Chapter 40 Emma
Chapter forty
Emma
I used to look forward to the nights I had the bed to myself.
A whole king-sized mattress. No tiny feet in my face, or baby on my chest, no husband snoring like a broken engine beside me.
And last night would’ve been my chance. But the thought of climbing into my bed, without Steven next to me, left me feeling the loneliest I’ve felt in months.
I wanted to call him. I wanted to check on him, hear his voice, make sure he was okay.
I’ll miss you.
His words soothed parts of me I’ve been avoiding.
Tender pieces I’ve been running from. Like an idiot.
They replayed in my head the entire drive home.
And when it came time to crawl into our bed, it felt like a betrayal to do it without him.
So I didn’t. I slept on the floor of Josie’s room instead.
It was a good idea for the most part.
Until three minutes ago, when she opened her eyes, saw me on the floor, and started screaming.
I scramble upright, tangled in the blankets and stubbing my toe on the crib.
She keeps screaming. Disoriented, I scoop her up and flip on the light.
Her cries crescendo because I wasn’t quick enough.
She wakes the boys, who shuffle in with hair sticking up like angry porcupines, glaring at both of us. How dare we disturb their slumber.
“Good morning,” I yawn, carrying Josie into their room, planning to multitask the morning routine. But before I even switch on their light, everything erupts. Suddenly, Sawyer is shouting, Easton is shoving him backward, Josie is wailing louder in my arms, and their alarm starts blaring.
“Get off!” Easton yells at the same time Sawyer shouts, “I hate you!”
“Boys, please,” I say, trying to wrangle Josie into a clean diaper.
They continue to argue around me, my pleas and flimsy threats of “no more Legos” floating right past them.
Mornings seem to take the gravity out of consequence around here.
Taking toys? Time outs? None of it carries any weight until later in the day.
Even for me. Not brushing my hair? That’s a 10 a.m. issue.
Which is why I have zero desire to battle them.
I nurse Josie quickly, drop her in her usual living room spot, and begin the morning shuffle with as much positivity as I can.
Nothing improves. I step on abandoned toys, spill breast milk, misplace a shoe, all while the boys are still fighting.
I keep glancing toward the front door, waiting for someone to come save the day.
In the driveway, I type out an SOS message to Steven, delete it, rewrite it, delete it again. Eventually, I give up entirely. I can handle being a mom. I don’t need him swooping in to rescue me.
You can do this on your own.
My own words echo in my mind like a haunting, chanting, On your own. On your own. You’re on your own.
They follow me all the way through the school drop-off line. The boys stop arguing as we pull in, and I get ten seconds of peace before they jump out of the car, immediately shoving each other on their way inside.
Josie starts screaming in the backseat as I pull away, and that’s when my chest goes funny. A frantic fluttering spreads through me, crawling into my limbs and dragging across my bones. My heartbeat slams into my ears, making driving nearly impossible.
“Not right now,” I beg myself. “Please not now.”
I grip the steering wheel, forehead pressed to the grooves in the leather, and let out a tiny, pathetic sound.
Josie’s cries boom into something sharp enough to split me open. I pull off to the side of the lot, the school shrinking in my rearview, and any sense of control I might’ve had shrink with it.
Reality feels out of reach as everything starts to blur. Josie cries until I hand her a crinkle toy, and she calms just enough for me to gather a thought. The seatbelt feels like a fist on my chest, and a pulsing ache radiates there. My shirt is suddenly damp as milk leaks down my stomach.
I groan and reach for a napkin, smacking my head on the radio and switching the station to full-blown mariachi. Trumpets erupt, bouncing around the cab at the exact tempo of my racing heart.
The music and the pounding in my ears crush together, and the urge to scream becomes unbearable. I bury my face in my hands and let out a muffled scream, which causes Josie to start crying again. The panic is too strong to stop, racing up my spine as I finally realize why this is happening.
I reach for my purse and dump everything onto the floorboard, fumbling until my fingers close around the bottle. I take a breath, open it, and swallow one small white pill.
No water. No hesitation.
I stare down at the label on my anxiety medication, my name, my birthday, my dosage all screaming back up at me. I forgot to take them. Again. I shove my palms into my eyes, angry with myself for not paying attention.
“How did I forget?” I mutter.
But I already know how. It wasn’t the morning chaos or the missing nanny. It was because of Steven. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t here to set the pill by my toothbrush. Or tuck the bottle next to my coffee. He wasn’t here to make sure I take care of myself too.
Steven always ensures I take it.
***
“Have you been taking it since the accident?” Ellie asks me later after I’ve told her about the morning.
“Yeah. I don’t know why today was different,” I whisper as I ease a sleeping Josie into the Pack ‘n’ Play in the library office. Margaret beams the second I hand her the monitor. She jumped at the opportunity to watch her the second she heard I needed a sitter for the day.
“Maybe it’s because you’re sort of back in your routine,” Ellie says as we walk toward the teacher’s lounge. Then she tilts her head, grimacing. “But also…not. You know?”
“Insightful,” I grumble.
Everyone is waiting. The disaster of a morning made me fifteen minutes late. My pumps, now attached to me, whir loudly against my chest. By the time they finish their job, the meeting is wrapping up, and the bell is already ringing.
“Good job.” Benny gives me a thumbs up as he follows the group out.
“I’ve never heard you talk so fast,” Ellie snorts.
I wave her off and discreetly unhook my pumps, stashing them in the refrigerator. Once I’m done scrubbing and repacking all the parts, I turn to find Ellie and Mackenzie watching me.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“You and I need to talk,” Ellie says, pointing between us. “I don’t know what she’s doing here.”
“I’ve got time to kill.” Mackenzie shrugs. “Either of you want coffee?”
“I’ll take some,” Daniels chimes in, who is miraculously standing in the doorway.
“Good grief, man.” Ellie jumps. “You have got to stop doing that.”
He laughs, but Ellie and I give him a look that says, no seriously, it’s getting weird. The guy, as well-meaning as he is, is starting to freak us out. He appears out of thin air, like a ninja, then disappears just as fast.
“I can take you to get coffee,” he offers to Mackenzie.
“Absolutely not,” she laughs.
“Why not?” Daniels goes beet red, staring at her like she just insulted his grandmother.
“If it doesn’t have doors, I’m not riding in it,” she tells him. My eyes flick to Ellie, who is watching them with a presumptuous smile.
“They’re not that dangerous,” he calls after her as they head down the hall.
We watch them leave, curious but refusing to unpack it.
“What’s up?” I ask Ellie, leading her into my office. I have one hour before Margaret’s lunch break, which means one hour before she tries to feed Josie her ham sandwich again despite my clear instructions that my baby could choke on it.
“So, how was the ranch?” Ellie plops down onto the couch.
“It was good,” I say, now powering through work emails. “Went by fast. The boys had fun. Josie did good in the car.”
“And Steven?”
“Okay. He did okay.” My eyes flick to hers, but she’s not buying it. She arches a brow slowly and purses her lips. I relent with a sigh and tell her the truth. “It could’ve gone better, I think.”
“Did you guys fight?”
“Not really. I mean, it wasn’t perfect, and you could tell we were all dealing with stuff, but we didn’t fight.”
She hums, twisting her mouth, not satisfied with this answer. “Is he at home today?”
“Not…exactly.” I scrape my teeth over my lip and stare too hard at my computer. I feel her eyes bore into me, waiting for more information, but she doesn’t ask. And she doesn’t have to, because I cave anyway. “I told him to stay there.”
“You did what?” she shrieks.
“I know,” I groan, dropping my head onto my desk, as if it could erase this terrible decision.
“You told your amnesiac husband to stay at his parents’ house? Four hours away?” Her voice leaps an octave. “Emma, why?”
“I don’t know, Eleanor!”
I fold over myself, hands over my head, sliding down until my cheek hits the desk.
Cold shame burns my face, and the image of Steven as I pulled away crashes back into me.
The way he tried to smile. The way it didn’t reach his eyes.
Sadness was etched in the lines between his brows, set hard in his jaw.
His heart was breaking. And I drove away from it.
“I thought he could spend time with his mom,” I mumble, cheek pressed to the mahogany. Then I groan. “Or maybe I’m just an idiot.”
“Or you’re scared,” she says knowingly. Gently.
I don’t answer. Because she’s right. I’m terrified.
I’m terrified of going back to what we were.
Or worse, becoming something I don’t recognize.
Terrified that I’ll watch Steven relearn everything, learn how to be better, be stronger.
All without remembering the dark parts we survived together.
I’m terrified of being alone in the dark things, of wanting to run because no one will truly feel what I’m feeling.
When it’s clear I’m not going to say these thoughts out loud, Ellie asks, “Do you remember what you told me?”
“What?” I mumble into the desk.
“Don’t let the scary thoughts win. Things get messy, especially in a relationship.” Her voice softens, like she’s waiting for me to remember. I remember. “But that doesn’t mean it’s doomed, Em. Nothing good and worth having comes easy. Give this a chance. Give this good thing a real second chance.”
“Did I really say that?” I tease, still face-down.
Ellie growls and slaps her hands against the couch. “Yes, you did, Emma!”
I finally lift my head. Shame sits heavy in the back of my throat and behind my nose, even pooling warm beneath my eyes.
Ellie clocks it instantly, but her expression doesn’t soften the way I expect.
Instead of a tender, comforting presence, she stands, puffing out her chest and flaring her nostrils.
“Get up,” she growls.
“What?” My eyes widen.
“Get. Up.”
I push to my feet warily, suddenly very scared. “What’s wrong?”
“Yell at me.”
A startled laugh slips out. “What?”
“Yell at me, Emma.” She smacks her palm against my desk, and the crack echoes.
Her green eyes go feral, her back rounds—she looks like a cat coiled to strike.
She drags in a breath and shouts, “Yell at me for stealing your sweater in fifth grade. Yell at me for forgetting your birthday two years ago. Yell at me for meddling in your life. Fight. With. Me.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” I try to sit down, but she steps closer. “I don’t want to fight with anyone.”
“That’s your problem.” She throws her arms up, frustration crackling off her. “You run. Every time. Your fight-or-flight system is clearly broken. It’s hardwired to one response, and you ignore the fight part completely. It’s time to change that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Fight for your life. Fight for your marriage. Fight for yourself, Emma. Stop running because it’s too messy or overwhelming. Make a little chaos of your own.”
“You know I can’t—”
“You used to smash art,” she cuts in. “Anytime you were upset, art was getting obliterated. Break some stuff. Let it out. Wake up your mama-bear dragon. Let her roar.”
I stand there, frozen, taking in her heaving breaths and outstretched arms. With my pulse thudding in my ears, and my hands curling and uncurling at my sides, I don’t know what to do.
What to say. I try to swallow it down, try to stay the small version of me.
The version that doesn’t make messes, that doesn’t disrupt.
But pressure builds in my chest. Steven’s face sparks in my mind. The way his smile cracked when he said he’d miss me, the ache I felt. I think about the times I want to scream, but don’t. The times I want to feel something, but I’m too scared to.
Heat creeps up my arms and settles in my chest when I realize: I want to feel everything, all at once, with him.
An idea hits me. A tiny spark of want, curiosity. It spreads through, like air rushing into my lungs after having been underwater. The thought of breaking something sounds like a relief. Having the chance to let my emotions tear through anything my hands land on might be just what I need.
But it’s not going to be art.
“Where are you going?” Ellie calls after me, but I’m already out the door, jumping in the car.
I’m going to get my husband.