Footprints in the Sand

That introduction set the tone for life at Long Meadows. Bronwen Evans was not unlike Martha Dibble—strict but fair—yet she had a gentleness about her that Martha lacked, a motherly side that made every child feel cared for. Bryn wished again and again that Elsa could be here. She would like Mrs. Evans.

At Appletree, the children had slept in large rooms with five or six beds, but here they were just two to a room. He was sharing with Tom Bradley, and he was glad about that. Billy Sharpe, with his bright red hair and equally loud character, would have driven him mad. Tom was slightly built and fair, quiet and thoughtful—an easy companion.

On that first night, Bryn lay awake in his narrow bed, listening to his roommate’s rhythmic breathing, his mind full of Elsa. Oh, how he worried about her. Perhaps he could write or email, but he didn’t know where they’d sent her. Why hadn’t he asked? It had all happened so suddenly. One minute Mrs. Dibble was making the announcement; the next they were all ushered off to pack. The social worker told them that these things were best done quickly, with no time for regrets, but Bryn thought they’d definitely gotten that wrong. If they’d been given more time, he could have thought it through, talked to Elsa about it. It wasn’t so bad for him. He was eleven, but she was only eight years old—just a little kid. A frightened little kid no one understood except for him.

The moon rose, filtering through his window and bringing with it the insecurities of the night. He closed his eyes tightly, remembering his father’s firm, deep voice.

“Men don’t cry, lad. Be strong and brave.”

Those words had been hammered into him since birth. In his father’s world, a soldier’s world, men were supposed to be tough and hard. He was a captain in the army—always in charge. No matter what situation arose, his father was there, leading the way. Until he met one situation he couldn’t control.

Bryn’s mother was his father’s only weakness. Sasha Evans—always in a dream, a smile lighting up her elfin features, always with a paintbrush or piece of charcoal in her hand. Bryn’s father met her when he was stationed in Wales. She was trying to make a living as an artist “and doing very badly,” she had admitted to her son, laughing. Bryn remembered her so well—remembered her sweetness and the love that filled their house on the army base. His father instilled his principles into his five-year-old son—to be strong, to take charge, to never show weakness.

They had just moved to a new base on the day that changed Bryn’s life forever. Both his parents had dropped him off at his new school, and his father had waited in the car while his mother took him inside. She had hugged him goodbye and planted a kiss on his cheek—the last kiss she would ever give him.

Bryn buried his face in his pillow as the memories flooded in, raw and painful. He choked back tears as his father’s voice rang out inside his head.

“You have to be brave, lad. Face your problems full on and sort them out.”

But some problems were just too big. Even his brave and stalwart father couldn’t sort out the problems that beset him on that fateful day.

Bryn’s parents had met a truck head-on in a narrow lane. They’d both died on impact.

Bryn opened his eyes and looked out at the moon. The accident was six years ago now, but it felt as if it was yesterday. He sat up, forcing himself back into the present again; the insecurity of moving to a new place must have brought back the memories, he decided, his thoughts turning to Elsa. Tomorrow he’d ask Mrs. Evans if she knew where they’d sent her. Then he’d write her a letter every week, just to let her know she wasn’t alone.

With that idea firmly fixed inside his head, he lay down and pulled his duvet around his chin.

“You okay?” Tom whispered from across the room.

Bryn smiled in the darkness, watching moonlight flit across the ceiling.

“Yes,” he said determinedly, imagining his father’s pride. “I am...now.”

“Night, then.”

“Night, Tom,” he echoed.

Bryn’s plan to find Elsa did not materialize as easily as he’d hoped. After breakfast the next morning, he went off to find Mrs. Evans. She listened patiently to his plea, but then she evaded his request.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she promised.

Hours rolled into days.

“I’m working on it,” she told Bryn.

When weeks had passed, Bryn realized that Mrs. Evans was never going to give him Elsa’s address. His memories of the troubled little girl were all he had left, and Elsa was alone again, facing her demons with no one to help her.

“One day, Elsa,” he whispered to himself. “One day, I’ll come looking for you. I won’t give up until I find you.”

* * *

AT LONG MEADOWS, the children went to school in town, and soon Bryn’s life became a blur—meeting new people, learning new things, writing exams. Years slipped by, happy, fulfilled years. Bryn came to see that there was much more of his mother in him than he’d thought. Animals and painting became his passions, one as important as the other.

He’d explore the woods around Long Meadows, sometimes bringing back injured creatures. Mrs. Evans allowed him to keep the animals in a shed at the far end of the garden. There he would care for them religiously until they either recovered enough to be freed again in the sprawling forest, or died and were buried beneath his favorite tree. Mrs. Evans encouraged him to take out library books and find websites about how to feed and treat wild animals. The local vet, Mike Barber, was always ready to help. “We don’t charge for wild animals,” he would say when Bryn asked how much the treatment cost.

* * *

WHEN BRYN HAD BEEN AT Long Meadows for about a year, his solitary wanderings eventually led him through the woodland and the fields beyond to the coast, where the sea glistened in a silver strip.

He would sit there for hours, watching the seabirds and painting their glorious flight across the changeable sky—sometimes gray, wild and angry, and sometimes so calm and starkly beautiful that it hurt his heart.

When Bronwen Evans first saw his paintings, she stared at them for a while, then she recited some lines from a poem.

A sight so wide it fills the eyes, its vast

horizon meets a sky that stretches to infinity.

That holds my heart. That sets me free.

Timeless echoes in my ears; a haunting melody, ten thousand sea birds cry their tears to a wild and restless sea.

* * *

Bryn listened to the words in awe.

“That’s lovely,” he said. “Do you know any more?”

She pursed her lips, frowning slightly.

“I can’t remember all of it, but let me think...”

For a moment, she furrowed her brow, concentrating, then her face lit up and she looked at him in triumph.

But when it sparkles, shimmering sands,

its transient beauty a promised land, it sings another song to me, of peacefulness and harmony.

Her voice trailed off, and she sighed.

“That’s all I can remember, I’m afraid. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I’ll see if I can find a copy of it for you.”

Bryn nodded earnestly. “Would you like to keep one of my paintings?” he asked on impulse.

She smiled, touching his cheek. “I would be proud to have one of your paintings. When you’re famous, I’ll be able to say I was the first person to own a Bryn Evans.”

* * *

WHERE DID THE TIME GO? Suddenly, Bryn was fifteen. Sometimes, he felt a surge of guilt that he was so contented. Three years had rolled by in a moment—years filled with joy, years when Elsa May Malone remained securely stored in the back of his mind, a promise he had yet to fulfill. At night, when memories lurked closest, he’d ache with fear for her. What if she’d slipped so far into her tormented world that she could never return to him? He shuddered, gulping in air. No! He would never believe that.

Bryn was down by the shore, sitting on a rock at the edge of the ocean, mesmerized by the sunlight sparkling on the water. His hands were idle, his sheet of paper blank and untouched. For once, he was unable to concentrate, so eventually he stood up with a sigh and wandered slowly homeward.

As he crossed the lawn beside the house, where other children played and gamboled, he saw a car pull up to the front door. He sidetracked toward the shed, where a baby rabbit was recovering from a foot injury. The last thing Bryn felt like doing was making conversation with a new kid. Anyway, it was Tom’s turn to give the tour—he’d done it last time, when that awful, bossy Wilbur Simms had descended on Long Meadows. Fortunately, he had only stayed two weeks.

Bryn kept to the edge of the lawn, screened by the trees that led directly into the woods, his footsteps slowing as curiosity took over. Would the new arrival be a boy or a girl? he wondered. He’d forgotten to ask Mrs. Evans.

The social worker, Dermot, clambered out of the car first. Bryn liked Dermot—he was funny and nice, and he took the time to talk to you.

The new kid got out of the car on the far side, so Bryn only saw the back of her head. There was something familiar about her, though.... Tightness came into his chest, and he stopped in his tracks. She flicked her mane of golden-brown hair and the breath fled from his body. He wanted to run to her, but his legs refused to move. She was walking away toward the open front door where Mrs. Evans stood beaming.

“Elsa?”

The word was a croak in his throat, but she heard it—if he’d been a million miles away, he was sure she would have heard it. Slowly, oh, so slowly, she turned her face toward him.... Tanned skin, clear amber eyes, delicate, perfect features...the same and yet not the same—older and so much more beautiful.

His Elsa was here at last. She was calm and serene now, with none of the lion cub showing. But then, with a sense of relief, he saw it—behind her green and gold-flecked eyes, the sleeping lion cub was waiting to get out.

“Hello,” she said with a smile, slipping her hand neatly into his, as if they hadn’t been torn apart all that time ago.

“Hello,” he replied.

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