Buried in Sunshine (8 page)

Emma pushes away the negative thoughts as she
puts the car into drive and heads towards the electronics
store.

Once there, she is greeted by a pushy salesman
who attempts to talk her into buying something large and flashy. It
is at this point that Emma’s experiences in design kicks in. She
knows what is good and what is bad regarding laptops—the memory of
working with them and on them comes in short flashes as the man
attempts to recite his pitches on the pros and cons of screen
sizes, ram, and processor speeds. Emma picks out something small,
but fast and ultra-portable. She finds a nice orange purse style
case with little red and green flowers imprinted in the fabric. She
ignores most of the salesman’s suggestions—she also does not buy
the warranty that he recommends.

On her way to check out, she picks up a wireless
router. She also procures a list of service providers from a much
friendlier cashier named Ann who has no ulterior motives and
nothing to gain from a sale. Emma tips the cashier a twenty for
being helpful.

On her way out in the parking lot—Emma picks the
first internet service provider and calls them. As quickly as she
can, she places an order to for service to be hooked up at her
house. Luckily, she is not too rural to get high speed internet. An
offer of extra money seems to put her on the top of the list and
she only has to wait one day instead of the three she was just
quoted.

As Emma begins to slip the phone back into her
front pocket, it begins to ring. She looks at the display and sees
a familiar number—her own, from the house. For a moment she is
shaken by the eerie sight, but realizes rather quickly that it must
be Elizabeth. However, how she got this number is a mystery unto
itself.

“Hello?” Emma answers.

“This is Elizabeth,” The soft voice speaks over
the phone.

“I had a suspicion,” Emma says, it seems as
though some of her snarky personality remains intact. Then,
remembering the pain that Elizabeth had gone through, she changes
her tone to one that is more caring. “How are you feeling?”

“Better…much better,” Elizabeth says, although
she sounds tired.

“I saw you earlier—you could have warned me
about where I was going. I know we needed someone to take care of
that basement wall, but did it have to be him?”

“Just like the basement, if I had told you…would
you have gone?”

“Fair enough,” Emma reluctantly accepts.

“Also…” Elizabeth says as she lets out a short
cough. “I didn’t leave the house today.”

“I saw you,” Emma objects as she shakes her
head—which serves no purpose as Elizabeth cannot see this
reaction.

“It could have been another.”

“What do you mean ‘another’? …another
you…another me?”

“It is possible?” Elizabeth answered,
unreassuringly.

“Great…”

“Are you having a good day?”

“I suppose so,” Emma says as she pauses for a
moment to reflect the events so far—she could have done without
being ambushed by Brian Metcalfe, however, his son was nice to look
at. Shopping was fairly boring, but at least she had gotten out.
“Should I head home?”

“There’s a beach a few blocks away from your
therapist’s office,” Elizabeth replies.

“I should go?”

“I cannot force you to go—however; you should go
before the weather changes.”

“Will you be there when I get back?” Emma asks
as there is still plenty of daytime left.

“There’s a storm coming later,” Elizabeth says
sadly. “I don’t think so. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry,” Emma whispers. Although, she does
not know exactly why she feels sorry—she supposes that it is the
horrible way that Elizabeth reacts in the absence of the sun.

“What a silly thing to say,” Elizabeth whispers.
“Not that… I don’t appreciate it.”

Before Emma can say goodbye, Elizabeth
disconnects the call.

*

Emma reaches the beach a short while later.
Seeing as it is a work day, she easily finds an empty spot.
Seagulls cry as they fly overhead, encircling the sky above the
beach. Emma steps her sneakers into the sand, to her dismay they
quickly fill. She is not prepared for a beach visit. Cursing to
herself, she removes her shoes and tiptoes through the parking lot
and tosses them in the trunk of her Impala. She then sidesteps
sticks and manages past dodgy looking items strewn against the
pavement until her bare feet are back in the soft beige sand.

A bead of sweat drips down the back of her neck
and is caught by her grey shirt. She walks a short distance
away—not too far, after all there is still a fair bit of anxiety
within her. She looks at the lake ahead; it appears as real as any
ocean. The calming sounds of meek waves sloshing against the shore
make her feel a bit less on edge, and feeling slightly more
regretful that she had no peed earlier.

Far upon the horizon, where the deep blue water
meets the azure sky, dark clouds loom in a cluster to the east.
This must be the storm that Elizabeth mentioned. Emma begins to
walk towards the water. As she continues along her trek she notices
a large pier lined with elaborate wrought iron lamps. The pier is
empty, save for a little girl with blonde hair and a white
dress.

“Must be in style this year,” Emma says
sarcastically to herself, she then changes direction and heads for
the pier. As she gets closer, she can make out the features of the
girl that stares off blankly to the endless expanse of water. The
wind blows her hair about and causes her dress to flail about like
a flag against a stiff wind. She looks to be around twelve or so—or
at least, she looks just like Emma did when Emma was young.

“What are you watching?” Emma asks as she
approaches the familiar young girl and places her arms around
herself to shield her body from the cold wind coming off of the
lake.

The little girl turns to face Emma; she pushes
away a long strand of wheat blonde hair from her deep blue eyes and
reaches a hand out towards Emma. “It’s good to meet you.”

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you to not be so
friendly to strangers?”

“We’re not strangers Emma,” the little girl adds
as she nods and raises her hand up even higher.

“Of course we aren’t,” Emma says as she takes
the girl’s warm hand in hers. “How old are you?”

“Eleven, almost twelve,” the girl replies as she
smiles, “How old are you?”

Twenty-four,” Emma replies after a short pause
to make sure her math is correct. “I’ll be twenty-five next… well.
I would be turning twenty-four next month.”

“I would be twelve next month…”

“So what do you call yourself?” Emma asks as she
stares off to the water. There is something hypnotic about the
scene—the gentleness of the small waves, the diamond like sunburst
sparkles upon the rippled surface, the constant wind, and just the
scale of it all. It made Emma feel small, but not in any bad sort
of way.

“Hope…”

“That sounds familiar,” Emma says as she
remembers that she used to believe her middle name was Hope. It was
a strange idea, now that she reflected upon it. She supposed that
in some way, even at her lowest, she had not given up
completely.

“You weren’t using it anymore,” Hope says as she
leads Emma to the end of the pier and sits down, pulling Emma along
with her so that they may sit side by side.

“It suits you,” Emma says as she looks to the
younger version of herself. She is suddenly filled with a moment of
sadness—this moment, this version of her…this was right before her
father left. She thinks to ask if he has left yet to her, but
figures she does not really need t know. “Did I see you earlier
today?”

“I stay here,” Hope replies as she shakes her
head vigorously. “Mom and dad used to bring us here all the
time.”

“Is that why you stay here?”

“I don’t know.”

“You could come home, you know—you don’t have to
stay here,” Emma says. After all, she is already living with one
version of herself, what trouble would one more be?

“I don’t like it there,” Hope says as she
releases Emma’s hand. “If I come back it would be just to play in
the woods again.”

“That would be fine,” Emma adds, hoping that she
has not upset the girl. “You don’t have to come in if you don’t
want to. Is there something wrong with the house?”

“You ask too many questions,” Hope replies as
she folds her arms against her chest and pouts.

“I’m sorry Hope,” Emma says as attempts to take
Hope by the hand, Hope refuses. “I did not mean to upset you. I am
just trying to figure out what is happening. I know that you
know—we don’t have much time.”

“It’s okay,” Hope concedes, “The house is just…
creepy.”

“Well you can come and play in the woods—that’s
something we used to do right?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I’m having a hard time,” Emma says as she
attempts to piece together her scattered past. She still has
memories of being Emma Hope—mixed in with fragments of memories of
her life as Emma Alexis. “It’s a bit of a mess I’m afraid.”

“One of these days will you play with me in the
woods?” Hope asks as she takes Emma’s hand back into her own. “It
will help you remember.”

“Of course Hope, anytime—“

“It’s going to rain soon,” Hope says as she
points to the oncoming dark clouds. “You should go.”

“Are you going to be alright?”

“It hurts more than… it hurts a lot,” Hope says
as she buries her head between her knees. “It doesn’t last long
though.”

“I’m sorry hon,” Emma says as she places her
arms around the small girl and embraces her tightly.

“It’s Hope,” the girl objects as she pushes Emma
away. “Go away—I don’t want you to see it happen.”

“Okay… Hope,” Emma replies sadly as she gets to
her feet and dusts the sand from the pier from her bottom. “We’ll
play together soon—just come and find me when you need me.”

“I will, just go already!”

Emma turns without another word and began to
make her way back to the parking lot. As she neared the houses, she
saw a small shop that looked like it was being run out of nothing
more than a tiny wooden beach shack near the towering apartments
close by. Curious, Emma met eyes with someone through the small
colored glass windows. She wondered if this person had been
watching her. She rounded the small building and saw a sign that
read ‘Celeste’s Crafts.’ A yellow door with a colorful open sign
stands before her. She enters the building, half sure that she
would run into another version of herself.

“Hello,” A young woman replies from behind the
counter as Emma enters the tiny shop.

Emma is relieved to find a taller, slender,
stick-legged girl with long brown hair and dark green eyes and no
familiar shared features other than tanned skin. She nods to the
woman and returns the greeting, “Hello…”

“This is all of my art,” the young lady says as
she gestures about the small room that is filled with many
wonderful colors that shine in from the different panes of glass.
“I do a little bit of painting, some jewelry—mostly glass. I love
colored glass. Is there anything you are looking for in
particular?”

“I just saw you through the window,” Emma admits
as she paces around the small building. “Was I alone…?”

“Yes,” she replies. “I get bored and that pier
has always had a special meaning to me—I spend a lot of time
watching the waves. Why do you ask?”

“I just…” Emma begins, then attempts to find
some kind of more acceptable answer. “I just kind of felt like I
wasn’t alone when I was there.”

“Maybe you weren’t,” she says as she reaches
over the counter and extends a hand. “The name’s Justine… Justine
Celeste.”

“Emma Corbeau.”

“Corbeau…”

Emma let out a short laugh, “Most people get it
wrong even when I say it first—I think you’re the first person to
repeat my name without messing it up.”

“Did you know it’s a color?”

“I was not aware of that.”

“Sorry…” Justine says as she shakes her head.
“I’m obsessed a little with colors.”

“I can tell,” Emma says as she looks about the
different pieces of art. Every piece is very well defined in
striking colors that one would not expect to be used. All of the
jewelry contains colorful glass squares and intricate designs. “I
mean that… in the best way possible. This is amazing really.”

“Corbeau is a very dark green—at least it was.
It’s not really used anymore.”

“I really like this,” Emma says as she finds a
brilliant yellow swirling design that resembles the sun on a length
of black leather loop with a magnetic clasp. “I mean I know someone
who would really appreciate this.”

“I’m asking twenty for it—it’s negotiable.”

“Twenty is more than fine,” Emma says as she
gets into her purse and pulls out a small wad of cash. She then
sees a darker painting that sits among the more light colored
ones—it is of a girl wearing a familiar white dress sitting at the
edge of a bed. She looks sad; the room is dark save for a single
window that illuminates her brilliant white wings. “…how much for
that painting as well?”

“I could go eighty?” Justine asks meekly. “If
that’s not too much…?”

“Is there a story behind it?”

“Hmm…” Justine says as she eyes the painting. “I
used to be—well still am… I suffered a lot from depression and I
painted this one day as a way to make me feel better. One day
though I gave up painting and I ended up burning the original… all
of my original paintings. I’m doing better, much better, and these
days so I paint more colorful things—this one though, just kind of
came back into my mind and I put it back onto canvas.”

“I’ll give you two-hundred for it and the
necklace.”

“That’s too much,” Justine protested.

“Don’t sell yourself short—take it from someone
who has gone through…is going through a very similar journey to
your own.”