Don't Tell Ellie

When I was eight years old, a kid in my foster home, Henry Kent, told me that he could fly. Of course, I told him that I didn’t believe him, but Henry said he could prove it. So, on that winter afternoon, I watched him as he climbed up a tree. Scaling the trunk and limbs like an arctic monkey. Each branch he grabbed bowed under his weight and sent powderings of snow to the ground where I stood. When he reached the top he spread his arms and jumped. For a moment, I thought Henry had been telling the truth all along. But, down he went, plummeting straight toward the ground. He was lucky we’d gotten three feet of snow that morning or he would have gotten more than just a broken arm.

I don’t know why this was the memory that came to mind when Benjamin said he could prove it. But, I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of him breaking a limb in an attempt to prove some outlandish daydream.

“Okay,” I say standing up from the leather armchair, “Prove it.”

Benjamin stands too and offers me his hand, which I, of course, am not taking and he knows that before he’s extended it, but I assume it’s a knee jerk reaction, some sort of need to show off how refined he is.

“Follow me,” he walks to a curtained wall resting between two large bookcases and tosses the curtains aside. Behind is a single red door, a door I’d remember even if I hadn’t just seen it. Could it really be the same door from the Victorian house? Painted in a deep red with a large brass knob in the center. That smell that surrounded me when I’d entered this room is stronger now, it’s like my mother is right here, slathering my arms in mud and honey.

Benjamin checks his watch and nods as if answering an unasked question, “One minute.”

Suddenly, it hits me, even if this is real, what role does Benjamin have in this? Why does he care if I get to see my family again?

“Why are you doing this?” I ask and the question frightens me.

He looks over his shoulder at me, there’s a sadness around his eyes, “I know what happened to you,”

No one knows what happened to me. I don’t even fully remember it, “Bullshit.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he’s moving toward me and I can’t move, why can’t I move? He touches my face, caresses my cheek in the way that old lovers do, slow and tender. My stomach is tightening, I don’t like to be touched like this, as if I have something to offer someone more than sex.

Before I can protest I hear a click and the door cracks open behind Benjamin, he turns to look, “Every four days at midnight,” he says as if I should know what that means.

“What twisted shit is this?” I can hear my blood rushing in my ears as my heart threatens to burst in my chest.

Benjamin pulls the door inward and peering over his shoulder I can see a foyer. I move around him and stare through the open doorway. The foyer is dim, dusty, and empty except for a twin door— the same as the one Benjamin has just opened. It’s the main entrance to the Victorian house and on either side, there are two large paned windows. When I was smaller I thought they were floor to ceiling, but now I can see they aren’t quite that big.

The sky is grey behind the glass, rain is trickling down the windows and casting long shadows across the floor, they almost make it to where I stand, but as if there’s an invisible line drawn the shadows cut off abruptly.

My hands are shaking, and then I hear it. A faint giggle and then a shout, “Bluto! You’re all muddy!” It’s Marlow. I’ve dreamt of her voice a million times in the last twenty years. My heart can’t take it, my mind can’t take it.

“Let me out!” I turn and without realizing it, my hand flies through the air and I smack Benjamin, “Please,” I recoil, I didn’t mean to, but I wanted to. Why is this happening?

Benjamin jerks his head back and reaches over me to push the door closed, “You needed to know,” his words are soft, and his calmness is fueling my rage.

“Let me out,” I walk toward the large double doors I should have never knocked on.

“I said that I would,” he pushes a key into the lock and the click issues a wave of relief over me, freedom.

“I can help you, Eleanore.”

“My fucking name is Ellie,” I yank the door open and run.