Chapter 10
EMMA
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” Mallory asks. She’s throwing a load of laundry, which includes my drenched clothes from yesterday, into the washing machine. A simple task that to anyone else would be ordinary, but to me is magical.
She grabs the detergent out of the cupboard and unscrews the cap.
“Like what?”
“Like a sad puppy.”
I’m not sad though. I’m happy. I’m in awe of my beautiful sister in front of me. “It’s just my face.”
“I already told you I’m not taking you to see Mom, so you can stop following me. It won’t change my mind.” She pours the detergent into the wash and closes the lid, starting the load.
“I just want to see what you’re doing,” I say, which is partly true. I figured if I can’t convince her to go anywhere, I can at least watch her to make sure nothing bad happens.
She sighs. “Isn’t there something else for you to do? I still need to study and make dinner. Not to mention, make a list of groceries for Dad, and you haven’t given me a moment of peace since we left school.”
As soon as school got out, I tracked her down and begged her to give me a ride home.
“Just pretend I’m not here.”
She gives me a look of annoyance. “Right, like that’s easy to do.”
She brushes past me on her way to the kitchen and opens the fridge, scanning the shelves.
“I can help you,” I say.
Her grip on the fridge tightens, and with her other hand she moves the carton of milk to see what’s behind it. “No.”
Mallory and I didn’t spend a lot of time together at this point in time, but she seems colder than usual. It has to be because of what I said to her. “Are you still upset about yesterday?”
She bites her lip as she closes the fridge and moves on to the freezer. “It’s fine.”
“Then why are you acting like this?”
She slams the freezer. “Okay, I am mad! Are you happy?”
I step back, catching my breath. Mallory never yells. Was she really that upset by what I said? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said—”
“Do you realize how scared I was when you left school and I couldn’t find you?” She turns to me with frustration in every fiber of her being.
My heart stills. She was worried about me?
Something about hearing her say that has me close to tears. I think back to how lonely I felt when I ran away. I should’ve listened to Mallory because I saw my mom and it didn't go the way I planned.
She didn’t want me.
She pretended not to know me.
At that moment I wanted nothing more than for Mallory to find me. I wanted her to yell at me for running away. I wanted her to grab me by the hair and yank me back home, but she never came.
As far as I knew, she hadn’t noticed I was gone.
Mallory continues, “And then when I found you at home sleeping, you were sopping wet. What am I supposed to do with you?”
I lunge forward and squeeze her between my arms. “I’m so sorry.”
She tenses up on impact, arms in the air instead of around me, but I don’t mind. She can hate me forever if she wants, as long as she doesn’t leave me again.
She pushes me off. “It’s fine. Just don’t tell Dad. He has enough to worry about, and don’t do anything ridiculous like that again. I swear you almost gave me a heart attack.”
“I won’t. I promise. I’ll do everything you want me to.”
She raises a brow. “Uh-huh. No phone.”
I don’t care about my phone right now, but I can’t help but smile at her determination to scold me.
I can guarantee I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll never act out again as long as she’s here.
I’ll be the perfect sister she always wanted.
I’ll do the dishes. I’ll pick up my room.
She could ask me to fly to the moon and I would.
She grabs a pot and fills it up with water before putting it on the stove. She sets the heat on high and salts the water so quickly it’s like it’s second nature to her.
I, on the other hand, just realized why my pasta is always so bland: I’ve never salted the water.
I should’ve paid more attention to how Mallory cooked.
I should’ve taken the time to learn from her and to help her with all of the chores Mom left behind.
Instead, I spent all my time resenting how she ordered me around like she was trying to replace Mom.
It wasn’t until she was gone I realized how much she did for me. I took it for granted. Every breakfast she set out, every pile of folded laundry, and the fridge that was always full. She did all of it without being asked to, and I never thanked her for it.
“I can help with dinner,” I say.
The look that fills her face is a cross between bewilderment and humor. “Since when?”
I shrug, grabbing the pasta out of the pantry. “You shouldn’t have to do it every night.”
She clears her throat, patting her chest. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
I hand her the pasta. “Please, there has to be something I can do to help.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t say anything. Is it really so shocking that I offered to help? Or does she assume I'll screw this up like everything else I do?
“Um—” Her eyes glance around the room before they land on the cutting boards that are propped up against the side of the fridge. She trades me a cutting board for the pasta. “You can cut the vegetables. I was going to put some zucchini in the pasta sauce.”
I smile, happy she gave me a task even though I know she didn’t want to give up control. I’ll show her I’m capable of making her load lighter. I’ll make up for all the times I pushed her patience.
I grab a zucchini from the fridge and bring it to the sink to wash it. I happily cut it as the water reaches a boil and Mallory adds the pasta. “Do you want me to cut anything else up? Maybe some onions or bell pepper?”
She glances over at me again with soft confusion. “Since when do you like onions?”
I shrug. “They’ve grown on me.”
I used to hate them, but I had to get used to them since Mrs. Meyers included them in every single dinner she brought over while we were grieving, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her I didn’t like them.
After a while I grew accustomed to their flavor, and now I’d go so far as to say I enjoy them. Past Emma would be shocked.
Mallory hands me a yellow onion. “Do you want me to show you how to cut it?”
“I’m good,” I say, slicing the onion in half. Then I make another slice horizontally before dicing it into small pieces.
“Who taught you how to do that? I’ve never seen you in the kitchen.”
Did I impress her? “Mrs. Meyers taught me a few weeks after—” I stop myself, realizing I’m about to talk about a time Mallory isn’t a part of.
“After what?”
My brain spirals, trying to think of a good excuse, but I can’t. “After I . . . I was over there one day and I saw her cut an onion when she was making dinner.”
“You learned by watching her one time?” I can sense the doubt in her voice.
And no, it took me a lot of practice, but Mrs. Meyers said I needed to learn, and if no one else was going to teach me, then she would.
Heat rises to my ears, but I hope she doesn’t notice. “Mm-hmm.”
I can tell she’s about to question me more, but the doorbell rings, saving me.
“Watch the water. I’ll be right back.” She runs out of the kitchen.
I should be good and pay attention to what I’m doing, but I’m curious who’s at the door.
I peek my head out of the kitchen and peer down the hallway.
Mallory opens the door, revealing Mr. Meyers.
He leans on the doorframe, trying to catch his breath as sweat beads on his forehead.
I rarely see him out of the house. He’s usually sitting on his couch reading a newspaper or watching Colombo.
“Hello, Mallory.” He pauses to take in another sharp breath.
“Ruth slipped and fell in the shower. I need your help.”
Sometimes I forget how old the Meyers are since Mrs. Meyers is always outside in her yard. She’s so full of life, but moments like this remind me they are in their early seventies.
“Is she okay?” Mallory asks.
“The door is locked, and she said to come get you.”
“Oh no.” She brushes past him and runs out of the house.
I race after Mallory as she sprints next door. If Mrs. Meyers can’t get up, she’s probably hurt badly enough she needs to go to the hospital and I doubt she’ll go willingly.
Mallory barges through the door and runs up the stairs with me following close behind. She stops in front of the bathroom door, knocking loudly. “Mrs. Meyers?”
“Yes. Hello, dear!”
Mallory turns the handle, but it doesn’t budge. “Go get a butter knife,” she orders me.
As I leave she pats the door. “We’re coming!”
I fly down the stairs, practically tripping over Mr. Meyers, who happened to find his way back inside and stands at the bottom of the stairs.
I beeline through their living room and into the kitchen.
All of Mrs. Meyer’s cooking lessons come in handy because I know exactly which drawer has her silverware.
I grab a knife and rush back up the stairs. I extend the knife, completely out of breath. “Here.”
Mallory takes it and pushes it into the simple lock, turning it in a quick motion. The door swings open and Mrs. Meyers is on the ground in a towel. Her back is propped up slightly on the wall, but I can tell by the tightness of her face that she’s in pain.
Mallory kneels down beside her. “What happened?”
Mrs. Meyers pats Mallory’s hand. “Nothing to fuss over. I slipped and twisted my ankle.”
Her ankle is already swelling up. I’m no expert, but I think this is definitely something to fuss over.
“You should see a doctor,” Mallory says.
“I’ll be fine,” she replies, acting the way I expected. She’s a stubborn lady, which was good at times like when she barged into my home to make sure I was being fed, but at other times, like this, it’s extremely frustrating.
“We need to get ice on it to help the swelling,” Mallory says.
“I’ll go get it!” I say, begging to be useful. Once again I’m sprinting down the stairs.
I open the freezer and wrap a handful of ice in a kitchen towel. When I get back upstairs, Mallory has already helped Mrs. Meyers to her room. She sits on her bed with her ankle propped up on a pillow as Mallory pulls an outfit out of her closet.
“I’m going to take her to urgent care,” Mallory says. “I just need to go get my wallet.”
“I told her not to make a fuss over me, but she won’t listen,” Mrs. Meyers tells me.
Thankfully, Mallory is equally as stubborn.
I hand Mallory the ice and she sets it gently on top of Mrs. Meyers’s ankle.
Mrs. Meyers winces.
“I’m definitely taking you in,” Mallory says, then she freezes. Her eyes dart up to me, and her face flushes. “Did you turn off the stove?”
My heart stops, and all I do is stare back. She told me to do one thing and I managed to mess it up.
“Emma?”
My throat grows tight. “Water doesn’t burn, does it?”
Mallory’s eyes widen and she jumps back. “Oh—” She bites her lip to stop herself from saying whatever word crossed her mind. She turns to Mrs. Meyers. “I’ll be back.”
She races out the door, and I’m chasing after her again. She runs out of the house and right through our yards, not bothering to go around the grass. She barges through the door and doesn’t skid to a stop until she’s in the kitchen.
A burning smell fills the room and smoke billows out of the pot. There’s a white residue covering the entire pot and a good portion of the oven door from where the water boiled over.
Mallory makes a sound crossed between a hiccup and a gasp, but she doesn’t say anything. She leaps into action, turning off the stove. She grabs the handle of the pot with an oven mitt and puts it in the sink under running water.
Then she leans on the sink with her face in her hands. “I don’t have time for this,” she mumbles.
My heart sinks to the floor. All I wanted to do was prove to her I could be helpful, that I’m not the same Emma who ruins everything, but maybe I haven’t changed as much as I thought. I’m still the same screwup.
“What can I do to help?” I ask, desperate for a way to make it up to her.
But before she has a chance to say anything, the fire alarm goes off above our heads.
I grab a kitchen towel and wave it in the air below the alarm, trying to get the smoke away from the sensor.
When Mallory turns, her eyes are watery, but she doesn’t stop moving. She walks to the pantry and grabs the stool. She sets it underneath the alarm, climbs up, and takes it off the wall.
The beeping stops, but her lip wobbles more as she sets it on the counter.
“What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head and wipes her eyes. “Are you serious?”
“I’m sorry.”
Here we are again. It’s our timeless story. No matter how hard I try, I’m the careless little sister who never gets anything right, and Mallory is the one who has to fix it.
She sniffles and wipes her eyes on her sleeve, taking a deep breath. “I’ll put the fire alarm back up when I get home. Just try and clean this up before Dad gets here. We can order pizza.” She doesn’t look at me as she sets the stool back in the pantry.
“Mallory, I’m sorry,” I say.
But I don’t think it matters.