Earth to Emily (15 page)

“Pecan pancakes, please.” I handed my menu to the waiter the next morning at the Pancake House, where Wallace, Nadine, and I were celebrating Christmas Eve. We weren’t the only ones with the idea, apparently. The restaurant was normally lean on décor, but candy canes hung from rope draped nail to nail in swoops around the walls of the restaurant. It echoed with booming wishes of Merry Christmas, and the whole place smelled like cinnamon rolls and coffee. The only negative was the crowded space felt like a sauna, with too much heater and too many bodies compensating for the weather outside.

The waitress didn’t look up from the pad on which she was scribbling my order. “Bacon or sausage?”

“Neither.”

Now she looked at me, and her eyebrows descended and pinched together. “What?”

“I’m a—”

Wallace leaned between us, hand out as if to block me. “She’ll have fruit on the side, please.”

The woman nodded, jiggling her chins, and recited our entire order back to us. Slowly. She had it right, so Nadine, Wallace, and I all made affirmative noises. She walked toward the kitchen, studying the notepad again, and crossing something out.

“Merry Christmas, you guys.” I set two small gifts in the center of the table. I had wrapped them myself the night before in shiny gold paper with silver bows and a tiny ornament tied to each. Wallace got bicycle Santa and Nadine motorcycle Santa.

Wallace put two envelopes with them. “Happy Hanukkah.”

“You’re not Jewish.” Nadine frowned. “And breakfast is on me, because nothing says Happy Kwanzaa like the Pancake House.”

Wallace’s voice sounded droll. “How do you know what they eat for Kwanzaa in Africa?”

“Kiss my ass, Wallace.”

“Sorry, honey, but you’re not my type.”

“So early in the morning . . .” I picked up my envelope. “Can I open it?”

“Sure.”

“Me, too?” Nadine asked.

“Of course.”

Nadine and I tore into the flaps.

Wallace said, “I got us a pedicure party at Top Ten. All three of us! I have to get my dogs in shape.” He winked. “New man in my life.”

“Awesome!” I hadn’t had a pedicure in months. “When do we get to meet him?”

“Soon, I think.”

Nadine stuck her envelope in her purse. “I’ve never had a pedicure before. I’m kinda picky about who touches my feet, and for what purpose.”

Wallace waggled his eyebrows. “Do tell.”

“Don’t!” I cut in. They laughed. “But I do want to hear all about you and Phil.”

“Who’s Phil?” Wallace asked.

She held up a hand. “There is no me and Phil. Phil’s a regular at the Polo Club. He’s been hitting on me for months. I
never
give the douchebags my name.” She pointed at me with her raised hand. “Yesterday he got it from her.”

“He’s a client. You were in the office. How was I to know introductions weren’t in order?”

“I didn’t say they weren’t in order. Now that we’ve been properly introduced, I wouldn’t mind letting him have a go at my feet.”

“Stop!”

Wallace laughed. “Emily, you’re such a prude.”

“I’m not a prude. I just don’t want to hear the details.”

“So you wouldn’t let Jack suck your toes, then, or put them—”

“That’s not up for discussion!”

Now they both laughed. Nadine put her hand on my arm. “Since I’m in the holiday spirit, I’ll quit terrorizing you.” She pulled her hand back and snapped her fingers. “Which reminds me. You filed a complaint on a dirty cop, right?”

“Well, two cops that I think were acting improperly, anyway.”

“Potato, Poh-tah-toe. One of the dancers called in sick last night because she’s afraid to leave her house. She thinks some cop is after her for something she saw, a murder, she claims. After one of the dancers disappeared last summer, all the girls have been much more skittish. I told her about you, and I gave her your number. In case she needs to talk to someone.”

I lifted my shoulders, about to say, “Sure, no problem,” when something else popped out instead. “What’s her name?” I’d met a dancer the week before at Love’s. Irina? Sasha? Something European. Ivanka. That was it.

“Beth.”

Our plump waitress appeared with three plates on each arm. She put them down on the table, one by one, all in the wrong places. “Anything else?”

Wallace held up a finger. “More coffee.”

I waited for her to turn her back then pushed Nadine’s bacon and sausage sides over to her. I tried to convince myself that the flesh on the plate grossed me out, but my stomach growled at the aroma, greedy and animalistic. I grabbed my pancakes and fruit and snatched the butter and syrup before anyone else could get to them. Staving off meat cravings constituted an emergency.

I started slathering butter. “Y’all didn’t even open my gifts.”

Wallace had ordered biscuits with sausage gravy and a side of hash browns in addition to his pancakes. There was a benefit to maleness and triathlon, for sure. I’d blow up like a whale if I mixed all that fat with all those carbs. I scraped some of the butter off my pancakes, then a little more.

“Shit, honey, I’m sorry. Let’s do it when she clears the food.” Wallace stuffed a giant bite of biscuit and gravy in his mouth.

I eyed the syrup I’d chosen. Maple. There were a few more in a wooden rack. I read the labels and saw “sugar-free.” I sighed and poured a lake of it on my plate.

One of our cell phones rang. I still hadn’t reset my ringtone and sounds, and I glanced at mine. Nope.

Wallace pulled his from his pocket and answered in a robotic voice. “You’ve reached the voice mail of Wallace Gray. I’m celebrating Christmas with my friends and can’t come to the phone right now. Don’t bother leaving a message, because I won’t call you back until—”

He stopped speaking and listened, his face growing dark. “You’re absolutely sure of this?”

He looked at me, and it was a look of such incredible pity that I knew immediately something had happened to Betsy. I made a strangled noise. It must have been louder than I’d realized, because heads turned.

“What is it?” Nadine whispered.

“Betsy?” I croaked.

Wallace put his phone down and reached for my hand. “I’m sorry, Emily. Immigration is coming for Betsy.”

***

Our breakfast abandoned, Wallace and I huddled in his pristine car and I called Jack. Tiny crystals pelted the windshield and roof of the car. Snow? It looked more like ice. I hated ice storms. I turned the heater to high.

Wallace said, “It won’t get any warmer until the engine warms up.”

I ignored him.

Jack’s voice spoke into my ear. “Jack Holden speaking.”

I touched “speaker” on my phone screen. “Jack, you’re on speaker with Wallace and me.”

“What’s up?”

“Wallace got a tip from a friend with Immigration that they’re coming for Betsy after Christmas.”

“Shit. I was afraid this would happen. She’s not a secret to the feds because of the kidnapping and trafficking case against Johnson.”

I couldn’t hold my anger and fear in, and I shouted. “Don’t they have enough criminals here illegally that they can leave one poor little girl alone?”

Wallace hit the steering wheel with one hand. “It’s ridiculous. She’s not a danger to anyone.”

Jack sighed. “They do cast the net pretty wide.”

My voice came out shrill. “We have to do something, Jack. We can’t let this happen.”

Wallace held a finger up. “I can spend the day Monday in the Mexican consulate. We may not know where she was born, but maybe I can find someone who is willing to help me search for birth records for her anyway.”

I shook my head. “But you don’t have a picture ID for her.”

“I’ll take her picture and a notarized letter from CPS attesting to her identity.”

“Will they accept that?”

“I don’t know, but it’s better than nothing.”

Jack’s voice broke in and out. “I’ll”—crackle, crackle—“Monday”—kercrackle—“birth”—cracklety-crackle—“enough.” Bad cell reception.

Wallace said, “Can you repeat that?”

Jack tried again. “I’ll go ahead and file for Special Immigrant Juvenile status on Monday as well. They’ll return it to us asking for her birth certificate, but maybe the fact that we’ve attempted to file will be enough to forestall federal custody.”

My voice broke. “But they could still take her, and then she’d be in prison, basically, waiting.” I took a deep breath. “I can’t let that happen. Maybe she just needs to run away. She might end up with a nice place to stay and then not get found until we’ve got this all sorted out.”

Wallace shot me a killer look. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t even hear you make that terrible joke.”

I averted my eyes.

“And on the subject of runaways while I have you together, I’m sorry to pass along more bad news, but we still haven’t found Greg or Farrah.”

I squirmed inwardly, but said, “Oh no.”

“Yeah, I wanted you both to know.” When neither of us spoke again, Wallace added, “Jack, anything else you need me doing in the meantime?”

“No. I think this is all we can do, Wallace.”

“Okay. Well, Merry Christmas, and thanks.”

“Yep, you, too. Emily, the weather’s supposed to keep getting worse. Dress warm tonight.” He ended the call.

Wallace smacked me in the shoulder. “Emily Bernal, what haven’t you told me about tonight?”

Worry about Betsy weighed me down, but a flicker of happiness still made it through. “Jack’s taking me to Christmas Eve services with him.”

“Shut the front door.”

“It’s not that big a deal.”

“The hell it’s not. This is a date. A bona fide D-A-T-E.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so.”

“Okay, then I need your help.”

“I’m glad you’ve finally realized that.”

I punched his arm. “I need an outfit that says ‘I’m the one,’ but in a Catholic-church-appropriate way. Any ideas?”

Wallace threw his head back and laughed.

“What?”

“Have you ever been to a Catholic church before?”

“Once.”

“How did they dress?”

“Normal, I guess.”

“There you go. Dress like you would normally, except wear a garter and fishnets underneath.”

“Wallace!” He had a point. Everyday lingerie wouldn’t do. I had a pair of lavender tap pants and matching bra that would work, just in case.

“You’re gorgeous. It will be fine.”

My phone rang. Expecting Jack, I hit accept. “Yes?”

“Hi, my name is Beth. Nadine from the Polo Club suggested I call for Emily?”

Beth. Beth who was having a problem with a bad cop. “Yes, this is Emily. I’m with Jack Holden of Williams and Associates. How can I help you?”

“I’m sorry to call over the holidays. I work with Nadine, and I’ve got a problem. She said you’ve had a similar one: a bad cop messing with you?”

“Yes, two of them, unfortunately.”

“Yeah, well, that’s my problem, too.”

“Would you like to get together?”

“If it’s not too much trouble for you.”

“Not at all. But I’m leaving town tomorrow. Can you get together today, say about noon?”

“Yes. Can I text you an address?”

“Sure.”

The call ended and seconds later a text came through:
This is Beth. 1000 Shasta, noon today. Thank you for meeting with me. I didn’t know where else to turn, and I’m scared to leave my house in case he sees me.

I replied:
See you then.

Wallace had unwrapped his present while I talked to Beth. He held up the gift certificate to Sun Adventure Sports, the store he favored for triathlon gear. “You’re a peach.”

“I feel like I’m contributing to the delinquency of a misogynist.”

“A what?”

“A misogynist. You know, a person who enjoys pain.”

Wallace groaned, laughing. “Masochist, Emily. Masochist. A misogynist is someone prejudiced against women.”

“Oh. Well. Yeah, masochist then. I’m contributing to the delinquency of a masochist.”

“Nah. I’m much more into—”

I stuck my fingers in my ears. “La la la la la la.”

***

I spent the rest of the morning with Mother decorating sugar cookies for her Sunday school classmates. She was blasting Christmas music through the house and singing along at the top of her lungs. I usually couldn’t resist joining her, but I was really preoccupied with worries about Betsy. If I dwelled on it too long, I started to think about the Freeman family, too, so I tried not to dwell. Tonight I had a date with Jack. No matter how grim things seemed, I couldn’t lose sight of that, and I certainly couldn’t let anything mess it up.

I squirted from a miniature tube of white icing to create snow on a Christmas tree. “You sure you’re going to be all right without me tonight and this weekend?”

“Why, of course. I’m so glad you and Jack are spending time together.”

I put the top on the tube and licked my fingers. I’d finished my last cookie. “I’m worried you’re going to be lonely.”

Mother didn’t look up from the cookies she was arranging in a red basket. “What, why would you say that?”

“Um, because I won’t be here.”

“Oh. Yes, well, I’ll be fine, dear.”

Mother wasn’t an unhappy person, per se—although she harbored some bitterness about how hard her life had turned out, especially in comparison to people she felt got more help than she did—but she was especially cheerful today. That was good, I guessed. Better than the alternative: making me feel guilty for deserting her over Christmas. It was the second time in a week, though, that she’d seemed much more jolly than usual.

I scrutinized her more closely. “Is that a new dress?”

“This?” She ran the back of her hand over a black suit-dress with a Peter Pan collar and gorgeous square black buttons. “Oh, well, hmm, I can’t remember if you’ve seen it before.” She giggled.

If I didn’t know better I’d suspect she’d been into the box wine, or had a boyfriend. Neither was plausible for her, though. I had planned to tell her about Betsy while we did the cookies, but I didn’t have the heart to weigh her down with something that heavy when she was in such high spirits. Besides, I needed to be optimistic about Betsy and positive in general. And optimistic meant that I had to plan for Betsy to remain in the U.S., and for me to adopt her. Which meant I needed to tell Mother I was moving out.