Working Girl (32 page)

With her hands free, she leans forward and wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me close to her body. I press my lips to her cheek, attempting to steady my breathing. Her skin is slick with sweat and tears and I pull her closer; desperately wanting to take away the pain. As her body shakes in my arms I kiss her shoulder, hoping that I can start calming her down.

Yelling fills the room, and with a loud thunder I’m yanked from her arms. My body jerks unnaturally and I cry out as my back strikes the floor, a searing pain shooting up the length of my spine. I hear Presley’s screams as I feel the weight of Dad’s body on top of mine. My hands tighten their grip on the butt of the gun, but Dad fights against me, attempting to take it from me.

“Dad, let it go!” I plead.

Ignoring me, Dad grunts and throws a punch. When his fist connects with my face the pain rips through me like fire, and I move my jaw back and forth trying to ease the burn.

“I can’t let you throw your life away!” he screams before grabbing me by the shoulders and slamming my back against the floor again. My head falls back and the thud resounds through my brain. I groan, the pain hammering through my head.

We continue to scuffle and, somehow, I manage to keep my hands on the gun. Still clutching it tightly, the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson run through my head. Words that now make so much sense.

“While thus to love he gave his days

In loyal worship, scorning praise,

How spread their lures for him in vain

Thieving Ambition and paltering gain!

He thought it happier to be dead,

To die for Beauty, than live for bread.”

Fatigue begins to take hold of my muscles, exhausted from our unrelenting wrestling, and I know what has to happen. Dad won’t let this end, and I can’t make this any better. I beg him to let it go again but he doesn’t hear me. Instead, he just continues to pull against the gun. He wants control so that he can kill Presley, and I can’t let that happen. My fingers tighten around the gun just as I hear the loud bang.

The gun shot fires and my ears ring. Confused and unsure of what has actually happened, I wait for the pain to hit . . .

But it never comes.

As if happening in slow motion, it feels like minutes before I feel the weight of my father pressing down onto me. Defeated and let down, I push him away, and he falls next to me with a loud thud. Scrambling to my knees, I look down.

Every emotion I should be feeling escapes through my open mouth as I look at my own father, lying in a river of his own blood. As strange as it may sound, I’m thankful for the shock keeping me numb as I assess the scene. The heavy metal sitting in my hand burns the skin of my palm. In the movies you always see the killer drop the gun. It always looks so clean and clear cut. They don’t show you the imprints on the hand where the gun has kicked back. The gun always falls to the floor with ease, creating a thud that reverberates through the screen. But my hand is clamped around the butt, frozen in place. Sometimes, for effect, the scene is black and white, but all I see is color. Especially the red that pools around my dad’s body.

I hear movement next to me and, suddenly, the weight of the gun in my hand is too much. I shake it lose, forcing my muscles to relax so it can finally fall to the floor; the sound of metal echoing through the room.

At least the movies got that part right.

She buries her face into my neck but I don’t move. “I killed him. I killed my father,” I say quietly.

The words fall from my lips as I struggle to believe them. Guilt has numbed me. I continue to speak. “He was sick, Presley. Schizophrenic. He had good days, manic days . . . but he didn’t deserve this.”

She pulls me close again and rubs my head. “It was an accident, Emerson. I love you,” she breathes into my ear.

I nod, a tear breaking free from my eye, and I whisper, “I know.”

“We’re going to make it through this,” she says, looking deep into my eyes.

I nod again. “Only the strong survive, right?”

“It doesn’t get any stronger than this.”

WE STAY LIKE THAT
—on the floor, clutching each other like our lives depend on it—for what seems like hours. I guess in a way, our lives do depend on these moments. Our future, our past, our present; they all collide here. Shaping our lives in the process.

The shock has us frozen now, neither of us able to think coherently. But little by little, as time passes us, the fog begins to dissipate.

“Emerson,” I whisper into the darkness, “we need to call somebody.”

“I killed him,” he mumbles. “I killed my own father.”

“He was going to kill me.” I need him more than ever now, and I’m afraid that all of this is going to tear us apart. That the universe is going to let my world crumble around me.

“I know,” he replies flatly.

“I’m so sorry, Emerson. I tried to tell you I’d ruin everything.” With the numbness wearing off, my emotions begin to control me. Unable to overcome the guilt, my heart thunders in my chest and the tears start to stream from my eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

He lifts his eyes to meet mine and I can see the tears that have stained his face and my heart breaks. I should have tried harder to push him away; to keep him safe. That would have been the best way to show my love for him. But instead I’d been greedy: allowing him to get too close, letting him touch my soul, allowing him to hold onto me just before detonation, destroying everything around him in the process.

With a weakness that scares me, he drops his arms and I brace myself for the heartache that is surely coming. He finally sees it now; he understands what I’ve been trying to tell him all along. Big Earl was right: I am a parasite. Before he died he made sure his son knew that I’d only continue to bring sadness and troubles.

Slowly, Emerson lifts his hand, and for a brief moment I think he may slap me. I wouldn’t blame him if he did, but instead he cups my swollen cheek. “Presley,” he starts quietly, “my dad was sick. He wasn’t the man I thought he was. I always loved him—much like you loved your mother, probably. Sometimes, though, love isn’t enough. Sometimes the demons win. I see that now. But you’ve got to understand . . . I choose you. I always will.”

“But your Mom, your family,” I argue, knowing I’m underserving.

“I’ll make them understand. It’ll take time, but eventually they’ll see. They’ll see that not only are you beautiful on the outside, but that your beauty within matches. They’ll see that if any life is worth saving it’s yours. What my father did”—he pauses, choking on his words—“what he did is unforgivable. He lived a lie, and I’ll never be able to forget that he almost took you from me. And I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you.”

Without another word, he pulls out his cell phone and I can faintly hear him describe our situation, but the beating of my heart drowns out most of his words.

It’s a matter of minutes before we hear the sirens and the warehouse becomes a flurry of activity. Emerson and I are separated as the police officers gather our statements. I’ve read a few murder mysteries so I know that they do that in order to make sure the witnesses’ stories match. Chrissy walks into the building with the police officers and I run to her, wrapping my arms tightly around her neck. “How’d you get here?” I ask.

“I called the cops as soon as that asshole left. I knew he had you and I’ve been at the station ever since. They got the call and I insisted they bring me along.”

I place my hands on the sides of her face and lean back, taking her in. Her face is bruised and bloodied. “He got to you,” I choke out.

She nods, tears sliding down her face.

I move back to hugging her tightly and she buries her face into my neck as her body shakes. “I’m so sorry, Chris.”

“It happened so fast,” she says without breaking our embrace. “You had barely been gone five minutes when the door flew open. He came in with a purpose. I was so scared.”

“Are you okay?” I ask without really thinking. It’s a stupid question and I don’t know what I expect to get for an answer.

I can feel her head shaking. “No, I’m not. I’m bleeding.”

I move my hands to her shoulder and push back so that I can see her face. The tears are sliding down her cheeks faster now. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m bleeding. They haven’t taken me to the hospital yet, because I insisted on coming here first, but the paramedics are pretty sure I’m miscarrying, especially since he left a bruise on my belly.”

“Oh, Chrissy . . .”

She shrugs. “It’s not like I was going to keep it anyway.”

Looking at her I can tell she’s trying to be casual about the whole thing and part of me wonders if she was more attached to the idea of pregnancy than she let on. Our moment is cut short as Emerson rejoins us after his questioning. I look to him, then back at Chrissy who forces a smile. “Go to him, he needs you more.”

I wrap my arms tightly around his neck, breathing in the scent of him. “I’m never letting go,” I whisper in his ear.

He nods and I know he’s still in shock, unable to find words to respond, but he manages to wrap his arms tighter around my waist. Turning my head slightly, I rest it on his shoulder just in time to see his mom standing in the doorway, blocked off by police tape. “Emerson,” I whisper, “your mom is here.”

His arms loosen and I let go of him. He looks down at me with sadness and I slide my hand in his.

“Want me to come with you?” I ask, hopeful.

“No,” he shakes his head. “I need to do this on my own.”

I nod and look down at my feet. I don’t want to feel slighted, but I do. Until I feel his hand lifting my chin up forcing my eyes to meet his. “I love you, Presley. But I need to talk to Mom first. To make her understand. To explain it the best I can.”

“Okay. Just promise to come back to me.”

He drops my hand and sighs. “Always,” he says, forcing a smile before turning on his heel and walking towards his mom.

I look on as he talks with her, and I can guess at what parts of the story he is telling her based on the expressions on her face. Once he hits the end, her legs give out but Emerson catches her. Wrapping his arms around her, he slides to the floor in order to comfort her. Her cries reverberate off the walls of the warehouse and a single tear slides down my face.

And I cry for them.

For myself.

For the lives that have been lost.

And for the damage that cannot be undone.

But from this point, I will move forward. I have to. I don’t only owe it to myself.

I owe it to all of them.