Please, Ma said. You can have anything you want.
Emilia wouldn’t respond, and Ma grew tired of asking, so they went through the rest of the store.
And then Emilia suddenly found herself in front of a shelf lined with boots; she ran her fingers over the smooth rubber and bright stripes. Emilia, her mother called, even though Emilia was standing right next to her. Ma always did that now, called out her name—Emilia, Emilia—if her eyes were turned away even just for a second.
Emilia reached out and touched her mother, reassuring them both as Ma spoke to her. Ma was always talking to her, ever since the appointment with Dr. Lisa, where Emilia had overheard the doctor telling Ma to keep talking to Emilia: Keep having conversations with her, even if she doesn’t respond. Don’t forget she’s there.
Emilia felt a pull to go to one of those memories in Dr. Lisa’s office, but forced herself to stay in the store with her mother.
We’ll get your brother some underwear, Ma said as Emilia eyed the boots. He really needs new ones. But don’t tell him I told you that. You’ll embarrass poor Tomás. You know how he is. So shy. Emilia? Emilia?
Emilia squeezed her mother’s hand.
Her mother looked down at her. Those are pretty, Ma said.
They were beautiful.
Ma looked at them. You want to try them on? she asked quietly.
Emilia nodded.
Go on.
Emilia sat on the ground, took off her sneakers, and slipped her feet into the cool rubber boots. They looked perfect. She stood up, stomped in place a few times. They felt magical. And so, Emilia closed her eyes and pretended they had some sort of special power. She felt a fire start in her heels, sparking yellow flames. She imagined the boots transforming her, turning her plain corduroys into glittering electric-blue tights and Emilia herself into some kind of superhero. Or a rock star, like the one she and Tomás had seen on television, the man with red hair and a red-and-blue lightning bolt painted over one of his eyes.
Emilia felt herself levitating, then a burst of power as she soared and punched through the ceiling of the store.
Emilia, Emilia. Her mother brought her back down to earth.
She looked at her mother. Emilia loved the boots. She wanted them. She couldn’t stand the idea of leaving them behind. They would feel abandoned and forgotten. She couldn’t do that. Her mother had said she could have anything she wanted. She wanted these boots.
Can I have them? she asked. Her mother stared at her. Emilia was surprised by the sound of her own voice, how the words tumbled out of her mouth. She had thought her voice was gone, all used up and carried away in the cold wind of the afternoon of her attack. But there it was, and not thin and breakable, but loud. The sound of it jarred her.
Emilia, Ma whispered under the fluorescent lights of the store and a background of camping gear.
Even now Emilia could still picture her mother’s face perfectly, the look of shock when she had uttered those words after so many months of not speaking. Emilia’s mother had pulled her into her arms, squeezed her so hard that Emilia squeaked like a chew toy, and her mother had laughed and said, Yes, yes, of course you can have them. Come on!
Emilia tumbled back, deeper into the memory.
Her mother’s hand shook as she took Emilia’s hand and led her past fishing poles and tents, past the registers, and out the automatic doors of the store. Emilia thought of her old sneakers left behind on the floor and tried to run back to get them, but her mother held her hand tighter and pulled her to the car.
You can have anything you want, Emilia. Anything, Ma said as they walked.
Her mother opened the door to their beat-up car and Emilia got in the back seat. She stared at her new boots as her mother slipped into the front seat. She could do anything in these boots. She could land on the moon and different planets. She smiled at them, her boots.
Do you want ice cream? Ma asked. She turned back and Emilia saw she was happy, deliriously happy, but her face was wet with tears and it scared Emilia to see her that way. Emilia nodded. But her mother abruptly faced forward again.
Do you want ice cream, Emilia? she called out.
Emilia nodded again. But her mother refused to look back.
Say yes or no, Emilia. Do you want ice cream?
The car filled with a long silence before her mother repeated the question again. Emilia, answer my question. Just answer my question. Please.
Emilia felt as though they sat there forever, her mother’s head down as if she was looking at something in her lap. Emilia wondered if she had fallen asleep. Or was praying. Or had died.
She searched for her voice to muster her mother, to bring her back the way the crows had brought back Emilia.
Caw, Emilia cried. It came out loud and piercing, and Emilia saw her mother jump, startle. Caw, Emilia cried out again. But her mother would not turn back.
A coldness ran along Emilia’s arms and she felt herself pulled out of the store memory and in her bed once more. She hugged the blanket around herself tighter, wondering where the gust of cold was coming from. Had she left the window open?
Emilia.
Emilia.
She heard her name and wondered if it was her mother calling her, or the wind outside, or her birds, who sometimes spoke to her and sent her messages on the wind. She used to hear them so much when she was younger. When they were always with her. When they told her to fly, to join them in the sky. Over time, they spoke to her less and less. But maybe they were calling her again now. Saying, Join us, Emilia. Leave the world below. Come with us. Feel the wind. Fly to the sun. Forget everything down there.
She was tired and wanted to fall into a dreamless sleep, but each way she turned, a new image was waiting.
Jeremy Lance rode into her mind on his turquoise bicycle. He turned and looked at her. Emilia wanted to run, but fear glued her to the sidewalk. He waved, started riding toward her with that ridiculously exuberant grin, and she felt the terror in her chest rising to her throat. She looked away. And when she looked back, Jane was suddenly on the bike instead of Jeremy Lance.
Emilia, now, that’s a sweet name, her purple lips said. She smiled.
And Emilia suddenly realized what bothered her about Jane. Her smile, wide and somehow painful. It was like Jeremy Lance’s.
You’re just dreaming, Emilia told herself. Think of something else. He can’t get you anymore. Emilia pushed Jane and Jeremy and their smiles out of her mind, but other thoughts floated in—terrible thoughts that Emilia kept away during the day but that often came to her at night when she was in that half-asleep state and couldn’t tell the difference between what was a dream and what was real and what was just imagined.
In that half-asleep state, she would wonder if another kid would turn up, half dead, and then maybe another. Sometimes she saw their bodies in the woods next to hers. She would wonder if that feeling that everyone was watching her was real. And she thought of her father dying as she fell deeper into sleep. She imagined him stuck in the snow in Alaska, not a single soul hearing his cries for help.
She saw him in the snow now, his beard coated with ice. He could have been out there all night; he could have been out there for days, weeks.
Was he under some trees, looking at sky?
Were vultures circling him?
Or my crows, was that where they were headed?
Did a wolf find him?
And slash into his belly?
She could almost see his bright blood on the snow.
She needed to get to him, to save him. Emilia felt herself grow large wings and she flew upward and upward into a white sky. It was smoke and fog. It was cold. She soared higher and watched the world become smaller. She looked over snow-covered fields for signs of her father and pictured the look on his face as she landed in front of him.
Emilia? he’d say.
Would he recognize her? Would he know it was her under those dark feathers? Yes, he’d know immediately.
I’ve come to save you, she’d tell him.
Emilia surveyed the ground beneath her, looking for him. But the snow and trees disappeared and were replaced by only darkness. Emilia flew and flew, looking for somewhere to land, but found nothing.
Something is wrong . . . , Emilia thought as she drifted completely to sleep. But she didn’t know quite what it was.
Earlier That Day
Earlier that day, while Emilia was deciding what to wear on her movie date with Ian, Anthony, and Jane, Emilia’s mother had just arrived at her second appointment. She looked at her appointment book to see what the occasion was for this one, but saw no notes next to the woman’s address and phone number. Regardless, it should only take about an hour, giving her plenty of time to drive to the bride across town.
Too much time, she thought. I’ll have an hour to kill.
Still, she looked forward to having a break between appointments for once.
She arrived at the large house, drove through impressive black gates, and rang the doorbell, half expecting a butler to answer. This was the kind of house where one could expect a butler. Instead, a woman in a dark figure-hugging dress answered. Her hair was impeccably done and she smiled brightly as she opened the door. This was definitely the lady of the house.
“Mrs. DeJesus?” the woman asked.
“Yes, hi, call me Nina,” Emilia’s mom answered.
“Nina, all right. Come in,” the lady said. “You must be cold.”
She followed the woman in; their shoes clicked loudly on the white marble floor that looked too precious to walk on. Nina looked around the room, gleaming white except for a pop of red and blue here and there from sculptures and paintings of bulls and horses and Spanish matadors. It was an odd but beautiful room. Nina tried not to seem too in awe.
“Lovely home,” she said quietly. Her very voice felt like it could disrupt the room’s beauty, break the fragile art.
“Thank you.”
The woman led Nina through an arched doorway, then through a large room with a grand piano at its center and no other furnishings. They walked through yet another room with a long table that had no doubt seen countless dinner parties. Or not, Nina thought as her footsteps echoed in the otherwise silent house. They finally came to a set of French doors that opened dramatically to a room constructed completely of glass panels. The walls, the ceiling let in the natural light from outside through the impossibly clear panes.
Nina stared at the scenic room. Purple and pink and white orchids in glass bowls hung by invisible strings at varying lengths from the ceiling. Lush ferns and bushes and trees lined the perimeter. Glass domes held plants too beautiful and rare to be exposed to the rest of the world while bunches of lavender and ivy and fragrant white petunias burst and trailed everywhere. In the middle of it all was a gilded birdcage—the centerpiece—atop an extravagant, tiered brick pillar.
“How sweet,” Nina said of the two finches in the cage. The cage door was open and Nina whistled gently. One of the birds cooed back. “Don’t they escape?”
The woman looked at Nina and smiled. “They can’t really escape,” she said, gesturing to the glass panels around them.
Nina nodded.
“They’re a curious pair, though,” she said, standing next to Nina and peering in lovingly. “The female finch—she’s the brown one there—lays eggs, but destroys them. You see that little straw house, the straw inside?”
Nina nodded.
“She could lay them there, but she doesn’t,” the lady of the house continued. “She lets them drop onto the cage floor so they crack. Every single time.”
Nina peeked in closer at the female finch, her small bird eyes that seemed to hide some kind of secret.
“I suppose she doesn’t want any baby birds,” the woman said.
The light brown finch flew out of the cage, sweeping past Nina’s face, followed by the gray one. Nina watched them fly away, disappear into the lushness of the greenhouse. She was awed by it all, the many shades of green and life, the female finch’s curious behavior. But the woman said, “This way,” and gestured to a table and chair set not too far away from the cage, partially hidden by a plant with massive, drooping leaves.
Nina snapped back to reality but was sorry she had to work. What she would like to do is walk the paved paths of this secret glass garden. To go to the very back of it, where, she was certain, there was a soft, giant fern large enough for her to sit in, large enough to wrap its leaves around her and hold her gently.
“I know it’s slightly warm in here,” the woman explained as she gestured to the plants and flowers, “but I prefer to have my makeup done in this natural light, and this is the best room for it, as you can see. You can set up now.”
“Of course,” Nina said. She peeled off her coat, gathered her long dark auburn hair in a ponytail, and pushed up her sleeves.
The woman sat down and closed her eyes. Nina draped a protective smock over her, and focused on the woman’s face instead of the flowers and plants around them. She studied her complexion before choosing an appropriate foundation.
“Are you headed to an event now or later in the evening?” Nina probed, wondering if she should choose lighter or darker shades. The woman sat so still and peacefully, Nina thought perhaps she didn’t hear her question or was meditating.
Just as Nina was about to repeat herself, the woman spoke. “No event. Do whatever you’d like.”
Nina was used to clients relying on her expertise, and so, taking inspiration from her surroundings, she continued. She didn’t say anything, just allowed the woman to decide if and when she wanted to speak.
Her skin was thin. Her eyelids seemed especially fragile and Nina could see the tiny blue veins just under the translucent skin. Nina watched how they fluttered slightly, the way her eyeballs moved underneath as Nina gently applied the foundation.
Suddenly she noticed tears coming out of the sides of the woman’s delicate eyes, the way she took a deep breath and let it out slowly, the furrow of her brow. For a moment, an anguished look fought its way to the surface. Nina watched as the woman tried to regain control, to suppress some pain, which came surging in those quiet moments, in the intimacy of someone delicately touching your face.
The woman let out a gentle, shaky breath and Nina grabbed a tissue and pressed it to the corners of the woman’s eyes.
She wondered what had happened.
Perhaps she’s headed to a funeral, Nina rationalized.
No one thinks people other than the deceased get their makeup done for funerals, but Nina knew some people did.
No, this is an old pain, Nina decided as she dusted a rose color on each eyelid. This is the kind of pain that suddenly comes out of nowhere, for a moment fresh and raw, but is able to be constrained and pushed away. New pain takes over.
New pain leaves you trembling.
Within a few moments, the woman had complete control of her emotions again. She relaxed and Nina continued working.
Perhaps it was a memory that suddenly flashed in her mind, or the ache for a dead husband. Or a dead child.
Could she have lost a child?
Nina thought this of almost every woman she saw or met. She tried to read their hearts. Did you turn your back for a moment? Was your child found? Or lost forever? Is your pain like mine? Worse?
She sucked in her breath.
There is worse, Nina . . . Remember that.
But oh, how dreadful Nina knew it was to live your life always with that thought.
Nina let her thoughts wander, but too much, and before she could stop them, her own memories came flooding in with a rush. She suddenly saw Emilia when she was eight, stiff and unable to move, the day after coming home from the hospital. She saw the two of them i
n Nina’s bedroom, a version of her younger self quickly putting out a cigarette in the ashtray on top of the dresser. She hadn’t wanted Emilia to see she’d started smoking again. The only time her children had seen her smoke was when their grandmother died. Nina didn’t want Emilia to think she, too, was gone for good.
Emilia’s eyes were glassy, and they rolled around a bit while she tried to take in her surroundings.
Emilia, Nina said. She heard her own voice, how strained and close to tears it sounded as she said her daughter’s name. She cleared her throat and tried again. Emilia, how do you feel?
It had been a simple question, but Emilia couldn’t answer. She only moaned, and Nina realized how stupid she was to ask it.
No, no, I’m sorry, Nina said. Don’t, sweetheart! Don’t try to talk. Emilia’s eyes widened as she suddenly seemed aware of her swollen tongue. She had bitten through it so badly it required stitches. She tried to talk again, but her eyes filled up with tears.
Don’t, Nina said gently, and sat down on the edge of the bed. She looked at Emilia and saw the bewilderment, and so she explained again, Do you remember anything? Don’t try to talk. Just nod or shake your head. Stop, don’t try to talk. Your tongue has to heal.
It was Emilia’s terrified look, the confusion there, that made Nina feel like cold water had been splashed against her insides, against the burning hate and rage that now kept her going. She felt brittle. She heard herself cracking.
Keep it together! she thought. Keep it together for Emilia.
Emilia, she said softly. Nina closed her eyes and steadied herself before she spoke again. Her daughter reached up; her fingertips grazed Nina’s cheek, then her eyelids. Nina opened her eyes and started explaining.
You’re home now. You were in the hospital, but you’re safe now. Somebody . . . somebody very horrible attacked you . . . She didn’t know what else to say. This was all she could say to her daughter. She knew it didn’t make sense.
That was when Emilia’s eyes went wild. She tried to stick her fingers in her own mouth. And all Nina could do was gently pull her hand down, tell her she was safe now.
The Fall of Innocence Page 4