Whisper Me This

by Kerry Anne King

Whisper me this, my darling, my love The song of the moonlight, of stars up above. Whisper me truth, love, and whisper me lies, Warm days of winter, cold summer skies. Whisper me anger, whisper me rain, Whisper me flowers, then whisper me pain. When I come to die, love, then whisper me this The shape of a memory, the truth of a kiss. Whisper me, whisper me, whisper me this A lifetime of memories, and one final kiss.

Time for me is not linear. It flows in random loops and swirls, and sometimes in huge, incomprehensible leaps.

She sounds exactly like my mother, which reminds me, belatedly, that I am the mother and Elle is still a child.

Shades of truth. That’s the legal system in action.

My body feels different, as if something has shifted. A different center of gravity that makes me feel not weighted, exactly, but grounded. As if I’m not about to fly away next time a puff of wind or emotion hits me.

page from one of my childhood books flashes into my head, a Dr. Seuss extravaganza of gratitude not to be an abandoned sock, mistakenly left behind in a dark cave.

My heart is whispering something else altogether.

His contempt for society and authority was so thick, you could spread it with a butter knife.

My heart was flooded with the wonder of his attention, my brain misfiring in all directions.

was in love. And he was—who knows what he was. Of all the girls at his disposal, why me? What did he see in me that made him choose me? I wondered then. I wonder now. I suppose it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he did and that I was happy to be chosen. And that, dear Walter, is the first of my many sins.

he okay?” she whispers. My best answer is a shrug. “He’s just . . . lost, I think. Has no idea how to be without her.”

Existence on my own had loomed like an uncharted wilderness.

We need food and shelter first, before we need anything else, because without those things we will die. Then we need people to love. Once we have people to love, then we can learn to love ourselves and start working toward the things we are good at, the things that make us happy.”

He was into me and loved the idea of himself as a father, that he was recreating in his own image. He wanted me by his side all the time, everywhere. I loved the way he wanted me all to himself.

Her words feel like sucker punches to my gut. One-two. One-two. Add a right hook to the jaw, and Maisey is down for the count. I manage to get my unsteady feet moving away from her, but then she calls after me.

But my love is a pale thing compared to the love he expresses for me. His feels too hot, too bright, like a fire that might consume me if I stand too close. Whatever I give him, it never seems to be enough. He wants all of me, including the bits that I’ve managed to keep for myself, hidden away from my mother.

between us.” Fear comes barging in, a big old clumsy bear of it, crashing and rattling the corners of my life.

It was my soul and my heart that hurt worst. Something broke in me right then that has

been broken since.

my heart is vibrating to the tune of grief in E minor. Whisper me this, my darling, my love The song of the moonlight, of stars up above Whisper me truth, love, and whisper me lies Warm days of winter, cold summer skies Whisper me anger, whisper me rain Whisper me flowers, then whisper me pain When I come to die, love, then whisper me this The shape of a memory, the truth of a kiss.

Whisper me, whisper me, whisper me this A lifetime of memories, and one final kiss.

When the last note fades away, the silence that follows is alive with emotion. His. Mine. I want to cross the room, settle down in his lap, and rest my head on his chest.

“Whisper me truth, whisper me lies. You whisper two things, one truth, one lie—and I decide which is which.”

“I promised,” he answers. Their eyes meet and hold, and the unbearable, beautiful intimacy of the night before is still right there between them.

can’t help watching the way she moves, can’t stop imagining the feel of her drowsy body molding against his, of allowing himself to deliberately bury his hands in her tangled hair, pressing his lips against her neck . . .

But my imagination, so adept at making up stories so real I can see them unfolding in front of my eyes, is a total dud at real-life solutions.

why does his absence exaggerate the empty space in my belly, make me want to run after him, grab his arm, and spill a bunch of apologies and explanations and even a plea to be my knight in shining armor and fight for me?

That’s an image that instigates an urge to laugh and then to cry. A knight will fight a dragon, sure, or maybe even a cutthroat attorney, but generally for some sort of reward. The hand of a princess, say. I am far from a princess and too much of a failure to be worth fighting for.

sadness about this feels as inevitable as rain, and I brush it off.

It wasn’t my fault that he hit me. His anger is not my fault. I am not responsible for his behavior, then or now.

fine,” she says, the pen not pausing for an instant. “And I don’t require a lecture.” “Why on earth would I lecture you?” “Because I talked back, and I should learn when to keep my mouth shut and then I wouldn’t get hit.”

don’t care if he’s my father. He didn’t have the right to hit me. Not like that.” “I agree.” “Linda doesn’t.” “She thinks it’s okay?”

“Not exactly okay. She said sometimes being a girl sucks, but you have to be smart. And if you’re smart, and watch the signals and don’t antagonize a man, then he won’t hit you.”

But then, as usual, she surprises me. “It makes me feel like . . . gum. Old parking lot gum. On a shoe. Inconvenient. Annoying. Disgust—”

“What’s wrong with me? He didn’t used to look at me like that.”

“Oh, sweetheart. Nothing is wrong with you.”

This time, when I turn to walk away, I am not running from anything. Every step feels solid and right. My body feels more like it belongs to me, instead of a puppet dancing on invisible strings.

It’s funny how life spins, how we go on for long stretches of time and nothing changes, and then all at once, in a single moment, everything is altered.

Not all women are beaten. They can be smart and independent and make their own decisions. They can live in this world without a man.

But she doesn’t need to grow up believing it’s okay to be discounted, belittled, slapped for having opinions.

right now I’m working on being enough for me.

I’m sitting on the front porch with my journal, breathing in afternoon sunshine that still smells of last night’s frost. The sky is cloudless and blue beyond imagining. The maple on the front lawn is scarlet, and I’ve forgotten about writing down my thoughts because I’m lost in the contrast between the scarlet and the blue and how beautiful it all is. How quiet.

“Whisper me truth, whisper me lies,”

“All the things you did wrong, you did exactly right.”