Chapter 41 – Emerson
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
EMERSON
“Why are you out here?”
I shrug as I look over to Grant on his BMX, gloves on his hands and motorcycle helmet on, and know he’s pretending he’s competing in the X-Games. “Just cuz,” I say, not wanting to tell him it’s because my mom just got called into work for a patient and I’d rather be outside.
Outside is safe.
Outside is where I can hide.
“Whatcha doing?” He lays his bike down on the grass and begins to unbuckle his helmet as he walks over to me.
I look at the rocks in front of me, and my cheeks burn because they didn’t turn out as pretty as I thought I could make them. The dog I painted on one looks like a big blob of brown. The smiley face I painted on the other is yellow, but the eyes are weird, and I couldn’t fix them. Embarrassed, I take what’s left on the paintbrush and just draw lines on the rock in front of me.
“Nothing. Just being stupid.”
“Oh, those are kinda cool.”
“You don’t have to say that to be nice.”
“No. Really.” He drops his helmet onto the sidewalk with a clunk, and I know Chief Malone would get that line in his forehead like he does if he saw Grant treat his things like that. But I don’t say a word because I’m too busy chewing the inside of my cheek and waiting for Grant to make fun of me.
He picks up each rock and looks at it like he does his Matchbox cars, and I fidget, worried about what he thinks.
“I think we should make a zombie one, too.” I roll my eyes and begin to argue. “No, seriously. We can add stitches to the forehead and . . .” He takes the paintbrush from me and starts adding things to my smiley face rock.
I don’t know how long we do this, but by the time we’re done, my cheeks hurt from laughing so hard. We have about fifteen rocks in front of us that have all been boy-ified, and I’m okay with that.
“So, why are you really out here, Em?” he asks as we lean against the side of the house where the shade has fallen.
I shrug again but hate that my bottom lip quivers and tears well in my eyes. “I just don’t want to go inside.” My tummy hurts, and I keep thinking about when it gets dark and I have to go to bed. Hopefully, my mom will be back before then . . . but most times she isn’t.
“Is your dad in a bad mood? I always go outside when my dad’s in a bad mood about work. That way, when he gets mad, I’m not in the way.”
“Your dad gets mad?” I can’t remember Chief Malone ever getting mad. Strict, yes. But not mad.
“My mom says he gets stressed when he worries about a case.” He shrugs and picks up one of our rocks, stares at it, and then puts it back down. “He has lots of bad people he has to put away, and it’s his job, so when they don’t get put away, he gets stressed. What does your dad get stressed about?”
When I wet the bed.
When I cry.
When I pretend to be asleep and curl really tight into a ball.
When I don’t do what he says...
I wake with a start, my own gasp still coming off my lips.
The room.
This is my room.
Not my old room.
In the dark.
There’s the runway lights out the window.
There’s the hum of the television I left on.
But it’s the rocks that are front and center in my mind.
The painted rocks.
The ones Grant keeps talking about but for the life of me I couldn’t remember...until now.
My hands begin to shake as memories I didn’t know I had come flashing back to me.
Going outside to my spot on the side of my house to avoid my dad and finding a new painted rock there from Grant. Something silly that meant everything to me. Something to let me know he was there and checking on me.
To let me know he cared.
To make me smile.
The goddamn rocks.
Grant.
Memories I now remember.
So many more I don’t want to.
Oh. Shit.
It’s finally happening.
I can’t let this happen.