Chapter 5 Emma #2
“Hi, Ms. Jones,” Cindy, my South African nanny, whispers on the screen. The room she’s in is dark, and the sound machine whirls in the background, a familiar cacophony of ocean waves and wind rustling in the trees now flowing into this tiny corner office.
“Where’s Josie?” I ask, feeling the need to whisper as well.
She places a finger to her mouth before panning the phone over to the opposite end of the room, where my beautiful baby girl is sleeping peacefully in her crib.
The sight seems to be all my body needs to unleash everything.
The tears. The milk. The air in my lungs.
The devastating sadness of having to leave her at home.
The irrational pent-up rage toward everything.
It all comes rushing out in a shuddering gasp.
I cover my mouth, afraid to wake Josie, and click off the phone without saying goodbye. Cindy will understand.
Uncontrollable sobs flow out of me before I can stop them. My eyes burn as the tears mix with my mascara, my ribs constrict, and my chest aches right in the center. I try to control my breathing.
“I see a desk,” I whimper to myself. Shaky breaths stammer out of me as I clutch my neck, and my heartbeat hammers against my fingers.
“I hear my pump.” I focus on the steady whoosh noise coming from the wall.
“I feel my ear lobes.” I tug on them.
“I taste salt,” I say, licking the tears that have now found their way to my lips.
“Pull yourself together, Em.”
Out of habit, and reluctant need for my person, I type a message to Steven on shaky fingers. Pressing send feels painful.
Me: Are you busy?
He responds almost immediately.
Steven: Are you alright?
Normally, he’d tell me if the day is hectic or if he’s caught up.
When he says neither, it means he’s drowning at work and doesn’t want me to worry, which means I don’t need to tell him what just happened.
I don’t need to add to his plate. I can handle this on my own. I need to handle this on my own.
The simmering anxiety in my gut almost convinces me I can’t, but I swallow hard and shove my phone aside. When the pump finishes, I gather my things and head back to my office.
Once the milk is stored and my pump parts are cleaned—all in less than two minutes, a new record—another text comes through.
Steven: Emma?
Emma: I’m fine, just checking in.
Steven: Did you get a package yet? :)
“A package?” I ask myself, turning a quick circle around the room, confirming there are no obscure packages to account for.
Before I can respond, a knock, followed by a swift whoosh of the door, comes.
Ellie shuffles in, carrying the hysterically large floral arrangement from earlier, now in a fresh vase.
The flowers, an array of pinks and reds, are so vibrant and expensive looking, a pit forms in my stomach.
“What is that?” I ask, tucking my phone away.
“Special delivery for Principal Jones,” she announces as the flowers cover the top half of her body. They bounce and shift as she hoists the arrangement onto my desk. “I put them in a better vase for you.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, taking the flowers, attempting to set them on the desk. They take up half the space. I set them on the floor and wince, feeling rude for the thought, then resort to setting them on the couch, propped up by my bag.
“How are you doing?” Ellie breathes out, like she’s been chomping at the bit to ask this question.
“I’m fine,” I say, refusing to mention what I just experienced in Daniels’ office.
She bites her lip as the internal struggle of morality and selfishness etches her face.
Furrowed brows, squinted eyes, and a clenched jaw all form as she fights the urge to call me out.
All my life, Ellie has been the level-headed, calm presence I need.
She can be very opinionated and, at times, ready to rumble.
Rarely the rumble is about me, though, so it’s safe to assume she’s unsure how to approach this situation.
She wasn’t around during postpartum last time; our phone calls were a good barrier to hide how I was really doing.
But now, there’s no safeguard, nothing to blur the truth.
Her job is to analyze people and figure out how they’re feeling before they do. And she’s done it with me.
She shifts on her heels, fidgeting with one of the roses in the bouquet. I cross my arms over my desk and wait quietly.
“Are you sure?” she asks.
I sigh, the everything is okay wall starting to come down. Ellie tilts her head, giving me the empathetic, sister look. Not the therapist one, but the one that says, I’ve seen every part of you and can handle whatever it is you need to share.
Or maybe I’m just hoping that’s what it says.
“Have you talked to Steven?” she asks.
My silence is answer enough. “Why not?”
“I don’t want to bother him,” I whisper pathetically. This is the man that promised his life to me. I shouldn’t be a bother. Some days, I don’t think am, but not every day. And definitely not lately.
She snorts. “You could never bother him. He is the father of your children, the man who sang “Islands in the Stream” to you on your first date. The guy who stood on tables for you.”
Ellie keeps going, but my brain clings to the tune of Dolly Parton singing “Islands in the Stream,” taking me back to 2008.
My heart pangs at the memory. Steven doing all of the corny things a man does to impress his date—flowers, a suit jacket and tie, fancy restaurant, a carriage ride downtown.
The flowers fell, his tie got caught in the car door, the restaurant was way too crowded for my anxiety, and it rained on the carriage ride.
It was awkward and silly and perfect. And we ended it with three hours at a karaoke room, just the two of us.
The music fades in my mind. At some point, Ellie knelt to eye level on the other side of my desk and gripped my hands in hers.
“Why are you running from your husband, Emma?”
I stammer. The question is absurd. The thought is absurd. “I’m not.”
“Em…”
She studies me closely, concern knitting the small crease between her brows, and I have to look away to keep from unraveling. I’m not exactly running from my husband, but I’m not running to him either. And when I do try, I find every possible way to turn back.
“He’d want to know,” she says as the bell rings.
I think back to this morning in the car, the feelings that followed when he walked away. The emptiness that can only come from what our marriage has become.
Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe we’re so far apart because of me, because I am running from him, always putting everyone else first, burying my own pain so deep it’s twisted into something bigger.
Something monstrous. And it’s now clawing at the fragile edges of my mind. Something I don’t know how to shake.
Maybe I’ve been running so long I don’t know how to get back to him.