Dear Emily (5 page)

Emily was smart and got good
grades, but it hadn't been easy for her.
Amy watched her sister devote her life to academics in a
way Amy could never understand. Now, Amy reviewed and
recited as satisfaction seeped into her very being.
She was going to do well on the next exam.
Nothing could stop her from moving forward—not
when she'd finally gotten the hang of
things.

Jack would be returning from his run
soon. Running was a passion Amy
shared; however, Jack never invited her to join him, and she
never asked if she could go with him.

The amount of time they spent
together was disconcerting enough. They didn't need to
add exercising to the mix. Something told Amy;
Jack was the type that enjoyed exercising
alone. It was a sort of quiet meditation. She
assumed he felt this way
because it was how she felt.

Little by little, she'd been
compiling a list of their
similarities. It's not that she meant to string
the ideas together; it happened. Her brain happened in a
way where she thought about Jack... a lot.

Her phone rang, breaking her out of a
daydream wherein Jack doesn't wear a shirt while he runs. She
checked the caller ID. It was her mother.

“Hi, Mom.” Amy stood and paced the
length of the apartment before stopping in the kitchen. She played
with the magnets on the refrigerator
while mentally preparing herself for their weekly
call.

She'd been rehearsing.

“Hey baby girl, how's the studying
today?”

“It's great, Mom. I think my brain
grew two sizes this morning. I'm like the Grinch.”

“Like the what?” her mother asked,
sounding distracted.

“You know, the Grinch? His heart
grows two sizes, except it's my brain.”

“Oh, I think you should be focusing
more on school than television shows.”

“Right,” Amy said, rolling her eyes.
“What I mean to say is things are going well with
school.”

“Of course, they are. I wouldn't expect
anything less from you.”

Amy took a deep breath, still fiddling
with the corner of a pizza delivery magnet. “But I still
think it'd be best if I moved back home. Eventually,
I'll have to go away to medical school. I think
now, it would be best for me to be home with you and
Dad. And go to school there.”

Silence.

“Mom?”

“Sweetheart, don't you
think that's a little selfish?”

“See, Mom, I don't
follow that logic.”

Amy's head snapped up to the sound of
the front door lock click open as the deadbolt shifted. Jack walked
in—sweaty.

Shirt on.

“Your father had to pull a
lot of strings to get you into the school,
Amy.”

Amy started for her room, but Jack
arched his eyebrows, blocking the exit to the kitchen.
He could probably see her
distress plainly written on her face. She smiled
weakly.

“Amy?” her mother said.

“Right,
and maybe that was a
mistake? As in, maybe I shouldn't be here in
the first place.” Amy turned away from Jack and continued the
conversation while staring at the wall. “I have a
lot of... anxiety because I don't
always feel like I have a good handle...” she
took a deep breath. “On all of my classes.”

“Is that all? It's a matter of getting
some medication to deal with the anxiety.”

“But what if I want to go home?
What if I don't want to take any medication? Maybe I
wouldn't have this anxiety in the first place if
I were there.”

“Amy, it's not up for
discussion,” her mother said, ending the subject with a
finality that made Amy's feel like her heart was
twisting.

Amy paused and took a shaky breath.
She wasn't sure why she thought this talk would work in
the first place. It never did. “You're right, Mom. Give
Dad a kiss for me. I need to get back to studying,” Amy
said. Her voice was void of emotion.

“It's all about having the right
attitude, baby girl.”

“Yes, I need to have a good
attitude. Thanks, Mom.” Amy ended the call and stared down at the
phone because it was better than looking up at Jack
Harper.

He'd stepped away from the
threshold, and she walked past him, across the apartment, and into
the room. She closed the door behind her. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed,
she let herself acknowledge the words swirling in her mind for
months. The words in their singular form moved to construct the
sentence.

They don't want
me there.

Her phone chimed with a text from her
mother with a list of four psychiatrists in the area. “Why don't
you get it!” she yelled at her phone.

She stood, and the impulse began
somewhere in her legs, bubbled in her abdomen, reached her hands,
and it was explosive. She hurled the phone at the
wall with a crack and shatter. That felt so
good that she picked up the little, wooden chair and
threw it too. Next, a plastic cup, and the alarm
clock was torn from the wall socket.

Anything
she could get her hands on.

She sobbed, and ripped the comforter
off the bed, and then the pillows, and the sheets.
Anything to feel her muscles stretch,
to feel her fists clench.

And then Jack's
arms were around her, but she fought his embrace.
She hadn't heard him come into the room.
She hadn't heard him shout her name.

“Amy!” He said, pleading with her. Any
more of this and she was going to break something other
than the objects she'd hurled around the room.

The broken room,
he could deal with. A broken Amy,
he wasn't so sure.

“I want to hit something,” she sobbed.
The rage was physical and reverberated off her
body.

“Then hit me,” Jack
offered.

“No!” she cried, unable to calm
down.

He pulled her tighter to his chest, but
still she resisted. She stomped her feet and her fists
clenched and unclenched. He picked her up, with difficulty, and
took her to the bathroom. She sobbed uncontrollably. The
sounds coming out of her were more animal-like than
human.

“What...
the hell... are... you doing?” she screamed in
between sobs.

He pulled her down to the floor of the
bathtub with him and held her to his chest, making sure the
shower's spray landed on her face as he smoothed her hair
back.

“I got you,” he urged her, bringing her
as close to his body as he could.

Slowly, her shudders became muted and
far between. But she still cried.

“You're sneakers,” she said after a
while. “They're getting wet. They are wet.”

“They'll dry.”

“What if they get moldy?” she
sobbed again.

“I don't
think that's how it works,” he assured
her.

She started to shiver from her cold,
wet clothes.

They were too big for the
tub. Well, he was too big for the tub. She sat
between his thighs and his chin rested on the top of her head. His
arms lay across her chest, and her hands held his
forearms. She'd shifted her face into his chest, so the
water wasn't hitting her as much.

He never wanted to leave the bathtub,
which is why he knew they had to leave
the bathtub. He pulled her away from his body.
“Let's get out before you get sick.”

She nodded and stood, a final shudder
rippling through her body. He drew a towel around her shoulders and
took one for himself as well. She stole sidelong glances of him and
squeezed the water out of her hair. He, on the other hand, stared
right at her. He thought she'd calmed down,
but it was hard to say.

He stood as he removed his sneakers.
“I'm going to leave these here to dry. Okay?”

She nodded.

“You're not going to throw them around
or anything, right?”

She laughed first,
but then tears were streaming down her face
again.

“Too soon? Come on, don't cry.
I was kidding.”

“I know,” she said, exiting the
bathroom.

“Why don't you lie down for a little?”
he suggested, emerging from the bathroom behind
her.

To be honest, he thought he needed
to lie down for a little too. They surveyed the
damage in the room together. The phone and the alarm
clock were the only things broken. He'd buy his
roommate a new alarm clock.

“Jack...”

“Don't say it,” he
warned.

“Jack, I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize; rest.”

She nodded, and he left her room to
give her privacy.

The door closed with an audible thud
behind him. He hadn't wanted to leave her alone,
but it was the right thing to do. He wouldn't rest,
but would instead sit in the living room and think.

He fought the urge to blame himself.
He wasn't one hundred percent sure he had a
handle on the context of the phone call, but one
thing was clear: her family was not
well. He'd gone through enough therapy
to know and accept not everything was his
fault.

He resorted back to breathing exercises
and repeated to himself; not everything is your
fault. Everything can't be your fault. 

But what
he was feeling for Amy? Separate from everything
else, what he was starting to feel for her as a
person, as a singular person, completely unattached to
circumstance? Yes, entirely his fault.

And sooner or later, whether they
liked it or not, they were going
to have to face reality.

Dear Emily,
They had the best i
ntentions.
Chapter 5

Amy's replacement
phone was due to arrive in the next day, thanks to a
sizeable dent in her checking account. “That's life,” she told
herself. She didn't think about the mountain of debt
she was accumulating with tuition expenses or the lost
scholarship. She chose not to accept that failing a few
classes wasn't going to get her into pre-med
anytime soon.

After all, it was her
fault. She'd been the one unable to
adjust. She'd been the one to miss her classes and sleep
the days away.

Her school
difficulties were easy to forget. It was a
skill she worked at and honed. She put those worries in a neat,
little box in the back of her mind. What
mattered was she was there and
she was making it happen no matter what. The
school had graciously given her a second chance and
she was not going to fail this time around.

Other, more vicious thoughts weighed on
her, instead.

But she wouldn't mope around the
apartment. Oh no, she may have wanted to.
How nice would it be to stay in her pajamas all
day and eat ice cream straight out of the carton?

Instead, she did her hair, put on
makeup, painted her nails, and did a fair amount of school reading
for the next week.

The knock on the door at five
o'clock was a welcome diversion from a long day of
studying. A long day spent pushing unpleasant thoughts to the back
of her mind. She peeled herself off the couch, straightened her
clothes, and smoothed her hair down until
she felt presentable enough to open the door to
unexpected visitors.

Professor John Abbott was a
tall man of well over six feet. He was lean and wore
thick, horn-rimmed glasses. His wife, Sarah Abbott, was a
slim woman of average height. She wore a long, flowing skirt in a
kaleidoscope of earth tones and a billowy cream blouse hanging off
her shoulders.

Amy had met the Abbots on the
farm. They were good friends of the Jensens, and
Professor Abbott was Jack's Individual Study
supervisor.

Sarah Abbott was a beautiful
woman, a writer, and an adjunct professor at the college. She
didn't wear the usual rock of an engagement ring paired with a
feminine wedding band. Oh, no, Sarah Abbot wore only a thick, gold
wedding band rivaling the size of John Abbott's band. Whenever
Amy married, she'd want a
ring just like that.

“John, Sarah, come in,” Amy said,
ushering them into the apartment.

“We're not staying,” said
John.

Puzzled, Amy let the door swing wide
open. “Jack isn't here. I'm happy to see you,
though.”

“Terri said we should stop by to pick
you up on the way to the farm,” John offered.

“On the way to the farm for what?”
asked Amy.

“They're throwing Jack a surprise
birthday dinner. They didn't want you to be left out so here we are
to get you,” said Sarah. “I guess
Terri knew your phone wasn't working and she
didn't know any, other way to reach you other
than to send your own private chauffeurs.” She said this while
snapping to attention like a dutiful soldier completing a
mission.

“Oh, you're fine how you are,”
continued Sarah, misreading Amy's unease. “You don't need to change
or anything.”

Amy was sure she nodded
and had hopefully said something polite. In a light
daze, she retrieved her purse and the key to the apartment. She
took one last look at the doormat, knowing
this was a terrible idea. She locked up and followed the
couple down the stairs and to their waiting sedan.