Page 11 of Through the Water

While the nurse busied herself with something across the room, I closed my eyes and began sifting through the rubble. Steering clear of any detours involving lemon pies and fussy horses, I concentrated solely on what I knew to be true. If I listed enough concrete facts, the answer was bound to come to me.

My name was Ariana James. I was nineteen years old. I lived in Houston, Texas, with Tristan and my mama—no, that wasn’t right.

Mama was gone.

I ended up in the hospital because…

What I needed was right there, but it was as if the film in my head had suddenly hit a brick wall, leaving behind a fragmented mess of memories. Everything else lay just out of reach on the other side.

It only hurts if you let it…

Those seven words hadn’t failed me yet. I was just going to give my brain a little break and try again later. Indifference replaced irritation, and I reopened my eyes, pulling my hands free as footsteps approached my bed.

“Here we are,” the nurse said, attaching something to my neck. “Good as new.”

I could ask her. It was just a simple matter of writing the question out in my head and reciting each word slowly and clearly. My stomach churned in apparent disagreement, but it was better than not knowing. Taking a deep breath, I drew myself up tall and opened my mouth.

Make yourself heard.

“I got here as soon as I heard.”

I withered instantly at the sound of his voice, my rehearsed words fleeing back into the recesses of my mind. A shudder worked its way down from the base of my skull before settling in the area between my shoulder blades.

He’s going to kill me.

Mama’s warning had chosen a most inopportune time to pop in, but there was no stopping it now.

“I’m here—I’m here now.” His fingers brushed against my hair and my back involuntarily arched off the bed. Searing pain moved powered through the center of my chest, sparking and pulsing like a downed power line.

When I was a child, I’d experienced periodic episodes where I would wake, only to find myself unable to move or speak. I was forced to lie against my pillow, completely helpless, until my brain and body were no longer opposing forces.

That in and of itself wasn’t terribly frightening. It was what occurred during those moments of paralysis that left me quaking in fear. But this wasn’t a hallucination or the trick of an overactive imagination.

This monster was real.

“Did you hear that, Ariana? Your father is right here with you.” The woman’s mouth stretched into a wide grin I couldn’t quite return.

Once people realized who my father was, I became someone worth knowing. The disinterest in their eyes morphed into expressions of star-struck wonder. Despite what the world believed, growing up the daughter of a megachurch pastor hadn’t exactly been smooth sailing.

I’d known Tristan James was a household name by the time I could walk. He’d written instant bestsellers, appeared every Sunday morning on televisions across the country, and had an entourage of celebrity followers.

Tristan loved being in the spotlight, and with his gravity-defying dark hair and piercing aquamarine eyes, the media just loved him right back.

Tristan James: America’s sexiest pastor.

Seriously.

As if that was even a real thing.

When people claimed he looked much younger than forty-six, he’d attribute it to doing the Lord’s work, conveniently leaving out that his eldest daughter was twenty-four.

I pushed my trembling fingers beneath the white sheet, hoping no one had noticed. I’d been doing so well, reading my Bible and praying more… just like he wanted.

After thousands of mistakes over the years, I had it down to an almost exact science and could sense when the world was close to slipping off-axis. If I stepped in at the right moment, I could keep him happy, and the façade was preserved.

As far as anyone knew, we were one happy family.

It was only when the world slept that I found myself wanting something I couldn’t put into words—this desire to be seen as more than Tristan James’s daughter.

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