Arson (11 page)

 

Chapter 19

 

 

“SO IT WASN'T AS bad as you thought, was it?” her mother asked on the ride home.

“Don't put words in my mouth, Mom,” Emery said.

“Well, I didn't think you'd be so offended by my saying so.”

“I'm not… It's just… I don't know.”

“You don't know, or you don't want to tell me?”

Emery touched her mask, feeling the rigid, bent corners. She liked the way its texture slid between her palms and fingers. At least it was smooth. Her mother didn't get it. She probably never could, even if she wanted to.

“I suppose I could pressure you into telling me what I want to hear, but I'm guessing that'll only instigate another argument. And I've had enough of those lately.”

“Could've fooled me,” Emery spat.

“What's that supposed to mean, young lady?”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that yesterday you called me a defiant little witch because I wanted to go out with Arson. Oh, his name is Arson, by the way. Our alien from next door. And let's not forget what a nag you've been around Dad.”

Emery watched her mother get heated, blinking rapidly, the way she did any time they started to disagree. “Don't pretend to know what married life is like, young lady, because you don't have a clue. It's difficult. Sometimes people fight. But it's between your father and me. So if that's what your little attitude is about—”

“It's not only that. It's…” Emery's voice trailed off.

“Let's leave your father out of this one. You're upset at me for arguing with you last night. Well, sorry for being a mother.”

“Mom, you told me I wasn't allowed to date after I told you that it probably wasn't even a date. At least, 
he
 didn't think it was.” She glared out the foggy window.  “You thought that somehow it was your decision to make, and it wasn't. I'm almost eighteen. Get off my back and let me live my life.”

“I'm your mother, Emery. My opinion, whether you like it or not, matters. Besides, someone's got to remind you that hideous mask isn't a face.”

Emery was good at blocking arrows, word bullets too, but that one stung. “My 
real
 face isn't a face either.”

“You look so awful in that thing, dear.”

Emery locked her arms inside each other and stewed in frustration. Did she honestly think adding the word 
dear
 onto the end of her comment was going to make the situation better?

“There you go again, shutting out the world, shutting out your own mother.”

“Remind me the last time you were a mother.”

Before the comment finished coming out, Emery's head jerked. Her mother swerved off the main stretch of Route 66 in Portland, the next town over, slamming on the brakes. Emery's forehead bashed against the dashboard, and she swore while frantic speeders off the Arrigoni Bridge raced past.

“You could've warned me you hadn't been taking your meds, Mom. Are you insane?”

“Maybe I am. But you need to start showing me some respect. And watch your language!”

“Fine!”

“How many times have I told you to buckle your seatbelt when you're in 
my
 car? It's another reason why you're not ready to get your license.”

“Dad paid for the car,” Emery groaned, trying to recoup from her recent make-out session with the dashboard. She could see her mother's face take a turn for the worse, her eyes lit.

“Now buckle up.”

“All right!” Emery screamed back, fastening her seatbelt.

“Let's try to have a conversation, shall we? With some civility.” Her mother pulled back onto the main road. “How was the first day of volunteering?”

“My first day was simply peachy. Is that what you want to hear?”

“You're transparent, Emery. I can tell when you're not being honest with me.”

“Oh, really, Mother? How perceptive of you. Shall we discuss it over tea? Perhaps a dinner on the veranda?”

“Charming. But I asked for us to be civil. Could we, for two seconds, act like a loving mother and daughter?”

Emery didn't take her eyes off the glaring window, focusing on the world outside instead of her own. Passing cars and flashing traffic lights. “Well, forgive me for ruining your little charade, but I can't pretend like something isn't the matter when it is.”

“Your father and I will—”

“The spotlight isn't on you right now, Mom. Remember me, your daughter? I've got problems too.” Emery could see her mother's face flush with relief and surprise. But she made the observation appear discreet and nonchalant. “When did life get so complicated?”

“How is 
your
 life complicated? You hide behind a mask. One of these days you're gonna have to face the world.”

“Easy for you to say,” Emery said. “It didn't happen to you.”

“I have tried to be as supportive as possible.”

“Give me a break. You have no idea what this is like. How it feels to be different. To feel like some freak. You and Dad are both too busy for my life. Maybe the two of you can coexist inside your own little bubble, but I'm sick of living with this. I hate the girl I see in the mirror every day. And for the record, I hate you.”

A long moment spread between them.

“Emery, you're different, that's all, not a freak.”

“Different doesn't even scratch the surface, Aimee.”

“You're right. I don't know what it's like. But you won't let me in. I want to be your friend, but I'm a mother first, Emery. I care about you. And I don't want that mask to be a crutch for the rest of your life.” As the confession left her lips, Aimee began swerving in and out of lanes, like she couldn't focus on the conversation anymore.

“Way to go, Mom. You missed the turn.”

Her mother sat quietly, thinking about something, perhaps wondering what had become of their relationship.

“Where are you going?” Emery asked.

“I'm taking the long way home, okay? Are you in a rush or something?”

“If you're asking me if I want to sit around and talk about how much we disagree about
everything
 and how you don't understand anything I'm trying to tell you, then maybe I am. Look, even now we can't discuss something about me, about 
my
 life, without you making it somehow about you or how disgusting you think my mask is. What an embarrassment I am to you. Forget it.”

“So you met Abraham?” her mother added, ignoring everything Emery had just said. “He's quite the character, isn't he? You know, he has a granddaughter; I think she's about your age. She's sick, though. Poor old man. He's stuck in some hospice unit, and he has to worry about a beautiful granddaughter in Michigan.”

Emery noticed the way her mother described the little girl, someone she'd never even met but seemed to care about more than her own flesh and blood. The way her lips formed the word
beautiful
 was almost painful, hand motions and everything. Aimee Phoenix, a regular performer, art at its finest.

“I feel sorry for him.”

Dear God, Aimee was more of a mother to complete strangers. Emery suddenly felt nausea creep up her gut. 
Get me home
, she thought. 
I don't want to be with you, even near you. I want to be with Arson. I want to run across that lawn and pound against his door until my palms bleed. I'll know I'm alive
.

But the more Emery dwelled on the mysterious boy, the more she was reminded of how he too had abandoned her, today of all days. How he had made a promise he couldn't keep. She wondered if he had ever planned on showing up at all or if this was simply a game to him, the way other kids used to play. She could feel a tear sliding down her nose as silence took her heart away.

“Are you crying?” her mother asked, seemingly sympathetic.

“No,” Emery lied. “I just don't wanna talk anymore.”

 

* * *

 

Joel sat in front of the blank computer screen, watching the blurry cursor appear and disappear. He took a sip of beer and placed the bottle beside countless books, ones that read,
Overcoming Your Demons
 and 
Kicking the Habit Old School: A Guide to Cold Turkey Freedom
. Their covers looked almost as uninteresting as their titles, and it didn't help matters much that he didn't believe half the trash he read. Much of it he forgot almost instantly, and whenever Aimee asked him to recite to her a passage that moved him in some way, he usually recited verbatim the first line of each book. Lame.

He could feel his eyes glazing over. Why on earth was he in front of a computer screen when he should be out hunting for a job? Securing his family. Trying to type out a sermon after months of isolation and self-judgment proved complicated to say the least. All inspiration seemed lost. Was that his conscience or his wife's scratchy voice piercing his eardrums, spilling words of disapproval?

Oh, to be young again. To be in love. In a time when life was easier, when Aimee's mouth tasted of sweeter things than deprecation. Joel took another sip. How long had it been since they had embraced for real, how long since they were intimate? Perhaps it was too painful to recall. It might as well have been failure plastered across the screen in big block letters. It belonged on a billboard with his worn-out face beside it. Writing sermons had never been this hard. But he couldn't keep a stray thought even if he focused. First, he tried to bullet them, using coherent notes. He had enough mental baggage to write twenty volumes of self-help jargon, but nothing seemed to come out when he put pen to paper or finger to keyboard. Emery's often gentle suggestion that he start taking a deeper interest in technology had revolutionized the way he put a sermon together. In fact, with her expertise and his… 
Forget it, Joel
. It was another lifetime, another world. Not this one. Here he couldn't even get a simple paragraph down. Nothing.

Joel stared at the cursor of the document until it became his own thoughts, wandering, disappearing, and reappearing again only for a moment. He longed for something of meaning, anything. He typed one question out. 
Do better men exist
? He saved it to his desktop and powered off the machine.

Cracking his knuckles, Joel reclined and took a long swig, frowning at the taste. He'd made such a mess of everything. Nearly ruined a marriage he'd spent years trying to build. Aimee, she was still so beautiful. He loved to watch her from the bed while she was in the shower, her shadow dancing against the glass with the bathroom door creaked open. But maybe he'd be stronger if she were more supportive. If she didn't critique everything he did every day. Didn't he love his family? He'd made his mistakes, but he was a good man.

“I just want a second chance,” he muttered, almost in tears. He swallowed the last sip of alcohol, coming to grips with the harsh truth: he was not a minister anymore. He was Joel Phoenix, failed husband, bad father.

Just then, light broke into the dark room. The sound of car doors slamming shut echoed through the windowpanes. Nervously, Joel opened the bottom drawer to his mahogany desk. Inside he saw two old bottles he'd never gotten rid of. The smell of stagnant beer floated into the air. Careless. Joel stashed away the empty bottle in the drawer beside the other would-be culprits to his inevitable demise. 
Like Peter
, he thought.

Before closing the drawer, Joel caught a glimpse of the ring he had planned to give Aimee.
Don't even think about it
, his mind snickered. 
Your breath smells, you look pathetic, and you're still waiting for a believable lie to sell her. What else could she do now but throw it right back in your face
?

Joel slammed the drawer, misted himself with cologne, and reached into his pocket for a mint. He approached the door with a smile on his face, studying the two silhouettes awaiting him on the other side. As the door opened, he found a soft, unspoiled part of his daughter's neck and kissed it. Then he turned to his wife and threw his arms around her. But he knew there was more than space between them. 

 

Chapter 20

 

 

EMERY FOUGHT TO KEEP the morning light from reaching her eyes. It stretched its long, yellow fingers past the terribly painted windows in her room and onto the bed, where she lay sprawled out and covered. It always came to wake her up, but even though the sun came out from hiding, it didn't mean she wanted to.

“Wake up, Emery,” her mother said. “You'd think that sleeping for twelve hours would be enough.”

Emery groaned and rolled over.

“I found this under the door when I woke up.” Her mother dropped a torn and folded piece of paper onto the bed before rushing out of the room with a basket of laundry nudged up against her hip.

Emery yawned and felt her warm face, the skin like play dough beneath the mask. With a deep breath, she staggered out of bed. She hated Sundays, always had. She hated living a lie. The lie of going to church, the lie that everything was okay when it wasn't. Her parents had become skilled actors in the stage that was their life. She was glad they had a reason to stop going to church, even though part of her missed God.

Emery unfolded the page and mouthed the only words: 
I'm sorry. From, the alien
.

Those two words could have been written in blood permanently. A beautiful stain. But what could be said in just two words? Was Arson sorry for not coming the night before, or was he just saying so to appease a sleepy conscience?

The uncertain paranoia was killing her. Emery dug her fingernails into the flesh of her palms. She wanted to know the truth. She had to know.

 

* * *

 

Emery gathered herself, made a fist, and knocked on Arson's door.

“What do you want?” a voice said as the door finally creaked opened. An old woman with a haggard appearance squinted, the sunlight glistening against her leathery skin.

“Good morning,” Emery said, hands folded, the note crumpled inside. “Is Arson around, ma'am?”

“You nearly scared me half to death, child. Who are you?”

“I'm sorry, ma'am. The mask is kind of frightening. I'm one of your new neighbors. My name is Emery.”

“What on earth are you doing knocking on my door at this hour on a Sunday morning? Doesn't anyone go to church anymore?”

Emery rocked back and forth. “I'm sorry for disturbing you. I never meant to scare you. Should I just come back later?”

“What good would that do?” the old woman said with a rasp in her voice. “You already woke me up, for heaven's sake. I suppose I'll go and make some coffee for me and my husband. Now that I'm up, I can't possibly go back to bed.”

The door pinched open farther. Emery noticed the old woman's pantyhose dangling halfway down her sun-spotted legs. With darting eyes, she saw that the woman's clothes consisted only of a gray bathrobe with stains on the lapel. The knot keeping each threadbare piece of fabric in place hung loosely toward the right side of her sagging backside.

“What's your husband's name?” Emery asked.

The old woman's face lit up all of a sudden. “Oh, his name is Henry, dear. You would fall in love with him, surely. He's so lovely, simply a dream. Why don't you come inside? I'll introduce you.”

“Arson never mentioned a grandfather.”

Suddenly, a shadow appeared out of the kitchen. It scaled along the wall and stopped at the sunlit doorway, stretching out before them.

“Arson, what are you doing up, love?”

“Couldn't sleep, Grandma.” He stood rigidly, one arm extended to the doorpost, the rest of his body placed between Emery and his grandmother.

“Hi,” Emery said, almost in a whisper, revealing the note.

He stared down at her. “Oh, hi.” Arson turned to his grandmother. “Thanks for getting the door. Could I talk to her alone, please?”

“Sure. She really is delightful. Perhaps I'll introduce you to Henry another time,” the old woman said, heading toward the kitchen, her bare feet dragging behind her. “Do come again.”

Arson shut the door and found a spot on the porch in the shade where they could talk. “How are you doing?”

“What were you doing yesterday?” Emery said.

Hesitating, he replied, “I told you I had work.”

“All day?”

“Pretty much. We were slammed. I was very busy.”

“Oh, really? And I can see how a phone call is too much trouble. I don't even know why I came over here,” Emery said, getting up from her spot but leaving the note behind.

A silent wind lifted the page and carried it onto the dead grass.

“I said I was sorry,” Arson said. “What else do you want from me?”

“Did you mean it?”

“I wouldn't have written it if I didn't mean it. I wanted to be there yesterday; I really did.”

“Then why weren't you? What was so important?”

He didn't speak.

“Look, I get it if you don't want to see me,” Emery said. “But don't lie to me.”

Arson got up and moved toward her. She could hear her heart booming. Hands clammy, mouth dry from spitting accusations. Her fingernails chipped and painted in certain spots, the polish cracking at the tip. He was right behind her now. She could feel his breath lifting up the hairs on her neck. Emery turned around and noticed him holding onto the crinkled note, sincerity in his eyes.

“Emery, I am sorry,” he whispered.

Her icy tone melted when he uttered the words she had marched over to hear for herself. Words that meant maybe, just maybe, he felt something for her too.

“I'm volunteering again tomorrow at two o'clock. Should a girl get her hopes up again?”

Arson bit his lip and sighed. “Count me in.”