Chapter 32
Chapter thirty-two
Emma
When We Tried New Things
Becoming an artist was always a flicker of a dream for me.
Never fully formed, but always lingering in the back of my mind, waiting for the chance to take root.
It never felt feasible, and becoming a wife and mother pushed it even further out of reach.
But that didn’t stop me from dabbling over the years.
Pottery classes. Oil technique workshops.
Even a modern media class where we used magazine scraps as the base of our pieces.
I wasn’t a master, and none of my art was going into a museum, but my Statue of Liberty replica made out of People magazine clippings was a hit with Easton and Sawyer.
That eventually turned into teaching them art and, later, some of the moms I met at the park as well.
When I offered a free sketch class at the library, I set the bar low. I was mostly hoping for some kind of outlet, something that belonged only to me. The class was sold out for months, and I discovered I actually enjoy teaching—art just made it more fun.
So when an overly enthusiastic dark-haired man approached me after class and asked me to meet him at the high school for a job interview, I couldn’t help but feel skeptical. Terrified, actually. Was this guy going to murder me?
“It’s not weird, I swear.” He laughed, handing me his business card.
Bayani Divata — Vice Principal, Glendale High School
I wasn’t sure what to expect, so when Steven asked me what I had planned today, I didn’t tell him. Instead, I dropped the boys off and drove to the high school nestled in the middle of town.
Glendale is twenty minutes from the hospital, but I’ve never even been down the street it sits on, always passing it as I come and go to the little shops down the block, never once looking in its direction.
The red knight mascot stares at me from the side of the building as I walk inside.
The checkered floors and red lockers are inviting, and the banner that hangs overhead in the foyer shouts for celebration for the volleyball state champions.
Something tugs at my chest unexpectedly as I soak it all in, like this place might have a purpose for me.
The thought makes me shudder. Don’t be ridiculous, Emma. You’re a mom, not some art guru called in to inspire young minds.
“Mrs. Jones!”
Bayani Divata strides toward me from the end of the hallway. His smile is wide and infectious, and his eyes crinkle in that rare, genuinely happy sort of way. It softens me, the sight of something I haven’t seen in a while, disarming me enough that I actually smile back.
“Mr. Divata, hello.” I shake his outstretched hand, and he gestures for me to follow.
“Oh, please, call me Benny.” He leads me into a big room with a floor-to-ceiling window. Sunlight spills across the space, glinting off a refrigerator in the corner and two large tables.
“Please, have a seat.” He gestures to the table closest to the window, but instead of sitting, he walks to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of coffee creamer. I sit and watch as he pours two cups of coffee. One mug is black with the knight logo. The other is pink with a pug in the center.
He hands me the black one and sips from his pink pug mug. I can’t help but laugh.
“What is that?”
“This is Harriet.” He twists the mug so the pug faces me. “She was a good little niece.”
I snort at this. Surely he’s being facetious, but he doesn’t elaborate, getting straight to business.
“So, Mrs. Jones—”
“Emma,” I correct.
“Emma…tell me about yourself.”
“Oh…umm…” My teeth catch my lip, suddenly very aware that I’m being interviewed. This isn’t something I foresaw for myself even just a few months ago. What does a mom who hasn’t worked in five years have to say about herself?
“Surely there’s something,” he encourages, confirming I definitely said that last part out loud.
“Well…I graduated with honors, and I was a finalist in the Eastland Art Majors with my thesis project. Most of my work was with paint, but I can learn different media pretty easily. My style was considered…uniquely traditional.” I air quote and reach for my phone. “I can show you—”
“That’s not necessary. I know you’re good at art, and you taught me how to draw a flower that didn’t look like a dissected letter, so I know you’re good at teaching.”
“Thank you.” My cheeks warm at the compliment.
“I want to know about you.” His brown eyes dazzle at me as he props his chin on his knuckles.
“Umm…I’m married…” He nods, though his gaze flicks to my bare ring finger. “I’m a mom,” I continue. “I’m a big fan of Pilates when I can make a class. I love a good spreadsheet and organized binder.”
“How many?” he asks casually.
I stammer, not remembering the last time I counted. “Maybe ten right now, but some are shoved in a box somewhere—”
“I meant kids.” He chuckles. “At least I hope you don’t have children shoved in a box somewhere.”
A mortified laugh escapes me, and I shift in my seat.
“So how many kids?” he repeats.
My hand moves instinctively to my stomach, searching for something that isn’t there, and a sharp, visceral ache pulses through me.
A flush of heat envelopes around me, and nausea swirls its way up my throat. I clear it. Once. Twice. A third time, before finally being able to answer.
“Two. I have two boys.” I force a smile—the smile I’ve worn for six months. The same one I give Steven every time he asks if I’m okay.
“I bet you’re busy,” Benny adds, back at the coffee pot now.
“Most days,” I murmur, palm still hovering over my abdomen.
“Are you done yet?” a grumpy man, with an even grumpier voice, cuts in as he stalks toward the coffee pot.
Benny grimaces, throwing an apologetic look my way. “Malcolm, this is Emma Jones.”
Malcolm waves without turning around, downs an entire mug in one swallow, and pours another.
He’s taller than Benny, with blond hair and a scraggly beard.
Benny is clean shaven, and put together, but this guy is gruff and clearly unbothered by anyone’s opinion.
They elbow each other for the coffee pot, like brothers would. Like Easton and Sawyer would.
Benny clears his throat once Malcolm shoves him away from the counter, claiming the rest of the coffee for himself.
“Sorry about that. So, when would you like to start?”
“Wh—what? I have the job? Just like that?”
He shifts back and forth on his heels, giving a shrug as confirmation.
“We don’t need Da Vinci,” Malcolm mutters.
“Dude.” Benny chides him under his breath, but Malcolm just shrugs. Again, unbothered.
“I—uh…can I think it over? And will you send me the need-to-know?” It’s easily the strangest interview I’ve ever been on, but how hard can being an art teacher be?
After the interview, I’m rushing. The boys’ first jiu jitsu competition leaves no space for processing anything or even telling Steven about it. I iron their belts and robes, pack snacks, charge my phone and camera. Running on autopilot.
I haven’t heard from Steven all day, but I text him a reminder anyway. He promised he’d be there, and he promised he’d help me tonight. The looming boxes have been waiting.
It’s time, I had told him last week. The baby things. The boxes full of them. The boys’ old clothes and things I bought the day of my test. All of them have been sitting at the end of our hall since January. It’s time.
Steven doesn’t get back to me all afternoon, and when we pull into the parking lot for the boys’ dojo, I call him. No answer.
“Is Daddy coming?” Sawyer asks from the backseat.
I stare at my phone, willing it to ring, for Steven to be on the other end. After a long moment, I turn it off and straighten my shoulders, holding my chin high. He’ll be here.
He wasn’t.
Both boys earned their yellow belt. Sawyer earned the kindness award, and Easton earned the most progress award. We celebrate with waffles, lingering at the diner just in case Steven shows up late.
He doesn’t.
We drive by the hospital and see his car still parked in its usual spot, the boys beg to go see him, and I have to be the one to break their hearts by saying no. It isn’t the first thing he’s missed. Last week, it was dinner. The week before, he missed t-ball practice.
Bedtime happens swiftly, and I’m grateful. But when I walk out of their room, the stack of boxes at the end of the hall feel like a punch straight through my chest. They stare at me. Glaring and excruciating. Waiting.
“I guess it’s just you and me,” I mutter.
Tears are rolling down my face before I reach them. My shaky breaths stack on top of one another. I heave the boxes up, sobs choking me along the way. The plastic is cold against my skin, cold in a way the things inside were never supposed to be.
At the bottom of the stairs, I lose my balance, and the boxes with it. They crash to the floor, and one bursts open. Tiny clothes spill out. An array of brown, blue, and green cotton scatters across the floor. I halt, grief stunning me to the spot.
A blood-curdling scream rips out of me. Violent and unrecognizable.
I am unrecognizable. Uncontrollable sobs rush out of me, and I have to cover my mouth so the boys don’t hear me.
Panic, unbidden and unwelcome, rips through my limbs.
I’m going to die. Everything inside me shakes, and any ounce of regulation I can usually muster is stripped away.
My vision tilts. My heart slams against my skull.
I sink to the floor beside the boxes, gasping and suffocating.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to count and breathe and stay calm.
Nothing works. The room blurs, and all I hear is the rapid thumping pressing against my temples.
A flash of light cuts across my vision, then the front door opens.
“Emma?” Steven’s voice sounds like he’s underwater. “Emma, baby, what’s wrong?” His arms are around me, pulling me on top of his lap.
I tremble uncontrollably, my lungs burn as breaths still come out in rapid bursts with no signs of stopping. He wipes my eyes, my cheeks, brushes the hair out of my face, gentle in a way that hurts after how absent he’s been.
“Emma, what’s going on?” he whispers, cradling me tighter against him.
I want to scream. I want to throw the clothes at him. I want to make him feel everything I am feeling, even just a fraction.
“You weren’t here,” I whimper, too tired to say or do anything else.
I feel his fists clench against my back, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.
Because there isn’t a single thing he could say that would make this hurt any less.