Page 12 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth

Twelve

Emily

T he farm is still and silent—as are the woods that abut it. I don’t see another person, a fox, or even a bird during my brisk walk. Of course, it’s technically not yet spring, and I have no idea what—if any—wildlife overwinters here. It’s eerie all the same.

Eerie or not, the sky is vast, the mountains are gorgeous, and the quiet must be good for my blocked writer’s brain.

As I hike along the narrow frozen path, part of my mind is focused on stepping carefully so as not to turn an ankle in a rut, but the rest is zooming ahead in my manuscript.

The cold air has jarred loose the details of Maleen and Ruth’s confrontation about standing up to the king.

Or, I allow, the unsettling interaction between my husband and my host has inspired a scene.

As the late great Nora Ephron famously said, ‘Everything is copy.’ So I’m not inclined to question my muse.

I am very much not a writer who follows the ‘write what you know’ edict.

If I were, I’d be known for gritty thrillers, not women’s fiction.

Even so, I manage to weave parts of my life into my work.

And the thick tension between Tristan and Alex has inspired a scene where more is left unsaid than said when Maleen asks Ruth to help her defy her father.

Like Alex, Ruth will attempt to run from the situation.

And it will be during this pivotal scene, I decide, that the king will send his guards to take the princess and her friend to the tower to begin their captivity.

When they are locked in, the air will be thick with silent incrimination and fear, just as it was in the cabin.

I break into a jog, hurrying back to the cabin and my laptop while the dialogue and the sensory details are fresh in my mind.

As I race over the hard earth, a stray thought intrudes on my mental story-building.

Not about Tristan and Alex this time, but about me.

Maleen and her lady-in-waiting were imprisoned for seven years in a dark tower without light.

It’s been almost exactly seven years since Cassie was murdered, and I’ve been trapped in my own sunless tower, a captive of fear.

The idea smacks me in the face. It’s blindingly obvious.

And yet, I’ve never considered it before.

Am I drawn to Maid Maleen because I identify with her?

Or, maybe, with her lady-in-waiting? I stop in my tracks, breathing heavily, and stare at the cabin, wondering.

If I’m Maleen, then Cassie was my Ruth—an innocent victim swept up in my mess.

It’s what I’ve always believed, what I’ve always known, but somehow it feels viscerally true in this moment.

When I push open the door, I’m shaking and sweating. Capturing the scene is now the furthest thing from my mind. I kick the door closed with a booted foot and turn to engage the lock, then I beeline to the kitchen and the bags of groceries to unearth a bottle of wine.

It takes most of a glass of table red to steady my nerves. I make my way to the big window near the writing desk and peer out into the woods as I finish the drink. The long shadows of the trees encroach on the clearing as if they’re marching toward the cabin. I shiver and turn away from the view.

It’ll be dark soon, I reassure myself, as I grab the wine bottle by its neck and head to the small bathroom.

I’m not entirely sure trading shadows for pitch-black night is an improvement, but at least in here, the only window is small and set high in the wall.

I eye the old clawfoot tub that barely fits in the space.

A bath. That’s what I need. A hot bath, another glass of vino, and then my mind will be calm and I’ll be able to write. I’ll reheat the lasagna, turn on some music, and let the words flow. But first, a bath.

I pour the wine and set the bottle on the vanity, then lean over to fill the tub.

Alex has left a little basket of toiletries on the tray—shampoos, fancy soaps, lotion.

There’s a small vial of scented bath oil.

While the water runs, I uncap the oil and take a sniff.

Lavender tickles my nose. Perfect. I dump the contents into the hot water, place a fluffy white towel within arm’s reach, and strip off my clothes.

I lower myself into the steaming water and exhale deeply.

I close my eyes, sip the wine, and trail a hand through the water cutting a lazy ribbon, back and forth in a slow rhythm.

The combination of heat, booze, and water works its magic, and my near-panic and guilt over Cassie’s murder begin to dissipate like the steam rising to fog the mirror.

I tilt my head back and float, my hair streaming behind me.

If I were to tell anyone that I’m responsible for Cassie’s death, they’d tell me I was being ridiculous. They’d insist I’m not culpable. Her murder wasn’t my fault. I’m a victim, too. Survivor’s guilt is common after a trauma. They’d say all these things.

But that’s because they don’t have all the facts.

Fact: Cassie was sleeping in my room, not hers, the night she was stabbed.

When it rained hard, like it did that night, the water came in through a crack in the corner of the wall up near the ceiling and leaked onto her bed.

The apartment management company had been promising to fix it for months.

So when the forecast called for rain, we pushed her bed against her dresser to keep it dry, and she crashed in my bed. It was plenty big for both of us.

Fact: The killer came in through my bedroom window, even though Cassie’s room was in the back of the building—less visible from the street and an easier access point thanks to the ledge under her window.

When the crime scene investigators arrived, I heard them talking about it.

They said it was poor planning on the killer’s part.

An unnecessary, wholly avoidable risk to take for no real reward.

They couldn’t understand why he’d chosen my window, not Cassie’s.

From my spot at the kitchen table, wrapped up in a thin, scratchy blanket, sipping the too-hot tea one of the first responders had pressed into my hands, I understood why: He wanted to be sure he’d have time to kill me before she woke up and heard him.

He just hadn’t expected me to be out and her to be in my bed.

But the most compelling fact was this: he’d told me.

Two days after Cassie’s murder, I returned to the apartment to grab some more clothes and books.

A uniformed officer accompanied me, lifted the crime scene tape for me to duck under, and stood guard at the door while I shoved clean underpants and bras into a duffle bag.

When I swept the stack of books and notebooks from my desk into the open bag, a sheet of paper fluttered out of my copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God and floated to the floor.

I gasped when I read the words—loud enough to draw the police officer in from the front door.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

I nodded, not trusting my voice, as I shoved the page into my jeans pocket with shaking hands. I could’ve sworn the paper gave off the faint scent of sandalwood.

Back at my friends’ place, I locked myself in the bathroom, smoothed the sheet and reread the message, printed in careful block letters: IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU. Two hours later my mom had booked me a ticket, no questions asked, and I was at the airport waiting for my flight home.

Now, in a different bathroom, hundreds of miles away, my eyes pop open and my heart thumps wildly at the memory. I never told a soul about the message. Not the police, not my parents, and not Cassie’s. Later, I didn’t tell Tristan or Dr. Wilde. I haven’t thought about that note in years.

Not since the fifth anniversary of Cassie’s death, when I’d burned it at her gravesite and watched the ashes scatter in the wind.

I’d had the notion that symbolic act would free me, bring me some measure of peace, and, maybe, for a while it had.

But whatever solace I’d gained is gone now.

Far from feeling relaxed, I feel vulnerable and exposed.

I stand up and grab the towel, wrapping it tightly around my body. While the tub drains, I hurriedly dress and go through the small cabin, room by room. I check the locks on each window and confirm that both the front and back doors are locked. The ritual does nothing to ease my fear.

Coming here was a mistake. I should know better than to think I can outrun my anxiety. No, correction—Dr. Wilde should know better. He’s the professional. I lied to Tristan when I said I ran the writing retreat idea by Sam. I didn’t call my agent, I called my psychiatrist.

Tristan doesn’t know—can’t know—exactly how badly this time of year affects me.

The anniversary of Cassie’s murder always messes me up, so Dr. Wilde is gracious enough to be on standby for quick check-ins throughout the month of March.

Every year, he patiently listens as I relive finding her body, the details as vivid as they were when it happened.

He must know them as well as I do by now.

He says it's his privilege to hold the memories with me so I don't have to bear them alone.

Only now, I’m in this isolated cabin at the end of the world with no cell phone service, no internet connection, and a phone that makes local calls only. No check-ins. No support. No Dr. Wilde.

Alone with my memories, left to grapple with the narrative that defines me, the one that traps me as surely as any princess in a tower.

Was it hubris or foolishness that made me think changing my setting would change my story?

Ghosts don’t haunt places, after all; they haunt people.

And mine has come with me, taken up residence in my heart right here in this charming fairytale cottage.

I sink down into the couch and try, with limited success, not to hyperventilate.