Loving Emily (21 page)

It’s the most fun I’ve ever had indoors.

Lucky for us, both Wintraubs work, and my house is usually empty during the week. Weekends are different, but on weekdays, work, appointments and lessons keep my parents, Ro, and the girls away until close to six o’clock. I hang the baseball cap on the front door knob of the guest house to ward off the cleaning and maintenance staff.

I’m studying, and Emily’s curled up in a corner of the sofa with her laptop. Outside, rain falls in heavy sheets. It pounds the roof over our heads. Emily loves the rain, but I think rain belongs in places like Michigan and the Amazon. I must have been born under a sun sign.

“Ryan?” Emily says to me, “How come you’re so distant with your folks? I never see you act that way with anyone else—so, kind of, cool and withdrawn.”

“Where did
that
come from?” It isn’t like we’d been talking about them, or anything.

“I’ve noticed it. And, well, your parents asked me about it, too.”

I jump to my feet and start pacing back and forth. “They
did
? When?” It doesn’t take much to get me going over Mom and Dad. Heat rushes to my forehead and temples.

“The last time I was here for dinner.” Emily’s been over a few times now.

I can’t believe they’ve been bugging her about this. Like,
hello
, I live right here in the same house with them. What about having a conversation with
me
? “Yeah, well I’m pissed off at them!”

Emily is waiting, wearing her
I’m listening
expression.

“First off, they totally shafted us three years ago, when Michael overdosed.” My finger stabs the air as I make each point. “Second of all, they’re freaking
never
home. It’s like they’re doing us a favor to have dinner with us!”

Emily has put aside her laptop, her expression sober.

“You should tell them how you feel,” she says. “Because, your parents are two sad people.”

“They oughta be. They oughta be two
sorry
people!” Anger is boiling up through my belly and chest and into my face. I feel myself flush red, and I take a few deep breaths.

“You really should talk to them,” Emily says again. “Clear the air.”

“I’ll think about it.” I sit down next to her, and we try to work. As usual, I’m diddling around with my easy homework from the regular classes, while Emily’s writing this intense essay for her AP English class and studying for another hard-core AP History exam.

She yawns and stretches her arms toward the ceiling. Her hand goes through my hair, and a minute later she pulls me toward her and really plants one on me—a serious soul kiss that has me thinking it might be time for another study break. But a question bubbles up from some dark part of my subconscious.

“Emily? Why do you love me?”

She pulls away from me a little and gives me this teasing look. “You want to know the exact moment when I knew I loved you?”

I nod my head. I definitely want to know that.

“It was the time you made me laugh so hard that I fell off the couch.”

I do make Emily laugh. A lot. And most of the time, it’s on purpose. And she did fall off the couch that one time, when I really got her going, but I didn’t think she would love me for it.

“I need something better than that.”

“Okay, let’s see. I love you because you’re fun. And because you’re good to me, and you’re always there for me.”

She pauses. “And because you’re really, really hot.”

I don’t know if
I’m
hot, I think, but Emily and I are definitely hot together.

“And so now
I
have a question,” she says. She starts to put the cap on her pen, then fumbles and drops it.

I wait for her to pick it up off the floor, cap the pen, put it away, and finally face me.

“How do I know that you love me for
me
, and not for my looks?”

There’s a good answer for that question, but it’s hard to put into words. I finally say, “I feel good around you. I can be myself.” I think some more. “But the other part is, you make me better than I am. I can’t describe it. When I’m with you, I feel like I can do anything. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” she says. She puts her head on my shoulder. I pull her close and curl up with her on the sofa, thinking
this is as good as it gets.
Right here. Now. This moment.

We sit there for a long time, listening to the rain.

•   •   •

That evening, my cell rings, and it’s Chrissie. “I’m in the hospital.”

“
What!”
I jump up from my sprawl on the bed. “Why? What happened?”

“I started to bleed. Jay and Spencer brought me here,” she says. “But the baby’s fine.”

I look at my watch. It’s seven o’clock on a Tuesday night. “Which hospital? I’ll be right there.”

Forty-five minutes later, I’m standing beside her hospital bed. A blue curtain cuts across the middle of the room, giving us privacy from Chrissie’s roommate, who’s by the window. Jay and Spencer, in ratty t-shirts and gym shorts, take up the only two chairs in sight.

“
You
tell him,” Spencer says. He fans himself with his hand.

“We were in the laundry room of our building, and Chrissie comes in,” Jay says. “And we were talking about how to get chocolate stains out…”

“Because they’re the
worst
,” Spencer says.

“And then I started to bleed on the floor,” Chrissie cuts in. She’s propped up in bed in a hospital gown, her blond curls spilling across her shoulders. She has one arm around her pregnant belly, like she’s protecting it.

“Why? What’s wrong with you?”

“The doctor called it a … an eruption,” she says.

“An
abruption
…” Spencer starts to say, but Jay cuts him off.

“It’s called a placental abruption. It means the placenta has separated from the wall of the uterus.”

“How serious is that?” I ask. I sit on the edge of the bed, since there’s nowhere else available. Jay has his arm across the back of Spencer’s chair.

“Mine’s a small separation.” Chrissie raises her chin. “It might even heal on its own. I’m fine. I’m goin’ home tomorrow.”

“
Excuse me,
may I get a word in?” Spencer says. “She has to go on bed rest.”

“What? For how long?” I demand.

“Not long,” Chrissie announces. Her voice is calm, but her arm tightens around her belly.

“For as long as it takes!” Jay says. “Could be for the rest of the pregnancy— as much as ten weeks.”

“Ten weeks?” I say. “That’s two and a half months!”

“But it could also heal, in which case I could get up,” Chrissie says. “I don’t want to miss the audition, Ryan!”

“We’ll see. Until it does heal, she
has
to stay in bed,” Spencer says, giving her a meaningful look. “All the time!”

“So, you can’t work?” I ask her. “Or go out of the apartment?”

“No!” Jay and Spencer say it at the same time.

“That doctor was over-reactin’.” Chrissie waves her hand in the air.

“Look, we talked to the doctor,” Jay says to me. “This is really serious.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if she doesn’t stay in bed and this abruption thing gets worse, she could die, and so could the baby.”

Did he say
die
? Panic swarms me. I’m a sixteen year old kid. I didn’t sign up for this. Or maybe I did sign up for this, but I didn’t know what I was doing. I start taking deep breaths, trying to stay calm.

“We’ll help you, honey,” Spencer says to Chrissie. He moves over and sits on the edge of the bed beside her, putting his arm around her shoulders.

My thoughts are racing.
The baby could die.

It would be like Michael dying twice.

“How will you pay your rent?” I ask.

“I got it covered. I have a call in to our landlord, Mr. Park.”

“Good luck with that,” Jay says in an ominous tone.

“No, I can sweet talk him.” Chrissie sounds very sure of herself. “He likes me. I just paid this month’s rent, and I’ll tell him to keep my security deposit. I’ll hold him off for anythin’ else I owe with fried chicken and banana cream pies. He loves my cookin’!”

There’s a plan. Pay your rent with banana cream pies.

“Chrissie, you have to tell Nat and Yancy.” I try to catch her eye, but she avoids me. “This is serious. You need their help.”

“I told you before – NO!”

“But, Chrissie…”

“I gotta get outta here!” She throws off her sheet and blanket and tries to move past Spencer to get off the bed, but he pins her down. “You’re not going anywhere, Missy!”

I just know it—she’s going to run off and die and kill the baby, and it’ll be my fault, just like with Michael. “I won’t tell them!”

She sinks down. “You promise?”

“Swear to God.” I’m thinking frantically. It looks like she’s got her rent covered for now. I get a big cash allowance every month from my parents. It could go for some of her other expenses.

“Ryan?” Chrissie asks. “My place is only five minutes away. These guys have been here all afternoon. Would you mind picking up a few things for me? The clothes I was wearing are ruined, and I need something to wear home tomorrow.”

“No problem.” I walk out with Jay and Spencer. “I don’t know what to do,” I tell them. “I live a half hour from here, and I have school and other stuff.”

“We’ll help. We love Chrissie,” Jay says, while Spencer nods his head.

I get their phone numbers and follow them to the apartment building, where I let myself into Chrissie’s place with the key she gave me. It’s nine forty-five by now.

I flip on a light and look around. It’s weird being here all by myself. In my jeans pocket, I find the list she wrote for me. Pants, blouse, underwear, bra. Jeez.

I go through her drawers. I am numb, unable to think about what all this means, how it will affect me, what might happen if I mess up. The last time I messed up, a friend died. Now it could happen again.

I focus on the job in front of me. Chrissie wears tiny, lacy little thongs in pink and red and black. I try not to look, but of course I do. Seems like she needs something to sleep in, but I don’t see anything that looks like that. No nightgowns or even a big t-shirt. Maybe she sleeps in the nude.

Too much information. In my back pack I have a size extra-large Pacific Prep athletic shirt – a clean one. I’ll give her that.

I’m in Chrissie’s little bathroom when I see the clock on her wall. I get a prickling sensation on the back of my neck. At the exact moment that my mind registers that it’s ten o’clock, my cell rings.

I don’t have to look to know it’s Emily, for our regular good night call. For a split second, I consider not answering it. But I don’t want to sneak around and lie. I pick up.

“Hi.” Her voice is warm and breathy in my ear. I stand there in the bathroom, looking at Chrissie’s perfume bottles and trying to sound normal as I speak.

“Hi. What’s up?” I say.

“I’m in bed already,” Emily says. “What about you?”

“Well, funny thing,” I say, eyeing the shelves. “I’m at Chrissie’s place.”

Silence greets me on the other end. I rush to fill it, explaining what happened and what I’m doing. As I talk, I look around. I’ve never been in a girl’s bathroom before, except for Mom’s, which doesn’t count. Chrissie’s got this arsenal of girl products: lipsticks, bottles of nail polish, and glass containers with cotton balls, nail files and cruel-looking pointy little scissors.

“You’re packing up
clothes
for her? Like
personal things
?”

“Just a few things.” I try not to think of that purple bra and panty set that caught my eye.

“Ryan, this is getting really weird.”

“Tell me about it.” I’m looking at Chrissie’s nail polishes, which are at eye level.

“Why do
you
have to do this? Talk to Nat and Yancy. They can get her a nurse.”

“I’m afraid what Chrissie would do if I did.” Some marketing dude must have been hungry when he made up the names of these polishes:
Raspberry Mist, Strawberry Swizzle, Peachy Keen.

“Honestly, Ryan. She’s holding you hostage.”

“She doesn’t mean to. She’s just scared. The neighbors are going to help.”

“What a mess! It’s too much responsibility!”

“Maybe, but what am I supposed to do?”

“Get a grown up to handle it!”

“Well, I can’t, Emily, okay?” I’m losing patience now. “I gotta finish here. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“But, Ryan…,” she is saying as I hang up. I didn’t mean to hang up on her, but I had to go. I still have to take this stuff to Chrissie, and I’ve got a test tomorrow that I have to study for. Chrissie can’t even get up for a glass of water, and it could go on this way for a couple of months. And she or the baby could
die.

Emily’s right. It’s too much for me to handle.

What am I going to do?

T
hat night I lie in bed trying to breathe. It feels as if something bigger and heavier than me—like one of those giant Zamboni machines at the ice skating rink—is moving across my chest, crushing it.

My life is spinning out of control. I can’t help Chrissie with this. I’m too young. I’m not ready.

I throw off the covers and go to the drawer with my ski clothes. I’m looking for the big manila envelope full of photos, but the box of drugs is on top. I pull it out and put it on the bed. After a minute, I open it and sit with it in my lap, looking at the envelopes of white powder.

Did Michael use to feel the way I do right now, that everything was screwed up and that it was all because of him? Is that why he did drugs? To make himself feel better?

In one minute, I could feel better. It’s right here, relief in a bag, courtesy of the drug cartels.

I force myself to set aside the box and grab the envelope, pulling out the photographs and going through them. All those memories of Michael. I’m in a bunch of the shots, too. I find the one that Michael had labeled “Soldier Rock,” showing me and Michael, dripping wet, coming out of the lake. Our fists are raised in the air, and giant grins split our faces in half. I hold the photo for a long time, thinking and remembering.