Chapter 10 - Where the Eagles Fly
Three thousand miles to the west, the rain fell softly over Puget Sound, tapping a gentle, rhythmic lullaby against the cedar shake siding of our new home.
It was January 31st.
Our house in West Seattle was everything Carol Evans would have despised: warm, slightly unkempt, full of books, and entirely devoid of silk upholstery.
The living room had deep, honey-colored fir floors that creaked with character, a massive stone fireplace built from river rocks, and broad picture windows that looked out over the gray waters of the sound toward the snow-capped peaks of the Olympic Mountains.
In the kitchen, the scent of cinnamon and baking apples drifted from the oven.
Daniel stood by the butcher-block island, wearing a faded gray sweatshirt and woolen socks, chopping walnuts for a rustic apple crisp. Outside, through the back French doors, the branches of our two massive heritage apple trees swayed gently in the Pacific breeze.
“Emma!” a voice called from the second floor.
Footsteps came thundering down the wooden staircase—fast, uninhibited, joyful footsteps that would have caused Carol Evans to ring for smelling salts.
Lily burst into the kitchen, wearing a green oversized sweater and denim overalls covered in yellow paint smudges. In her hands, she held a large sketchbook from her new art class at the community center down the street.
“Mommy, look! Miss Clara showed us how to do watercolors with salt!”
She slammed the sketchbook down onto the counter right next to Daniel’s walnut bowl.
Neither of us flinched. Neither of us warned her about the counter.
I wiped my hands on my apron, leaned down, and pulled the book toward me.
On the heavy textured paper was a sweeping watercolor of a vast blue mountain, surrounded by tall, dark green pine trees. Soaring high above the snow line was a bird with massive, golden-yellow wings, its feathers created by the chemical reaction of table salt blooming against wet pigment.
In the lower right corner, the bird had a small, deliberate splash of crimson watercolor right near its left eye.
“That is breathtaking, bug,” I whispered, pressing my cheek against her soft curls. “Look at those wings.”
“It’s an eagle,” Lily announced proudly, puffing out her chest. “Miss Clara said eagles don't care if the wind is rough because their feathers are strong. She said my bird is the strongest one in the whole class.”
Daniel reached over, ruffling her hair with a flour-dusted hand. “She’s right. That eagle looks like it could fly all the way to Alaska.”
“Can we hang it by the front door?” Lily asked. “Right where everybody walks inside?”
“Right by the front door,” I promised. “First thing people see.”
Lily smiled—a wide, brilliant, unclouded smile that lit up the rainy afternoon—and bounded back toward the living room to set up her watercolors by the bay window.
The front doorbell chimed.
Not a sharp, metallic ring, but a deep, resonant brass bell that Daniel had mounted beside the porch archway.
Daniel and I exchanged a smile.
I walked through the foyer, opened the heavy fir door, and stepped onto the covered porch.
Standing on the welcome mat, wearing a brand-new wool Mackinaw jacket and a rain-slicked flat cap, was my father.
He had arrived at Sea-Tac airport three hours earlier on a one-way flight from Columbus. His two large leather duffel bags sat on the porch bench behind him, along with a heavy wooden crate containing his finest Japanese carving chisels.
His cheeks were flushed red from the cold salt air, his gray beard trimmed neat, but his eyes... his eyes looked ten years younger. The weary, haunted slump in his shoulders was entirely gone, replaced by the steady, quiet posture of a man who had finally walked out of the prison yard and never looked back.
“Hi, Emmy,” he said softly, a broad grin crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“Hi, Dad,” I choked out, throwing my arms around his neck.
He pulled me into a fierce, crushing hug that smelled of cedar, rain, and clean mountain air. We stood there on the porch for a long minute, listening to the Puget Sound ferry horn blow deep and low across the water in the distance.
“Grandpa!” a shriek echoed from the hallway.
Dad let go of me, dropping to his knees on the welcome mat just in time to catch forty pounds of flying child.
Lily crashed into his chest, her arms locking around his neck, laughing with pure, unfettered delight. “You came! You came to see the mountains!”
“I sure did, sweet pea,” my father laughed, his voice rich and full, burying his face in her hair. “I came to see the mountains, and I came to see that eagle you promised to paint for my new workshop.”
“It’s already done!” she yelled, pulling his hand to drag him inside. “It has gold wings and salt on the feathers! Come look!”
I stood on the threshold, watching my father walk down our hallway with his granddaughter, listening to the sounds of their laughter mingling with Daniel’s whistling from the kitchen and the crackle of pine logs burning in the hearth.
My phone, resting on the small entryway table beside the mail tray, screen lit up with a silent notification.
A voicemail alert.
The area code was 614—Columbus, Ohio.
A number I didn't recognize, forwarded through an unblocked internet service.
I picked up the phone, tapped the voicemail tab, and held the receiver to my ear for five seconds.
My mother’s voice came through the speaker.
It wasn't imperious anymore. It wasn't haughty. It was thin, cracked, trembling with the pathetic, terrifying desperation of a monarch sitting on a throne in an empty castle:
“Emma? Emma, please... it’s your mother. The house is so big, Emma. Your father won't answer his lawyer’s calls. The club... they canceled the spring gala, Emma. Rachel won't bring the boys over. Please... I bought Lily that doll she wanted. I can bring it to Seattle. I can take a train. Emma, please pick up... Emma...?”
I didn't listen to the end.
I didn't feel anger. I didn't feel triumph. I didn't feel revenge.
I felt only a clean, quiet, absolute nothing.
I tapped Delete.
Then I tapped Clear Deleted Messages.
I set the phone down on the wooden console, turned my back on the hallway, and walked into our warm, loud, messy living room.
May you like
Outside, the clouds were parting over the sound, letting the pale gold rays of the Pacific sun break through the mist, illuminating the snowy peaks of the Olympic Mountains that reached straight into the endless sky.
And inside our home, nobody had to ask for permission to be loved.
