Emily For Real (12 page)

“Right.” I clunk the rest of the way down the steps.

“See ya,” he says.

“See ya.”

When I get to the garbage bin, I notice a box of empty bottles next to it. Not that they have to be Leo's mother's, but that's what I'm thinking as I heave the bags into the bin.

Dad's looking out the front door when I get home. “Stopped raining, did it?” he says as I step inside. I know he's trying to make me think he was just looking out to check the weather.

“Pretty much,” I say.

Then he asks, “How are you doing now?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Well,” he gives a small sigh, “go in the kitchen and see your mother. She tried to call you. She's been worried.”

The kitchen smells good, a mix of something spicy and the musty smell of baked potatoes.

Mom stops drying a bowl. “I tried to call you but your cellphone wasn't on. It's hard enough, Emily, without worrying all day about where you were.”

I know things haven't turned out the way Mom wanted, but the same goes for me. It's depressing that my life depended on a little baby being stillborn. I can't stand it. “I know you had a stillborn baby.”

Mom gives me a look like I just threw something at her and missed. Then she opens the cupboard and puts the bowl away. “Emma, again, no doubt.”

“I'm sorry you lost your baby.”

Now she's wiping the countertop, lifting the toaster to clean underneath. “It was a long time ago.”

“But you must think about him. What he would've been like.”

She stops cleaning and looks at me. Everything's quiet for a few seconds. Then she says, “And now I'm losing you.”

Twelve

I head to the music room to find out if Sam's around. From the end of the hall I hear music, mostly tuba.

The door's closed but I see Sam through the narrow window, practicing with four or five people. Like everything's normal.

I go back to my locker, shove my books in, and head out through the front doors. I'm thinking about the small jade bird. It doesn't take much to give you the feeling you know someone, even if you never met that person.

“Emily! Hey, Emily! Where're you going?”

Brian's in the parking lot in his mother's car.

“Nowhere.” He can probably see I'm starting to panic.

“Need a drive?”

“No.”

“Come on, Em. We have to at least talk.”

“You have a girlfriend.” Panic is sloshing in my stomach and I try to calm it down.

“Look, I said I was sorry. I didn't expect to meet someone
so soon
.”

So soon.

“Maybe we can go get your Christmas tree. Like last year.”

“Nothing's like last year, Brian. Nothing.” There's no way he has a clue what I'm really talking about, but I don't care.

I cut across the lawn and down to the sidewalk. If Brian follows me, I won't be impressed.

A car slows down and stops. I turn around fast, ready to shout something obscene.

“I thought that was you.” Dana's leaning across the passenger seat, looking up at me through the opened window. “Hop in.”

Why would Dana be here again? Has something happened on top of everything else? I get into the car and brace myself.

“What gives with leaving school when it's barely nine o'clock?” She says this in a curious way, not in a blaming way.

“Didn't feel like staying.” I keep it simple. “So how come you're here?”

“Emma called. She was pretty upset about how things turned out yesterday. I figured she could use some support. And maybe you, too.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” My voices gets this whiny-kid sound like I'm picking a fight, when really I don't feel like arguing about anything because right now I don't have the energy.

“How about if we go back to school and get permission for you to leave? Must still be rules against skipping, unless schools've miraculously transformed themselves into bastions of liberalism.”

Dana doesn't go into any explanations. She just tells the school secretary she's my aunt and that I won't be attending classes today.

The secretary gives her usual raised-eyebrow look because she'd never in a million years believe anyone had a legitimate reason to leave school, especially so early in the day. She glances at the clock and neatly prints the time on the permission form: 9:12. “Sign here, please.”

Dana writes her name in huge loopy letters that sprawl across the bottom of the form. Something else for the secretary to raise her eyebrow about.

“How'd you know what school I go to?”

“Emma. But it wasn't her idea to come here. Her theory is that all of you just need time, and things will work themselves out.”

I don't say anything.

“Silence never works.”

I'm not sure if she's talking about me. Never means never, I guess. But right now I have absolutely nothing to say.

“Is there a place we can grab a coffee and hang for a while?” She pulls away from the curb and we head downtown. “Later we can meet Emma for lunch.”

“Why?”

“To talk.”

A small burst of fear leaps into my throat and I suddenly realize what I'm afraid of. Seeing her again. Talking to her.

“There's a coffee place over there. Good. You like coffee? Sure you do. What's not to like? Though Myra's convinced I consume too much caffeine. I won't say she's wrong.”

We sit by a window at a small round table with two metal not-so-comfortable chairs. Dana gets a tall mug of black coffee and I order a cappuccino, which I like because of the foamy milk.

“A lot of information's coming at you all at once,” she says. “Pretty tough stuff to handle.”

I concentrate on the cinnamon speckles on top of the cappuccino.

“Maybe if I found out about my birth father when I was seventeen, it would've been different. It's easier at my age. Mom has her life and I've got mine. She thought she was doing the right thing by keeping her secrets. Just like Emma and your Mom and Dad.”

I don't say anything but I'm thinking, what's this got to do with her when she doesn't know any of us anyway?

“Are you determined not to speak, Emily? I'm just trying to help.”

“You don't actually know any of us, so what makes you think you can help?”

“Ouch. Not that I don't deserve that, if it's how you feel.”

She sips her coffee and looks out at traffic for a couple seconds, while I think about getting up and walking out of here.

“The way I see it,” she says, “is you can dig yourself into a hole when stuff happens or you can find ways to deal with it. When Mom was forced to tell me that Dad wasn't my birth father, it was a shock. Big time. Then I find out about Emma and Gerry and the potential for a whole extended family, including a niece.” She gives me this big smile. “Too cool.”

No way I'm in the mood to smile back. “What about how your mother cheated on your father and lied about it for so long? How cool was that?”

She looks into her coffee cup like it's empty, but then she takes a sip. She knows I'm trying on purpose to hurt her. I'm not saying I don't feel bad about what I'm doing. “My life's not your life.”

“I'm not implying that.”

“At least you know who your real father was.”

“Real. Hm.” She gives this bent little smile. “Dad believed he was my dad, and I believed he was my dad. We loved each other right up to the day he died. I still love him. Doesn't get more real than that. And, of course, it's too late to meet Karl.”

Her eyes are this mix of green and brown. Serene. It makes me look away.

“They all love you, Emily. Gerry. Emma. Winnie. I don't think one of them loves you more or less than the others. That love's been there at the center of their lives since the day you were born.”

I think of Dad holding the adoption papers and the agreement papers.
Before you were even born
.

She looks at her watch. “I'll call Emma and see when she's free for lunch. You coming with us?”

“No.”

“I'll drive you home, then.”

When I get out of the car, she doesn't say anything and neither do I.

Mom asks me why I'm home from school and I fake being sick, even though she knows I'm faking. Soon she'll find out Dana's back, if she doesn't know already.

“Dana is staying over at Emma's.” Dad says this to Mom but he's looking at me, because if he knows Dana's here, he knows I saw her today.

“She didn't need to be brought into this.” Mom lifts the cover off the potatoes like they need to be checked. She's got this stubborn look on her face that tells Dad there's no use talking right now.

He scratches his head, then lets his hand fall to his side, watching Mom clatter the top back on the pot. The way he looks and the way she looks and the clanking sound of that pot cover is all very depressing. It feels like we'll be like this forever.

The kitchen phone rings and makes me jump.

“It's for you,” says Dad. “It's your friend, Leo.”

“Leo?” I take the phone and walk into the living room.

“Leo?”

“Yeah.”

“How come you're calling?”

“Wondering how things are.”

“With me?”

“Yeah.”

I know he's talking about me crying yesterday. I just say, “I'm okay.”

“Caroline was real happy about getting the junk you packed.”

“Good. I'm glad.”

“Any interesting crap at school?”

“Didn't stay long enough to find out.” Right away I wish I hadn't said that. “I saw Sam practicing with the tuba guy and a couple others.”

“What's up with not staying at school?”

“Just didn't feel like it.”

“Oh.”

There he goes again. Minding his own business, which is one of the reasons I like him so much. “I saw Brian in the parking lot when I was leaving. He said we should talk. Maybe get a Christmas tree like we did last year.”

“And?”

“I told him it's not the same as last year.”

“Smart.”

“Yeah.”

“So, anyway, Jane's getting supper. I should go.”

“Leo?”

“What?”

“I know you're sort of wondering about why I was crying yesterday, and in a way I want to talk about it, but I just can't right now. It's complicated.”

“Right.” He waits a couple of seconds and then says, “Crap usually is.”

Dad's setting the table so I get some glasses and put them on the placemats. Then I pour milk in two glasses and water in Dad's.

When we're having dinner, I decide to try a conversation to smooth things out a bit. I tell them about Leo's mother going to rehab in Toronto and about how Leo and Caroline have to live with Jane in North West Cove.

“It will be a while before that little girl truly understands what's happening,” says Dad. “She's too young right now.”

“Kids figure stuff out. And they can handle more than adults give them credit for.” I don't try to keep the sharp edge off what I'm saying.

Dad looks at Mom and she looks down at her plate. It feels like we're all stuck in quicksand.

If you ever get stuck in quicksand, you're supposed to lie flat so you spread out your weight and you won't sink like a stone into the guck. I remember learning about that in elementary school. But are you just supposed to lie there? Shouldn't you edge your way along, very cautiously, until you reach solid ground? Because if you just lie there, you'd eventually sink. Maybe more slowly, but you'd still sink. I'm sure of that.

Dad says, “Sooner or later, we're going to have to invite Emma back into our home.” He doesn't sound frustrated or tired or depressed. Just telling it like it is.

“I need time,” says Mom.

“This involves more people than only you,” he says carefully. “Dana has made a special trip down here, and before she goes back, I think we need to bring the family together and get on with our lives.”

“Sounds simple,” says Mom, but she doesn't mean it.

“We at least have to try.” Dad looks at me.

I get up from the table and take my dishes over to the sink.

“I'll do those,” says Mom. “You have homework.”

That's what she always says, because to Mom, homework's like the biggest deal. Sacred. All my life I've used homework as an excuse to get out of doing what I didn't want to do. Right now, this makes me feel immensely sad. I wish I could tell her I'm sorry about taking advantage of her like that. I wish I could tell her I realize how weird she feels, now that I know she's not my actual mother. But all I say is, “I'll do the dishes. There's not much homework so close to Christmas.”

“I want Dana and Emma to come here for dinner tomorrow night,” says Dad.

Mom and I pull ourselves back from the distraction of dishes.

“I know it'll be awkward,” he says. “But we have to start somewhere.”

“I'm in no mood to cook a meal for—”

“Then we'll order in. Chinese. We haven't done that in a long time.” Dad's smiling but it's not contagious.

I start rinsing plates and stacking them in the dishwasher. Mom plugs in the kettle. We're both not saying anything. I'm thinking about the look on her face last night when she said, “Now I'm losing you.”

“I'm asking you both to give this a try. Please.”

“What if they don't want to come?”

But Dad's ahead of me. “I already asked them and they said yes.”

Mom's not expecting this. “What?”

“If Emily or you absolutely don't want this dinner to happen, it won't happen. That's what we agreed. All I'm saying is there's no sense in prolonging what's inevitable. We're not going to become a family split into factions. That's never been our style and it's not going to become our style.”

I already know what Mom's decision will end up being. Look at the gazillion times Granddad was invited when she didn't really want him here.

Dad looks at me. “Emily?”