My 6:30 a.m. alarm wakes me up. A part of me doesn’t want to get out of bed; I’m scared I’ll see that Clary is still not here. I have a hard time believing my parents will be gone for a week. Everything inside screams with heartbreak and betrayal. All day yesterday, I felt alone while I did my chores and played with Willow.

I throw my legs over the edge of my bed. My eyes land on a picture of my dad holding me in his strong arms with the biggest smile on his face. He looked so happy then, as if he were the luckiest guy in the world to have two beautiful women in his life. Mom was standing beside us, looking at both of us, clearly enjoying the moment before her. Usually, every time I look at this picture, it makes me feel happy, but now when I look at it, I feel sad, as if I have been betrayed by my father, my closest friend. It is like a dagger to my heart.

My father swore he would never leave me if he could help it. He swore to protect me as long as he lived. He told me I was too young to understand. But it was still a promise, and you don’t break promises in this family.

Still in my pajamas, I walk out of my room. The house is filled with the same silence as yesterday, although it is more alarming. My heart continues to sink inside my chest as I carefully make my way down the carpeted stairs into the entryway. Dragging my feet, I turn the corner to my left at the bottom of the stairs, heading into the kitchen.

I reach for the house phone on the counter and bring it to the fridge, where a piece of paper hangs from a magnet. It is a list of emergency contacts. A ten-digit number is written next to my aunt Millie’s and uncle Max’s names at the top of the list. My thumb presses the soft buttons on the phone as I dial their number.

The phone rings in my ear after I dial their number. Suddenly, I grow nervous. My hands grow sweaty, and my eyes begin to burn as tears threaten to escape from them, just as they did yesterday.

Muffled sounds come from the speaker of my phone once someone picks up.

“Hello?” Aunt Millie answers from the other end of the line.

“Aunt Millie,” I manage to say while choking on a sob.

“What’s wrong, honey?” she asks, and I can hear the worry in her voice. “Did something happen?”

What if she doesn’t believe me? I take in a long, soothing breath to try to calm the storm inside me.

“I have reason to believe my parents left me,” I tell my aunt.

The line goes silent for a moment. Does she know? More muffled noises come from the other end of the line. This time, Uncle Max speaks.

“Emma?”

I hum in response.

“Listen very carefully.” He pauses for a moment.

What is going on?

“You must go to the cabin and stay there. You are not safe at the house. Tristan will meet you at the cabin and explain further. Be careful, my snowflake,” Uncle Max quickly says before hanging up.

Uncle Max’s words have me confused, but I choose to listen to him. I am as close to him as I am with my father. They both call me snowflake, though I’m not sure why. Aunt Millie, my father’s sister, always has respect for me, though I’m not sure why. I’m only a ten-year-old girl. Some say I’m very mature for my age. My father made sure I was; he was always paranoid about making sure I knew how to take care of myself in case something happened to them, always grumbling about my mother’s past.

After putting the phone back on the home station, I run back up to my room. My room suddenly feels small while I quickly get dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. After getting dressed, I run out to the barn.

As soon as I see the barn, I can’t help but picture how run down it will look after I leave here. It’s a nice barn. Compared to the one out by the cabin, this one seems small. But the barn never needed to be big anyway. My dad and I are the only ones with horses in there, and we have two extra stalls for visitors. The rest of our herd are out in the big barn with the cows.

I push the heavy barn door open. Willow, my six-year-old draft-quarter mix, and my dad’s fifteen-year-old quarter horse, Pegasus, pop their heads over their stall doors with their ears perked forward. Willow whinnies with joy when she sees me. Pegasus, on the other hand, lets out a loud exhale. Willow continues to show her excitement for my arrival by jumping around in her stall. Her emotions are the complete opposite of mine. I feel confused, betrayed, and lost. But my horse is always happy with me.

My feet carry me to the feed room, when Pegasus starts kicking his stall door. He hates waiting for his food. I grab two buckets off the shelf above the prepping table and set them down. I open the feed bins, scoop up oats, dump them into a bucket, and scoop more into the other bucket. I then repeat the same process with the sweet feed but scoop smaller portions. After closing the bins, I bring the buckets over to Willow and Pegasus and dump them into their trays.

While they eat, I pull the empty wagon out of the barn and stage it in front of the barn. Then I go back into the barn, into the feed room, and start hauling the feed bags out to the wagon. I go into the tack room, grab Willow’s saddle blanket and bridle, place them on top of her saddle, and carry them out to the wagon. I do the same with Pegasus’s tack and then head up to the house.

I’ve always loved going out to the cabin. It is the one place I have with my father. Well, had. It was our place. He always told me that the cabin was special and that I would always be safe there and could always call it home.

Now, where are my backpacks? Aha, my room.

Now I have all five backpacks, two gym bags, a duffel bag, and a few other bags for supplies for me, my horse, and food. I begin packing almost everything I have: three blankets; three pillows; all my prearranged outfits; all my dresses (I’ve never cared to wear dresses, so there are only three of them); all the picture frames in my room; all my valuable items; and all my stuffed animals.

Suddenly, I briefly judge myself for what I am prioritizing.

What—a girl can’t take her stuffed animals? I say in my head.

As soon as the feeling goes away, I run to the wagon and throw some of my bags into it.

“How do you feel about leaving this place, girl?” I ask my dappled buckskin mare.

Her bright blue eyes show worry as her head hangs over her stall door. All I get from my moody mare is a snort from her large, soft nose as I throw more of the bags from my room into the wagon. Pegasus starts kicking at his stall again, this time wanting out to pasture.

“You are gonna have to wait, ole boy. I’ve got a few other things to do, and then we can go.” I turn back toward the house to go back in.

Running up the cement stairs to the front porch, I stumble. Luckily, I catch myself before I face-plant. I swear, sometimes I’m super clumsy!

Grabbing the cooler, I see something in the corner of my eye.

What’s this—a letter? I wonder. In less than a second, I’m ripping the snow-white envelope open. Why don’t I remember seeing it sitting on the counter the countless times I’ve been in here?

“Holy mother of horses!” I shout, seeing the massive amount of money that falls to the floor.

I bend over to pick up the large sum of cash off the floor and place it back in the envelope.

I’ll mess with this when I get to the cabin.

An urge inside me wants to investigate the letter inside the envelope, but I need to hurry to the cabin. It pains me to set it aside. Something has happened, and now it’s not safe to live here.

I still don’t get why my mom and dad would leave me here alone if I’m not safe anymore. I’m sure there has to be a reason behind it. Still, my father would have told me. He promised me no secrets.

Something inside me stirs. Then an overwhelming feeling of rage and hatred for my mother and my father consumes me. I want to get out of this house before I go into a blind rage and destroy things.

In a rush to get myself under control, I take all the food out of the fridge and put it in the cooler. If there isn’t going to be anybody here, there is no need for the food to go to waste. And I don’t intend on coming back anytime soon.

Now, where is the spare key? I wonder as I walk over to the cookie jar.

As much as I don’t want to come back, I eventually will need to.

The cooler is a bit heavier than I thought. I groan as I drag it outside to the wagon. I quickly go into the barn, where I left my mounting steps for Willow. They should make it easier to get the cooler onto the wagon.

“Willow and Pegasus,” I say as I struggle with the cooler, “as soon as I can get this cooler up here, I will load the rest of your things, and then we can go.”

After what seems like an hour, I finally get the cooler full of food onto the wagon. I huff out a breath of hot air as I sit on the cooler. I need to catch my breath for a second. Once I finally do catch my breath, I go into the barn to grab the things I promised the horses. After loading the things into the wagon, I take Willow out of her stall and hook her up to the crossties so I can put her harness on. She doesn’t fight me once as I buckle all the straps, making them loose enough not to hurt her but tight enough not to come loose. She bumps me with her muzzle as I work, to reassure me that everything is OK. But it isn’t.

I unlatch her from the crossties, walk her out to the wagon, hook her up to the driver’s side of the wagon, and then tie the lead to the post by the wagon. I rush back into the barn and repeat the process with Pegasus. I tie his lead to the same post Willow is tied to, so I can do some last-minute things in the house.

With heavy feet, I walk up to the house. The gray two-story house I grew up in makes me feel angry as I walk inside to shut off any lights that are still on. I start up the stairs. My playroom is on the left at the top of the stairs. It’s dark and empty. The only light comes from the midday sun peeking through the blinds. I close the door to the memories I have in there; all they do is bring me pain now. Turning my back to what was once my playroom, I walk past the stairs and down the hall to my room. My empty room feels bigger than it did earlier. Perhaps everything I had in there made it feel small. I stand in my doorway, the last place I saw my parents, before I turn off the light and shut the door behind me. Once I make sure everything is off, I shut the front door of what was once the Parker residence.

I drag my feet over to the barn to close it up. Then I go over to the horses, untie them from the post, and get in the wagon. Not sparing another glance at the place I used to call home, I give them a whip of the reins.

“Get up,” I say as we take off to the cabin.

It takes the two a second to figure out their footing. Then the rest is history.

The dirt trail makes the wagon wobble a little bit. The trees create a large, endless canopy over us as we get closer to the cabin. The trees are significantly lager and taller out this way. This part of the woods is much older and has been here for hundreds of years. In the parts closer to the house, growth is much younger.

Neighs from the rest of the herd greet us upon our arrival. Willow and Pegasus whinny back at them, happy to see them all again. I wish I could be as happy as they all are right now.

“Whoa!” I say to Willow and Pegasus as they come to a stop next to the post in front of the barn.

I jump out of the wagon and tie their leads to the post. Then I lazily drag the cooler out of the wagon and to the cabin stairs.

I come to a stop in front of the stairs and look up at the cabin in the trees and then at the length of the stairs. Our cabin sits in six of the sturdiest trees. They are part of the cabin’s structure. The cabin only has one level, but from the large peak in the front, it looks as if there could be two levels. There are lots of big windows to encourage natural light. Each set of stairs has thirteen reasonably spaced-out steps for easy incline, and there’s a bench at each landing in case you need to take a break.

Wow, how could I forget that there are five sets of stairs?

I continue to drag the cooler up the sets of stairs once I finish looking at the cabin. I will now have to call this home.

A happy groan escapes me when I make it to the top. I have never felt so relieved to be at the top. I turn around and face the large oak door to the cabin. Something about the door makes me feel that I am now at home—that I am safe.

This is a welcoming feeling, I think. It’s nice.

The potted fern still sits to the right of the door. I feel a happy smile spread across my face as I tilt the pot to grab the key. My hand brings the key to the knob and gives it a turn. I hear the quiet sound of the lock clicking as I unlock the door. I give the knob a turn and pull the door open.

I quickly drag the cooler inside and off to the right, where the kitchen is, and then run back out, when I hear thunder off in the distance. After a few trips up and down the stairs and back and forth to the barn, Willow and Pegasus have been dismantled and put to pasture, and most of the things have been unpacked.

The whole cabin lights up when lightning strikes nearby. I yelp, startled by it. I’m glad I finished my tasks before the storm hit. I hate storms; they’re unpredictable.

My feet carry me down the hallway. My bedroom is two doors down on the right. The space is open and much larger than my room back at the house. It’s more unique, with lots of character. The wall to the right has a painted mural of wolves in a forest. They don’t look like average wolves. They’re much larger, with more color, and their eyes show a lot of emotion. My dad said my mother painted it when they finished building the cabin. He said this room was meant for me. The extra rooms were meant for siblings, if I ever had any.

The wall parallel to the door has about a foot of wall coming off the floor, topped by four large glass panels for windows. A glass door leads out to my own personal deck. The headboard of my king-size bed sits up against the wall parallel to the mural. The mural wall has two doors on it: one is for my small walk-in closet, and the other goes to a bathroom. My dad said my room is considered a master suite, but I don’t really know what that means. I just like that I have a bathroom just for me, and it’s about half the size of my bedroom.

I plop down onto my bed as I continue to familiarize myself with my room again, trying not to think about all the times when my dad and I came out here in the summer months. Or the times when he brought me out here and said it was like a minivacation away from Mom.

A sudden wave of tears falls down onto my bed. I lie in my bed in tears, exhausted from the day’s endeavors. My body finally gives in to the much-need sleep. I can only hope Tristan makes it and explains everything, as Uncle Max said he would.