by Mariah Cole
I consider stopping my words right here, right before it gets ugly, but I remember Carter saying that no one will judge me here so I continue.
“I can’t remember a time after I turned fourteen that I wasn’t drinking with her. When I first started, I only needed a shot or two to get me through the day—a quick glass of wine at the end of the night to listen to her discuss her problems, to make her listen to mine...”
Memories of her passed out on our couch flash through my mind—memories of me calling 9-1-1 time and time again because she wasn’t breathing, because her pulse was faint.
“I honestly can’t remember one time that she gave me her undivided attention just because, or a time when she wanted to hang out with me without alcohol. I never realized it before this summer, but alcohol is what kept us together. I’m sure she loved me, but...” I stop. I can’t even finish that sentence.
“When she died—I’m sorry, that’s not completely accurate. When she left me via suicide, that’s when I realized how lonely I was, when I realized that I literally had no one in my life. So, I drank myself into oblivion every chance that I could. Any chance that her face popped into my mind, I drank because that’s how she used to deal with her problems and I thought it would help mine disappear as well.”
The room is completely black now, and the only person in the room is Leah. She’s staring at me, expressionless, and I know my mind is playing tricks on me, but it seems as if she’s really here—as if she’s listening to my every word.
“She taught me that people were unreliable and untrustworthy, and that eight dollars for a bottle of numbness and painlessness was worth much more than any friendship I could ever build.”
“With her gone, my drinking became even worse in college. I needed it to function. I needed it to breathe. Every morning, every night, every day...And after taking some more of her misguided advice and having a vengeful bitch for a roommate, I couldn’t control my drinking anymore.”
“I drank for any reason that I could, and every extra dollar I had went to a new bottle. The night that I got arrested for the accident, they told me my blood alcohol level was five times over the legal limit, and that if had taken one or two more shots I probably could’ve died. And I think I wanted to...” I sigh, but I still can’t bring myself to cry. Holding tears back has been ingrained in me for far too long. “I think my mom influenced me into becoming the fucked up person that I am today, and I still hate her for leaving me, but I don’t blame her for anything...She tried her best and now I’m going to try mine. I’m going to try to change...”
“So, there...That’s all I have.” I step away from the podium and take my seat.
The room is still silent and I consider getting up and leaving because they’re supposed to clap. They’re supposed to tell me that I’m okay, that I did a good job, but no one has uttered a word.
I’ve just shared my story for nothing.
I pick my bag up and slide it over my shoulder—prepared to leave, but then I hear a single clap from Tim. Then the man to my right. Then the woman to my left.
And then everyone is the room is clapping and walking over to me, hugging me.
“Get the fuck off of me,” I say, trying not to smile. “I don’t want to be hugged...No. Seriously, I don’t like hugs...”
Chapter 16
I remove the hidden wooden panel in my sock drawer and count my savings from The Phoenix.
After paying the city for the street lamp and the stop sign, buying my car back from the state, and covering my court costs, I have eight thousand dollars of my own.
I figure I’ll dance for another week or two to try to earn a little more, but I’m quitting soon. I need to start finalizing my plans to move to New York.
For the very first time, I’ve received a positive response from an editor, an “I would love to discuss this manuscript with you” letter.
It’s not a guarantee, it’s not a promise, but it’s not a rejection.
Rolling my money into a sock again, I stuff it into hiding and hear a knock at my door.
“Hey, Emerald.” Virginia walks into my room.
“Hey. What’s up?”
“Is there a reason why you took all those papers down from your ceiling? I was starting to get used to them.”
“Not really.” I lie. I want to tell her that I no longer feel like a failure, that I no longer want to stare at things that remind me how miserable I was just a few months ago, but I can’t. I’ve done enough opening up over the past few weeks.
“Henry and I are so proud of all you’ve accomplished this summer.” She pulls me into her arms, hugging me so tightly I can barely breathe. “So, so proud.”
“All I did was finish rehab,” I say as she lets me go.
“No, you did more than that. You kept a job longer than you ever have before, you made friends, and you paid off all of your debts on your own. You did a lot, even though you still didn’t find the time to go to church.”
I laugh.
“Can you come downstairs with me for a minute? Me and Henry want to talk to you about something.” She doesn’t give me a chance to answer. She practically pushes me out of my room and down the steps.
“There she is!” Henry takes off his reading glasses as we enter the living room. “Have a seat, Emerald.”
I look back and forth between the two of them, wondering what the hell is going on. They’ve only cornered me like this one time before, and even though I was drunk at the time, I remember the conversation being anything but pleasant.
They look at each other, and then they look at me, sighing at the exact same time.
“I’m not sure if you knew this or not, but Leah used to call and leave us voice messages over the years...” Henry’s eyes are watering. “She would tell us that we’d never get to meet you and that she would never let us be a part of your life.”
Virginia wipes a tear from her eyes and Henry pats her shoulder.
“It was her way of driving the knife even deeper into our hearts. She knew it hurt us terribly, but as the years passed, I think she realized it hurt her too because she stopped. She started sending us pictures of you, copies of your report cards, and as you got older, she would send us copies of your essays and stories.”
I feel a lump rising up my throat, but I force it back down. I never thought Leah actually read any of my work, and I would’ve never believed her if she told me that she was sending it to my grandparents.
“For the last ten years of her life, that’s how we communicated. No talking, no texting, just letters. She would send us your work, and we would send her a letter saying we received it, begging her for more.”
Wiping a tear from his eye, he sighs. “The last thing she sent to us was a letter in her own words.” He pulls an envelope from his breast-pocket and hands it to me.
It’s unopened. “Why haven’t you opened it yet?”
“It came with a note to us. She mailed it the day before she died. She said to give it to you whenever we followed the instructions.”
“Instructions?”
Henry smiles and cries at the same time. “She said to give it to you whenever we thought you weren’t angry with her anymore.”
I run my fingers against the flap and shake my head. Besides her suicide letter, Leah never wrote anything and I’m not sure if my heart can handle any more of her words.
“Is that all you have to tell me?” My voice is cracking. “I need to finish cleaning up.”
“That’s not all.” Virginia walks over and puts her hand on my shoulder. “I know you’ve been wanting to get away from Blythe and leave us for a while now.”
I feel guilty as she begins to cry. “No. I just—”
“We get it. We completely understand, but we want to give you another option. We don’t want to let you go so soon.”
I look at both of them, seeing the sadness in their eyes.
“I’ll come back for the holidays and I’ll call every other weekend.”
Virginia presses her finger against my lips. “We want you to finish your college education.”
“What?”
“We’ll pay for it,” Henry says. “You’d be in state—University of Alabama, and we can more than afford that. You’d be close to home and you could always call us if you got stressed or wanted us to come visit.”
I shake my head because I can’t believe this. This is not what I was expecting. At all.
“What do you think?” Virginia is practically holding her breath in anticipation of an answer. “I think the big publishing houses in New York will always be there. You can always use a degree to fall back on, you know?”
“What’s the catch?”
“There is no catch.” Henry smiles. “Well, there may be a couple...”
“Like?”
“You’ll have to join an AA group when you get there—for at least your first year, you’ll have to call us at least once a week, and you’ll have to send us everything you write.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Aren’t you worried that you’ll be wasting your money? That I’ll just flunk out again?”
“You won’t.” Virginia rubs my knuckles. “We know you won’t.”
“Can I think about this?”
“Of course.” She pulls me up and hugs me. “We believe in you, Emerald. We always have and we always will.”
As much as I try to prevent the tears from falling, they trickle down my cheeks anyway.
“Let us know whenever you decide, but the fall semester starts pretty soon.” Henry hugs me too, and for the longest time, the three of stand just like that.
I carry two of Virginia’s cupcakes up to my room and flop onto my bed.
After we finally disentangled from our embrace, she made dinner and showed me how to make her most basic cupcake. Then she showed me how to make her butter biscuits, laughing when I burned the first batch, calling me “Leah’s daughter for sure.”
I pull Leah’s letter out of my pocket and stare at it.
She didn’t even bother to put my name on the envelope. It’s blank, the only adornment being a brown stain which I’m sure is a splatter of rum.
I’m tempted to rip it to shreds and flush it like her other letter so I can be content with the memories I have; I don’t need any new reasons to be upset because I feel somewhat at peace.
I toss it onto the floor, letting it lie there for a while, letting it taunt me, then I pick it up and rip it open:
Dear Em,
I’m writing this letter because I don’t have much time, because I’m not sure if I’m going to go through with my plans or not, but I want you to know that whatever happens to me, I love you. No matter what. I. Fucking. Love. You.
That said, hopefully you’re reading this letter years later per my wishes, but if not, I can understand the logic behind that decision...
I want you to know that I am and have ALWAYS been proud of you. You are so smart, so intelligent, so everything that I’m not.
This is going to sound so insane, Em, but some days I felt intimidated by you...You would come home and tell me about all these great things you were doing, all these colleges that were practically begging for you to be their student and I was so blown away—so happy for you. But deep down I wondered if telling me those things was your way of telling me that what I’d done for you wasn’t good enough.
And I know that it wasn’t...
I can honestly admit that I wasn’t there when you needed me most and it fucking hurts to say that, but it’s true. I’m not excusing my selfishness in anyway, but I want you to know that sometimes I didn’t show up because I was insecure.
I remember a writing competition you had at Town Hall—the one I told you I couldn’t make it to because I was in New York with Vincent...I was there, Em. I was in the back, but being there confirmed why I (selfishly) missed most of your events...
All the other kids’ parents were doctors, lawyers, teachers—people who had actually done shit with their lives, people who were asking me which student I was there to see and what I did for a living...I didn’t want to embarrass you, so I watched you perform and I left right after.
I know I’ve taught you that looks are everything, but they’re nothing when you’re insecure about everything else. As a matter of fact, I’ve learned that sometimes the prettiest people do the ugliest things, and that’s no way to be.
You are ten times better than I ever was, and I know you’ll probably still be angry with me when you read this, but what I’m about to say is real advice...Things I wish I had taught you when you were younger, things that I hope are not too late to reverse and tell you about:
1. Looks are only a reflection of how you want other people to see you. It’s better to be fucked up on the outside, than fucked up on the inside. Mascara and lip gloss can’t cure a broken heart, and they damn sure don’t do shit for depression.
2. Fuck sponsors. Make friends. Friends are the rare people in your life who’ll tell you when you’re fucking up. Even when you don’t want to hear it and think they’re just being mean or trying to put you down—they’re usually just trying to help and they have your best interests at heart.
3. The smartest person in the room will always be more valuable than the prettiest person in the room. (But you can always be both :-) LOL )
My last bit of advice is about boys. (Well, “men” at your age...) I fell in love at fifteen, had you at sixteen, and never heard from my first love again—even after he promised me “forever,” even after he promised that he would run away with me and we’d both study to become nurses (my real dream job...) and take care of you. I fell in love once more at twenty one—with a guy who didn’t care what I did to pay the bills, with a guy who was so sweet and charming that I wasn’t sure I deserved him...Nonetheless, I held onto him for longer than I should’ve because we were at different stages in our lives: I still didn’t know who I was, and he had everything figured out—including what he thought *I* should be and how I should *change* for him, so I eventually had to leave him...
What does all of that mean? It means live your life for you, Em. No one else. Not me. Not your friends. Not your boyfriend (if you have one). Put yourself FIRST. Accomplish everything you want, achieve all of your dreams, and don’t let anyone stand in your fucking way...
I look forward to seeing you win a Pulitzer, land on the bestseller charts, or whatever it is that writers fucking do when they make it big...
I’m proud of you.
I’m watching you.
I love you.
More than you’ll ever know, Em...
(And remember, no one else is allowed to call you that. EVER. You are MY “Em” and no one else’s.)
Yours,
Leah Belle.
I drop the letter to the floor and hug my pillow, crying hard for the first time in years.
I’m still reeling from the way she chose to leave me, but I right now I understand. I get it. Even though I wish I didn’t...
“I was there, Em. I was in the back...” “I was always proud of you.” “My Em and no one else’s.” “I’m watching you...” “Accomplish everything you want.”
I no longer need to think about Virginia and Henry’s offer. I’ll accept it first thing tomorrow morning.
***
I drive myself to The Phoenix early the next afternoon, admiring the simplicity of the barren backstreets as I roll by. This’ll be the last time I drive this way; I have five weeks before fall classes start and I need to spend as much time as I can studying for the placement exams.
I’d thought that all I needed to do to start classes again was show up and register, but apparently placement tests are a necessity for those “second triers” who are a “risk” to the university; I have to be deemed worthy before I can enroll.
As I pull into the employee parking lot, I smile at the way this place impacted me this summer.
The money was good
, great, but what was better was that feeling—Well, feeling at all really. I’d spent the past two years in a numb haze, existing—letting life happen to me. But at The Phoenix, I controlled my own life and sometimes the lives of others.
I fulfilled men’s fantasies by dancing on that stage, by letting them get close enough for one second—making them believe that I was attainable, that they could have me. They made me feel wanted, and I made them feel wanted back.
“Hello, Raven.” Charlie greets me in the lot. “I thought you were off today.”
“I am. I’m just here to tell Michael that I’m quitting.”
“What?” He crosses his arms. “Why?”
“I’m starting college in a few weeks. I need to get ready.”
“You just came to that decision or have you known that all along?”
“Why? Are you going to miss me?”
“Nope.” He opens the door and holds it for me. “Good riddance.”
I smile and give him a hug before heading down to Michael’s office. Sighing, I take a deep breath and knock on the door.
“Come in,” he answers.
I open the door and see him sitting behind his desk, puffing a cigarette.
A girl buttons her shirt and rushes past me before the door completely shuts.
“New dancer?” I ask, plopping down in the seat on front of him.
“Unfortunately not.” He sighs. “She cried before she could get her shirt off so I told her to go home. Are you that bored that you needed to come in on your off day and bother me? Or are you that broke?”
“I’m quitting.” I rush the words out and he furrows his brow.
“You’re what?”
“Quitting.”
He blinks.
“I’m sorry I can’t put in a longer notice, but I thought I would at least come by and tell you in person.”
“Do you not own a cell phone anymore?” He rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair. “This actually would’ve been a lot more shocking if your two little friends hadn’t already told me, but thank you, Raven. I appreciate you making a two hour drive just to tell me that you’re quitting the day before your next shift, the day before you’ve been booked for five private shows and are anticipated to lead the half hour premier set on the main stage. How thoughtful of you.”