Hefting my book bag up, I realize that I left my secret phone inside it. Not good. Tess easily could’ve rifled through it while I was sleeping. Also … I glance back at my dresser where the phone tripod is sitting. I was so tired and emotionally worn out that I forgot to set it up to record.
I grab my Tess-given phone from the surface of the nightstand and move over to put it on the tripod.
I am most definitely not expecting to see the pink envelope that Tess gave me back in February, the one that I crumpled up and threw in the bathroom trash. The envelope is open, its secret missive lying atop it in a wrinkled sheet. The blood drains from my face as I pick it up, smoothing out the page so that I can see the elegant, confident curves of Tess’ handwriting.
Dearest Mia is how it starts which, to be frank, makes me not want to read it at all. Tack on the fact that she clearly dug it out of the garbage and then left it in here while I was sleeping, and I am all sorts of creeped out. That’s not the only thing she left me for: the iron skeleton key is there, too.
“What the hell?” I murmur, looking between the letter and the key as I try to figure out what my bio mom’s motives might be here. Between this and the metal heart pin she left for me on my first day here, I’m wondering if she doesn’t have unresolved intimacy issues.
I take the key in my left hand, pausing when I hear footsteps in the hall. My arms drop to my sides as I glance toward the door. A piece of paper slides underneath it before the footsteps retreat, and I hear Parrish’s door close softly, the sound as familiar to me now as the creak of the staircase back home.
Taking both items with me, I move over to the torn piece of sketchbook paper and squat down beside it. As soon as I see what’s on it, I forget how to breathe.
Parrish has left me a little gift with a note scribbled in the corner. He might consider Tess his mother, but his handwriting is so different, slanted and unsure, almost scratched out. Somehow, it seems to fit him perfectly.
I know I told you to think about what you wanted, but here’s an idea to get you started. Roses are a symbol of forbidden love. Also, it’s the state flower for New York. Thought you’d appreciate that.
There’s a green rose in the center of the page, the color of it similar to my hair, this brilliant green that fades to black at the edges. It’s a dynamic piece, an optical illusion that speaks to Parrish’s raw talent. As I stare at it, I can almost imagine the petals unfolding, like the rose is blooming before my very eyes.
The composition sprawls across the page, tendrils of black spiraling out, dotted with thorns and oval shaped leaves. There’s a wash of colors behind it, splattered like a rainbow of spilled ink. The most ominous part of the piece however is the arrow that pierces the rose, drawing ruby red blood from the very heart of it.
I take the page in hand and stand up, my pulse a mimicry of the crashing waves on Lake Washington. It’s windy tonight; I can hear the force of it pressing up against the walls of the ice cavern, like the clawed fingers of a monster asking to come in.
“Damn you, Parrish,” I murmur, sitting heavy on the edge of the bed and staring at the page for so long that my eyes get blurry. Is this what he’s been working on all week in his room? Flipping page after page in his sketchbook, colored pencils echoing into the hallway with a pleasant scratching sound. He could’ve filmed that and uploaded it as an ASMR video, that’s how soothing it was to me.
Using the skeleton key as a paperweight, I set the drawing down and take a deep breath.
I’m not sure I can face Parrish right now, not with my emotions so raw from seeing the drawing. He very clearly put a lot of work into it, a ton of thought.
Instead, I shake out Tess’ wrinkled letter. It isn’t very long, but the way she’s written it, it could very well go into her next novel.
Dearest Mia,
I know that to you, we’ve only just met. That’s understandable. The way you look at me, with a healthy mix of suspicion and unbridled curiosity, is no surprise. But to me, you are my heart, the pulsing beat that keeps me going, that pumps blood through my veins.
You are my inspiration and my muse, the lost daughter of a novelist who doesn’t know herself without the aching chasm of loneliness she’s gotten so used to straddling. Who am I if I’m not missing you? A stranger without purpose, an artist without a canvas, a mother to a child she doesn’t know.
