Esme's Wish

Chapter 1-2

Outside, confetti clouded the air, sticking to skin damp from the summer heat. Children, dizzy with joy at being released from the confines of the church, chased each other round and round in circles. Esme’s father, Aaron, and his bride, Penelope, lingered by the entrance of the church, greeting the slipstream of guests that issued from within.

Penelope, swathed in white, glittered and shone like the brightest star in a constellation. Aaron stood stiffly by her side, tugging awkwardly at the cuffs of his suit. He spotted Esme and started toward her, but a glacial stare from Penelope pulled him back to her side.

Desperate to avoid Penelope’s gaze, Esme glanced skyward, and was struck by an unusual sight. Perched on the bell tower above her, looking very out of place, was a sea eagle: its broad white wings peppered with countless black specks. It c****d its head and stared directly at her. She recognised it as one of the birds that hung around at home; she’d never seen it down here in the village. The wedding bells began to sound, and the majestic creature took off, winging its way toward the harbour.

Esme threaded her way through the crowded courtyard, heading to the one place she knew she would be left alone. The guests’ animated conversations stopped abruptly as she passed by, but every frozen smile and stifled sentence spoke volumes.

We’ve all moved on, they seemed to say. Why can’t you?

The peal of bells followed Esme to the far end of the church grounds, where lichen-licked tombstones leaned in toward the earth. A row of cenotaphs stood beneath a sprawling oak tree, commemorating those whose bodies had never been found. The leaves shivered in the breeze, casting a mosaic of shifting light over the stones below. Esme paused by the last tablet, dated seven years ago.

In Memory of

ARIANE MAY SILVER

Beloved Wife of Aaron and Mother to Esme

1950—1981

Lost at Sea

Tears pricked behind Esme’s eyes. The words blurred. Her mother had vanished, without trace, when she was eight. No one knew what had really happened to her—or so they said.

Esme didn’t believe that her mother had drowned—she couldn’t believe it. Ariane had always been a strong swimmer, careful and responsible around the ocean. But some nights, fear got the better of her. Some nights, Esme would wake with a scream, haunted by an image of her mother sinking beneath the waves.

She slid down to the ground, and leaned back against the oak, ignoring the bark digging into her back. Her heart felt bruised and battered, like someone had thrown it in the air and missed the catch. Each moment replayed over and over: the guests’ titters, her father’s bloodless face, the vicar’s condescension. Objecting had made no difference, in the end.

Why did I even bother?

Deep down, she knew why. Because sitting there and saying nothing had felt too much like betrayal, like she had given up on Ariane, just like everyone else.

The bark jabbed into her back like an accusatory finger.

So instead, you let them all down.

As she made her way into the reception hall, the rest of the guests eyed her like an unwanted wedding gift. Her paternal grandparents, who had never approved of her mother, beckoned her toward their table. Esme cringed inwardly before taking the empty seat beside them.

Aaron’s mother arched her finely pencilled eyebrows up toward the heights of her heavily coiffured hairdo, taking in Esme’s untidy hair and wrinkled dress with a scathing glance.

‘Aren’t you a bit old to be playing in the dirt?’

Esme bit back a retort.

As the reception wore on and wineglasses emptied, talk turned to Ariane. Despite their hushed tones, Esme could hear every word of the conversation her grandmother was having with a guest.

‘I told him he was making the wrong choice,’ her grandmother opined, ‘but of course, he wouldn’t listen.’ She popped a grape into her mouth. ‘Pick someone more—more—’

‘Normal?’ the guest suggested.

‘Exactly. Pick someone more normal, I said, or else things won’t end well. And just look what happened!’

Esme’s fists were clenched so hard that they were shaking. She desperately resisted the urge to empty the bowl of grapes over her grandmother’s head.

‘You don’t know anything about my mother,’ she said in a low voice. ‘You don’t know her like I do.’

Her grandmother tilted her chin up, exposing her ropey neck, and swallowed another grape. Then she leaned in close, delivering her next words with a side of wine fumes and minty lamb breath.

‘We know more about your mother than you ever will.’

As Esme opened her mouth to reply, the band struck up the bridal waltz.

The sight of Penelope leading her father to the dance floor was a painful one, but it also provided an opportunity for escape. She slipped away from the table. On her way out, she stopped by the wedding cake and cast a glance back at her father.

Her eyes flickered between the plastic miniatures of the bride and groom atop the cake, and the flesh and blood versions entwined on the dance floor. The cloying aroma of rose petals, scattered around the cake, clung to her as she passed through the doors. The future stretched out before her, and it smelled sickly sweet.