energy.”
“So the daily events of my mother’s life are still available to me if I can bring enough energy to them?”
“Yes, to a certain degree, but time has passed. More importantly, you have a deep-seated sense of having been separated from your mother.” The irony of Emmet’s words nearly took my breath from me, but he was too caught up in his lecture to notice. “The memories that are closer to you are easier to revive—they’re simply awaiting a burst of energy that’s strong enough to jar them loose. Perhaps that’s where we should start.” Emmet stood and walked up to me, standing so close the heat from his body radiated into my own.
“You appreciate this vessel,” he said after staring at me for a long moment. “You respond emotionally to it, perhaps even physically as well.” Strong hands grasped me and pulled me into steely arms. His mouth found mine and forced it open, his tongue, a flickering flame, forcing its way inside. A burst of fire shot down my spine, and I would have been jolted off the ground had his arms not been holding me so tightly. I was breathless when he finally released me. I reached back and slapped him as hard as I could. My hand left its mark, but Emmet didn’t even react. Instead, he grabbed me and spun me around again.
There before me sat a much younger version of myself wearing a pink sundress I’d hated. I had been way too much of a tomboy for Iris’s liking, and she’d been on a constant mission to get me to dress like a girl. The pink-dressed me sat at the table, crayons in hand and an angry expression on my face. The sight made the present version of myself smile. Emmet loosed his grasp on me, and I drew nearer. I remembered this moment now. Iris had put me in a time-out because I had thrown a fit over having to wear that very same dress.
“When you imagined your father, you drew my form, my body, for him,” Emmet’s voice came from over my shoulder. “With your crayons.”
I was shocked, but I knew he was absolutely right. The sketch showed large and sturdy hands on a man as big and strong as a tree. I had imagined someone to whom I could appeal the injustice of pink dresses and time-outs. I had forgotten the image as I had grown past my childish hope of finding my dad. In broad strokes, that image stood behind me now. I turned to face him.
“This vessel could have taken any shape—a child, a woman, a common household pet, even. When you came across it rising from the earth, it contained nothing but pure potential. Your consciousness cast it in this form. As you dealt with Ginny’s death and the issues between you and your sister, your longing for a father figure resurfaced, perhaps not consciously, but strongly enough to give birth to this image. You provided the mold into which the energies flowed. They simply responded to the need you projected onto them.”
Oh, no, it didn’t make me feel in the least little bit icky to realize I was attracted to my idealized paternal figure. Well, maybe Emmet was only a manifestation of my childhood perception of the idealized male , I quickly rationalized. Satisfied with that extenuation and deeply determined never to consider the issue again, I said, “I didn’t know,” and took a few steps back from him.
“And then you named me,” he responded, regaining the distance I had put between us. “Like it or not, you have made your mark on this body. You’ve put your stamp on me. The line selected you and turned me into a person, a man, in the same instant. I cannot believe it happened by accident or chance.”
He knelt before me, bringing his eyes more in line with my own. “Mercy, I remember the incidents from the lives of the nine who made me. All their joys and shames, their accomplishments and little infidelities. But, Mercy . . . Seeing your face is my first memory.”
“Get up, Emmet,” I said, trying to diffuse the passion I felt in his declaration, but he reached out and took both of my
“So the daily events of my mother’s life are still available to me if I can bring enough energy to them?”
“Yes, to a certain degree, but time has passed. More importantly, you have a deep-seated sense of having been separated from your mother.” The irony of Emmet’s words nearly took my breath from me, but he was too caught up in his lecture to notice. “The memories that are closer to you are easier to revive—they’re simply awaiting a burst of energy that’s strong enough to jar them loose. Perhaps that’s where we should start.” Emmet stood and walked up to me, standing so close the heat from his body radiated into my own.
“You appreciate this vessel,” he said after staring at me for a long moment. “You respond emotionally to it, perhaps even physically as well.” Strong hands grasped me and pulled me into steely arms. His mouth found mine and forced it open, his tongue, a flickering flame, forcing its way inside. A burst of fire shot down my spine, and I would have been jolted off the ground had his arms not been holding me so tightly. I was breathless when he finally released me. I reached back and slapped him as hard as I could. My hand left its mark, but Emmet didn’t even react. Instead, he grabbed me and spun me around again.
There before me sat a much younger version of myself wearing a pink sundress I’d hated. I had been way too much of a tomboy for Iris’s liking, and she’d been on a constant mission to get me to dress like a girl. The pink-dressed me sat at the table, crayons in hand and an angry expression on my face. The sight made the present version of myself smile. Emmet loosed his grasp on me, and I drew nearer. I remembered this moment now. Iris had put me in a time-out because I had thrown a fit over having to wear that very same dress.
“When you imagined your father, you drew my form, my body, for him,” Emmet’s voice came from over my shoulder. “With your crayons.”
I was shocked, but I knew he was absolutely right. The sketch showed large and sturdy hands on a man as big and strong as a tree. I had imagined someone to whom I could appeal the injustice of pink dresses and time-outs. I had forgotten the image as I had grown past my childish hope of finding my dad. In broad strokes, that image stood behind me now. I turned to face him.
“This vessel could have taken any shape—a child, a woman, a common household pet, even. When you came across it rising from the earth, it contained nothing but pure potential. Your consciousness cast it in this form. As you dealt with Ginny’s death and the issues between you and your sister, your longing for a father figure resurfaced, perhaps not consciously, but strongly enough to give birth to this image. You provided the mold into which the energies flowed. They simply responded to the need you projected onto them.”
Oh, no, it didn’t make me feel in the least little bit icky to realize I was attracted to my idealized paternal figure. Well, maybe Emmet was only a manifestation of my childhood perception of the idealized male , I quickly rationalized. Satisfied with that extenuation and deeply determined never to consider the issue again, I said, “I didn’t know,” and took a few steps back from him.
“And then you named me,” he responded, regaining the distance I had put between us. “Like it or not, you have made your mark on this body. You’ve put your stamp on me. The line selected you and turned me into a person, a man, in the same instant. I cannot believe it happened by accident or chance.”
He knelt before me, bringing his eyes more in line with my own. “Mercy, I remember the incidents from the lives of the nine who made me. All their joys and shames, their accomplishments and little infidelities. But, Mercy . . . Seeing your face is my first memory.”
“Get up, Emmet,” I said, trying to diffuse the passion I felt in his declaration, but he reached out and took both of my
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