The Rise of Emery James (3 page)

"I'm not going to let her talk to you like that," he growls. He turns his attention to Gabe's mother and takes a step towards her. "Emery is his wife. She has every right to be here and every right to plan his funeral. I won't stand here and have you disrespect her. I don't care who you are."

Patricia narrows her eyes at him, giving him a slight once over before filing him away into the same category that she placed me in years ago. "And you are?" she spits the words like she is speaking to one of her staff.

"Emery is my daughter."

Patricia nods once then turns back to the coordinator, completely ignoring us both. "Like I was saying before, we're going to need to start over. My husband will be here in a few moments. Do have any mahogany? Is that the highest quality that you have? I only want the best for my son." I tune her out as she rattles on.

I stand and pull at my dad's arm. "Let's go, Daddy." He looks at me, shocked.

"Emery, we don't have to leave. You have every right to be here," he argues.

I shake my head. "It's fine. Let her plan. It’s only details. Let's just go back to the house." He hesitates not wanting to give in, clearly ready to fight his way back in and go against Patricia at every step, but I've been around this family enough to know that it's not worth the effort.

We walk back out to the car and as I climb into the passenger seat I can tell that he's still uncomfortable with leaving. "Em, I don't understand."

I shrug, "Everything with the Forrester family is a performance or an event. I can't imagine a funeral would be any different. Let them make it what they want. It won’t change anything."

"But the way that she talked to you," he presses.

"I never really fit in with them. You know me. I’m just a country girl," I say, trying to muster up a small smile to ease his worry. I hear him let out a controlled sigh and I know he's trying his best not to let loose of the anger that Patricia set off. "It's fine. Don't worry about any of it. It doesn't matter," I assure him.

"It matters to me, Emery. I don't want anyone treating my little girl that way," he says simply. I feel the tears prick my eyes and I bite down on the inside of my lip trying to keep it all together. We sit in silence for a moment and he makes no move to start the car.

"I wish you had talked to me about it. I wish you had come to me. It had to be lonely up here surrounded by people like that," he says.

I feel the guilt squeeze my heart and I look over to him, his eyes sad and tired. My vision blurs with my tears because I can't tap down the amount of regret I have for how I've treated him. I’ve been selfish and it sits so heavy on my chest that I can barely breathe. "I didn't know how," I admit. "Not after everything that happened. Not after the way I left you alone and never came back."

"Oh, Emery. I love you. There is nothing in the world that can change that. I will always be here for you. Always."

"Thanks, Daddy," I manage. He reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze before finally starting the car.

THE NEXT FEW DAYS
are a blur. I stay so busy that I barely have time to think. David and Patricia manage to keep me in the loop, although they never show much warmth.

The funeral is elegant and perfectly arranged. But it feels cold and impersonal. Honestly, I tune out the chatter and use the time to filter through my own memories of Gabe. Memories of our life together. The good and the bad.

I try to focus on the times when we were happy. He deserves that today.

People say nice things to me as they parade down the aisle to offer condolences. But it is all horribly generic and it makes me sad to think that this is his send off. It doesn’t feel right.

Surprisingly, Patricia manages to shed a few tears, strategically into her designer handkerchief. I know she’s sad. Probably even devastated. Her son is gone. Still, she’s a wasp. And just as she’s reminded me countless times before, emotion is for the weak. The poor. So I may never know for sure.

I’m looking forward to not having to deal with her again. And now that the funeral is over, I just want to take some time to process everything. I haven't had a chance to do that yet. It doesn’t feel real. It's been too chaotic to feel real. It's been a saving grace until now, but I know I'm going to need to face it. All of it.

Dad and I sit on the back deck lost in our own thoughts. He's been here for nearly a week now. I know he needs to get back soon. His construction business is going to need him. And I need to get back to normal. Or whatever normal is now.

As if reading my thoughts, he speaks up. "Emery, have you thought about what you are going to do next?" he asks carefully.

My eyes find his as I consider his question. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you moved up here to be with Gabe. You don't have a job or any ties here really. I guess I'm just wondering if you plan on staying," he asks carefully.

I hadn't gotten that far, but now that he's pointed out the obvious I feel a slight panic start to take over. I
don't
have anything here. All I had was Gabe and I didn't even have much of him. What am I going to do? Stay in this giant, empty house? I have nothing. I don’t even like Connecticut. A complete hollowness overtakes me in an instant at the realization that I’m alone. Dad must see it because he leaves his seat and comes to me, kneeling in front of my chair.

"You don't have to stay here, Emery. You can start over. No one expects you to stay," he says.

I look up at him, questioning him with fearful eyes. I've been hiding again. Hiding from the truth of what's happening and now it’s all crashing down on me.

"The house,” I say weakly. “I have the house and all of this stuff. I -- I can't just leave." He takes my hands in his and runs his fingers across the tops of them. The familiar roughness brings me comfort instantly and my breathing returns to normal.

"Look at me," he says and I focus my eyes on his, on the kindness there, on the one man I know I can trust with my whole heart. He gives me a reassuring smile and squeezes my hands. "Emery, it's time to come home."

Emery

IT TOOK ME THREE
weeks to pack up my life in Connecticut. Three weeks to shove it all into boxes like it never happened.

I don’t remember any of it.

I’ve barely spoken a word unless it’s to arrange this move or reassure my father that I’m not going to change my mind. Everything feels like it is on pause.

It feels like I'm drifting.

In a few days I’ll be back in Oklahoma. I haven’t been back in six years. I never meant to stay away this long, but one bad decision followed by another left me too afraid to face what waited for me back home. It was easier to move forward and try and build something new. I left my father, my friends, Cole – everything that ever mattered to me and I wandered so far that I couldn’t figure out how to go back.

There is a reason they say you can’t go home again, and this unease in the pit of my stomach has to be it.

But there’s nothing left for me here.

My husband is dead. I have to keep reminding myself, because it doesn’t feel real. I keep waiting for him to walk through the front door and start yelling because all of his stuff has been packed away.

But he’s not coming back. He’s gone. I’m not sure my heart believes it yet, because it hasn’t broken completely. It’s still beating and I’ve yet to fall into a spiral of despair. I can’t really feel anything.

I don’t know if I remember how.

I feel like a fraud.

The quiet of this giant house is too much. It’s full of too many memories. It’s haunted by hope and disappointment. I try and remember Gabe as he was when we first moved in, back when we were happy and hopeful. He surprised me with this house right after we were married. He was so excited and because he was, I never told him it didn’t feel like home. We ran around the big empty rooms and planned our future together. We made love on the floor of the bedroom and not once did it register that I was content to live his dream instead of my own.

Not once did I realize I was slowly giving up me.

It’s funny how clear things become once you stop running and the delicate balance of your life has crashed to the ground. You can’t hide the truth when it falls from the carefully crafted boxes that you tucked it into.

My truth is scattered around me in sharp, jagged pieces and there is no way to put them back in their convenient hiding places. I can’t run from this. My go-to plan for avoiding pain has come to a screeching halt.

I am lost. Broken. Numb.

How did I get here? How did I let this become my life? I just buried a husband that felt more like a stranger than he did a partner and now I’m going back home to a father that I abandoned six years ago when life got too hard for me to handle.

I don’t even recognize myself anymore.

It scares me.

I’m terrified to face what’s next.

Terrified to do it alone.

Normally, a road trip would mean blasting playlists and singing at the top of my lungs. But like everything else in my life lately, this trip is completely different. I drive in silence with only the sound of the tires on the pavement and the wind zipping through the sunroof.

I don’t think. I don’t dwell. I only drive.

The space I’ve made for myself, this void, has become my haven. Right now, I just want the quiet of ignorance. I don’t want to feel. I’m not ready for the repercussions.

I’ve never been a big believer in the truth shall set you free. Instead, I like to find a new truth and let the painful ones stay firmly planted in the past.

As I pull into Darling, Oklahoma, I feel a swarm of butterflies take flight in my stomach. Coming home shouldn’t be this scary. This is the place that knows me best. It’s a part of me. But I’ve been gone so long that I can’t help but feel like I’ve given up my right to be here.

Everything looks exactly the same. There’s an extra stoplight and a brand new grocery store, but for the most part it is exactly as it was when I left. I wish I could say the same about myself.

The smile that tugs at my lips surprises me as I pull into the driveway of the old farm house that dad found for me. I know this house. I remember it from when I was a kid. It’s nothing fancy, just a plain white two story house with a picket fence that surrounds the front lawn and wide stairs in need of repair leading up to the porch. But it is a house straight out of my memory and it tugs at my heart.

When I was a little girl my mom and I would pass this house every day as we walked to school. I would always say that when I grew up I wanted a house just like it, with a porch that wrapped around the front and a porch swing where I could watch people pass by while I drank sweet tea and ate sugar cookies. That had been my idea of a perfect life.

I swallow hard, thinking of the imperfect path that has led me back to this house. Back to the dreams of my childhood.

I shut off the ignition and sit staring ahead, feeling the sudden prick of tears at my eyelids. There is something about being back here that has my heart racing. My emotional dam feels like it is in serious danger of breaking all around me. I fight the tears back, take a deep breath and head inside.