Katherine Lance smiled at her son.
We’ll be okay, she told him. Everything will be okay.
And she kept driving.
The Day After Telling Emilia
The day after telling Emilia the truth about Jeremy Lance and Carl Smith, Ma didn’t go to work. She spent all morning calling makeup artists she knew, asking if they would take over the few Sunday appointments she had as well as her appointments for the next several days.
I’ve had a family emergency, she explained over and over again.
I’m an emergency, Emilia thought each time. A crisis. Emilia could hardly stand it. It made her eyes sting with shame and the threat of more tears.
It’s not true. That’s not what I am, she told herself, even as part of her wondered, Are you sure?
Emilia sat on her bed, by her window, watching her crows come for the peanuts and looking out to see if her father would come back.
Where is he? she asked the crows.
Yesterday he was gone by the time she and Ma got home, and now she wondered if her dad had left again for good.
He wouldn’t leave, just like that, would he? she asked her birds. What do you think?
She watched the crows and wished they would come inside, fill her room, and stay with her. She pictured them on her dresser, on her floor, perched on her shelves.
“Emilia?” her mother called. The crows startled.
“Upstairs,” she answered as they flew away.
Ma came upstairs and before she could say anything, Emilia said, “I don’t want to talk about it.” Ma stood there for a moment.
“Okay, I understand.”
But throughout the day, Ma kept calling for her.
“Emilia?” she called when Emilia was in the next room.
“Emilia?” she called when Emilia went downstairs to surround herself with books, though she’d already taken her favorites to the school.
“Emilia?” she called when Emilia went back upstairs.
Emilia finally went to the only place she thought her mother would leave her alone and not look at her the way she was looking at her. She filled the tub with hot water, as hot as she could stand it. She took off her clothes, shivered with each article she stripped off, and stepped into water so hot it made her prickle with pain before she finally went numb.
“Emilia?” Her mother knocked on the bathroom door.
“I’m just taking a bath, Ma.”
Then, in a small voice, Ma said, “Not too hot, Emilia.”
“I know.”
She knew Ma was thinking about the times after the attack. When no matter how many sweaters Emilia wore, or how many blankets she covered herself with, the cold found its way into the very marrow of her bones. That’s when Ma would run a hot bath for her. Emilia remembered how she would shake and shiver, how her teeth would chatter as she whispered to Ma to make it hotter.
It’s already so hot, Emilia, Ma would say. But it never felt hot enough to Emilia. Not even when her skin itched and crawled from the heat. Instead, it felt like she was still lying in the woods.
She looked at the rising steam around her and sank into the hot water. She felt the cold ground beneath her.
Don’t, she told herself, don’t.
But she felt the sense of a cold breeze brushing over her legs. In her ears she heard the call of the crows, so many crows, and her mind conjured up the images of the branches above—thin, breakable, intertwined.
She was eight years old and looking to the sky like she did every day during recess.
No. Don’t go back to that day, she told herself again. She closed her eyes and sank just below the surface of the water.
She held her breath for as long as she could stand. Then her mouth came to the surface, took a gulp of air, and went back down again. She looked at the silver blur of the world, of her bathroom ceiling, wishing she could stay underwater.
Hotter, she thought as her body shivered.
She reached for the hot water faucet. Turned it. Sank under the surface again.
* * *
*
That evening, as Emilia sat in her thickest sweatshirt and swirled uneaten spaghetti on her plate, Ma said quietly, “I know we talked about Jeremy Lance, how he’s out of jail. But you need to prepare yourself, Emilia. In case we . . . see him.”
Emilia’s stomach filled with dread. She swirled the spaghetti some more, willing the stinging sensation in her nose and eyes to go away. Her vision blurred as she swirled and swirled. She could feel her mother staring at her.
“Okay.”
“I think it’d be a good idea to call Dr. Lisa, check if she’s still practicing here . . .”
Emilia’s mind filled with Dr. Lisa’s office. The dollhouse in the corner. The round table stocked with paper and art supplies. Emilia would color sometimes. She didn’t want to go back there.
“Ma, please,” Emilia said.
“It’s important.”
Emilia took a deep breath. Soon Ma would insist on homeschooling her. Soon she’d withdraw Emilia from school. She could feel their lives whirling back to the past. Going back to how things had been. Soon she would be shutting Emilia away in the house while the rest of the town, the school, the neighbors talked about her. She’d be her mother’s shadow again.
Emilia looked over at Ma, saw in her eyes a confirmation of everything she’d just thought.
“Please, Ma,” she said. “Can we just . . . slow down? Can’t we just stay the same?” She didn’t know how to explain to her mother what she meant. “Please.”
“Nothing is the same,” Ma said. The words made Emilia feel hollow, like a large hand had scooped out her insides. But she was careful not to let Ma see how she felt.
“I know, Ma. But just for a little while. Please.”
Ma took a deep breath.
“I’m going to my room,” Emilia said. She didn’t want to sit there any longer. She half expected her mother to come after her, force her to talk about it, but she didn’t, and Emilia was relieved when she was able to close her bedroom door behind her.
She locked it. And flopped onto her bed, letting the tears she’d been holding back come flowing out.
Jeremy Lance.
He was out of jail. She might run into him. She might actually have to face Jeremy Lance again.
The image of him covered in blood flashed in her mind, the image of him pulling her by her ankles on the playground, pulling off her clothes, came rushing back.
Emilia shook her head. It wasn’t him. That’s what Ma said.
But it was him, she thought. Emilia pulled the covers over herself, even though it didn’t warm her or stop her shivering.
The House Felt Heavy
The house felt heavy, burdened with silence and memories in the days that followed.
Ma called the office where Dr. Lisa used to practice only to find out, no, she wasn’t still in town. Emilia was relieved, but then heard Ma calling around to other therapists, heard her mother’s soft murmur as she explained the situation over and over again to who? The receptionist? Strangers? And then she heard Ma’s frustration, again and again, as she was told they were not taking new patients until after the holidays.
Emilia shrank into the couch, ashamed and embarrassed. She didn’t want to go to a therapist.
I’m not going to talk about this, Emilia thought. Not to anyone.
She didn’t want to admit what had happened, what she’d done. She could barely stand to think about it without feeling sick.
And Ma can’t force you to go, she thought.
She wasn’t little anymore. Ma couldn’t just scoop her up and put her in the car like she used to.
But Emilia knew Ma would only push harder if she resisted. And she couldn’t stand the way Ma was looking at her, following her around the house, watching her
every move, just like she did before.
Tell her you’ll go to therapy, Emilia thought, but just to give you some time. Then just act as normal as possible. Tell Ma you’re fine. And maybe she’ll believe it and forget about making you go.
So she told Ma, Okay, I’ll talk to someone, but please let me have my winter break. And please go to work. I know you have all those appointments anyway, with all the rich women getting their makeup done for their fancy holiday parties. So let’s just be normal for a little while longer, okay? And I promise I’ll go. In a few weeks. Once I have a little time. Okay? Please?
She could see how anxious it made her mother to leave her alone again. Even when Emilia suggested she could call her father if she needed anything.
“He’s still in town, right?” Emilia braced herself for the answer to the question she hadn’t wanted to ask but couldn’t keep in.
Her mother hesitated. “Yes, I just . . . I think we should ease into things is all.”
Emilia wasn’t sure she believed her mother, but she nodded. Maybe it was mentioning her father that finally made Ma agree, but eventually she did. And when the moment came just a week into winter break, when she watched Ma’s car pull away slowly once again, Emilia breathed a little easier. Tomás was at work. Now Ma was, too. And her father was somewhere out there as well. Everything was back to how it had been. Even though nothing was the same.
* * *
*
Now she was alone. And it was Christmas Eve. Ma had a couple of appointments and Tomás, who was always looking for extra hours and pay, took the double shift nobody else wanted. Emilia should have been relieved to be alone, but she felt like she was being watched. She couldn’t stop the thought that kept running through her mind.
He’s out there.
Emilia hugged herself as she looked out her bedroom window, scanned her block.
Carl Smith might be outside, hiding in the bushes. Or down the street, parked in a car. Watching. Waiting.
No, she reminded herself. Ma had told her he was on his deathbed. That he couldn’t get her. That the detective was going to try his best to have him prosecuted. But that, for now, he was on a breathing machine and hardly conscious.
But was he really dying? How could Ma know that for sure? Had she seen him? Had anyone?
Fear crept in and Emilia immediately rushed to check the doors. All locked. She clicked on the television, turning up the volume more than usual, and when the house felt too big, too loud, too empty and silent all at the same time, she went back upstairs to her room. But there, too, the thoughts she didn’t want to think kept coming back to her anyway.
Emilia took a deep breath, let it out slowly.
Ma said he’s dying. And he’ll rot in that bed.
But what if he doesn’t? What if he gets better? Emilia had asked Ma at the diner where she first told Emilia about Carl Smith.
He won’t, Ma said, but if he does, they’ll lock him up forever for certain.
Emilia thought about that for a moment. A sickly, faceless man dying slowly in prison, over years and years. Yes, that’s what he deserved.
Stop, she told herself.
Emilia reached into her drawer, into the bag of peanuts she kept there, and realized there were none left.
A crow landed outside her window and looked at her quizzically.
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
She looked inside her drawer, hoping to find a few stray nuts, but found none. And then panic set in. That empty bag, for a moment, distressed her in a way she didn’t expect. She’d have to get more. She’d have to leave the house. She’d have to go out, in the cold, and buy more.
It’s no big deal. You can do this! You wanted Ma to leave you home alone and she did. You can do whatever you want. Prove you can do this.
Emilia looked outside at the empty street and cold day.
She’d overcome her fear when she’d made herself go to the elementary school. And those red doors, too, that refused to let her in but couldn’t keep her out.
Emilia got dressed and grabbed the bottle of Mace Ma had given her a while back but that Emilia never bothered carrying. She put on her coat and headed out the door before she could change her mind.
Outside, she kept her hand wrapped tight around that bottle and took deep cold breaths as she walked to the market across the street from Carro’s. Each step made her feel stronger somehow, even though she was scared. Once at the market, she passed the Salvation Army Santa standing outside, ringing a bell, and headed directly to the peanuts. Emilia grabbed a bag and paid for it.
You see, perfectly safe, she told herself, letting out a deep breath and feeling accomplished as she left. She slipped a quarter into the bucket of the Salvation Army Santa she’d ignored on the way in. He winked at her.
Emilia quickly looked away. She clutched the peanuts in one hand and the bottle of Mace hidden in her coat pocket with the other. Suddenly she felt sad and ridiculous, terrified of Santa, certain he would harm her.
“You okay?” the Santa asked.
Emilia nodded without looking back at him.
You’re so stupid, she thought as she stood there and felt tears threatening to rush forward. She hurried to the corner to cross the street. All she wanted was to get back home. But as she stood there, a bus passed by and Emilia’s mind flickered with the memory of Jeremy Lance banging on the window, calling out to her as it went by. Emilia sucked in her breath with the sudden vivid image.
It wasn’t him, she told herself.
But you saw his face. Maybe it was.
Or maybe you just can’t accept that you ruined his life.
The thoughts came bubbling into Emilia’s mind and, with them, an overwhelming sourness erupted in her stomach. She rushed to some nearby bushes and threw up. With each heave, her mind flashed with Jeremy Lance’s face. Emilia shut her eyes and tried to think of something else.
The classroom.
Her something. Her project that she’d kept a secret. What if someone had discovered it? With her father’s return and the news about Jeremy Lance and Carl Smith, she hadn’t gone back.
Emilia wiped her mouth and tears with a trembling hand. When she looked up, she turned her gaze in the direction of the old elementary school. It was just a few blocks away.
Sam the Squirrel was there. And her dad’s poetry books. She’d written that poem she’d finally found on the wall in thick black letters. She’d planned to make that room so beautiful.
You still can.
Emilia took a step toward the school, then another. All she had to do was keep walking in that direction.
But Carl Smith.
His name filled her mind.
Emilia thought of climbing in through the window and dropping into the dark chorus room, having to go up the flights of stairs alone in the dark, and she stopped.
What if he’s waiting there for you? You wouldn’t even know him if you saw him. He could be anyone. He could be watching you right now. This could all be some twisted trick he’s playing on you.
Emilia looked around, kept her finger on the nozzle of the Mace bottle.
Just go home, Emilia, she thought.
But she wanted to see that room again. She remembered how brave and amazing she’d felt when she finally went back into that school. How she’d found so many little treasures and brought them to the classroom. She couldn’t just forget about it. And she had left a flashlight near the window in the chorus room.
But Carl Smith.
He’s dying, Ma said.
Emilia looked down at her feet, and without looking up, she willed them to move, one in front of the other, until suddenly, she was in front of that school again.
And then she was climbing in through the window, her heart beating so loud in her ears. She was jittery and the flashlight fell from her hand, t
humped loudly on the floor, and rolled all over the place, making the room flicker eerily. She rushed to get it.
Just relax! she told herself. You’ve been here before. Just like this. And you were okay. Just go upstairs. Get to that classroom.
Emilia hurried down the eerie hall. The sound of her footsteps echoed off the concrete walls, and in those echoes, she thought she heard his name, Carl Smith.
The name repeated over and over in her mind.
Carl Smith. Carl Smith. Carl Smith. Carl Smith.
Emilia tried to shut out the echoes.
He can’t get you, Ma’s words whispered in her ears.
Emilia’s heart thumped faster and she raced up the stairs to the classroom.
If you get to the classroom, you’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.
Emilia told herself this each step of the way. Finally, she made it to the classroom and ran in, slamming the door behind her.
She leaned against it and caught her breath. She waited until her heart calmed down and her limbs regained their strength. And then she looked around, taking in the room. Everything was just as she’d left it. Nobody had been here. Nobody knew about this place.
Carl Smith.
No! Emilia shook her head and closed her eyes.
She wouldn’t let herself think of him or Jeremy Lance here. Or of anything else that was happening out there. This place, this room was separate from all that and only for beautiful things.
And you made it here! You did it.
Emilia smiled. Yes, it meant something that she’d been able to make herself come here. It meant that she was strong. Brave. That she could handle everything that was happening. That Carl Smith couldn’t get her. That she never ruined Jeremy Lance’s life. That even the attack, somehow, could be left far away in the past, out there.
Emilia reached for the boxes and boxes of paper clips she’d found in a cabinet last week. She mindlessly started linking them together, focusing on how shiny and new and silver they were. When she was finished, Emilia tacked up the long chain with pushpins in a large, swirly pattern on one of the walls.
The Fall of Innocence Page 13