by P. Stormcrow
Emma flushed as she realized she had been staring. “Oh. Hi.”
“May I?” Corey pointed at the bench on the other side of the table.
“Um. Sure.” Emma shrugged and attempted to close her book and push it under her messenger bag.
“Is that Worlds Beyond?” Corey asked as he sat.
The question halted her motion, and she flushed at getting caught. “Yeah.”
“What do you think so far?”
Was the jock discussing science fiction romance with her? Emma took the book back out and held it up, the cover facing him. “You read it?” she asked instead of answering his question.
Corey blushed and rubbed the back of his head. “Well, I like the science fiction bits,” he muttered.
A grin spread across her lips. “Oh, I see.”
He cleared his throat. “Well, I think Jones does a good job making the science plausible. He did his research.”
“Yeah…” Emma lowered the book and after watching him for a couple of more seconds, decided to spare him.
“So, you play?” She gestured at his jersey.
“Oh, yeah. It’s paying for my English degree.”
Of course it is. Emma pursed her lips but said nothing. Never mind the mountain of student loans she had incurred to be here…and the extra bartending job at night.
“What about you? What are you studying?” Corey asked, oblivious to the thoughts running through her head.
“Engineering.”
“Cool. What kind?”
Emma glanced from side to side, uncertain why he’d even spoke to her in the first place, much less asked about her. Sure, they were a far cry from the elementary school where money dictated status, but still…
“Electrical. Robotics,” she answered. It bugged her to not know why. Emma leaned forward and folded her arms on the table. “Look, Corey. What’s up? Why are you here?”
“I…well…”
The classic theme of Ghostbusters blared from her phone. Her heartbeat raced, and she forced air into her lungs as she picked it up and stared at the screen. A breath of relief escaped her lips. Thank God. Not the hospital.
Still, Emma recognized the number as someone almost as important calling. She held up her forefinger at Corey to signal him to wait and answered the call.
“Hello, Mr. Carmichael.”
“Emma, please, it’s just Uncle David,” her employer and owner of the mansion she lived in scolded.
“That’s not right. Not when you’re my boss.”
She heard a sigh over the phone and smiled a little. Both Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael had always treated her and Mom more like family than hired help—sometimes almost too much.
“Okay. All right. How is your mom doing?”
Emma glanced at Corey with unease. The conversation was getting too personal for her to talk in front of him, so flashing him a brief smile, she rose and stepped away. She kept the table in view since her stuff was there, half expecting Corey to leave. But, much to her surprise, he set his bag on the table next to hers, pulled out an apple and started eating.
She shook her head, turned her body sideways and refocused on the question. “Mom’s hanging in there. She’s at this hospital getting her tests before surgery.”
“Good. Are you okay with the hospital bills?” The concern was as thick as Mr. Carmichael’s accent.
“Yes. We’re fine. It’s free here in BC,” Emma explained. Of course, he might not have known, coming from the UK.
“Ah, Canada. Sometimes I wonder why we don’t just move there on a permanent basis.”
“You keep saying that, but you know it would make Mrs. Carmichael sad being so far from her sisters.” This wasn’t the first time Emma and he had had this conversation.
“Ah, true. Speaking of…”
“Are you flying here for a trip?” Emma glanced over at Corey, who gave her a wave and a smile. She nodded back in acknowledgment.
“Actually, Elliot is. He’ll be flying in on Saturday.”
Emma froze and her entire world stood still. Elliot. Her childhood crush. The boy who had forgotten her. The boy who had faded from her life. Never in a million years would she admit she missed him.
And wrote to him every time she wrote in her diary.
It was just a stupid habit. A fictitious person she wrote to, built on memories of a boy from her childhood, stemmed from a personal tradition that had started when they were still friends.
“Emma?”
“How long is he staying?” She managed a more formal tone. Mom would be proud of me.
“Ah, we’re not sure.” Mr. Carmichael sounded nervous. She had never seen him nervous. “He’s had a rough go of things, but I know you two… Well…if this makes it awkward, we can arrange—”
“No, it’s okay.” Her pride wouldn’t let her say anything less. Ever since Mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, Emma had taken over caring for the house for them and she strove to do as well as her mother. “This is your family’s place. There’s no reason Elliot can’t—shouldn’t live here.” Nice and professional. That’s it, Em.
“Well, all right. If he gives you any trouble at all, you let me know,” Mr. Carmichael warned.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” And it damn well will be.
“Okay, I’ll email you his details. Say hi to your mom for me.”
“Okay.”
“Talk to you later.”
“Will do.” Emma hung up, still staring at her phone. A week from today. The start of Spring Break. She wouldn’t even have school as an excuse. No, wait, she’d probably have a school project she could work on…
“Is everything all right?” Corey asked, right next to her.
Startled by his sudden presence, Emma screamed, and the phone bounced out of her hand. It flew in a perfect arch just before Corey snatched it and held it back to her. “Here.”
“Thank you.” Emma grabbed the device and jammed it in the back of her jeans’ pocket.
“You okay?” Corey asked again, catching her eyes.
“Yeah,” Emma flashed him another smile.
She wasn’t. But Elliot was just a childhood crush. She could survive this.
And she refused to believe otherwise.
* * * *
Elliot growled at the mess in his bedroom but found no target for his anger. After all, he was the one who had refused to let anyone in, including the maid, during the last few months. But that didn’t make any of the packing easier.
Enough was enough. He was sick of the way everyone walked on eggshells around him, the disappointment and sadness on his mother’s face, the awkward silences from his father.
No more.
He stalked the dimly lit room, gathering discarded shirts and pants to dump them into a large laundry basket sitting full of accusations next to his en suite bathroom. But that wasn’t enough. Long strides took him to his desk, where crumpled paper littered the floor.
His characters called to him, but the words would not come out right. His agent had called three times already, prodding for reports of his writing progress, but he had none to give. She said she understood, given his loss. Still, she hoped…
Elliot pulled out his chair and slumped into it, running a hand through his inky hair, styled in what fashion called ‘the bro flow’. To be honest, it had just grown out, but he didn’t give a shit. The single lamp at the side of his bed cast odd shadows across the room, and he studied them while his mind floated in numbness until he caught himself.
Bloody hell.
What he needed was to clean himself up and hit the clubs, maybe have a quick lay. But here he was, trying to pack for an indefinite move to the other side of the pond. He had agreed when his parents had suggested it, thinking a fresh start was a good idea. But how does one pack for something like this?
“Elliot?” A knock accompanied the sound. Mum. Great.
Silence reigned as he held his breath, willing for her to go away. Just as he exhaled, she spoke aga
in, scaring the shit out of him.
“Do you need help packing?”
Hesitation filled Elliot. Would his mother use this as an excuse to ‘talk‘? Was it worth the risk? He wasn’t too proud to admit that he could use the help.
“Your father talked to Emma.”
Emma. Fuck.
“I’m coming.” He rose and crossed the room to open the doors.
Surprise had lifted his mother’s aged face. But she smoothed her expression over and gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, let’s get to it, shall we?” She swept the room with her gaze but only squared her shoulders and walked in. “Let’s let in some fresh air.”
Before Elliot could protest, she had marched right across the floor, flung open the curtains he kept drawn and pushed the French doors out to the balcony. Light flooded the room and Elliot had to squint to make out his mother beaming at him.
“There,” she declared. “It’s a beautiful day, don’t you think?”
The birds chirped with a little too much cheer, and a breeze swept through the trees. Elliot wore only a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt that was thin enough for him to feel the nippy air. It was enough to wake up anyone all the way.
“Yeah, sure,” he muttered under his breath. He held his tongue as he watched his mother putter around his room. She liked to keep her hands busy whenever she was nervous. He understood because he did the same.
“Emma is preparing for your stay,” she offered without looking at him. “I have some things I’d like for you to take to her. There’s the tea that she and her mother are always so fond of. Don’t forget to direct any requests you have to her and not to Anna, even if you see her up and about. But try to not impose on the two of them. Poor Emma has enough to deal with as it is.”
His mother rambled on, but Elliot’s thoughts were already a mile away. The name, long abandoned but not forgotten, conjured up images of gangly limbs, a nest of blonde hair and a toothy grin. Thoughts of his childhood friend always brought along the dull ache of guilt. At some point, he had lost touch with her, engrossed with local parties and the attention of all the girls here, and by the time he realized what had happened, it was too late.
“Elliot? Elliot.”
His vision refocused to behold his mother hovering inches from him, a frown on her face.
“I’m fine, Mum.”
She raised an eyebrow at him.
He wasn’t about to admit that every time he tried to sleep, he woke from nightmares that left him in a cold sweat. And he would not squirm under her scrutiny either. That little boy had faded away a long time ago.
“You look exhausted, Elliot. Take a nap. Packing can wait until later.”
“I’ll be fine,” he insisted. “Go get what you want to send to Em, and I’ll put it in my pack.” Em. The nickname came so easily to his lips, as if he’d spoken her name often in the last ten years. He hadn’t.
“Very well. Get some rest when you can.” There it was. That look of pity and sorrow. Elliot clenched his jaw and said nothing. With another sigh, his mother left.
Chapter Two
Dear Elliot,
When I started writing in this diary, I felt silly writing without addressing anyone. So, I chose you because I used to write down everything I wanted to tell you anyway. That was…before you ghosted me. But now you’re coming back, and it feels weird writing this.
What do you think? Should I keep going?
Of course, I should. It wouldn’t be fair to you if I stopped now, would it? I’ll write more later. I promise.
With love,
Emma
Emma kicked her shoes off as she entered the mudroom, hauling two large bags of groceries in each hand. She had no idea what Elliot’s food tastes had become, but she remembered him as a picky eater. So, she’d bought his favorites as much as she could recall—white bread, a variety of cheese, apples, grapes, quinoa, milk. She hated milk, but he’d loved it as a kid.
And a boatload of ice cream.
Okay, so the last one was her using Elliot as an excuse. But Emma’s gut told her she was going to need it.
A beep signaled an incoming text, and it became a juggling act of switching bags hanging on different hands to dig the phone out of her pocket. When she managed at last, she unlocked the phone with one thumb and stared at the notification.
Hey, Emma, you hanging in there? Haven’t seen you all week. How did midterms go? I think I bombed my 405.
Emma chuckled and shook her head. She’d text back later, but she was glad to hear from Holly, her bestie. It had been a frantic week between midterms and preparations.
“Mom, I’m home!” she called out.
“In the kitchen!” Her mother’s voice, although faint, still echoed through the wall.
Emma frowned. “I hope you are resting,” she called out as she brought her purchases to the kitchen and froze as soon as she stepped foot into the space.
Anna sat on the kitchen floor, panting as flour spilled from an upended mixing bowl. Wisps of her thinning hair, already white before she had been diagnosed, fell over her face as her skinny arms shook from the effort of bracing herself against the floor.
“Mom! What the hell!” Emma dropped the bags and scrambled to kneel beside her mother. Anna tilted her head back, and Emma followed her gaze up to the mixing bowls.
“I thought I’d make Elliot some of those lemon cookies he liked so much. It’s been such a long time…” Anna shook her head and glared at the mess. “But that damn bowl was slippery.”
Emma’s heart broke for her mom. Anna had always prided herself on being independent and loved to bake. To not be able to even make cookies, ones she used to be able to do in her sleep, must be a hard blow. So, rather than scolding her mom, Emma mustered up a grin. “Well, why don’t I help you clean the mess and we can keep going? I’ll move the mixer to the table and be your sous chef.”
“Sous chefs are for cooking, not baking,” she corrected but chuckled. “Okay, my little helper. Let’s do it.”
Emma rose to her feet then bent over to help her mother get up. Together, they made their way to the heavy oak table by the breakfast nook. Emma and Anna often ate their meals there.
“Let me go put everything away first, then I’ll bring over what we need.” Emma kissed her mother on the forehead as she settled her into one of the wooden chairs, this one with a large, thick pillow.
“Did you buy ice cream again?” Anna asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Um…maybe?” Emma moved away to retrieve the bags and started putting the groceries away. She glanced over at her mom sitting with her back toward her while she pulled the containers out and put them in the freezer. Chocolate, cookies and cream and strawberry. Perhaps Mom wouldn’t look too hard.
Anna let out a long sigh and shook her head. “What am I going to do with you, Emma?”
She shrugged off her jacket and hauled the mixer over. The ingredients within sloshed back and forth, but she took it slow enough that none spilled. “Love me forever and ever?” Emma teased and Anna chuckled, though Emma glimpsed the shadows on her mother’s face.
“Perhaps.” Anna said nothing more, and Emma didn’t push. It was a natural exchange for both of them, but it had taken on a different meaning since the diagnosis.
Emma swallowed the lump in her throat as she put the other stuff away. “So, is it three cups of flour or is this a double batch?”
When Anna didn’t answer, Emma spun around to find her staring at the bowl, a tight frown on her face.
“I… I’m not sure,” she muttered under her breath.
Emma winced but put on a cheerful voice. “Well, I’ll start with three then.” Chemo had hit her mother hard, and she often had trouble focusing. Surgery was still four weeks away, though, and Emma often had to fight her anxiety about it. She grabbed another bowl and a measuring cup before she walked into the pantry.
She stood there in the semi-darkness and focused on her breathing to keep the t
ears back. In out. In out. Don’t cry. Be strong. She hunted for the massive bag of flour, found it and scooped out what she needed into the bowl.
When she emerged and returned to the table, her mother had already slumped back in the chair, her head back, eyes closed. Emma set the bowl aside and observed with care. When her chest rose and fell again, Emma let out a sign of relief. Baking must have exhausted her. Emma left for Anna’s bedroom and returned with a quilt to drape over her.
By the time she’d finished the batter—leaving it to bake the cookies later—turned off the oven and cleaned the mess off the floor, it was already two p.m. Emma cursed and wiped her hands on her torn black jeans. There was no time to change, not if she wanted to get to the airport on time to pick up Elliot. She wrote a note for her mother, left it on the table and exited the kitchen.
It had begun to rain outside, a downpour in the middle of spring that only the west coast rainforest region could offer. Emma pulled on her combat boots instead and grabbed her hoodie and leather jacket before she walked outside and circled around to the garage. The less she had to trek through the giant house, the less she had to clean.
She opened the garage door with the remote on her key chain. Her second-hand Beetle, with classic yellow paint that had chipped in certain places, sat in the large empty garage meant to house at least three. Still, it was hers.
Emma plugged her phone into the cassette tape adapter and selected her tunes. White Snake’s Here We Go Again. Then she was off.
She zipped through the roads, singing along to classic rock songs until she arrived. The clock alerted her that she was cutting it close and she hurried into a parking spot before she got out, locked the car and booked it.
A glance at one of the arrivals and departures boards told her that deplaning had begun. It should take some time for Elliot to pass through customs. Emma rocked on the soles of her feet as she waited. Would Elliot recognize her? Would she recognize him? The last time they’d seen each other they had been twelve years old, and the last they’d spoken… Emma startled when she realized she couldn’t even remember.