The one of four I knew thanks to Mclary and his compass lesson.
I repeated along with her and the stupid cartoons. “S is for snake. S is for snow. S is for a bright yellow sun!”
We lost track of time as we soaked up the knowledge gifted by ugly puppets. I didn’t cringe at the childish songs. I didn’t roll my eyes at the baby talk. I put aside my ego and imprinted every letter into my brain.
I did it for me but mainly I did it for her.
Because eventually, I would need to be more than the illiterate boy who’d carried her away in a backpack. I’d have to be a role model, counsellor, and friend. And I was determined to be a friend who could read and write.
As the night wore on and my eyes scratched and head throbbed, I glanced at Della, who’d turned drowsy and soft.
Normally, she was the one who instigated affection.
But that night, I was the one who dragged her droopy, sleepy body close and kissed her cheek. I nuzzled her sweet-smelling hair and murmured, “You’re the one teaching me now, Della Ribbon. Please don’t ever stop.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DELLA
* * * * * *
Present Day
OOPS, I TOTALLY forgot to finish that last chapter.
It was a little off tangent I’m afraid, but at least, hopefully, it will help show you how special Ren was and how unique a man he became.
Now, before I lose my train of thought to such bittersweet memories again, I want to tell you three events that are so real to me.
I don’t know if I recall them from my own experiences or if Ren was such a master storyteller, he manufactured the history to suit his own ends. Either way, they’re some of my favourite, and this tale wouldn’t be complete without them.
I suppose I’ll begin with the very first one made at Polcart Farm where we lived for over three years. There were so many memories created there: antidotes Ren would tell me, jokes he’d spin from things I’d done, and lessons he’d remind me of from prior mistakes.
I knew Ren was happier in the forest away from society, but he put that need aside for me. He watched cartoons with me as we learned to read side by side. We cowered together when a hurricane threatened to tear the roof off, and celebrated when we cooked our first meal entirely self-sufficient.
So many things.
Too many things to mention in this assignment, so I’ll only mention the three that totally stand out.
The first was when he finally called me something other than Della Mclary. I didn’t have the words at the time to tell him how much I hated that name. That whenever he called me that, it was if he reminded himself that we weren’t meant to be together and did his best to create distance.
But that night, when he finally called me Della Ribbon as we watched educational cartoons, he never once called me Mclary again. From then on, every time he called me Ribbon, my insides turned gooey, and I’d do anything he said—even if I didn’t want to.
Amazing what love can make someone do, right?
In my toddler brain, I associated him calling me Ribbon with his admittance of loving me. He’d accepted me as his own. He no longer needed to remind himself that I wasn’t born to be his.
The power of that nickname could stop my tears, cease my anger, soothe my fears, and to this day, he doesn’t know how much it still affects me. How the gooeyness inside has morphed from child infatuation to adult intoxication. How gradually, over the years, my love has turned less pure, and I’ve kept that secret for years.
Anyway, moving on…
The second thing that meant the world to me was once we’d mastered the alphabet together, Ren left me at home one mid-spring afternoon and returned with his arms full of books.
Picture books.
Baby books.
Bibles.
Encyclopaedias.
And literary classics.
I’d spent the night curled around the musty delicious pages, stroking their pretty covers, gawking at the words I desperately wanted to know.
When he’d finally dragged me to bed, I’d clutched at a picture book about a lost little puppy trying to find his parents. Instead of a bedtime story made from truth and fact, I wanted Ren to read fiction to me.
I wanted the luxury of listening to his husky, throaty tone. Even before his voice dropped, I’d been addicted to it, and now that he sounded like a man and not a boy, I was obsessed.
Sometimes, and don’t judge me for this, but sometimes, I would do something naughty just to have him yell at me. I know it was wrong, but when Ren yelled, he drenched it with passion.
He vibrated with the need to scold, and it thrilled and terrified me.
He’d bring that same passion to the tales he told while snuggled in bed. He’d regale how he’d helped birth baby lambs and how he’d once seen a foal being born. He was fluid and crisp and told a mean story that kept my attention for hours.