Emily For Real (11 page)

When I hear Dad's car, I run downstairs. Aunt Em is sitting at the kitchen table as Dad comes in. Mom's behind him.

For a second, we're all frozen in place.

“What's the matter?” Mom looks at me and then at Aunt Em. “I want you to tell me what's the matter,” she says.

“She said you're not my mother!”

But I already know the truth from the look on Mom's face.

Eleven

“Why?” Mom hasn't moved.

“It wasn't right that she didn't know.”

“We're her parents, Emma. It was up to us whether to tell her. It was not up to you! Behind our backs!”

“Wait,” says Dad. “Wait. Let's keep calm.”

“Emily,” says Mom softly.

I don't know what to do.

“Here, Winnie. Give me your coat,” says Dad. “Sit down. Everyone sit down.”

Mom comes over and holds me. I close my eyes and try to breathe.

“Please,” says Dad, “let's all just sit down together and talk this through.”

“When we adopted Emily, there was absolutely no mention of ever telling her.” Mom's voice sounds so tight.

“Or of not telling her.”

When we
adopted Emily
. I can't breathe.

“Hold on,” says Dad very patiently. “I said we need to talk. Not argue. In my mind, it's Emily we should be listening to right now.”

We sit together at the kitchen table like we've done a hundred thousand times before.

They all look at me.

“Nothing's the same,” I say. “It's too confusing. I'm scared.”

“There's nothing for you to be afraid of,” Dad says.

“She told me she went to a clinic.”

“Oh, God,” says Mom.

“Let her talk,” says Dad. “Please.”

“So no one actually knows who my father is.” I don't look at Dad right now.

“That isn't true,” says Aunt Em. “We know a lot about your father. The screening is very thorough. It is not a casual process. You'll be able to learn as much about him as we know.”

“Like what?”

“What he likes to do in his spare time. His hair color. His eyes. What he studied at university. Lots of things.”

“But not his name,” I say.

Mom stands up. “I want you to leave our house, Emma.”

“Winnie—”

“I mean it, Gerry. We need to be alone now. As a family.”

“Emma is part of this family,” says Dad.

“After what she's done to Emily? To us? No.”

“It's okay, Gerry. I'll go.”

“That won't solve anything.”

“It'll give everyone time to think.”

“Think?” Mom's really mad now. She stands up and says, “How much thinking did you do before you came here and upset Emily, telling her things she didn't need to know!”

“She did need to know, Winnie. What were we going to do? Keep up a façade until some stranger comes along after we're dead and tells her that what she thought was true all her life isn't? Is that what you want for her?”

The kitchen gets suddenly quiet. I know we're all thinking about Granddad. And Cynthia Maxwell and Dana.

Tears start running down Mom's face and Dad gets up and puts his arms around her.

“I'm sorry, Winnie,” says Aunt Em. “I couldn't let that happen to my daughter.” She looks at me. “It would hurt you too much, Emily. Even more than it may be hurting you now. At least you still have us to help you understand.”

When we hear the front door shut, Mom comes over and holds me in a very tight hug. I feel her tears on my forehead. This makes me even more afraid. I won't let myself cry. I take a deep breath and hold it for a few seconds before I let it out without making a sound. I know Mom can feel my breath move through my body. She doesn't say anything, but I can feel her head turn toward Dad. I know the hurt look that's on her face, even though I can't see it.

Then I say, “I'm going upstairs.”

“Emily—”

“I'm not even dressed yet,” I say, like a kind of excuse.

When I'm in the shower, I just stand there for a long time, letting water run down my face.

On the way back to my room, I hear the sound of Mom and Dad talking in their bedroom. The door's closed, so I can't hear what they're saying. Most of it's Mom's voice, but here and there Dad says a few quiet words.

Mom and Dad
.

I'm sitting on my bed, brushing and brushing my hair, when I hear Dad outside my door. “Emily.”

The door opens.

“Mind if I come in?”

I shrug my shoulders because I know I'm going to cry. Dad. My Dad. My perfect and calm and wonderful Dad.

“Don't cry, Emily. There's no reason for those tears.”

“Everything's changed.”

“I'm still Dad. Mom's still Mom. That's the way it's always been and that's the way it always will be.” He sits beside me, his shoulders slumped and his eyes trying to fake not being sad.

He's got papers in his hand.

“I want you to see these, Emily. These are your adoption papers. And this is an agreement all of us signed not long after Emma told us you were on the way. You need to know without any doubt whatsoever that we agreed to be your family before you were even born. And we've loved you since before you were born. I don't want you to be confused or afraid.”

I look down at the papers but I don't pick them up.

“Where's Mom?”

“She's resting.”

“Will she be mad if I see these?”

“No. We've talked about it.”

“I don't know if I want to see them.”

“Then I'll leave them here. You can decide later.” He gets up, puts the papers on my desk, and leaves.

When I go downstairs, Mom's still in their bedroom and I can hear Dad out in his shed, sawing something. I know it's not fair, but I leave the house without saying anything to them.

The air smells like rain. I stuff my hands in my pockets and then I think about Leo's anger rock because it's not in my pocket anymore.

I can't get my head around everything.

In my mind I can see all of us this morning. Mom crying. She never cries. Dad with that look when he gave me the adoption papers.

I can picture us a zillion years ago when things were normal. Mom's putting maybe macaroni and cheese on everyone's plate, and she's smiling at Dad and Aunt Em because they're laughing about something.

And it's in the same kitchen where we were today, with Mom telling Aunt Em to leave and Dad saying she's part of our family. And Aunt Em saying, “My daughter.”

Aunt Em. It's like she doesn't exist anymore.

What I don't get is if they all talked about the adoption and signed those papers, then why didn't they figure out that I wouldn't be a baby forever and someday I'd somehow find out? They should've told me when I was maybe six or seven. What would've been wrong with that? Little kids get used to whatever they need to get used to because everything in life is new. It's no big deal. Not like being seventeen. It makes me mad.

The more I think about this, the madder I get.

And how much did Granddad know, anyway? He'd have to be blind not to see his own daughter was pregnant. I can picture the expression on his face when the obvious became obvious. As if he had any right to be self-righteous. Now that I think of it, all this probably explains why he never much liked being a grandfather. I'd be this constant reminder of all the brutal details.

I turn up Leo's street and head toward his apartment building. I go in and ring the buzzer, hoping he's back from Jane's by now.

“Yeah?” It's Leo's voice.

“It's Emily,” I say.

He doesn't say anything.

I'm thinking I should go.

Then I see him walking down the stairs. He opens the door. “What's up with this?”
This
meaning me, interfering in his life and showing up when I'm not invited.

I start to cry and I know Leo won't get why I'm crying, but I can't stop. “This has nothing to do with you,” I manage to say.

“Good,” he says. Then he sighs this big sigh. “Look, I need to get the packing done.”

I picture bureau drawers open and boxes on the floor. I wipe my eyes. “You shouldn't have to do all that packing by yourself.”

“Jane and Dan are coming later.”

“Can I come in for a minute?” Then I say, “I need to use the bathroom.”

He looks at me like he doesn't believe me.

“Really,” I say.

“Okay.”

I pour cold water into the bathroom sink and splash my eyes. They're still red but I can't do anything about that. I look around. There's a little toothbrush with a zebra head. Caroline's. There's an electric razor and a blow dryer plugged in. For some odd reason there's a guitar pick stuck in a hairbrush. And there's face cream and earrings and hairspray and a miniature jade bird and perfume and a plant that needs to be watered and soap shaped like roses that no one's used.

I go into the kitchen where Leo's emptying out a cupboard. “I could pack up what's in the bathroom. I won't get in your way.”

He looks like he doesn't have enough energy to even stand there.

“Just for half an hour,” I say. “Here. I'll take these two boxes and fill them.”

“Wait.” He picks up a garbage bag and says, “Some stuff should go in here.”

Towels and facecloths and sheets and pillowcases from a narrow closet next to the bathtub almost fill the two boxes. A lot of stuff by the sink and in the cupboard underneath I just dump in the garbage bag. But I carefully wrap the jade bird in some tissue and tuck it in with the towels.

Then I water the plant.

“Okay,” I say. “Bathroom's finished.”

“Thanks.” Leo looks amazingly tired.

My stomach's hurting from being so empty. There's a box of crackers on the counter so I reach in and grab a few. They're a bit stale. “Guess my half-hour's up,” I say.

Leo's wrapping knives and forks in newspaper and putting them into a box.

“Or I could keep packing stuff.”

He doesn't look at me. “Sure. Okay.”

“Where?”

“How about Caroline's room?”

I pick up more boxes. “What if I write on these? You know, clothes, toys, books…”

“Yeah.”

It's way easier packing up Caroline's room because I can picture her unpacking and feeling pretty happy to see her stuff again.

I'm dragging the box of toys out to the hallway when I realize that Leo's standing there, leaning against the wall. He's crying. Just letting tears slide down his face and fall on the front of his sweater. Across from him, the door of his mother's bedroom is open.

“When Jane comes, she'll pack everything in there,” I say. I get some tissue from the bathroom and give it to him.

He wipes his eyes and face but tears just keep on coming.

I don't know what to say. I lean against the wall beside him and close my eyes. He's making small swallowing sounds and very quiet sniffing sounds. All this gives me a real helpless feeling. Deep and sad and helpless.

After a few minutes, he walks back toward the kitchen.

I follow him.

He pours a glass of water and drinks it without turning around. “I threw that rock away.”

“You did?”

“I was waiting for a ride in the middle of nowhere and I took it out of my pocket and threw it in the woods as far as I could. I heard it crack into a tree.”

“And now you're not mad?”

“Being mad's useless. It won't change anything.” He picks up a box, opens another drawer, and starts packing again.

“I'm glad you threw it away,” I say.

“Yeah.”

I watch him put a cheese grater and a can opener and a frying pan into the box. I'm wondering where he'll be when these boxes get unpacked. I'm wondering if his mother'll be there with him and Caroline. “I probably should go.”

“Yeah.”

“Want me to take any garbage bags out?”

“Sure. Okay. There's a bin around back.”

I get the bag from the bathroom and pick up another one beside the kitchen door. They're stuffed but not real heavy.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” I start clunking down the stairs. Then it hits me. “You won't be going to school tomorrow.”

“Not till after Christmas.”

“But I mean, you won't be at our school anymore.”
You won't be on the bus. You won't be in class. You won't be around the next time Brian shows up, and what if I panic all over again? And what about Sam?
“Will you still be seeing Sam?”

“Sure. I'm not moving to Mars.”