Waiting for the Moon
Page 132
The last lantern was extinguished, and the room fell quiet. Pale moonlight seeped through the windows.
He turned his head and stared at the inconsequential light. Thoughts and memories filled his mind, took on the sharp edge of regret, of shame.
He remembered the days when they'd first come to the village, the hulking scarred man and his thin, frightened child-wife. It had seemed like an oasis to both of them, a family that opened its arms and drew one in, welcoming the homeless with a warm fire and a hot plate of food.
It hadn't seemed like much of an exchange. He and Agnes signed a covenant of faith and donated their wordly goods-nothing-to the Believers, and magi-
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cally, they had a home. A place where they belonged. It didn't matter that they didn't sleep in the same room; they never had. It didn't matter that they couldn't speak for more than fifteen minutes without permission from the elders; they'd never had much to say to each other. All Elliot had ever needed from Agnes was her presence, and all she'd ever needed from him was protection. The Believers had fulfilled them both.
He sighed quietly and crossed his arms behind his head, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. He remembered the day he'd first seen Agnes. A scrappy, hungry young girl with a black eye and a broken wrist, searching through garbage pails for food.
He'd approached her cautiously, flipping her a dollar piece. She'd grabbed it and run away. But he'd come back, time and time again, until she began to wait for him, to stay and talk with him after he'd given her the money.
He still remembered how he'd felt around her. For
the first time in his life-and he'd been thirty-four years
old-he wasn't just a big, scarred man with one bad
hand and a lifetime of pain. He'd looked in Agnes's
brown eyes and saw himself as she saw him. A savior.
In the years since he'd asked her to marry him, he'd
told himself that he did it for her, but now, alone and in
the darkness of his room, he faced the bitter truth. He
might have started down this long road for both of
them, but somewhere he'd turned and started going
alone. As the years went on, it became more and more
about him and his needs.
She wasn't happy as a Believer.
He knew that. He'd probably known it for years, but
he hadn't faced it until she left.
He should have let her be, should have gone quietly on with his life, taking strength and joy from the knowledge that she was free and happy. Somewhere.
But he hadn't been that strong. He missed her. Lord, he missed her like he missed the sunshine on a cloudy
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day. Each day of her absence had eaten at him, twisted his insides until he couldn't think or eat or sleep or pray without mouthing her name.
He told himself he only wanted to know if she was all right, if she was happy. But then, in the great, light-filled mansion on the sea, he'd seen the happiness in her eyes, shining through, reflected in a smile he hadn't seen in years, and he'd known the truth: He didn't care if she was happy; not really. All he cared about was
himself.
He couldn't breathe without her beside him.