Page 7 of Lotus

I know it’s a question for another day, so I hold back a new onfall of tears and whisper softly, “Goodbye.”

It’s a goodbye for now.

Not forever.

Three weeks later, I’m watching through cracked curtains as Gabe opens the passenger’s side door of his Challenger and waits for Oliver to step outside. I observe the hesitation, the fear, the uncertainty, as Oliver clutches his knees between tense fingers and stays implanted to the leather seat. He’s wearing one of Gabe’s plaid button-down shirts, along with jeans that appear too tight for his more muscled physique.

Oliver stares at the raised-ranch house made of honey-colored bricks and dark shutters, his jaw taut, his eyes flickering with unease.

I want to run to him.

I want to tell him it’s okay,it will be okay, but Gabe and I decided it was best if I let Oliver get acclimated to his living arrangements before coming over. He’s overly sensitive to new faces, new environments, and to stimulation in general.

Oliver slowly plants his shoes on the pavement and pulls himself out of the vehicle. He’s exceedingly tall, well over six feet, towering over Gabe who is at least a few inches shorter. It’s incredible staring at these two men, side-by-side, after twenty-two years. My last image of them together consists of sticky popsicle fingers, bowl cuts, and grass stains on their knees. Now they are grown men—both handsome and striking in appearance, though, vastly different.

And one of them looks utterly terrified.

Ashen.

I clutch the neckline of my shirt in a trembling fist, the other holding the drapes away from the window as my eyes stay locked on Oliver. He scratches at his overgrown hair, his gaze darting around the yard with suspicion. I can see that his own hands are shaking while he studies his surroundings, prepared to bolt at the slightest threat. Gabe reaches out with a cautious touch, placing his palm against his stepbrother’s broad shoulder, and Oliver flinches back, startled.

My heart clenches.

After a few moments of indecision, Oliver finally moves his feet to follow Gabe up the cracked stone walkway towards the front of the house. As he presses forward, he pauses to glance around once again, still unsure, still noticeably hesitant. His eyes peruse the right, then the left, and before he drags his sights back to the house, they land on me through the bay window.

My breath catches as my hand squeezes the curtain so hard, I almost tug it right off the rod. Oliver narrows his eyes slightly, trying to read me or understand me somehow—as if he’s attempting to fit me into the complexities of his mind, like a missing puzzle piece.

We are yards apart, separated by a pane of glass and twenty-two long years, but I feel something pass between us. A current. A frisson of wayward memories and new possibilities. I want to know what he’s thinking as he stares at me, studying me with a rigid jaw and inquisitive eyes. I’m overwhelmed with not knowing what the hell to do or how to break this clutch, so I offer a small smile and lift my hand with an awkward wave.

Lame.

Oliver blinks away our hold while Gabe turns to face me from his driveway. He smiles at me, a sad, unsettled smile, and pulls Oliver from our stare-down.

I let out the air trapped in my lungs and loosen my grip on the curtain, watching as the two men continue their trek to the front door and disappear inside.

Does he remember me?

I still don’t know.

Police and detectives are trying to piece together the details of Oliver’s captivity. He hasn’t given much information—in fact, he’s hardly spoken at all.

Gabe visited Oliver a few times after he was transferred to an inpatient psychiatric unit for monitoring, but his ramblings mostly consisted of “lotus”and “Bradford” and“the end of the world”. Nothing coherent. Nothing cohesive. If authorities have gotten more out of him, it hasn’t been revealed to us yet. I have no insight into the reality of his life—I don’t know the horrors he’s faced or the obstacles he’s had to overcome. I don’t know if he’s been abused, or chained up in some madman’s basement, or God forbid, sexually assaulted.

My stomach twists at the thought, and I step back from the window, releasing a hard breath.

Lotus.

I wonder what it means to him. I want to know its significance.

Oliver called me “Queen of the Lotus” during our brief reunion, and the title has been haunting me ever since.

I make my way over to the living room couch, reaching for my journal lying atop the coffee table. Flipping through the lined paper, I open the notebook to my most recent page of scribblings and absorb the words:

TheLotusflower is an emblem for rebirth in an assortment of cultures, as well as eastern religions. It has attributes that correlate perfectly to the human condition: theLotuswill bloom into the most magnificent flower, even when its roots are in the murkiest of waters.

This was what I discovered when I researched the meaning of the word, and it took my breath away. I instantly copied it down, mulling over the meaning for weeks. Why is this flower important to Oliver?

Why does he associate it withme?

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