All she had ever wanted was something that she could cling to-something she could be sure would always be there.
She had never gotten that wish. Everything that Susan tried to hold on to had been ripped from her, leaving her more broken than when she had grabbed onto it in the first place.
It had been that way ever since she was little, only back then it wasn't anything that hurt. She couldn't remember being the youngest child, since Edmund was born when she was two, and then Lucy two years after that. Edmund had been a difficult baby. It seemed to the little girl that he was always crying, and she was always being asked to be a little quieter or to stop what she was doing and go play somewhere else, so that he would be able to sleep. Lucy was a very pleasant baby, and Susan adored her, but even then, because she was older, she often was asked to 'be a good girl and let Lucy have the toy,' or 'be a dear and take care of Lucy so Mummy can sleep.' Susan had understood, even at that age, why this was the case. She was the big sister, and as the big sister she had certain responsibilities. She rarely complained, and she usually did as she was asked, but often she found herself wondering why she could never have her own way.
Peter didn't have a problem with it. He had always been generous and giving. He adored Edmund and Lucy just as much as Susan, but Susan was quick to notice that it was easy for Peter to do what she often begrudged. He even seemed to do it voluntarily. She remembered that once, Peter had been given a peppermint stick. Lucy didn't know he had it, and Peter had not been asked to share with her. But he called the little girl into the room and cheerfully allowed her to lick it. He didn't seem bothered when she had bitten off more than half of it, and then demanded more. On the other hand, Susan remembered that one Christmas, she had received a doll. Lucy, as soon as she saw the doll, left her own circle of toys and came over to see. Susan had pulled away so that she could admire the new gift and play with it herself, and when her mother had requested her to let Lucy see, she obeyed, but she had been frustrated and a little angry. It was her doll, and she had wanted it, yet it had been taken away from her.
As Susan got older, things were ripped from her grasp that were more significant than a doll. She remembered vividly the day they received the telegram informing them of her grandmother's death. Susan and her grandmother had been very close, and Susan loved her dearly. When the news came, Susan felt a hole in her heart, and for the first time experienced true loss. It was almost more than Susan could understand, and there was a pain in her heart as though some part of it had been pulled away. A number of years later, the war started, and Susan had to watch her father walk away, dressed in a strangely unfamiliar uniform. He had kissed them all goodbye on that chilly afternoon, and Susan had chased after him. She grabbed onto his arm, desperately trying to keep him with her, trying to hold onto something she felt was slipping from her. It was nearly as painful when the four children were sent to the country. She had hugged her mother goodbye at the train station, and as she took Lucy's hand and turned away, her heart ached again for what she could not hold onto.
Susan hadn't believed Lucy's tale about Narnia until the four children stepped through the wardrobe onto soft snow. It didn't take long for her to fall in love with the beautiful country they were in. On the day of their coronation, she looked around at the now familiar faces and she was happy. She had found love, and she could hold onto it. After all, Aslan had said, "Once a queen in Narnia, always a queen in Narnia." She initially felt a pang for London, but her increasing love for the land she now ruled soon pushed the old feelings away.
Susan had almost felt her heart break the day she was cast mercilessly out of Narnia and back into the spare room of the Professor's old house. The unforgiving wood at the back of the wardrobe refused to yield what it had taken away, and Susan was devastated. She had thought that Narnia would always be there, and in an instant it was gone, taking a piece of her heart with it.
When they were brought back to Narnia Susan didn't want to believe it at first, didn't want to refresh wounds that were only slightly healed. But when she stood in the treasure chamber of Cair Paravel and held her bow and quiver, she suddenly had a feeling that they were back, and this time it was forever. She desperately held onto that hope the whole time they were there, and even when Aslan gravely told her and Peter that they were never to return, she convinced herself that it wasn't true. Narnia was her home, her land. The hard bench on the station platform suddenly drove home the truth of what Aslan had said, and Susan grieved deeply for what had been lost forever. Waiting for the train to come that afternoon, Susan told herself that she would never cling to anything again.
Despite her vow, Susan soon found herself chasing after boys, glamour, makeup, parties, and popularity. She was desperate to find something, anything to fill the void in her heart. The search was in vain. The pain of losing Narnia consumed her.
To lessen the hurt, Susan told herself that Narnia was just a game. If it was only a story, if it was only make believe, then she really hadn't lost anything in the first place. And if nothing had been taken away, there would be no pain. Susan managed to convince herself that she had just been a good older sister and humored Lucy in her fantasy, and that Narnia was nothing more than an imaginary land. Lucy had grown out of bedtime stories, Susan told herself, and Narnia had slipped into oblivion along with the other tales. Just as she thought, the hurt faded along with Narnia.
A grave messenger boy with a devastating telegram changed everything.
Susan couldn't believe they were all gone. She couldn't believe that Peter would never again hold the door for her or listen to her struggles, that Edmund would never again tease her about her latest boyfriend or pretend to ignore her frequent advice, and that Lucy would never again confide in her or give her a loving embrace. Peter was her protector, Edmund her companion, and Lucy her sunshine. She had clung to her family more tightly than anything else, and the train that tore them from her grasp had torn her apart. She didn't know if she could ever gather the pieces or begin to reconstruct her shattered heart.
Then the memories poured in. Susan tried to shut them out. She didn't want the reminder of what she had lost. But they came anyway, in rapid succession.
Peter pushing her on the backyard swing. Lucy's first steps into her eager, outstretched arms. Picnics on the beach. Edmund always coming up behind her and squeezing her enthusiastically. Peter trying to comfort her when Grandma died. Hide and seek. Lucy's delight at being allowed to play with her old doll. Singing around the Christmas tree. Snowball fights. Huddling together on Peter's bed during a storm. Telling Lucy stories, and singing Edmund to sleep when he was sick. A tender, four-way embrace when Peter went off to college.
With some surprise, Susan realized that the pain was not nearly as severe. Instead of bringing more grief, the memories were helping her to heal. She could hold onto her memories forever. They could not be taken away, even though everything else might be ripped from her.
Then there were different memories.
Her first glimpse of Narnia as they came through the wardrobe. A cozy dinner with the Beavers. Hearing about Aslan for the very first time. Father Christmas giving her the quiver and horn. Watching the enchanted winter magically melt away into spring. Seeing Aslan. Peter rescuing her from the wolf. Aslan's violent death, and glorious resurrection the next morning. Riding on Aslan's back. The coronation at Cair Paravel. The shooting match with Trumpkin. Lucy's persistence that they follow an invisible Aslan. Aslan breathing gently on her.
As it had been with the memories of her family, the memories of Narnia actually seemed to heal her wound. In that moment, Susan discovered that she needed Narnia, that she wanted the memories of the real place she had been once.
And for the first time in years, Susan believed in Narnia.