Fables & Other Lies

“Is everything okay?” That was my mother.

I turned and nodded at her. She was wearing a black dress that hit her just beneath her knee, black heels, and her black hair up in a nice bun. She held out a hand for me, which I took, and walked back to the church.

“I hate that you’re leaving,” she said.

“I can’t stay. Too many things have happened.”

“I wish you’d talk about them.”

I smiled, squeezing her hand. She and everyone else. I hadn’t given Dee or Martín any details. I simply said I was grateful to be home. I smiled and offered both of them some of my grandmother’s famous tea when they came over. I’d set the intention. They’d forget where I’d been. They’d forget who I’d been with. Intention mattered. River said people had to want certain things in order for the tea to work, but he didn’t see it the way I did because he didn’t have Wela as a grandmother. She served it with the intention already made. I never wanted to forget that night all those years ago, but I did. I didn’t want to forget anything in my life, but I had, and now I remembered all of it clearly. I remembered the screaming matches in my house. I remembered the anger and the pain caused. I remembered how volatile they’d been behind closed doors and how I smiled through all of it the following day because I was forced to forget it.

I sat through the rest of the Mass with my mother, because despite everything, she was my mother and I loved her. When she went to her sister’s house with my grandmother, I kissed her goodbye, knowing it would be the last time I saw her. When I parked my Vespa in front of the house, I walked inside like a woman on a mission, packing bags of clothes and throwing them outside, far enough away from the house, before taking my own bag outside and setting it beside my Vespa.

I walked into the kitchen and threw everything inside the big tin trash bin on the kitchen floor before soaking it with gasoline and starting a fire inside it. I burned the leaves first, watching as they withered inside the bin, and then, I grabbed the container of gasoline and walked around the house, saying a prayer as I went.

By the time I reached the door and set the match, I’d made my peace with everything. I walked out and put on my helmet, grabbing my bag and reversing the Vespa to the street. I watched the flames for a moment, watched the black smoke as it took over. My grandmother would curse me for this. My mother would get over it and rebuild, but would probably be upset at me as well. I was fine with both of those things because despite that, I wasn’t going to let the Caliban Manor go down alone. Not when the house that caused it all was still standing.

Not in my lifetime.

Chapter Thirty-Three

One year later

Whoever said time eased pain was a liar. Every time I thought of River, my heart squeezed tighter than the last. I hadn’t even dreamed of him since I left Pan. A part of me wanted to make a tea with the dried-up remnants of leaves I’d found in the pocket of my jacket when I unpacked my clothes, but I couldn’t live with myself if I forgot him.

“It’s beautiful here,” Dee said, sighing as she sipped her drink.

“It is.” I smiled, looking out into the water.

“What made you pick Santorini?” Martín asked. “Was it our wedding?”

“Of course, it was your wedding.” I rolled my eyes, smiling as I shook my head. “Because I totally knew you were going to pick Santorini to elope in when I chose to move here.”

Dee laughed. “Well, thank God for you. You’ve made this elopement possible by booking everything for us. Maybe you have a future as an elopement travel agent or something.”

“After dealing with one bridezilla? No, thank you.” I raised an eyebrow.

“You deserve a medal.” Martín laughed. “The pictures have been nice. Who knew there were this many decaying houses on an island formed in two thousand BC?”

“Right?” Dee laughed. “The message boards have been going crazy with their talk about the Lost City of Atlantis.”

“Have you found it yet?” Martín asked.

“I haven’t looked.” I laughed. “Besides, they’ve found a lot of proof that Atlantis is deep beneath Doñana for me to even go on that hunt.”

I didn’t even bring up the fact that the mere thought of searching for a lost city that was now undersea made me feel like crying. As it was, crying was the only thing I seemed to do when I was sitting in my therapist’s office. I cried, I laughed, I cried some more. It was healthy to let it all out, she said. Still, all the therapy in the world couldn’t cure the loneliness I felt.