12. Emmy
My period starts in science class. A stabbing, unexpected pain that I won’t understand until later, when I see the brown stain on my underwear. I press a hand to my stomach and Paul whispers, loud enough for me to hear, that I probably ate too much.
That’s how it is now. There’s nothing that can happen to me, nothing I can say or do, that isn’t turned into ridicule, that isn’t made to be my fault. The weight began as a trickle, but now it’s an avalanche. Everything I do to stop it only makes it worse. I’ll go without food until I’m desperate for it, until I’m shoving anything I can find in my mouth whether I like it or not, terrified my mother will see me do it. I wake up the next day and the cycle repeats. Nothing helps.
My mother isn’t speaking to me when I get home, which happens a lot. Her silence is a snake in the grass, waiting to strike. A slap she’ll deliver when I least expect it. All I can do is wait until she decides it’s time.
That night, I do my homework, ignoring my growling stomach as I wait. I no longer eat lunch at school, because I can be eating half what Bradley Grimm does and she’ll still suggest it’s too much, and I don’t dare get a snack when my mom’s already mad. The clock moves from five to six, from six to seven, and she continues to watch TV and drink her coffee with disapproval pinching her lips. Now that Jeff’s at college, there’s no guarantee she’ll make dinner. The only thing that’s certain is that she’ll get mad if I make myself something to eat, and she’ll be mad if I ask if she’s cooking. I’m always choosing the lesser of two evils. Occasionally I long for a choice that doesn’t involve any evil at all.
“Are you making dinner?” I finally ask. My voice is too quiet. She’ll dislike that. She’ll think it’s weak and pathetic. But if I ask boldly, she’ll say I’m arrogant. Again, it’s the lesser of two evils.
She jumps up so fast that I automatically move to shield my cheek. That hand of hers tends to strike without warning on days like this. “What did you just say to me? Am I your servant now?”
“No. I just wanted to know.”
She scrunches her face up to mimic me. “I just wanted to know,” she says in a nasal, whiny imitation. “Do I suddenly owe you dinner? You’re nearly grown.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” she mimics again, high-pitched and sniveling.
It’s a relief when she goes to her room and slams the door shut behind her. I make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but even when the sandwich is gone, there’s no relief. Instead, I’m more aware of something nameless inside me, something bottomless and suffocating at the same time.
I gather my babysitting money and walk down the road, past the creek that smells like rotting fish and decay, to Black’s, a shitty little convenience store that mostly sells beer and cigarettes.
I buy chips and donuts and Skittles and a large blue slushie to wash it down. I don’t make eye contact with the cashier, who’s probably already deduced it’s all for me. I walk back down to the creek, until I’m certain I’m alone, and then I eat all of it—the chips, the Skittles, the donuts. I eat until my stomach hurts, and I continue to eat past that. I eat until the very last bite is gone, and I’m sick, but I wish I had more.
People imagine a girl like me devouring her food with unashamed gusto, licking her fingers and sighing theatrically, but that’s not how this is. I barely taste it. All I want from food is the way it makes me absent, the way it allows me to float above myself for the five or ten minutes it takes to inhale it and stop feeling anything at all.
I want to be numb.
And I’d give anything if I could just make that numbness last.
* * *
I wake earlyto get ready for a call to Nashville. My mother isn’t up yet and it’s not as if she’d want me around if she were. Aside from when I go grocery shopping and drive her to appointments, I’m pretty sure she wishes I’d just disappear.
Snowflake trots up to me. “Don’t get dirty,” I warn as I let her into the backyard. “This suit is Max Mara. You don’t want to know how much it cost.”
I fill her bowls with water and dog food and then I go to the back deck. It’s barely seven thirty, but Liam’s already setting up for the day, his jaw unshaved and set hard.
I wish Gary had half his worth ethic, and I wish Liam had Gary’s so I wouldn’t have to fucking see him all the time. Especially now. Because he put my mom in her place and is offering to work for free on Lucas Hall, and no matter what he ostensibly did to me when I was a teen, he no longer seems to be that guy. He seems, in fact, to be the opposite—the exact person I imagined he was back when I was in New York, getting to know him by text.
I can’t persuade myself he’s my enemy, though after yesterday’s absolute trouncing at the hearing, I imagine I’m his.
“Hurry up, Snowflake,” I call. “I’m on a schedule.”
“Yard’s a mud bath,” Liam says. “You’d have been better off taking her for a walk.”
Ah, there’s the one thing that will prevent a man from ignoring you: the chance to offer unsolicited advice.
“I’m wearing four-inch heels,” I reply. “They’re not really ideal for dog walking.”
He shrugs. “Then I hope they’re made for being covered in mud, because that’s what’s next.”
I ignore him. Snowflake isn’t even my dog. If she comes back muddy, Jordan can get off her lazy ass and drive to Elliott Springs to wash her.
“By the way,” he says, “your mom told us to toss everything in the shed before we tear it down, but we found a lockbox. Do you guys want it?”
I freeze. The shed was my father’s domain, and we left it untouched when he abandoned us. A part of me is tempted to say yes and hire a locksmith to break into it, hoping it will provide some answers, but a man who couldn’t bother to tell us goodbye when he ran is unlikely to have gone to the trouble of locking away an apology for us to one day find.
“You can toss it,” I tell him. “Snowflake! Come here, girl!”
Snowflake emerges from the woods, covered head to toe in mud.
“Goddammit,” I mutter. I refuse to meet Liam’s smug gaze. “Can you hand me the hose?”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he replies. “Have you ever sprayed a dog down? She’ll shake herself dry, all over your suit. Throw me a towel. I’ll do it.”
I stiffen. Why is he offering to help me? Does he think I’ll just hand over Lucas Hall because he rinsed off my dog? Even Liam’s not that dumb. And allowing people to do things for me always comes at a price. Even if that price is merely being civil going forward, it’s more than I want to pay.
He’s already taking Snowflake by the collar and leading her to the hose, however, so I go inside for a towel. When I emerge, mud and water are flying as Snowflake shakes herself off.
I brace for his inevitable irritation with me. I wait for him to say, “I told you so.”
It’s not like you were all that clean to start with, I’ll reply.
But instead, he laughs. “Throw me the towel,” he says, reaching out a hand. He seems to catch it without even looking and then kneels down to dry Snowflake off when I assumed he wanted the towel for himself.
“There’s a good girl,” he coos, holding her by the collar. “Doesn’t that feel better?”
I’m uncharacteristically tongue-tied. I wish he’d tell me I’m a stupid bitch for not listening to him in the first place. At least then I’d know how to respond.
“Thank you,” I say, the words quiet and hoarse. “Do you…need a clean shirt?”
His gaze drifts over me. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say we probably aren’t the same size.”
“I…my father…” I never speak about my father. Ever. It’s too hard, and I don’t want anyone’s pity. “Most of his clothes are still here.”
Suddenly, there’s something almost gentle in his face. “That’s okay,” he says. “But thank you.”
He sends Snowflake in my direction and pulls up his shirt to dry his face with the underside. Classy. But he’s got the abs of a Greek god and there’s something intoxicatingly male about the gesture, so I’ll let it slide.
I follow Snowflake to the kitchen with the troubling suspicion that I’m right back where I never wanted to be: inclined to trust a guy who will end up hurting me in the end.
* * *
My mother’sfollow-up with Dr. Sossaman is late that afternoon. While she’s in his office, I walk out to the vending machines. My mouth waters at the sight of stale baked goods and candy that’s pure corn syrup. I’m not sure I even want any of it. I just know that I’ve likely got an entire evening ahead with her judging me for the little I do eat, and I want to know for certain that I won’t go to bed hungry because of it.
“Don’t do it, Emmy,” I hiss. “It’s a slippery slope.”
When I walk back to the waiting room, a nurse says Dr. Sossaman would like to speak to me.
“To me?” I repeat. “I’m not the patient.”
She nods. “It’ll just take a minute.”
She leads me back to an office where a guy in his mid-thirties sits with my mom.
“You must be Emmy,” he says. “I’m Dr. Sossaman.”
I find it irritating when doctors presume they can use my first name while not using their own, but I’m too busy being shocked by how young he is to focus on that right now. My mother made it sound like they were peers.
“I’ve been explaining to your mother that it’s important to rest after surgery in order to heal,” he says, “and I wanted to make sure you understood.”
I glance from him to her. There’s something a little pointed in this reminder, and unnecessary as well.
I arch a brow. “Doesn’t it go without saying that you need to rest after surgery?”
Dr. Sossaman turns to a nurse hovering near the doorway. “Can you take Miss Atwell to the PT room and get someone to show her the rehab exercises listed in her file again?”
I rise when my mother does, but Dr. Sossaman gives a polite cough to get my attention. “I was hoping we could chat for a moment.”
I sit back down.
“I wanted to make sure you understand that your mother can’t be forced to do a lot around the house,” he says warily. “She’s not healing the way we’d like.”
I choke on a laugh. “As far as I can tell, the only thing my mother does consistently is watch a lot of reality TV. But I’m happy to turn it off if that’s an issue.”
He glances away. “She seems to be under the impression that she’s not healing well because she’s doing too much. And yes, she does need to be walking around, but within reason.”
You’ve got to be kidding me. “Aside from putting on makeup to come here, I haven’t seen her exert any effort whatsoever. She doesn’t even open the door for the dog.”
“Look,” he says, his tone diplomatic, “I realize this is stressful, but it’s really worked out well for you both, timing wise, and I think if you looked at this as an opportunity—”
“In what possible way has this worked out well for me?” I ask, aghast.
“Well, she needs help, and it sounds as if you’re between jobs and need a place to stay, so—”
I laugh out loud, the sound half humor and half explosive anger. I slap my purse on the desk between us. “Do you see this bag, Doctor Sossaman? It’s Hermès. I bought it a month ago for four grand because I had a half hour in the Tokyo airport and was bored. I’m not ‘between jobs,’ and I don’t need a place to stay. I have a very expensive apartment in New York City sitting empty, so I can be here to help my mother. You should perhaps consider not taking everything she says at face value.”
His mouth opens, closes, then opens again.
“Right,” he says. “Okay then. I just thought I could help.”
“You can,” I reply as I walk out. “Make her better so I can get back to my life.”
It isn’t his fault, I know. My mother enjoys living in a fictional world in which I am always the loser she’s saddled with, and she enjoys bringing other people into the delusion. But is there really any hope of winning over someone who would tell a story like that about her own kid? Probably not.
The light drizzle turns torrential during the drive home while I try to work out what I’ll say to her. I’m outraged—outraged enough that I could see myself taking off, telling her and Jeff they’re on their own. But who will take care of Snowball if I leave? And who will secretly ogle Liam? Those jobs aren’t going to take care of themselves.
When we reach the house, Liam’s guys are running supplies to their trucks. I guess that means Liam’s done for the day, which I find strangely disappointing.
My mother frowns at the rain. “You need to go ask Liam or one of his guys to carry me.”
I fight what would undoubtedly be a malicious smile. Sandra and I need to probably have a more serious chat about her bullshit, but I know exactly how to punish her in the interim. I believe this is what experts refer to as natural consequences.
“Actually, Mom, Dr. Sossaman is concerned about the way you’re healing. When I explained how much time you spend sitting around, it became clear to both of us what the real culprit was.” I’m not certain it was clear to Dr. Sossaman, but I’m sure it would have been if he hadn’t been so busy blaming me. “So, no, I’m not asking Liam. I’ll help you on the stairs and you can use the walker for the rest.”
“But I’ll get drenched.”
“Then you’d better walk fast,” I reply. “Just imagine all the stories you can tell Harold about how terrible I am now.”
The prospect does seem to cheer her up. She manages to get to the house relatively quickly, and I lend her my shoulder as we climb up the steps, which is the closest to affection either of us has perhaps ever come.
She releases me as if my skin burned her as soon as she’s reached the top step. “Your shampoo smells god-awful,” she says, hobbling into the house.
It shouldn’t surprise me. She’s always found a way to wedge some crushing insult where I least expect it. When I asked if I could wear makeup, she said I should worry about losing some weight first. I came home once with short hair, and she told me I’d gotten rid of my only good feature. I can’t recall a single time when she wasn’t doing her level best to let me know I was despised.
I walk to the back window and stare out at the desolate backyard, remembering how hard things were here after my father left. I started to expect the worst of people because I got the worst at home, and there’s been very little in my life to counter that. Other than Liam.
He was different from everyone else back when he was texting me. He was different this morning, too, washing the dog though I’d been awful to him. Cooing “there’s a good girl” in that soft voice. Then again, terrible people are capable of being kind to dogs. Case in point: Snowflake now sleeps on my bedroom floor because I don’t have the heart to shut the door on her.
My father was kind like that, or so I thought. He’d appear in my room early in the morning, saying “want to go on a secret mission?”, and sometimes it was just driving to Santa Cruz for donuts and jumping into the ocean for an icy swim, but my favorite was when we’d go down to Main Street in the pouring rain, clad in my raincoat and boots, to help place sandbags in front of the stores when the river was flooding.
It made me feel like I belonged somewhere. It left me certain the world held more good than bad.
I’d almost forgotten there was a time when I didn’t hate it here.