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EPIPHANY
→ chapter one: little dove
IT WAS SUNNY, YET THE BRISKNESS OF FALL WAS PRESENT ON FRANCES OLSON'S FIRST DAY AT WELTON ACADEMY. Her father, sitting beside her with a stern gaze — one she hardly saw unless he was truly focused, such as the circumstances they found themselves in now. She allowed herself to peer over at him from the very corners of her eyes, scoping up and down over his hard set features while he kept his icy stare trained on the ceremony being held before them.
Frances wondered what he could be thinking at this very second. Watching silently as Welton's creed was presented, each of them, one after the other being brought forward by a set of four, tall boys carrying each word further into the chapel.
Tradition. Honor. Discipline. Excellence. The pennants seemed nearly haunting to the young girl as she watched them near the podium where the school's headmaster stood, and what was even more haunting was the deep set scowl that lingered across the older man's features. How had her father survived it, she wondered. How was he surviving it now, all these years later after his life had undergone so much change? He was different then, of course. Cold, unfeeling, logical, just as his parents had always wanted. That was before Marjorie. Before Frances, herself.
Now, they lived in afters. After Marjorie. After New York. And soon, she thought, after Frances.
They had arrived in Vermont a month before Frances' first day at the academy, her father's classically black Rolls Royce coming to a sudden halt outside her grandparent's obnoxiously large home that nestled perfectly in the center of their sprawling acreage. Both Frances and her father had leaned forward, squinting up at the manor with identically icy stares, as if the home itself would swallow them whole. Edward had let out a sigh, settling back in the driver's seat for a moment before stepping out of the vehicle.
Frances had followed, as she always had. Wordlessly and graciously, she slipped into the role she was now bound to play for the rest of her life, the dutiful granddaughter — a girl so fortunate to have such strong familial ties so as to catch up on the life she had missed out on for so long. She was civil, exchanging tense, rigid hugs with her grandparents as they marveled at how big she had gotten. She smiled — somewhat genuinely — as they complimented her astonishing beauty. She forced herself not to look up at her father, sensing his struggle to maintain a courageous front in the presence of his mother and father, all these years later, having lost the one thing he had fought so hard to keep.
Her mother had died in March of that year. She had been sick for as long as Frances could remember, so frail and thin towards the very end. Yet, even when we're aware of how far gone the ones we love are, we never are truly prepared to face the world once they're actually gone.
She couldn't remember the last time she had seen her mother not in bed. Frances longed for the days they would walk through the park, keeping their eyes trained on the cobblestones they walked upon so as to forget they were engulfed in the forrest of skyscrapers that New York City was. Yet, the mother and daughter loved the city, walking down the bustling sidewalks just to feel as though they were apart of the city itself, the rhythm of their steps being that of the thumping of a beating heart.
It was their city, and they would cherish it so long as they so lived.
When Marjorie was gone, it was silent. The brownstone the family had lived in lacked its ever present warmth. There was no laughter, no light. The beating heart of their household was gone, forever. And so, in an effort to escape the city where everything reminded the father and daughter of their wife and mother, they went to the only place her father had left to go.
Her grandparents spoke not a word of her mother. No sentiments, no apologies for their own son, and own granddaughter's loss. Just a few forced smiles that lingered with condescension, welcoming their kin into the trap that they called home. Her father had warned her since she was a child never to trust her grandparents, but under the circumstances, Frances neglected her primal teachings and put on a gracious front.
The Olson's had pulled a few strings, relying heavily on their status as Welton Academy's most consistent — and affluent — donors. Frances would have the opportunity to attend the school her father, her uncles, and grandfather had all attended long before she came along, with her own private, accelerated course of study reserved specifically for her. In other words, as it always seems to be, money equals power.
Of course, if Frances could have her way, attending Welton Academy would be the last possible option for what came next in her life. She couldn't think of anything worse. She had always rather enjoyed school, appreciative of her English and history classes the most, yet, Welton far, far different than any school she had ever attended in her sixteen years. No wonder they called it "Hell-ton".
Her father placing his hand over her's — resting neatly in her lap as she fiddled with her plaid skirt — forced her from the depths of her own mind. Turning to face him, her eyes widened with panic as her father gently helped her rise from their seats, following in suit of her grandparents, who already stood, smiling proudly with their nose slightly turned upwards — as one could only expect of an Olson to do.
"Welton Academy is pleased to welcome their most loyal donors this morning," The headmaster — Mr. Nolan, as Frances had learned when he stiffly, yet courteously introduced himself to her earlier in the day — had a voice that boomed through the small chapel, his beady eyes trained onto the family. It was the first time Frances had seen even the slightest upturn of his lips in the time since she had met him earlier, and his expression was not even close to resembling a smile.
"May I do the honors of introducing Mr. and Mrs. Olson, who have supported Welton Academy's endeavors for nearly five decades. Welton is proud to claim Mr. Olson, his four sons, including Mr. Edward Olson," Mr. Nolan raised a single hand, gesturing to Frances' father, and upon the motion Frances discreetly allowed her eyes to flicker onto her father, hiding her smile as he surprised her by flitting his gaze onto her. A gentle smile rested upon her father's lips, one she had known all her life. The sudden thought of how greatly she would miss him began to broil in the pits of her chest, creating what she could only describe as the heavy weight of irreparable sadness.
"In consideration of The Olson family's incredible loyalty to Welton Academy, and with immense pride in our curriculum," Mr. Nolan clasped his hands tightly on the podium that rested in front of him, gazing down at his prepared speech. "Welton Academy welcomes its first female student, Frances Olson, who will join us in this current fall semester."
The chapel remained completely and utterly silent, so quiet that Frances feared her heart could be heard beating rapidly within the confines of her chest. In truth, the silence only lasted a mere matter of seconds before a wave of applause erupted throughout the marble arched room, and soon the Olson family was seated again.
Mr. Nolan allowed for the applause to die out, surveying the room with a cautious eye, as if he were already scoping out which students would cause him the greatest amount of trouble over the course of the fall semester. When he was met with silence, yet again, he parted his lips to continue on with the ceremony.
"As you know, our beloved Mr. Portius of the English department retired last term," As she had only moments prior, Frances found herself distracted by her hands, fiddling with the hem of her tailored, navy and red skirt. A stray thread lay starkly against her pale thigh, and the sudden urge to pull on it clouded her thoughts relentlessly.
"You will have the opportunity later to meet his replacement, Mr. John Keating."
Out of the peripheral space of her eyes, Frances could see her father's frame snap to life, as if he were a machine being turned on after a long period of retirement. The rogue string of her skirt long forgotten, she followed her father's curious stare towards the front of the chapel, to where his eyes were locked onto Welton's newest addition.
The man in question had leaned forward, smiling softly as his gaze flickered somewhat awkwardly over the crowd. Frances smiled to herself, having felt incredibly out of place just moments before, being on display in front of such a critical crowd.
"Himself an Honors graduate of this school," Mr. Keating stood now, clasping his hands in front of him as the crowd's murmurs began to echo throughout the room. "And who, for the past several years, has been teaching at the highly regarded Chester School in London."
As soon as the new teacher's qualifications were stated, the crowd of parents and students alike burst into applause, clearly impressed enough to cautiously approve of the Academy's newest teacher.
Mr. Keating's eyes continued to roam over the crowd, however, not with the same doubtful intent Mr. Nolan had only seconds ago. The younger man's eyes were calm, with a lingering freshness behind his gaze. As she rose her hands to applaud the man, she looked to her father yet again, noticing the content smile that rested softly upon his features. He was clapping, loudly and confidently at that.
It was the happiest she had seen her father since their arrival in Vermont.
The day had carried on accordingly. The parents and students had filed out of the chapel, shaking hands and exchanging sentiments with the headmaster before wishing their children well on their endeavors.
Frances had done the same, allowing her grandparents to see her off as her father unloaded her suitcases from the car. Edward, always keeping a watchful eye over his only child, smiled gently as Frances hugged her grandmother with a token smile, one that reminded him more of her mother than anything else.
Edward had helped her carry her things to her room, a single room at the end of the hall that was reserved for third year secondary school students. He had helped her unpack as much as she would let him, doing his best not to invade her space while also wanting to cherish their last moments together before she would no longer be living under his roof.
It had not been her father's idea to send his daughter — the only person still living who he was truly certain he genuinely loved — to the same school that had only encouraged the boy he was before he met her mother. Yet, always with his parents, terms and conditions came with what was intended to be unconditional love and support. In their circumstances, the terms and conditions included Frances' education. And while his parents had assured him it was the best possible option for his daughter to succeed in making a life for herself, Edward saw their sending her away as punishment for his neglect towards them for so many years.
Without Marjorie in his life, Edward was lost. As broken and scared as he had been before he met her that lazy summer night. Frances, however, was not. Her father had complete faith that she would not just succeed, but excel under the circumstances she had been given. She hadn't inherited that from him, he thought, no, not at all. In that way, she was entirely her mother.
When they reached the bottom of her last suitcase, the room was silent with an overhanging dread. Frances had turned to her father then, facing him after having evaded his gaze as much as possible since they had exited the chapel.
He hugged her, then, wordlessly yet knowingly in a way only a father could. Placing a gentle kiss to the crown of her head, he smoothed down her dark brown locks as her arms wrapped tightly around his midsection.
"I'll call everyday," She muttered, and Edward smiled amusedly, yet sadly, as her voice was muffled by where her face burrowed into his shirt.
He shook his head humbly. "You won't have the time, I'm afraid."
"I'll make time," Frances tightened her arms around her father, swallowing the lump of sobs that threatened at the back of her throat. "If not, I'll write."
Always a knack for writing, Edward thought to himself, a talent only the two most important women in his life could possess with such aptitude.
"Whichever you decide, I'll be looking forward to it," Edward nodded gently, pulling away from her slightly in order to take her face into his hands carefully. She peered up at him, blue eyes watery and hinted with a tinge of red at the rims, and if he could, he'd let her leave with him. If he could, he'd take her back to New York, and they'd be happy, some way or another.
But reality sets in, as it always does, whether we like it or not. There was nothing left for the father and daughter in New York, and as horrible as it may have sounded, Edward was far too lost and much too unstable for Frances to depend on. It was his greatest shame, his inability to find the strength and courage to care for his daughter after her own mother had just been taken from her.
The worst part of all, was the underlying truth of what Marjorie would have wanted. Unapologetically stubborn, Frances' mother would have relentlessly ensued the worst possible option following her imminent death would be for her husband and daughter to separate entirely. Edward feared facing the truth of his late wife despising him had she known he'd allow his parents, of all people, to send away their beloved Frances, resuming their control over their youngest son as if keeping the reigns on a reckless stallion.
It was Frances who spoke first, surprising her father as he ultimately accepted the idea of her being furious with him.
"I'm going to miss you. Very much."
She would not cry. For she knew if she did, even the smallest of tears slipping down her freckled cheek could shatter her father's carefully built resolve. Perhaps one could call their game of merely circling their shared pain unhealthy, but maybe it was best they healed in their own separate ways. At least, that was the best the father and daughter could do in order to reassure themselves this was the best possible option at the time.
Edward, however, knew his daughter far better than she assumed him to. The tears pooling in her eyes did not go unseen to him, but out of the sake of her own humility, her father spared her from confrontation.
"And I you," Her father ran a calloused thumb over the soft plain of her cheek. "I'm not sure how I'm going to survive your grandparents without you."
At this, Frances let a breathy scoff fall from her parted lips, her eyes flickering to the floor in an attempt to hide her imminent tears.
"Maybe we could switch places," Frances joked, meeting her father's gaze as soon as she had collected herself enough to face him again. "I'll go live with Grandma and Grandpa and you can come back to Welton."
A brash scoff came from Edward, and he twisted his face as if he were truly considering his options. It was not necessarily an amusing situation, but to make Frances laugh was enough to satisfy him for a short period of time. When their quiet laughter had died down, they continued to stare at each other, all the words they so needed to say to the other looming in the silence above their heads.
"I better get going," Edward spoke, breaking their silence. Frances' features twisted, the barely there smile that had once graced her features slipping so quickly that it nearly shattered her father's heart into a million little pieces. He placed one of his large palms against the swell of her rosy cheek.
"I'll miss you, little dove."
A nickname that had originally been from her mother, but had been adopted by both of her parents over the course of her sixteen years of life. The sentiment behind it made her falter, and it was then that Frances allowed herself to crumble. Tears stained her cheeks as she searched for something within her father's gaze, her bottom lip trembling so badly she was afraid it would bruise.
Edward took a deep breath, biting the inside of his cheek. "Your mother would be so proud of you. She always will be."
All Frances could do was nod silently, biting her lip so as to stop its quivering. "I love you."
"I love you more. Always."
Then, he was gone, and Frances was alone.