“No. And yes,” her father said. “You can’t learn anything on donut fuel.”
“Emma let me have a Little Debbie cake. Before breakfast!” Caleb said.
“Jesus . . .” Her father stopped before saying more. He opened the back door for Gracie. Emma challenged him by lifting her eyebrows—just a tiny bit though—while keeping the rest of her face blank.
“Then I guess I’ll save a little money on your breakfast.” He kissed Caleb and Gracie, and then looked at Emma. She came forward, allowed a brief hug, and walked around the car to get into the front passenger seat.
“Nope. I got room,” Caleb said.
“How about Sorella’s?” her father asked.
“Cornmeal pancakes!” Gracie blew a kiss at their father. “I love Sorella’s. Oh, thank you, Daddy.”
Emma thought she’d puke watching this little lovefest.
“Sorella’s it is.” Her father looked back at the house once more before backing down the driveway.
The restaurant was almost full, not that it was hard to fill such a tiny space. Emma didn’t know how they even fit in as many tables as they had. The cooks worked right out in the open, squeezed into some midget kitchen. Her father and mother thought it was cool—their word, never hers; she thought it was gross, the word and the place. Who wanted to see people sweat over the frying eggs you were going to eat?
Gracie and Caleb attacked their pancakes, and her father dug right into his bacon and eggs. Emma didn’t even want her cereal; she just dipped her spoon in and out of the bowl so her father wouldn’t get annoyed.
“So,” her father said. “What’s up in school today? All your homework done?”
“I have a spelling test,” Caleb said. “Want to test me? Cold. C-O-L-D. Smart. S-M-A-R-T.”
“Excellent—seems like you were studying last night. S-T-U-D-Y-I-N-G.” Her father gestured to the waitress for more coffee.
“Witch. W-I-T-C-H. Emma tested me.”
“Good job. Both of you.” Her father’s forced grin seemed as phony as the Saks salesclerk’s smile had been when Emma and Sammi tried on hats last weekend.
She gave her cereal another stir.
“I had to write a story using compound sentences with subjects and predicates.” Gracie poured additional syrup on top of her already drowning cornmeal pancakes. “Do you know what subjects and predicates are?”
“Hmm,” her father said. “The subject is the what, and the predicate tells something about the subject? Like me saying brilliant Gracie? You are the subject and brilliant is the predicate.”
“Are you and Mommy getting divorced?” Caleb asked.
Her father placed his fork on his plate. “I hope not,” he said.
“Then don’t,” Caleb said. “If you hope it.”
“It’s not that simple,” her father said.
Emma couldn’t catch her breath.
“Why? Just come home.” Caleb stabbed the bit of egg left on his plate.
“ ’Cause Mommy is part of it,” Gracie said. “That’s why it’s not simple. She makes the decision, also.”
“Does Mommy want a divorce?” Caleb asked.
“I don’t think Mommy wants a divorce—but Mommy’s not happy.”
“Is she still mad at you? For driving so fast?”
“It’s complicated, Caleb,” her father said. “It’s not just that she’s angry, she’s also . . . Well, I guess she’s angry.”
“Are you being punished for being bad?” Caleb took a much too huge forkful of pancakes and shoved them in his mouth. Pancake mush practically fell out of his mouth, and nobody was there to stop him.
Emma squirmed. Shut up, Caleb. She didn’t want to hear her father get angry; she didn’t want to hear him be maudlin. She was sick of both her parents, period.
“I’m just not sure, Caleb.” Her father picked up his fork again and sighed.
All her parents did anymore was say I don’t know and look sad. Emma couldn’t decide which of the two made her want to kill them more.
• • •
After school Emma found she couldn’t bear to get on the bus to come home. Paralyzed or traumatized or simply sick of it all, it didn’t matter. She simply couldn’t.
She walked down Louis Pasteur Avenue and then followed the Fenway to Brookline Avenue. A few blocks away there was a movie theater that played enough films to keep her there until midnight if she wanted.
She wanted.
• • •
Emma may as well have walked in with cowbells tied to her neck when she tried to sneak into the house at nine o’clock that night. Gracie greeted her at the door, opening it before Emma even had her key out.
“Daddy’s going to kill you,” Gracie whispered. “Where were you?”
“Emma?” her father shouted from the living room. “Get in here. Now!”
“Dad’s here?” Emma asked.
“Grandma called him. Because you didn’t show up to get us. He called Aunt Vanessa, Kath, even Olivia. All your friends. And the police!” Gracie walked down the hall, holding Emma’s arm as she talked. “The police wouldn’t do anything for twenty-four hours. Daddy was really mad ’cause Sammi and Caro weren’t home and because he didn’t have your boyfriend’s phone number.”
Emma shrugged her shoulders. “I doubt he even remembers Zach’s name.”
She entered the living room. Her father sat in an upright dining room chair, tapping his foot on the floor. Grandma Anne and Grandpa Jake flanked her mother on the couch. Her grandfather jumped up when he saw her.
“Thank God you’re safe.” Grandpa Jake hugged her until it hurt.
“Were you being held captive somewhere?” her father asked. “Kidnapped? If not, start getting ready to live in the four walls of your room for a long time.”
“Whoa. Calm down.” Grandpa Jake kept a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “Let her sit and get her breath.”
“Get her story straight, more like it.” Her father strode over and gripped Emma.
“I said to calm down.” Grandpa kept his protective stance as Emma tried to edge toward him.
“This is my business, Jake. My family.” Her father tugged at Emma. “Get over in that chair, Emma. Now.”
She shrugged off her father and sat in the upholstered chair to which he pointed.
“Take a breath, everyone,” Grandma said. “She’s home. She’s safe.”
Her father ignored Grandma and bent over Emma, thrusting a finger at her face. “Do you have a clue what you did to your mother? To Caleb and Gracie—who waited and waited until they had to walk home by themselves?” Stale coffee breath assaulted her with each word.
“But they were okay, thank God,” Grandma said.
“Jesus, Anne.” Emma’s father slammed the wall. “That’s not the point. Anything could have happened. Anything.”
“But it. Didn’t.” Her mother came over to where Emma sat and ran a hand over Emma’s thick braid. “At least Gracie knew. The way. Home.”
“That’s not the point, Maddy!” her father yelled.
“Nobody even knows I’m alive anyway, not unless I’m doing something for them.” Emma banged the textbooks she still held against her knees. “One time I’m not the perfect daughter. One damn time. Who do you think has been taking care of Caleb and Gracie and the house and everything else in the world since the accident?”
“Don’t you think we appreciate you?” Her grandmother looked so sad.
Emma shook her head. “Oh, Grandma, I’m not talking about you,” she said. She tried not to cry as she watched her father’s chest heave in and out.
“Emma, we’re a family,” her father said. “There are certain things you can’t ever forget. Most important, you can’t terrify us.”
“You’re so blind, Dad,” Emma said. “We’re not a family anymore. Mom’s body is here, but that’s all. And you left.”
“We are a family. Don’t ever talk like that. And that is certainly not true of your mother. Jesus. No matter how
angry you are, you can’t ever say things like that. It’s not true. Your mother is getting better every single day.” Her father ran his hands through his hair, as though trying to present his argument correctly. “Like it or not, you’re older. I depend on you. You let me down.”
“I let you down?” Emma lost all control and began sobbing as though she were a little girl. “I went to the movies by myself. That’s where I was. Because I couldn’t be here and I had nowhere to be. I let you down? You let the whole family down, Dad. Over and over.”
“And you disappointed me, Emma. Didn’t you?” Her father’s words punched a hole in Emma’s chest. “I told you not to talk about the accident—to leave it to me. Telling your mother about it was my job. Now look where we are.”
“Stop.” Her mother got off the couch and reached for Emma’s father. He pulled away, holding his arms out as though telling everyone to back off.
“You just didn’t know when to shut up,” he said to Emma. “You couldn’t wait—you couldn’t listen. Everything had to be about you.”
“No, you’re talking about yourself!” Emma’s breath came in staccato bursts. “You’re always scaring everyone. Everyone has to do everything your way. Now everyone hates you, and you can’t take it.”
Her father came toward her. Their eyes met. Emma’s muscles locked as she waited, but she continued. “I’m not afraid of you anymore.”
Her father closed his eyes. He took a breath that seemed to go on forever. He looked around and then stepped forward, kneeling at Emma’s knees, touching one of her hands with the lightest of pressure. “It was all me. You are so right,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. Don’t you know why I was so angry when you didn’t come home? I would die if anything happened to you.”
Emma bowed her head. Tears blotched her jeans.
“Nothing was your fault. I know that. Oh, baby, don’t you know how sorry I am?” her father continued. “That I hurt your mother. That I hurt you. Your sister and your brother. I’m sorry—I have no other words.”
Emma felt the pressure to help him—give him a break—but she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t say a word.
“Say something,” Gracie begged. “Daddy wants to fix it. Listen to him. Do something.”
Grandma Anne walked over and kissed the top of Emma’s head. “Forgiveness can make you feel better, Emma.”
Everyone stared at her, waiting for her to do something. God, she was only fifteen. What did they want from her?
Her mother watched as though waiting for Emma to unravel the world.
I’m only fifteen, Mom!
She ran upstairs.
Now she wanted pills to take away her energy. Put her to sleep.
She slipped into her parents’ bathroom and opened her mother’s cabinet.
CHAPTER 35
Ben
Ben slid the Holiday Inn security card into the metal slot on his room door with more ease and familiarity than he wanted, and then waited for the flash of the green light to give him entry. He should call home and check on Maddy and the kids. If Emma answered the phone, she’d have to talk to him.
Last night had been the worst since the frenzy that had brought him here, not that tonight was going to be any feather in his cap.
Months of watching G-rated movies and eating crap faced him. His life would soon be an endless reel of malls, museums, and McDonald’s and pizza like every other divorced father he knew. And as depressing as that imagined future was, it was way too optimistic since it presumed that Emma would go anywhere with him after last night.
He threw his jacket on the second bed, which had become his open-air closet. Heaps of crap that the maid tried to make into neat piles threatened to take over. Tomorrow he’d have to throw all his clothes in his car and bring them to that place that charged by the pound. He couldn’t do laundry at his parents’—they didn’t even know Maddy had thrown him out.
He undid his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, exchanging it for a sweater, staring at himself in the mirror as he switched clothes. The baby-blue crewneck he chose was one of Maddy’s favorites. She always said he looked sexy in that color. Made her want to jump his bones, she’d said. He used to laugh, but inside he’d felt his heart take over his chest. She knew that, didn’t she? How goddamned happy she’d made him?
Why should I know that, Ben?
Jesus, the bathroom. The poor maid couldn’t perform miracles, not with his razor, cologne, deodorant, comb, brush, aspirin, and all his other shit cluttering the microscopic sink. Zita, the weekday maid—in the weeks since he’d been here he’d come to know the weekday and weekend maids—did the best she could, even lining his toiletries up in size order, for Christ’s sake. She was a good woman—good but unlucky, stuck at sixty cleaning up after idiots like him. Ben overtipped each week, his small attempt to make up for Zita’s lousy deal in life.
Icy streets made it difficult to navigate as he walked out of the hotel to search for supper. Ben had gone home to shovel when it snowed three days before, and then become irrationally incensed when he saw it already clean—too clean to have been done by Emma. Jake had probably sent some of his guys to shovel—the best shovelers in Boston.
Ben walked along Beacon Street, looking for whichever restaurant seemed least filled with children or wives. He wandered around, vaguely attracted by a deli until he looked through the window and saw Anne’s doppelganger eating falafel.
Finally, in Kenmore Square, he found a McDonald’s filled with college students and seniors. Ben stood on line behind a crumpled old couple appearing as though they were dining out on their Social Security. They each ordered a small hamburger. No McNothing—just a shriveled burger on a bun. One small fries to share. A small carton of chocolate milk for each of them. Ben wanted to buy them each a McMansion of a meal—a giant burger, extra-large fries, apple McPies, shakes—anything their hearts desired.
He should.
Then the couple got their small white bag and the moment passed.
As penance, Ben ordered a Filet-O-Fish. His least favorite McMeal. He sat alone, picking a seat facing the window. Friday night couples passed him on Commonwealth Avenue. He thought about what his family was doing. Finishing supper. Anne and Jake were, he supposed, ensconced in his house with his children and his wife. Watching his TV.
After crumpling his greasy bag and leftover fries and throwing the garbage in the trash, Ben walked half an hour to Brookline Booksmith, relishing the cold wind as another notch in his penance. He cruised the aisles, looking for something distracting, rejecting one thriller and mystery after another. Anxiety prickled when he recognized the names of authors that Maddy liked—books that she couldn’t read anymore.
He left the fiction section for biographies. If he couldn’t divert himself, he could at least look to others for help—men and women who’d fought wars, cancer, droughts, and floods. What had he ever done that had been great? Slipping down the aisles, he made his way to the self-help area, scanning the sections:
Gambling
Drugs
Eating
Sex
Alcohol
Anxiety
Panic
Compulsions for all.
He knelt to read the titles in the area labeled anger management:
Beyond Anger
Free from Anger
No More Anger
Stopping Anger
As though buying porn, Ben grabbed every volume, too embarrassed to be seen choosing. Zita could have the extras. Maybe she had an asshole husband.
He took the armload to the counter and added Lindt chocolate balls, bittersweet for Maddy, milk chocolate for himself. He stuck the candy in his pocket. Then he headed back to the Holiday Inn to read and eat chocolate.
Shit.
Forget being nicer to women, soon he’d be one.
The strings of the bookstore bag dug into his hands. Sharp wind cut harder than before as he walked back to the hotel. Tree branches whipped around. His cheeks burned red and co
ld from the brewing storm when he finally reached the entrance.
Ben headed to the lower lobby level, which doubled as a bar, seeking a couch, a soft chair—somewhere private enough to slip one of the books out of the bag and ease his mind with a bourbon.
He’d just removed his coat and sat in a club chair when he heard his name.
Elizabeth stood a few feet away.
It took a moment for him to compute: Elizabeth. Here. Books. Bourbon.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.
“Waiting?” Ben gripped the top of the book bag. “Why?”
“I wanted to see you.” Elizabeth wore well-worn jeans. A thin sweater skimmed over her fine-boned body. Her hair fell loose along her back. She looked like a college kid.
Anger rushed in. He needed to read. He needed to call his kids and say good night. Elizabeth? Not needed. He hadn’t seen her since she’d left a month ago, a leave-taking he’d celebrated by having a beer with his slice of pizza that night, toasting to a hope that the next time he saw her she’d be married.
He snuck a peek at her finger. No miracle diamond sparkled.
“I heard you moved out,” Elizabeth said.
Ben remained quiet.
“I stayed in touch with Aaron,” she said. “He told me you were staying here.”
Aaron fell off his favored-lawyer list.
“He said you and Maddy had separated.” Elizabeth lowered herself into the chair angled next to him. “I’ve been thinking about you.”
Dear Jesus, she had an unfinished crush going on. Sometimes he thought beautiful women had the hardest time with rejection, as though it somehow lowered their net worth. The world couldn’t be right until the proper order was restored. They left men, not the other way around.
“You did everything you could, didn’t you? For your wife.” Elizabeth leaned over and placed a light hand on his knee. He felt her heat through his trousers, the sensation physically pleasurable despite himself. It had been too long since he’d been touched. “You were a hero. I know that.”
Ben thought of the ugly lies he’d told her about Maddy. The way he’d shoved both of them under the bus: Maddy and Elizabeth. “You shouldn’t be here.”
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