Chapter 41
Tara proposes to Niles one night when they’re drunk. It spurts out and sticks.
“I was going to take it back the next day,” Tara tells me when we’re together at home, recounting it all. “Because I thought
I’d pressured him into it by popping the question out of nowhere. But he’d already posted about our engagement on his socials,
so there was really no going back.”
“You could still go back,” I say. “If you’re having doubts.”
“I’m not,” she says. “I mean, I’m nervous about the scale of the change, sure. But I have no doubt he’s the person I want
to build a life with. It’s way scarier thinking of life without him than life with him.”
“Damn,” I say, feeling only slightly slighted at how I’m not that person for Tara anymore. “You’re the queen of confidence
these days.”
“Learned it from you.”
“Not when it comes to romantic relationships.”
“I really am sorry to be doing this to you,” Tara says, and it’s clear she’s been nervous about my reaction, no matter how
supportive I’ve been of her and Niles. “Walking the marriage plank and leaving you by yourself.”
“I’m not by myself, I’m with myself,” I say, laughing at the cheese of it, the truth of it.
“Besides, I don’t really see marriage as a death plank anymore.
It’s more of a bridge that can be wobbly or well-built, depending on the people.
And I have faith in you and Niles. I’d bet all my investments on your marriage, and that actually means a little something these days. ”
“Thanks, EJ,” Tara says, both of us sloshy in the eyes. “I’ll try not to let you down.”
“It’s no big deal if you do,” I say. “Just don’t let yourself down or my whole Redstocking reign would be a total waste.”
Soon after, I go back to Michigan for my annual holiday trip. It hits differently this time, sort of like I’ve escaped the
need to escape. Christmas Eve Mass no longer sends me spiraling. I just take it for what it is and think back to my first
Communion at this church, what a trusting little kid I was. My heart rips for her, but I get the sense she’d actually be pretty
proud of where we are now. Every life has dents; every life has detours. I’m not special really, though I like to think I
am because my ego is still there; I can be objective about that.
Afterward we have dinner and my parents hardly even argue over how spicy the chili should be, though they do argue a little,
just for the tradition of it. Then we take a family walk around the neighborhood to see the lights. My sister’s husband stays
back with the baby, a snarky toddler now whose favorite word is still “no,” which makes me very glad to see. So it’s just
the four of us—my mom, my dad, my sister, and me. The originals.
When we pass Mr. Hubert’s old house, my mom takes my gloved hand in hers and gives me a squeeze through the knitted wool.
I look at the green shutters, the nondescript gray siding, the snow-covered shingles in need of replacing.
My head feels the spin, the stress, the sadness.
But my body stays calm, not clamping up or burning or itching.
It’s like I’ve finally metamorphosed the abuse into fuel, expunged the evil to make space for openings, or something like that.
Healing isn’t linear—it’s like I told Chris when we were talking about his brother—but for the most part my trajectory is upward, with a few jagged spikes because those shapes are more interesting than straight lines.
There’s a For Sale sign in the snowy front yard.
“Mrs. Hubert must be moving,” my sister observes. “Downsizing now that Mr. Hubert has taken up residence in heaven.”
My dad snorts loudly. My sister says, “Bless you,” but I know it wasn’t a sneeze.
“Oh, I don’t think he’s in the good place,” my dad says, very loudly, too loudly. His whole body seems to be quaking, tectonic
plates ready to erupt.
My sister frowns. “Why not? He seemed like a nice enough guy. Not that I’d really know, since I never got the chance to take
piano lessons.” She huffs lightly.
My parents meet my eyes, taking the lead from me, which I appreciate. I shake my head imperceptibly. Now is not the time.
I’ll fill my sister in soon, over fresh mangos and melons in Hawaii. We have our family trip planned for the spring. No need
to spoil the holiday cheer, and besides, my sister has enough on her plate with motherhood. Though to her credit she complains
less than she used to, or maybe I’m just more perceptive to the positive things she says too.
“It turns out Mr. Hubert had a dark side to him,” my mom tells my sister. “But we don’t need to dwell on it.”
“What do you mean?” my sister asks, looking hopeful that she’s stumbled across a scintillating story she can share with her
mom friends at Bachelorette watch parties. “Was he smuggling drugs or something?”
“Far worse,” my mom says, her voice colder than the icy air, her jaw clenched into a pointy profile. “He was a murderer.”
My sister gasps dramatically. “A murderer! In this neighborhood?”
My mom’s words trickle over me as truth. She’s right. He murdered innocence. He murdered girlhood. He murdered trust. He murdered dreams and princesses and pirates and possibilities.
And he nearly murdered my younger self—wonderful, spunky little Emily Jane. But he didn’t, and what sweet victory is that.
Reclaiming power after someone has stripped you, degraded you. Not doing it to prove anything to them but to prove everything
to yourself. The flavor is tangy and sweet and salty all at once. I could bottle it up into the world’s best barbecue sauce
and make millions, but that’s not really the point.
“Merry Christmas to you, old Hubert,” my dad says, nearly spitting. “Hope you’re feasting on flames in hell.”
It gets me all shades of giddy to see my parents on my side like this. I felt the energy over the phone, but witnessing it
in person is something else.
My sister is bug-eyed. “Dad!” she says, shocked. Then she turns to me. “But I mean if that’s true, then it’s a good thing
you made it out of his house alive, Emily Jane.”
A snowflake lands on my face, melting in the tears that I feel forming. I hope my parents and sister can hear my expression,
translate the dampness into the I love you that it is. Judging by their faces, I think they can. I’ve never really thought I look like my family at all, but I think I look like
them now. More than a little. A whole lot, really. It doesn’t make me panic. It gives me peace.
“Yeah,” I say, as we keep walking past Mr. Hubert’s house, looping back toward my childhood home where we’ll make a fire and
put cider on the stove. “It really is.”