She would push them off from the ground and keep them going higher. Sometimes, she was able to swing so fast, so high, that the hooks of the hammock creaked as though they might break, and he would actually feel his stomach flip. He’d look over at her those times, to see if her stomach flipped, too, but she never looked back. Her eyes were steady on the sky, looking at it so intensely as her black hair fluttered. It was as if she thought that if she pushed hard enough, she could reach it. Sometimes, Ian believed she could.
It was there that she first spoke to him. Not a caw, but real words.
She suddenly reached over and held his hand. Close your eyes, she said quietly. He looked at her in surprise, but she still wouldn’t look back. So he closed his eyes.
They were mostly in the shade, but they were going so high, they swung in and out of reach of the sunrays. With his eyes closed, Ian felt like he was going through a flashing tunnel, the wind swishing in his ears and through the trees.
He said to her, laughing, We’re going to fly off this thing! because he was trying to cover up his fear. He hadn’t expected her to speak again.
But she did.
That’s the point, she’d said. He opened his eyes and looked over at Emilia still staring at the sky as she pushed her feet off the ground harder and swung them higher in the hammock.
And then she looked over at him.
Him.
And she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
* * *
*
Ian stared at the glowing yellow window. It flickered, like someone had just walked past the light.
Emilia. She’s there.
He wanted to climb out his window and go to her, climb the tree and inch over on the branch closest to her window and knock on it. To make sure she was really there. She might or might not talk to him like back then. She might or might not ignore him. She might or might not let him in.
He imagined her, lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling with her arms behind her head.
Emilia. Let me in, please.
But he was sure she wouldn’t hear him. And he both wished and was afraid she would look in the direction of his window. She didn’t want him anymore. And he didn’t know how to be her chosen one again. He wished he still had the nerve he’d had when he was a kid.
“Caw,” he whispered into the silence of his room. But he only felt stupid and sad.
That Night, Ma Came into Her Room
That night, Ma came into her room and stood over her while Emilia slept. But Emilia was awake; she was always awake now. Her eyes were open and had already adjusted to the darkness, so she saw her mother’s hunched shoulders and her ghost face as she stood in the light of the moon. And she knew how long her mother stayed. Not just a few minutes like before. Sometimes, it felt like hours.
Emilia thought of an old story her grandmother told her once of a woman who lost her children and roamed the night, weeping in search of them.
“You can’t keep doing this, Ma,” Emilia whispered into the darkness.
“You’re awake,” Ma said, her voice thin. “I . . . just had to check on you.”
Emilia sat up. Her mother didn’t sound okay. And she didn’t look okay. Emilia imagined the woman from the story, crying, searching for her children. She saw her mother.
Ma sat on the bed.
“Emilia,” she whispered. “I thought . . . when you came running in like that, you looked so scared—” Her mother’s voice broke and it frightened Emilia how Ma seemed to know exactly how she’d felt. “I immediately thought you’d seen Jeremy Lance. I . . . know it’s a small chance, but you’re not ready for that.”
“I didn’t run into him,” Emilia managed, though earlier she had felt like she might see him at any moment, following behind her. What if she ran into him one day? What if she found herself face-to-face with him and was completely unprepared?
She couldn’t let that happen.
Ma took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said. Then, “I’m sorry the detective was here. That you just walked in without knowing. I should’ve . . .”
“It’s okay, Ma,” Emilia whispered.
“I always hated that he made you answer all those questions immediately after.” Emilia knew Ma was talking about the past now, how she was questioned right after the attack. “They never should’ve done that. I should’ve . . . You couldn’t even talk, for Christ’s sake. Your mouth was—” Ma shook her head.
Emilia’s memory flickered again with a hazy image of the detective and a notepad. With YES and NO note cards in front of her.
Did you see his face? Emilia had closed her eyes and one face came floating into her mind, one she was afraid of, the boy who’d punched his hand through the bus window.
Emilia stared at the cards.
I think so. Maybe, she tried to say. Hot pain shot throughout her jaw and mouth, immediately reminding her not to speak. She made a strange noise and both Detective Manzetti and her mother quickly urged her to use the cards.
She saw his face in the woods now. He was there. In the trees. Slowly she reached over and nudged one of the cards the detective placed so close to her fingers.
YES.
Do you know him?
She closed her eyes again. She saw his face floating there, hovering in the trees.
Stay with me, Emilia. Did you see a face? Someone you know?
Words she couldn’t say ran through her head. Maybe I think it was him, but . . . She wanted to explain, but more hot pain pulsed in her jaw, her ears, her head. Emilia felt dizzy.
Use your cards, Emilia.
Again, she nudged the card that read YES.
Do you know his name?
NO.
Later that day—or days later?—they came back with pictures—of teachers, custodians, her father, her brother, neighbors, strangers she vaguely recognized, and then, there. The one she was afraid of. The one that floated in her mind.
That boy.
And she pointed to it.
“How much do you remember, Emilia?” her mother whispered now, on her bed. The hospital room faded away and Emilia was back with Ma in her room.
The way they were sitting, side by side, in the dark, not looking at each other, reminded Emilia of the confessionals she used to have to go to when she attended Sunday school. The patterned screen between her and the priest that separated them and invited some kind of confidentiality, the idea that you could tell him anything, even the very worst. Especially the very worst.
But she couldn’t tell her mother the truth. That she could remember the smallest detail, the strangest things. That she’d tied a red rubber band around her pinkie at lunch that day. That she’d worn that sweatshirt she’d sent away for with ten dollars and three proofs of purchase for the first time—the yellow Cheerios one that she never saw again—and that’s why she used to throw each new box of that cereal across the room until her mother stopped buying them. She couldn’t tell her that when she closed her eyes at night, she remembered exactly the way the tree branches looked above her, that she could see the finest lines etched in the bark.
She couldn’t tell her mother this. Or explain why, no matter how hard she tried, whenever she imagined her attacker’s face, it was always Jeremy Lance she saw, just as he’d looked that day through the window on the bus, right before he punched through the window. His mouth open in a scream.
Even now, when they told her she’d been wrong, why couldn’t she change what she saw in her memory?
Why did I picture his face? Why?
Had she even caught one glimpse, one small glimpse of the attacker? Or had she immediately thought she’d seen Jeremy Lance, because she was afraid?
Her breathing quickened and her stomach felt like she’d swallowed a bag of jagged ice.
Her mother reached for her hand.
“I’m so
rry. You don’t have to answer,” Ma said. After a while, she spoke again. “Detective Manzetti says Carl Smith is pretty far gone . . . will likely be dead any day now. I know, I know it’s not fair.” Ma’s voice took on an edge and she squeezed Emilia’s hand harder. “But he can’t get you. He’s dying. There’s no way he can do anything to you anymore. Don’t be afraid. It’ll be over soon, Emilia. And we can focus on you getting better.”
The words getting better made Emilia feel terrible.
“But I’m fine,” Emilia whispered, feeling small and stupid. And she could be fine. If everyone just gave her time and space. She was dealing with it, in her own way.
“Emilia . . . I made an appointment for you, to go see a—”
“Don’t, Ma. I already know.”
“It’s for the best, and I—”
“Please, Ma.” Emilia closed her eyes.
Ma got up. She let out a long breath. “Okay,” she said. And then leaned down and kissed Emilia’s forehead before she turned and headed toward the bedroom door. Emilia opened her eyes and watched her go.
Was it my fault, Ma? My fault? The question was somewhere inside her. But she couldn’t ask.
Maybe it was her fault Jeremy Lance was imprisoned for eight years. And maybe she was the reason her family fell apart. And maybe it was even her fault the attack ever happened. Because she should never have gone out to that playground, into those woods, alone.
Emilia swallowed her guilt and her words. She never wanted to ask any questions. She never wanted to know the answers.
Ma stopped at the door. “You were just a child,” she said, as if she’d heard Emilia’s thoughts. And her mother stood there a moment longer before heading down the stairs.
Ma’s Words from Last Night
Ma’s words from last night echoed in Emilia’s head as she rode her bike from Uniondale to Levittown. You were just a child. Did Ma mean it wasn’t her fault? Or that it was, but that she couldn’t really be blamed because she was just a child? Either way, Emilia had to face exactly what she’d done.
You’ve gone fucking crazy, Emilia, she told herself.
Maybe, she answered. But anyway, I can’t take the chance of running into him.
If Ma knew what you were doing, if anyone knew what you were doing, they’d kill you. You’d be institutionalized.
Maybe. But when I see him, I want to be ready.
Emilia looked down at the paper in her hand, not that she needed to. If she closed her eyes, she could still see the address on the report the detective had brought over and laid on their coffee table. It was strange the way things happened. She didn’t think she knew what she was doing when she stared at that paper, or what she would do later, but she ran upstairs and wrote it down as soon as she got to her room.
She knew she didn’t want to forget the address. And she couldn’t trust her memory anymore.
Emilia looked up and slowly rode past addresses displayed on mailboxes until she came to 346 Fort Road. She stared at the brick house with dead trees and bushes obstructing the windows.
She didn’t have to do this. She shouldn’t do this. She was sure her mother would grab her by the arm and pull her away from here as fast as possible if she knew.
But Emilia parked her bike and went up the walkway.
She rang the doorbell.
She waited.
Will she call the cops?
Will she push me as soon as she sees me, send me flying down the porch steps?
Flying.
Will he answer? She hadn’t even considered it until that very moment, and now it was too late. The heavy door opened and a woman—Mrs. Lance—stood on the other side of the screen door between them.
“Hi,” Emilia said. It came out funny. Like she’d been holding her breath. Katherine Lance stared out at her.
Emilia knew she should say something, but she didn’t know what.
Finally, she spoke.
“I’m . . .” Her words got stuck. “I’m . . . My name . . .”
“I know who you are,” Mrs. Lance said. Her voice chilled Emilia and something told her to run, but she stayed.
Why are you doing this? You have no right to be here. She must hate you. You ruined their lives.
Emilia swallowed the panic.
“And you, you’re Mrs. Lance?” Emilia felt the need to confirm. Her voice trembled in her throat.
“Yes,” she answered. She let Emilia stand there awkwardly, uncomfortably, before speaking.
“And you’re Emilia. Emilia DeJesus.”
Emilia nodded, though she knew Mrs. Lance was not asking for confirmation. Here they were, face-to-face, staring at each other in silence.
“Why are you here?” she asked finally.
Emilia’s mouth went dry. Why was she here? Because she was afraid of running into them somewhere. Because she didn’t want to hide. Because she wanted to apologize even though it would mean nothing.
Because I’m so sorry. I thought I saw Jeremy that day, but I was wrong, so wrong.
“I asked why are you here?” Katherine Lance repeated sharply.
Emilia startled, but her mouth refused to utter a word, and now her body refused to run.
The woman shook her head. “So you ring my doorbell, and now you have nothing to say?”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Emilia said.
Katherine Lance stared at her. She didn’t say anything.
Emilia looked at the ground. “I . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know why . . .” Tears filled her eyes. Her heart beat faster. Her body felt like it was shaking.
Go home, she thought. She turned to leave.
“Wait.”
Emilia looked back. Jeremy’s mother looked disgusted with her, but she reached for the screen door and opened it.
“Come in,” she said.
As soon as Emilia entered the kitchen, she noticed the sign on the far wall.
WELCOME HOME, JEREMY!
She swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth and tried to find somewhere else to look as she sat down at the kitchen table. She kept on her coat and scarf even though the house was warm, stuffy. Mrs. Lance stood by the kitchen sink.
Mrs. Lance must have made the sign, right here, at this very table. Emilia ran her hand over the surface, imagined a welcome-home cake, Mrs. Lance here with Jeremy, looking at him, how? The way Ma looks at me? Like she can’t quite believe I’m really there sometimes?
“Tell me why you’re here.” Mrs. Lance’s voice cut into her thoughts.
But Emilia couldn’t tell her it was because she felt like she should show her face. That she should come here and tell Mrs. Lance, Jeremy, that she was sorry. How silly and simplistic and terrible and impossible it felt in this moment. Why did she ever think this would make a difference? Had she done this to feel better, for herself? Or for them? As if they cared about anything she would have to say.
And maybe, a small voice told her, if I see him, I’ll know once and for all. And I can be sure it wasn’t him.
All these thoughts raced through Emilia’s mind. She glanced at Mrs. Lance, her pinched face, her narrow eyes. The woman hated her—Emilia knew she did. She had to.
How could she answer the question? Nothing seemed appropriate. She could feel Mrs. Lance staring at her.
“I don’t know,” Emilia finally said.
Suddenly a door to a room down the hall opened noisily and a young man emerged. He rushed through the kitchen, past Emilia, and headed to the side door that led outside. “Rec time,” he yelled.
He was gone in an instant, the door slamming behind him, and Emilia caught her breath as it registered. It was him. She recognized him.
He was thin and pale. And the little bit she caught of his face looked hollow and gaunt.
His mother went to the door, yelled at him to be careful, and
closed it slowly.
She turned and looked at Emilia. “That’s Jeremy,” she said, watching Emilia for her reaction.
Emilia nodded.
Mrs. Lance went to the window and looked outside. Emilia could see him from where she sat as he rode his bike. He rode in and out of their visibility.
Mrs. Lance took a deep breath. “Did you come here to tell me your side of the story? Is that it?”
Maybe. Maybe she was there to assure Mrs. Lance she never meant to name him. Maybe she was there to tell her it wasn’t my fault. Or to be told it wasn’t her fault.
I am so very sorry that I’ve ruined your life, your son’s life. And now I want you to tell me I didn’t. So I can go on with mine.
She looked at Mrs. Lance, who wouldn’t even look her way now. “Let me tell you something. Let me give you our side of the story. Does that sound fair?”
She glanced at Emilia, her lips pressed together firmly as she waited for an answer.
“Yes,” Emilia said.
Katherine Lance took a breath, and began. “Jeremy was a difficult kid. Didn’t talk until he was eight years old.” She looked back outside as she spoke. “I feel like he was somehow locked up, inside himself, ever since he was little. But I could see him in there, my boy, lost somewhere. And I had to pull him out. Do you understand me?”
Emilia didn’t respond, just stared as Katherine Lance continued.
“No, of course you don’t. But it doesn’t matter. I knew I could get him out. I had to tell him, ‘Come out to this world, be free. It’s okay. I’ll help you, I’ll protect you.’”
Mrs. Lance wiped at her face quickly.
“He trusted me. I got him into that group home. Do you know how much he—we—had to work to get him to say his name? But he did, and he trusted me. And he came out of himself. Sometimes, he’d have rough days.” She looked out the window. “One time he punched his hand through a bus window because he’d lost a bracelet I told him gave him special powers.” She shook her head. “It was stupid of me, but he refused to ever take it off because he trusted me. Because he thought it helped him. Because he was convinced it was the reason he made so much progress.”
The Fall of Innocence Page 24