Emily Out of Focus

by Miriam Spitzer Franklin

  Praise for

  EMILY OUT OF FOCUS

  “A heartfelt story exploring the complexities of family and friendship. Emily is so relatable, she flies right off the page and straight into your heart.”

  —Abby Cooper, author of Sticks & Stones and Bubbles

  “This story honestly relates the joy and struggle of a family as they pick up their long-awaited daughter from an orphanage in YiYang City in China. Readers will cheer Emily on as she transforms from a reluctant big sister and trepidatious traveler who is harboring a few secrets to a welcoming big sister.”

  —Hillary Homzie, author of Apple Pie Promises and Queen of Likes

  “A true-to-life story about one family’s joys and struggles during the overseas adoption process.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  Also by Miriam Spitzer Franklin

  Extraordinary

  Call Me Sunflower

  Copyright © 2019 by Miriam Spitzer Franklin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Sky Pony Press books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or info@skyhorsepublishing.com.

  Sky Pony® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  Visit our website at www.skyponypress.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Kate Gartner

  Cover illustration by Jennifer Bricking

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-3854-6

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-3857-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my daughter, Carissa, with love

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  April 2, 2014

  Dear Diary,

  I can’t believe it! Tomorrow morning, in approximately six hours to be exact, we’re leaving for China. And guess what? I am totally and completely wide awake. My stomach is swirling like a tornado, and even though I close my eyes, my mind keeps going and going.

  So far, I’ve:

  a) Gone into the kitchen to eat a granola bar and drink a glass of milk

  b) Tried to make my body parts fall asleep, starting with my toes, the way Mom taught me the last time I was up worrying (Trust me, you do not want to put your toes to sleep while the rest of your body is wide awake. This method does NOT work unless the goal is to jump out of bed and stomp around on your pins-and-needle feet)

  c) Checked to make sure I remembered to pack Nana’s camera at the bottom of my bag where Mom and Dad won’t see it (I did this while I was up stomping around on my tingly feet)

  d) Turned on my radio since music used to help me sleep when I was little but turned it back off after singing along to three songs in a row.

  I sighed and stared at my clock as the numbers turned to 12:00. Midnight. The last time I had such a bad case of not-being-able-to-sleepitis was the night before I started middle school. I’d gotten up and written down my fears in my journal, and I’m not sure why, but somehow that worked. Either that or exhaustion finally set in. So, I turned to a fresh page in my journal and wrote:

  MY FEARS ABOUT THE CHINA TRIP

  1) What if the plane crashes?

  2) What if authentic Chinese food means the food will be terribly awful and I starve the whole time?

  3) What if Mom and Dad find out I’m bringing Nana’s camera?

  4) What if something happens to our luggage and I lose both Nana’s camera . . . and PuddleDuck? (Okay, so maybe most twelve-year-olds don’t sleep with a stuffed animal but I’ve had PuddleDuck since I was born, and I can’t sleep without her!)

  5) What if I don’t like Katherine and I’m stuck hanging out with her for two weeks?

  6) What if Mom and Dad want to spend most of the time in a hotel room once we get my new baby sister?

  I chewed on my pen before writing the next question. It was something that had been worrying me ever since we got the news that we had a baby waiting for us in China, but it wasn’t something I wanted to admit.

  7) What if my new sister doesn’t like me . . . and I don’t care for her much either?

  I stared down at the words I’d written, wishing I could cross them out. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it because it was a real and genuine worry. I wasn’t one of those girls who loved playing with babies, and I had no desire to change dirty diapers or hold a crying one-year-old. Besides, I was perfectly happy with my family exactly the way it was and becoming a big sister at age twelve seemed a little crazy to me.

  But, we were leaving for China tomorrow and I could never share my feelings with my parents, who had acted like receiving the adoption referral was the best news they’d had in their whole entire lives.

  I’d almost forgotten I was going to be a big sister. Back when my parents first told me, when I was five years old, I’d been so excited. I told everyone in my kindergarten class, and everyone in my first-grade class the next year, too. But by second grade, Mom and Dad stopped talking about it, at least in front of me, and I started thinking maybe it wasn’t going to happen. Maybe they were thinking the same thing, too.

  So, except for catching Mom looking at pictures of Waiting Children from China on the computer a couple of times, I had pushed the idea of being a big sister right out of my head. When we received the referral with a picture of a baby six months ago, it totally took me by surprise.

  I read through my list one last time. The whole point about writing down your fears was that you had to be honest, so you could dump all your worries onto your paper and once you did that, you could stop thinking about them.

  There. It was done. I shut my journal and tossed it into the bag I was carrying on the plane with me. Then I flopped back down on my bed, closing my eyes.

  Next thing I knew, my alarm was buzzing loudly in my ears. “Time to get moving!” Dad called to me, flashing my light on and off. “Don’t want to miss the trip of a lifetime!”

  ***

  By the time we made it to the loading gate at JFK, my usually calm and organized parents were beginning to unravel, just like the hem of my jean shorts. They kept asking each other things like, “Do you have the blah blah this or did you remember to pack the blah blah that?” Apparently, there
were a zillion details you had to take care of when you were adopting a baby, and if you forgot something important then when you got to China, they’d say, “Sorry, no baby for you!” I guess you could say my parents were about to crack under pressure.

  “Just relax,” Mom said to Dad, handing him a tissue. “We have plenty of time.”

  Dad mopped his forehead.

  “Now take a few deep breaths,” Mom said. “Like in yoga.”

  Dad breathed deeply, but he did not look like someone about to do a yoga pose. Actually, he looked more like a walking luggage rack. Our regular suitcases had been checked in, but Dad had a bunch of carry-on bags on each shoulder and an overstuffed backpack on his back. Every once in a while, we had to stop so he could readjust.

  At first, I thought he was carrying all the bags because he had a lot of valuable things he didn’t want to lose, like I was. But then Dad explained that we were over the weight limit and they’d charge a hefty fee if we tried to check any more luggage.

  It was even worse once we got on the plane. It was like Take a step, Bump, Take another step, Bump Bump . . . Dad couldn’t get down the aisle without knocking into someone. People shot us dirty looks. I think one man swore at us in Chinese. Once we finally packed everything in the compartment above our heads, Dad sunk into his seat and let out a slow breath.

  I let out a slow breath too. So . . . this was it. We were on our way to China. Like Dad said, it would be “the trip of a lifetime!”

  And while my parents seemed to focus on adopting a baby, for me it was about so much more. It was my chance to prove I could be adventurous, like my grandmother had been. If I wanted to become a famous photojournalist someday too, then it was time to face my fears . . . starting with flying on a plane for twenty-one hours.

  My stomach dropped. Twenty-one hours was a long time to be in the air, especially for someone who had never been on a plane before. And while I tried to think about how Nana would act if she was starting a journey across the ocean, all I could think about were the stories of plane crashes I’d heard about on the news.

  A bell chimed, and to my surprise, an announcer spoke in rapid Chinese.

  “We’re off!” I shouted a few minutes later, trying my best to sound brave as the jets roared in my ears and the plane sped down the runway. We lifted into the sky, the world spreading out at a slant below us, the vehicles in the parking lot shrinking to the size of Matchbox cars. My stomach dropped as I realized we were getting farther and farther from the ground.

  Millions of people fly every day, I told myself. Besides, it was time to get started on my adventure and my project. If I wanted to win a scholarship to the best photojournalism camp in the country, I needed to stay focused and not think about things like planes turning into fireballs in the midair.

  So, I reached into my backpack and pulled out my digital camera. I figured once we got to China there’d be plenty of chances to use Nana’s camera. Even though my parents had already given me the speech about being safe and not wandering off on my own in a foreign country, I had a feeling they’d be so busy chasing a new baby around that they wouldn’t be able to watch my every move. And it’s not like I was someone who got in trouble all the time. I was the type of kid a parent could trust.

  Taking photos with Nana’s camera—the one she’d used to take award-winning photos for National Geographic before she died of cancer a year ago—would give me the magic spark I needed. It would be as if she was standing right beside me, her spirit flowing from the camera to my hands.

  What a great way to start my photo documentary—right here on the airplane! I shot pictures of the grass and trees and buildings below us, and when it turned into patches of browns and greens and grays, I took pictures of that, too. One thing I’d learned from Nana—you had to take a lot of photos to get the perfect shot.

  I pulled out a notebook and a green gel pen and was just getting started when the plane dipped. My stomach dipped too. The pen slid off my tray and landed on the floor. “What’s going on?” I asked my mother.

  “It’s okay. I’m sure it’s nothing,” Mom said but her voice sounded a little weak. Dad had told me Mom was “an amateur flyer.” By amateur, he meant that Mom wasn’t very good at flying. I’d been afraid that I’d take after her, but so far, I was handling it better than she was.

  The intercom buzzed. The pilot spoke in Chinese, lots of choppy words that seemed to go on for a paragraph.

  “Mom!” I tugged at her sleeve and then I remembered what a friend from school had told me about her rocky plane ride. “I bet he said something about turbulence.”

  “Shh,” my mother said. “Listen.”

  The pilot switched to English. His Chinese shrunk to a few short sentences. “We are experiencing turbulence. For your safety, remain in your seat. Fasten your seatbelts. Refrain from using the toilet at this time.”

  I picked up my pen and notebook and slipped them back into my bag, staring at the little white barf bags tucked into the seat in front of me. “Jenna had so much turbulence on her plane that she threw up.” I wrinkled up my nose. “She said it was really gross, because not all the puke ended up in the bag.”

  Mom leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.

  “So how come we can’t use the bathroom? If someone has to throw up—”

  My mother groaned.

  “Well, it’s true. If you have to puke, it’s a lot better to use the bathroom.” I pulled the paper bag out of the seat in front of us.

  Mom groaned again. “Can we please not talk about this?”

  Dad laughed. “Lynn, you’ll be okay. The turbulence will be over soon.” He looked over at me. “You doing okay, Em?”

  I took a big breath and nodded. The plane went uuuup, then dropped downnn. My ears popped. I stuck a piece of Cherry Bubblicious in my mouth. My mother was chewing at least three pieces of gum. She blew a big bubble with her eyes still closed.

  Mom was starting to look green. Not green like grass. Green like the inside of a dill pickle.

  “Do you want me to read to you?” I asked her. “I could read to you from my magazine about China if you want. There’s all kinds of cool stuff we can do when we get there.”

  Mom shook her head. “How can you read with all this bumping around?”

  I chomped down on my bubble gum. I didn’t want to tell her that reading kept me from thinking about all the things that could go wrong on the plane, so I just said, “It’s not bothering me much.”

  “Lucky,” Mom said, squeezing my hand.

  I squeezed back. I pulled out my magazine and tried to read it, but Mom was right. The words were bouncing around on the page. So I leaned back against my seat and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to picture the plane, miles and miles from Earth bouncing around in the sky, and I didn’t want to think about the baby, my little sister, waiting for us in China, either. So instead I thought about how exciting it would be if I won the contest and got to spend two weeks at the photojournalist camp in New York City.

  I was most excited about getting to use the dark room to develop photos. Nana had already taught me all about adjusting the aperture and the shutter speed depending on the light. I could still picture her kind eyes behind her glasses, her patient voice as she answered my millions of questions, the way her face lit up after she returned from a photo shoot and couldn’t wait to tell me all about it. She had often spoken about the art of photography and I knew she’d want me to have her real camera with me instead of a digital for the first of my world travels.

  The up-and-down motion came to a stop. I heard a chiming sound and opened my eyes.

  Dad patted my shoulder. “Look!” He pointed to the sign that read “BUCKLE YOUR SEATBELT AND REMAIN SEATED”. It wasn’t lit up anymore.

  I looked over at my mother. “Did you hear that, Mom? No more turbulence! And you didn’t even have to use a barf bag!”

  “Hooray,” Mom said. She cracked a smile that was still very green.

  I got to work
on a paragraph for the contest called “The Thrilling Plane Ride,” then busied myself with doodle books and magazines for a while. I kept glancing at the map on the back of the seat in front of us, showing the flight in progress. So far, we’d been moving at the speed of an inchworm. It looked like it would take forever to get to China.

  I was happy to find a movie about giant pandas, which kept me busy until a flight attendant came around with foil trays for supper. One of my goals was to take a photo of a giant panda while I was in China, even if I had to see one in a zoo instead of a rainforest.

  “I’m starved!” I said, my stomach rumbling as I took the lid off my container and peered inside. A bunch of mixed-up stuff covered in a reddish sauce stared back at me. “What is it?” I asked my parents.

  Dad poked his fork around, jabbed at something, and took a bite. “I think it’s chicken. With vegetables and rice.”

  “What kind of vegetables?” I asked, because it didn’t look like any vegetables I’d ever seen.

  “Not sure exactly,” Dad said, taking a bite.

  “WAIT!” I yelled, suddenly remembering a conversation I’d had at school. “Don’t eat anymore!”

  Dad looked up at me. “What’s wrong, Emily?”

  “You need to ask about the ingredients.” I lowered my voice. “It could be bugs.”

  Dad laughed. “What are you talking about?”

  “Bugs. Insects. Like crickets or ants or grasshoppers—”

  “Emily,” my mother said, poking around in the container with her fork. “What in the world would make you think they’re serving us insects for dinner?”

  “Aviva Greenberger said they eat insects in China, and she’s the smartest person in the sixth grade. Besides, I looked it up on the Internet and it’s true. People like to eat fried bugs there. It’s a delicacy.”

  “Some people consider it a delicacy,” Mom said. “That doesn’t mean that everyone in China eats bugs for every meal, and they certainly wouldn’t serve it as a meal to travelers on an airplane.”

  Mom sounded like she knew what she was talking about, but I looked over at Dad to be sure.