Emily For Real (14 page)

When I get halfway up our street, I realize there are no lights on in our house. Something's wrong. Even if they canceled out on dinner, Mom and Dad would still be home, wondering where I was. If they tried calling me, my cell's off. I probably shouldn't keep doing that.

I hurry inside.

The message light on the kitchen phone is blinking. “You have one new message. Message one—”

“Emily, it's Dad. I suppose you know your cellphone's not on. Your mom and I are at the nursing home with Meredith. She had a bit of a fall, but she'll be fine. Let's see…it's almost six now. We shouldn't be too late. I called Emma and Dana to cancel dinner plans. You make yourself something to eat.”

There's a pot on the stove with uncooked potatoes chopped up in small squares. A couple of onions are on the cutting board beside a knife. Mom must've been making chowder. I check in the fridge and there's the haddock and scallops.

I pour a glass of milk and eat an apple.

I decide to make the chowder. They might be hungry when they get home. A peace offering. I'm adding the cream when a car comes up our driveway and stops near the back door. Mom and Dad.

But it isn't Mom and Dad.

I turn away from the door. It'd be stupid to take off upstairs so I don't, even though I want to with all my might.

“Emily. We need to talk.”

“I don't want to.”

“You have no choice. I'm not trying to be unkind, but there are things to face in life and this is one of them. You're not a child.”

I can hear her pulling out a chair.

“Come sit down.”

I turn around and look at her. I think of saying I don't want to talk about how she's my mother. I already have a mother. But I don't say anything. I sit down.

She pushes an envelope across the table toward me. It's a small envelope. Creamy colored and plain. There's no name on it.

“I want you to read this, Emily. While I'm here with you.”

I feel sort of sick to my stomach about whatever's in this envelope. Like, if there's more stuff I don't know about, I won't be able to stand it. I tear carefully down the side of the envelope and open it. Inside there are three sheets of creamy colored paper, folded once.

My face is burning hot even before I start to read.

To my child,

Today your beginnings have been confirmed. You're on your way. I am going to be a mother. And I'm the happiest I've been for as long as I can remember.

You and I are in this together. Alone and together. For at least a while I can selfishly call you my own.

When it's time, Gerry and Winnie will know. And when you are born, they will be your mom and dad. And I will become your aunt.

All this will no longer be a secret when you finally read my letter.

How strange to be writing to you. The grown-up you. The you who will be confused by the choice I've made. The choices. How will you react? What will you think of me? If you're a boy, or if you're a girl…will it be any different?

Here's what you need to know. I love you intensely. I love you unconditionally. I simply and purely love you.

You won't fully understand, but I need to try to explain. With twins, it's a different world. Twins are together before they even breathe. That togetherness never changes. It's there in a way that probably only twins understand, and it's possible that we don't understand it completely. Gerry and I are separate individuals in lots and lots of ways. But we exist together. We can't help it. We share our lives like it's one life.

If you can grasp even some of this, you will know why I am pregnant now and why, when you are born, you will become Gerry and Winnie's child. Not a replacement for their stillborn baby. Never that. But you will be a great joy in their lives.

And always, always, always in mine.

Somewhere deep inside, a very, very tight feeling grabs me and moves through my whole body. A sob bursts out and I keep sobbing and sobbing. She holds me and rocks me, and says, “I know. I know. Shhhh,” over and over again.

It's a long time before I can make myself calm down. I take the hankie she gives me and I blow my nose.

“It's good to cry,” she says.

My eyes are puffed up and I feel numb. I'm making these small whimpering sounds but I can't help it. “Did anyone else read that letter?”

“No one. I sealed it the day I wrote it. It was meant only for you.”

“I'm too confused.”

“Of course you are.”

“I hate this.”

“It won't be like this forever.”

We're quiet for a few seconds.

Then she says, “Winnie and I had a chance to talk today. I left work and came over when I knew she'd be alone.”

I kind of brace myself.

“At first I talked a lot about Gerry and me. She knows how much we love Meredith. She has witnessed that love ever since she met us. I wanted her to think about how it's the same way you feel about her.” A big sigh drifts up through her body and then quietly and slowly drifts out.

Everything's too extremely sad sad sad. The little stillborn baby who had no name to put on the headstone. Me growing secretly inside Dad's twin sister and with no actual father.
Alone and together
.

I lean back and blow my nose. I'm still not looking at her.

She goes to the stove and takes the cover off the chowder. “Winnie said she was making chowder. I didn't think she had time to finish it.”

“I made it.”

“Let's have some.” She gets two bowls out of the cupboard and two spoons.

“Dad gave me the adoption papers.”

“He told me.” She fills the bowls with chowder.

“I didn't read them.”

“Just a bunch of legalese,” she says and sort of laughs.

She puts the bowls and spoons on the table.

I pick up the letter, fold it, and tuck it back in the envelope.

She sits down across from me. “Mm. Not bad,” she says when she tastes my chowder.

I know we're on thin ice right now. One wrong move and things'll crack all around us. Which makes me think of how I waved that tiny wave at Mom when she was on the bus, and how she smiled that tiny smile back at me. Thin ice. I can hardly stand it.

After she leaves, I go up to my room and put the envelope in my desk. I take the adoption papers downstairs and put them on the coffee table in the living room.

It's not long before car lights come up the driveway and, for sure this time it's Mom and Dad.

“Something smells good in here,” says Dad.

“Oh! You made the chowder, Emily!” She gives me this big surprised smile, which makes me feel really good.

“Is Meredith doing okay?”

“She'll be fine after a good night's sleep,” says Dad, taking Mom's coat.

“Let's have some chowder, Gerry.”

“I'll get it,” I say.

Dad takes the coats to the hall closet and Mom starts washing her hands. “Emma was here,” she says.

I'm not sure if she says this because of seeing the two bowls in the sink, or if she already knew, anyway.

“Yeah.”

“How did that go?”

“I dunno. Okay, I guess.”

“Hm.”

I can tell she's deciding to leave things alone for now.

Dad comes back to the kitchen and catches onto the cautious atmosphere. Then he puts on a grin and says, “This chowder is just what the doctor ordered.”

I sit at the table with them and listen to the exaggerated sounds they make about how perfect my chowder is.

Fourteen

I made a family album. A real one, with everyone being exactly who they are.

Mom gave me two half-filled albums and a shoebox full of photographs. “Take all you want. I meant to organize those myself,” she said.

I didn't tell her why I was making this album. It'll be obvious.

When I was almost finished, I realized I needed a picture of Dana and Myra. So I emailed and asked them to send one of when they were in Paris on their honeymoon. At first I didn't ask for a picture of Cynthia Maxwell because it's not like she's family. Then I got thinking about it some more and decided, why not? If she's Dana's mother and Dana's my aunt, then we somehow have to be related, in a tangled-up sort of way.

***

I open the album and hold it so Meredith can see.

She leans forward to take a closer look. I fix the pillow behind her so she's more comfortable in her cozy chair. She looks up at me, pauses for a second, and then smiles this little smile.

I know she won't remember anyone in this album, so I start to fill her in.

“This is Rita. She was my grandmother before you. She died in a car accident.”

Meredith shakes her head sadly.

“That was a long time ago,” I say, in case she's confused and thinks I'm telling her about a car accident that just happened.

“And this is you and Granddad. Karl. It's when you got married. Look at your flowers. Pink carnations. Aren't they beautiful!”

She might not be with me on all this family information, but she's looking at the pictures, so I keep going.

“This one's Dad when he was on a kids' hockey team. I don't think he actually liked playing hockey much. He still watches it on TV, though. And here's Dad and Mom on their honeymoon in Niagara Falls.”

“Mm.” She runs her finger along the pictures and stops at one of me. It was taken in a photographer's studio. I'm lying on my belly on a table with some kind of velvet over it. I'm starkers. Cute and chubby. Typical baby.

“That's me,” I say. “Emma's baby.” It's so weird to hear my own voice say that.

“Emma's baby,” she says.

“Yes. It's Emily. The baby's name is Emily.”

I'm not sure if this confuses her, so I say, “I'm Emily. That's a picture of me when I was a little baby.” Then I say, “My mother is Emma.” I take a slow breath because of the tense feeling I get.

Then I turn the page. “Here she is. This is Emma. Graduating from law school. She's a lawyer.”

“Oh!” Meredith smiles like it's a wonderful surprise.

“And that's you and Granddad and Dad with her. Must've rained that day because Granddad's got his umbrella with him. See?”

The pictures Dana and Myra sent are the last ones in the album.

“Here's Dana and Myra in Paris. They're married. To each other. And they're my aunts. Dad and Emma and Dana are brother and sisters. Half-brother and half-sisters, actually.”

I look to see if any of this sinks in. I don't think it does.

The last picture makes me feel all nervous, like if I'm not careful I could hurt Meredith in a major way. So I softly say, “This is Dana when she was ten years old. That's her dad, Mr. Maxwell holding the bike so she won't fall. And that's her mother standing beside them. Cynthia.”

I decide to just leave it at that. Maybe she knows about Dana and about Cynthia Maxwell. Maybe Granddad told her. And maybe he didn't. Maybe, when there's not much you actually remember, some things just don't matter anymore. I don't know.

We look slowly through all the pictures again. I'm pretty sure she's enjoying this. Seeing those faces and hearing me talk about who's who.

“I'll leave this right here beside you, Meredith. It's our family album. We can look at the pictures whenever I visit, okay?”

She watches me move things around on the small table to make room for the album. Then she smiles and says, “There we are.”

Which is sort of an ironic thing to say, even though she didn't mean it that way.

I haven't talked to Leo since Monday. But I can't help thinking about him and Caroline. How everything sad gets magnified by Christmas.

Mom and Dad and Emma are using Christmas as an excuse to avoid talking about what's been happening, and I'm definitely fine with that. It's actually a relief to be preoccupied with lights and ornaments and rearranging the living room to make space for the Christmas tree in front of the window.

We're decorating our tree tonight like we always do, exactly one week before Christmas Day.

The tree stand's not in the garage where it should've been. Dad and I look everywhere for it. The garden shed. The attic. The basement. How could anyone misplace something that huge and metal and bright red?

Finally Dad remembers that the water leaked out of the tree stand last year and he had to throw it away. We'd still have it if Dad could've fixed it. He's happy when he's fixing something. Doesn't matter that it'd be simpler to just go out and buy a new whatever. He heads to the hardware store like a kid going for candy, and comes back with something you'd never think would fix whatever he's fixing. But it always does.

So we have to get a new tree stand. People turn totally into nutcases this close to Christmas. Buying and buying like their lives depended on it. There are long lineups everywhere. Parents are shopping, with gigantic toys and little kids all stuffed together in their shopping carts, and I'm wondering how they can do that without the kids figuring out on Christmas morning where their toys came from.

We go to three places and look at two hundred tree stands before Dad finally figures out which one to buy. I don't ask what the magic formula is.

Mom and Emma are taking out the ornaments and organizing them on the sofa. Their usual job. The strings of lights have already been tested and they're in tidy clumps on the floor. We put the stand in the exact same place the tree always goes. Then Mom and Emma and I decorate the tree. Dad does his usual job, which is to sit in his chair, read the paper, and every once in a while look up to tell us where there's a blank spot on the tree that needs an ornament.

One of the things I like a lot is coming downstairs the morning after we put up our tree. I stop partway down the steps and look into the living room at the tree, with the sun shining on all the decorations. When I was a little kid, this would always be a big surprise because they wouldn't start decorating until I was in bed. I'd see the blank green tree before I went to bed, and then in the morning I'd see a magical, colorful tree, sparkling and twinkling in the sunlight. If I concentrate for a second, I can get just about the same excited, surprised feeling, even though I saw the whole tree decorated last night.

After breakfast I decide to call Leo.

Caroline answers the phone in this sweet little-girl voice.

“Hey, Caroline! It's Emily! How are you?” My voice is overly enthusiastic, which I hate because kids always pick up on that. But right now I can't stop myself. “Did you write your letter to Santa?”

“No.”

“No? Oh, well, I sure did!” The exaggerated enthusiasm's making me practically gag. “How else will Santa know what to bring on Christmas Eve?”

There's silence on the other end of the phone.

To let her off the hook, I say, “I guess Santa just knows stuff like that.”

But Caroline's on another train of thought. “Leo's girlfriend is Sam.”

I'm not sure if I'm supposed to take this as a bit of gossip or a warning to lay off calling him. “Sam's a real nice person. She plays an awesome flute,” I say, just to underline the fact that there's no competition between Sam and me.

More silence.

Time to move on. “Is Leo there right now?”

“Sam's here.”

“Hey, that's cool!”

Then I hear Leo's voice in the background and Caroline tells him it's me calling.

“I wondered who she was spilling the beans to,” he says. “What's up?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to call.”

“Is your complicated life worked out yet?”

“A bit. Are things sort of okay with you right now?”

“Gettin' there.”

“I'm glad Sam's with you.”

“Yeah.” He gives a little laugh. “She's got Caroline playing the flute. ‘Three Blind Mice.' When she finishes, she wants to play it again. It'll soon drive us all nuts.”

I like the way he sounds. Relaxed. Not totally relaxed, but getting there, like he just said.

“I met this guy. Jacob. I don't really know much about him yet. He seems nice, though.” I don't say I've been thinking I might go to Jacob's place next week sometime and just say hi when things feel more calmed down. “Hey! Maybe you and Sam and—”

“Not likely.”

“You didn't even give me a chance to say it.”

“Shortcut to the obvious.”

Who'm I kidding? As if Leo'd want to double-date with anyone. All of a sudden I get this lost, kind of empty feeling, like somehow my friendship with Leo isn't really going to keep happening. “Leo, you have to promise me something.”

“Not really,” he says in his usual matter-of-fact way.

“You do! You have to—” I stop. Because he's right. He doesn't have to promise anything. But I do. I need this promise for me. “Leo, I'm going to keep calling you. It's important to me. Really important. And I'm going to keep coming to see you. And Sam and Caroline and Jane and Dan.”

“Sure. Why not?” I might be kidding myself, but I think he sounds a bit glad about what I just said. Maybe even more than a bit glad.

When I wake up, I think it's the middle of the night, but I look at my clock and it's just about morning. I get out of bed and get dressed. I go quietly downstairs and stop for a second to look into the dark living room. There's a few tiny sparkles on the tree where light from the streetlight is squeezing in through the blinds.

I bundle up in my winter jacket and scarf and mitts, because for sure it's going to be cold out. I very quietly open the door and close it in slow motion. My plan is to walk down past my old elementary school, along one of the quiet streets, and then down toward the harbor, where there's a small park and you can walk up a path to the top of the hill.

By the time I get to the park, it's not really dark anymore. There's pale blue light coming out of nowhere and starting to fill up the sky. When I get all the way to the top of the path, I can see over the trees and houses and across the harbor to the city and hills on the other side.

It's barely morning, and I can hear traffic noises already building up. Everyone's starting to do whatever they always do every single day.

Like it all makes sense and there are no surprises.