Still a Work in Progress

by Jo Knowles

  As I chew, I look at Emma’s empty chair again and start to hate her. To hate her and miss her and love her all at the same time. As I do, I feel all that cheese and sauce and pizza crust churning in my stomach, begging me to let it all out. But I know if that happened, if I threw up now, it would destroy my parents. So I take another sip of soda, swallow it down, and pretend that this is the best meal I’ve had in ages.

  Ryan and Sam ignore me the next day at school. In fact, no one really talks to me. They all kind of look at me and back off, like I could explode again at any minute. Fine. I’d rather be left alone anyway.

  In art, I get some clay and work at a table by myself. No one asks what I’m working on. Not even Ms. Cliff. I have this strange feeling that they all secretly decided that no one should bother me. I try to shut everything out but the clay in my hands, how it feels cold and hard at first but then softens as I work it, slowly shaping nothing into something. It doesn’t matter what.

  Every so often, I catch Ms. Cliff watching me out of the corner of her eye, as if she can’t help herself. But she manages not to ask me how I’m doing or tell me I should come to chat in her office.

  Even the Tank leaves me alone in class.

  The only one who doesn’t seem to have gotten the Don’t Talk to Noah memo is Curly. She follows me around like a puppy would, rubbing against my legs and sitting on my lap from class to class. Sometimes I think she knows when someone needs a friend. Not that I need a friend. At least, not the kind of friends who talk nonstop about nothing. I’m really starting to understand Emma’s list of beasts and why she made it. Doesn’t anyone care about stuff besides who broke up with who and who has crappy taste in music and who probably cheated on the French quiz? If I had to make a list today, I think they’d all be on there. But maybe that makes me a beast, too.

  At lunch, I sit by myself until Lily comes over and gives me a disapproving look.

  “Way to go, Noah. I hope you’re satisfied,” she says before stomping off.

  I have no idea what she’s talking about, and I don’t really care. But then Belle storms over to me and waits for me to look up.

  “Did you hear?” she asks, all know-it-all-ish.

  “What?”

  “Molly and Sam broke up.”

  “And?”

  “Good going,” she says. “I always thought you were nice, but I was so wrong.”

  “What do I have to do with it?” I ask.

  “Your little outburst made them get in a fight.”

  “Why?”

  She looks at me like I’m an idiot.

  “Because of all the things you said. Molly thought you were a jerk, and Sam stood up for you, and then they both started arguing, and then they broke up.”

  Curly comes over and rubs against my leg.

  “Sam stood up for me?”

  “Of course, stupid. Aren’t you best friends?”

  I don’t know what to say.

  “Don’t ask me why,” she adds. “You said some pretty mean things. I hope you’re proud.”

  “I’m not. I was just . . . really mad.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Whatever,” I say.

  “Great attitude.” She looks at me like I’m a rat. I think about the kid who doesn’t make her bed and imagine that’s Belle. I want to yell at her and tell her how unimportant and stupid Sam and Molly’s relationship is, but instead I pet Curly and ignore her.

  “Just because your sister is sick doesn’t mean it’s OK to act like a jerk,” she says before walking away.

  “What does she know?” I ask Curly quietly.

  Curly licks my hand and walks away, too.

  After school when I go up to my room, there’s a letter on my messy-but-made bed from Emma. My dad must have put it there. I can hear him in the kitchen making dinner, which means he left work early again. I hope he doesn’t get fired.

  I sit in the beanbag chair Emma gave me and listen to the beads settle in their comforting way. The envelope is decorated with little peace signs and funny faces. I take my time checking out each face, trying to see if the people are supposed to be anyone I know, or just random. One has glasses, and I think that’s Sam. One is pouting, and I tell myself that’s Ryan, not me. I try to imagine Emma at the treatment place, sitting at some unfamiliar desk or table, decorating this envelope for me. I wonder what she was thinking about. I wonder if she was missing me — us — and wanting to come home.

  I turn the letter over and over before I finally get the nerve to open it. I don’t know why I’m scared. I just somehow know that inside, I could find the real Emma or the pretending Emma. The one who tells the truth or the one who lies. My sister or the demon that took over her soul. What if I can’t tell the difference?

  Slowly, I tear the envelope open and slide out the neatly folded paper inside. At the top, she’s written my name in cute bubble letters in different colors.

  Dear Noah,

  I miss you!

  I’ve been here for what feels like a pretty long time. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here. A few more weeks at least, I guess. But I’ll be home before you know it. What’s it like to be an only child? Are Mom and Dad spoiling you?

  I’m sorry I ruined Christmas. And I suppose New Year’s, too. I forgot to ask you about that when you visited. Was it boring having to hang out with Mom and Dad alone? Or did you break out and go to a New Year’s party?

  It was pretty strange to be here and not home. I pretended it was just another day, even though the staff gave us hot chocolate with candy canes for stirring it. Whoop-de-do. Just another day. That’s my new mantra. Do you like it?

  Anyway, I just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you. And that I’m sorry. And that I probably won’t be home for a while, if you want to know the truth.

  But I’m trying. That’s what I really want you to know. That I’m trying really hard. Please try to convince Mom and Dad of that. I know they’re scared.

  I love you,

  Emma

  P.S. Give the Captain a hug for me.

  P.P.S. Remember: Just another day!

  I read the note again, looking for any secret clues or possible lies. I study all the decorations for hidden meaning. The hearts. The smiley faces. The flowers.

  Did she drink the hot chocolate? Did she eat the candy cane? Is she still insisting on her vegan diet? Did she try to puke it all up anyway? Why did she call me an only child? Does she really think I would want that? She’s trying, but does that mean she’s succeeding?

  I fold the paper and put it back in the envelope.

  Food smells waft up from downstairs and make my stomach growl. I go to my desk and tear out a piece of paper from my social studies notebook.

  DEAR EMMA, I write in block letters. Then I make shadows around the blocks and use my colored pencils to fill in the letters.

  Thanks for writing. Please don’t be sorry about Christmas and New Year’s.

  Wait. Should I really say that? Don’t I want her to feel sorry? I erase the sentence.

  Christmas and New Year’s weren’t the same without you. Your stocking will be overflowing when you get home, waiting for you to open it. I promise it will have good stuff.

  I stop. I am terrible at writing letters. My mom makes me write thank-you notes to my grandparents whenever they send me presents, even though they’re usually lame. But that’s my only practice.

  Carpool is so boring without you.

  Will that make her feel guilty? Or like she needs to get better faster so she can come back and save me?

  Sara gave me a letter to send to you and I put it in the mail. Did you get it?

  I’ve been using the tools you sent me in art. Ms. Cliff said I could use them in class as long as I shared, but I’m the only one still working with clay.

  Ugh. Would Emma really care about this? But I want her to know how much her present meant to me. I keep it.

  I hope you get better and come home soon. Nothing is the same without yo
u. It’s all worse.

  I start to erase the last sentence, then decide to keep it. It’s the truth.

  Love, Noah

  I reread my note, then add decorations. I draw a stocking overflowing with presents with a speech bubble that says, “Emma, open me!” And myself, looking miserable in the carpool car. I make sure to draw Stu and Harper really exaggerated, with Harper’s big nose and Stu’s big head. I draw Curly with a Santa hat on. I draw the Captain farting under the Christmas tree. I try to fill every free space on the paper with something funny. Then I color everything in. I put it in an envelope and start to write the address from the letter Emma sent. It feels strange to write her name with the wrong address. It should be 10 Atkins Road, not this other place. This other city. I decide not to decorate the outside. I just can’t.

  “Noah! Dinner!” my dad calls.

  I leave the envelope on my desk and go downstairs.

  Dinner is lasagna, my old favorite. We haven’t had it in ages. Not like this. With real ricotta instead of Emma’s weird almond cheese that doesn’t taste like cheese.

  “Nothing like real cheese, huh?” my dad asks. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile without forcing it in a long time.

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “She had a meeting. I thought we’d have a nice early dinner and then maybe watch a movie or something.”

  “Dad, it’s a school night. I have homework.”

  He waves his hand. “You can do it later, can’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  “I just thought it would be nice to hang out. Just the two of us.” He cuts a piece of lasagna and then passes me a basket filled with garlic bread. Everything smells delicious. The bread is slathered with real butter and sprinkled with parmesan cheese. When I take a bite, the flavors are almost too strong.

  “This is amazing, Dad,” I say, since he seems so excited about it.

  My dad’s mouth is full, but I can tell he’s still smiling. He gives me a goofy thumbs-up.

  We eat mostly without talking, stuffing our faces with cheese and pasta. But just like with the pizza, about halfway through the meal, everything starts to taste wrong. My stomach tightens. I put down my fork.

  “What’s wrong?” my dad asks.

  “I think I ate too fast,” I say.

  “Drink some milk. You’ll feel better.”

  I sip some milk and notice it’s cow’s milk, not soy.

  I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  “Hmm,” my dad says. “Maybe you’re just not used to all this dairy. Maybe we’ve all become lactose intolerant.”

  I don’t know what that means, but I don’t ask, because I’m pretty sure that’s not what’s wrong. I’m pretty sure what’s wrong is that I feel guilty for eating things Emma is against. I feel guilty knowing that I can eat this and not feel like I have to punish myself for it after. I feel guilty because I’m here with my dad, and she’s not. And it feels like by eating this stuff, we’re being unfaithful to her. Like we’re lying to her.

  My dad puts down his fork, too. “I’m sorry, Noah. I should have asked if you were OK eating dairy. It was wrong to assume.”

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  He looks at me like he knows it’s not, though. “I wish I knew the right thing to do. I’m the parent. I should. But sometimes I really don’t.”

  “It’s all right, Dad.”

  He wipes his eyes with his napkin. “This is so hard.”

  “I know.”

  He puts his napkin next to his plate. “You go on up and do your homework. I’ll take care of the dishes.”

  “What about watching a movie?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Maybe later, kid.”

  “All right.” I bring my plate to the kitchen and put it in the dishwasher. The Captain follows me in, and I let him lick the plates in the dishwasher before I close it. No one needs to know.

  In my room, I check my phone for messages, out of habit. Of course there aren’t any. I haven’t had any for days. I scroll through some of the old ones and feel a twinge of missing Sam and Ryan and our stupid conversations. I wonder if they’re still mad at each other. I wonder if they’re having conversations without me now. I wish it was still fall and our biggest worry was going to the school dance and whether anyone would dance with us. Why did that seem so important? I can’t remember.

  I find Emma’s letter and read it again. There’s really nothing much there. No clue to say why she did what she did. Or does. I don’t understand it. I’ve read all the stupid pamphlets they gave us at the place she’s staying. All the websites they said to go to. But none of them really make sense. None of them tell me why. Why Emma? She’s the good one. The perfect one. She’s the popular one. The pretty one. Everyone wants to be her friend. She doesn’t need to be anything different from what she already is, so why would she do this to herself? It’s like she sabotaged her life. For what?

  How could she be so stupid?

  Doesn’t she know how many people can only dream of looking like her? Of being as smart as her? Of being as loved as her?

  How could she be so ungrateful? How could she put herself at so much risk?

  How could she be so selfish?

  I almost tear her letter in half but stop.

  It’s a disease, I tell myself. It’s not her fault. She doesn’t want to be sick.

  OK.

  Fine.

  So whose fault is it?

  For the next few weeks, my life is kind of the same. Go to school. Ignore everyone. Be ignored back. Go home. Eat increasingly rich and cheesy and forbidden food made by my dad. Feel sick. Go to my room to do homework. Watch mindless TV. Write a letter to Emma. Wait for her to come say good night, even though I know she can’t. Eventually fall asleep.

  Every night at dinner, my mom gives my dad a funny look about what he’s serving, but she never tells him to stop. We have baked mac and cheese. Mashed potatoes with real butter ponds. Homemade pizza. More lasagna. The only rule we don’t break is eating meat. I guess none of us can face knowing how Emma would feel if we ate something that actually “contains death.”

  We don’t compare letters from Emma, even though we all get them. We don’t talk about Emma at all, actually. It’s like an unwritten rule.

  It’s like I really am an only child.

  Emma still writes me letters that don’t say much. She tells me stories about how nice the nurses are, but she doesn’t talk about the other patients, because she says it’s all confidential and she’s not supposed to. She tells me about what books she reads and what TV shows she’s watching. But she doesn’t say anything about coming home. When we visit her, she’s polite and friendly and tells us she’s homesick but fine. She’s always fine. It’s just another day!

  Just another crappy day, I think.

  Tonight, my dad has made calzones stuffed with four types of cheese, and I’ve done my usual devour-half-and-start-to-feel-sick routine. My mom picks at her food, as always. She eats it all, but slowly. Painfully slowly. And I decide I really can’t take this not-talking-about-Emma game anymore.

  “Why hasn’t anyone said when Emma’s actually coming home?” I ask after forcing myself to drink my milk. “It’s almost February break.”

  My mom and dad exchange a look, as if I’m not sitting here.

  “What?” I ask.

  My dad finishes chewing and sips his wine.

  My mom does the same.

  “It’s complicated,” my dad says.

  “Why?”

  They do their private-look exchange again. The one where they don’t talk but say everything.

  “We don’t want to worry you,” my mom says quietly.

  The food in my stomach seems to harden and curdle. “Well, obviously I’m worried even more now,” I say.

  My mom motions for my dad to be the one to explain.

  He reaches out to touch my arm, as if he wants me to hold still while he tells me the news. “The therapy team is concerned abo
ut Emma’s progress,” he says. “She’s . . . not quite where they hoped by now.”

  I feel my food starting to come up my throat, and force it back down again. “Where they hoped?” I ask. What does that mean?

  My mom reaches over to touch my hand, but I slide it away. “It’s just taking more time than we thought it would,” she says. “We have to try to be patient. She’s in a safe place. That’s what’s important.”

  “So, does she just stay there forever? How are you guys going to pay for this?”

  “We’re fine.”

  “No, we aren’t! I’ve heard you fighting about it.”

  My dad drinks his wine. “Insurance covers a fair amount, and we can get by with the rest. It’ll be hard, but we’ll be OK.”

  “Sometimes I really hate her,” I say.

  “No, you don’t,” my dad says. “You hate her disease.”

  “She doesn’t have cancer!” I say. “She’s the one making herself sick!”

  “Stop it!” My mom slams her fork onto the table. “You know it’s more complicated than that. She wants to come home, but it’s not safe yet. She needs to stay there as long as it takes to get well, no matter what. We’re not going to risk losing her.”

  “Losing her?”

  “Louise!” my dad says, shocked.

  “She could have died, Jeff!” my mom cries. “Let’s be honest for a change!”

  My dad glares at her. “She’s fine. She’s going to be fine.”

  “She didn’t really almost die,” I say. “Did she?”

  A whimper comes from under the table. The Captain hates when we fight.

  My mom takes another long sip of wine. Her hand is shaking.

  My dad gets up from the table and grabs his plate. There’s still half a calzone on it. “No,” he says, glaring at my mom. “She didn’t.” But it feels like a lie.

  “Where are you going?” my mom asks him.

  “I lost my appetite.”

  “Sit back down.”