She turned to Emilia, who sat there, her blood running cold as she remembered picking up a bracelet that day. The way Jeremy was looking at her from the window.
“Then that day. And you said it was him. They arrested him . . . at the home.” Emilia looked away; it was so hard to look at Mrs. Lance, the stone-cold face, and now with all this new information.
“I wasn’t there when it happened,” Mrs. Lance continued. “I was here when I got a phone call from one of his therapists.” She closed her eyes. “I could hear him screaming in the background.”
Emilia’s eyes filled with tears.
“The group home is twenty minutes away. I drove to the police station where they were taking him. I got there before them, saw as they brought him in. Screaming. Yelling. He was . . .” She shook her head, as if trying to forget. “There was no calming him down.” She took a deep breath. “And I saw it all unravel. All that work, since he was three. All kinds of therapies to get him to walk, to speak, to socialize, to interact with others. The things that come so easy for so many other kids, Jeremy had to work for, harder than I’ve seen anyone work before in my life. All that progress, just undone, right there.”
Mrs. Lance looked at Emilia. Stared at her with that same impenetrable look. But then Emilia saw it crack, fall as Mrs. Lance was overcome with so many emotions. She brought her hands to her face, turned away.
Emilia closed her eyes, as if that would help shut out the sound of this woman’s sobbing, profound sobs that had been pushed down deep, time and time again. It was too much.
What have I done? What have I done? Emilia wondered as tears spilled down her own face.
Finally, the sobbing subsided. Mrs. Lance took deep breaths, gained control of her voice, and asked, “So tell me, why did you name my boy?”
Emilia shook her head, wiped her eyes and running nose. “I don’t know,” she said.
“You don’t know? That’s not an answer.”
“I don’t know,” Emilia repeated.
“That’s not an answer. You came here. You came to our house. You showed your face here, so now give me an answer!” Her voice was firm and Emilia was scared.
“I . . . I was scared. I was scared of him!”
Mrs. Lance looked at Emilia, nodded. They stayed there in the silence of the kitchen a long time. Emilia wanted to leave, but she was afraid to move.
“Everyone’s always afraid of him. At least you were honest.”
Katherine Lance walked over and offered Emilia a few paper napkins. Emilia wiped her face, blew her nose. Her eyes fell on a schedule on the refrigerator with times for eating, showering, sleeping. Jeremy’s mom followed Emilia’s gaze.
“His daily schedule,” Mrs. Lance explained. “Same one he kept in prison. It makes him feel safe. Keeps him calm. The first few days home were horrible. But then I remembered how he liked things just so as a little boy. And . . . if I keep to that schedule, just so, it helps. Except for the shower.” A new edge came into her voice then. “He needs to keep to the schedule, and yet, as soon as he gets in the shower, he’s yelling and screaming and . . .” Mrs. Lance turned and walked back to the window.
Emilia’s heart filled with more horror and guilt.
What horrible things had happened to Jeremy?
A type of radio on the counter buzzed, and Mrs. Lance automatically reached out her hand and turned it up.
Something about an accident on a street Emilia somewhat recognized. She suddenly realized it was a police scanner and wondered why Katherine Lance owned one.
Mrs. Lance turned it back down.
“You’d be surprised what we’re surrounded by every day, Emilia. There was a murder three weeks ago, barely made the news. A young woman was assaulted while jogging last year, found unconscious in the bushes by another jogger. She lived. That’s nice, isn’t it?”
Emilia stared at Mrs. Lance’s face.
“Another was followed in her car for half an hour until suddenly, at a red light, some guy got out of his car and started banging on her window, threatening her, calling her names. There are so many, Emilia, I can’t keep them straight. I used to study each case, any newspaper clipping I could find, took notes while watching the news, if they made the news, if I thought there was the slightest possibility it was him. The man who attacked you and got away with it. I looked for clues. I used to call the police, give them leads.
“At first they were . . . courteous, at least on the surface. But then they just thought I was a mental case. Too distraught, they said. Finally they told me I had to stop or they’d take legal action. And they said anything on my record would keep me from being able to visit Jeremy in prison.” Katherine Lance stopped, shook her head, and took a deep breath. But Emilia could see the anger in her face at the thought of being forbidden from seeing her son.
“And what did they do when they found out about Carl Smith?” She looked at Emilia but went on, not waiting for an answer. “Sorry, they said. They are so sorry. As if that means anything.”
Emilia got a sick feeling in her stomach.
A buzzer went off, making Emilia jump. Mrs. Lance looked at the kitchen clock. “I have to start his lunch,” she said.
Emilia knew that meant it was time for her to go. She stood up and headed toward the kitchen door slowly.
She struggled to unglue her tongue from the roof of her mouth.
Tell her.
Now.
Emilia’s hand was on the doorknob. She closed her eyes and forced out the only words she had. “I know it doesn’t mean much. But I’m so sorry. I will always be sorry.” Her voice was thin and weightless and she didn’t know if Mrs. Lance heard her. Emilia was too ashamed to look back at her.
Emilia turned the knob and opened the door. A cold gust of wind rushed in.
She closed the door behind her.
* * *
*
Outside, Jeremy Lance approached Emilia on his bicycle as she picked up hers.
Even though she knew the truth—he wasn’t the attacker, Emilia!—she couldn’t help the fear that shot through her heart and the rest of her body. Emilia looked at the kitchen window, where Mrs. Lance stared out at her. She resisted jumping on her bike and pedaling away as fast as possible.
“Hi,” he said.
Jeremy Lance pedaled past Emilia. He reached the corner, made a wide turn, and rode back at the same, even pace.
“Hi,” he said as he approached again.
“Hi,” Emilia managed. This time he stopped, just next to her and her bike. Emilia’s heart beat faster.
The day was hardly bright, but he squinted his eyes as he looked at her, as if the light outside was too much, and Emilia realized, with a fresh pang of guilt, that maybe it was.
“You came out of my house. Were you talking to my mom?”
Emilia nodded, looked toward the kitchen window again, but now she couldn’t tell if Mrs. Lance was still there.
“That’s nice,” he said. His lips were pale and his smile was too big, and Emilia tried not to be afraid of him, but she was shaking and even if she wanted to pedal away, her legs felt too weak now. She stared at the dark shadows under his eyes that made him look like he hadn’t slept in days. “I love my mom,” he said.
He looked at Emilia expectantly. “I love my mom, too,” she said, swallowed the lump in her throat. “I should get going.” She was afraid to turn her back on him, but she wanted to leave.
He nodded, put one foot up on his bike pedal like he was going to leave, too, but then set it back down on the ground.
“Hey,” he said, cocking his head to the side before she could ride away. “Do I know you?”
Emilia’s blood froze.
What will he do if he knows it’s me?
Emilia couldn’t help thinking this.
She shook her head. “No.”
&nb
sp; “Oh,” he said. “I’ve been gone for a while.” He looked down at his feet, at the untied laces of his sneakers. “I’ve been in prison,” he said. “Shoot, I’m not supposed to tell anyone. You won’t tell, will you?”
Emilia shook her head. He smiled. She wished he would stop smiling.
“Anyway, I thought maybe I met you a long time ago.” He kept his gaze on her. She saw drool puddling up in the corners of his mouth.
Emilia was scared—dizzy, and cold, and so scared.
She shouldn’t have come here.
She wouldn’t look him in the eye, but she felt his gaze on her. And she didn’t want to make any sudden moves. He took out a pack of gum from his pocket, a red, white, and blue packet with one-eyed Bazooka Joe staring at Emilia. Jeremy held it out to her. “Want one?”
She was afraid to say no, so she reached for a piece. Her hand shook as he placed it in her palm.
“Chew it,” he said, laughing.
Emilia could see his teeth and it made her feel queasy. She unwrapped the gum and reluctantly chewed it.
“Hey, you’re cold,” he said, noticing how she shivered. Her mind flashed with the memory of his face. On the playground. On that day.
She looked up at him, shook her head.
“Wait . . . I do know you,” he said.
“No, no, anyway I gotta go . . .” Emilia turned away and got on her bike.
“Wait.”
Emilia started pedaling, glanced back as he struggled with his bicycle, his shoelaces getting caught up in the pedals.
“Wait,” he called. “I know you! Wait.”
But her body prickled with fear and restraint.
“I said wait!” he yelled. He sounded angry. Maybe everyone was wrong. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was Jeremy Lance; maybe it had been him all along.
Emilia pedaled faster and tried not to look back. She didn’t want to see his face, angry, coming for her.
But at the end of the block, she looked quickly—she couldn’t help it—and saw him riding toward her on his bicycle so fast. His face twisted in confusion. And his mother was suddenly running behind him, chasing him, calling his name.
Emilia Replayed Everything
Emilia replayed everything in her mind—being in the kitchen with Jeremy’s mother, listening to her, and then how he had pedaled toward her.
Jeremy Lance knew who she was, or he would figure it out soon. And his mother knew she was still afraid of him, hated her even more.
It made her angry and ashamed. But she made herself replay the day of the attack in her mind, over and over again instead of pushing it away. Each time was just as horrible.
Remember, Emilia. Remember!
She remembered, but . . . she always saw the same thing. The same sweatshirt she wore. And her blue coat. And the smoke-gray day. And the cold.
And then his face. Jeremy’s face. Just as he’d looked on the bus. Just as he’d looked on the bus.
Emilia conjured up his face again, again, again.
It was always the same, not one change.
Jeremy, exactly as he’d looked on the bus. His hair disheveled just as it’d been on the bus. His shirt, the same shirt he’d been wearing that day. His expression, scary and horrified, exactly the same as his expression that day on the bus.
Emilia’s blood ran cold.
Could I have cut his face from my memory, from that day, and put it on the real attacker, Carl Smith? Could a brain do that?
Emilia wondered this in the darkness of her room.
She shook her head. No, she told herself. Impossible.
But something told her it could.
PART FIVE
Mid-January 1995
I Need a Favor
“I need a favor,” Emilia said into the phone as she looked out her bedroom window. The light went on in Ian’s room.
“Emilia?” he said. She could hear the surprise in his voice, and she imagined him in his room, sitting up in bed.
“Will you take me to the train station?” she said quickly.
“Right now? What’s wrong?”
“No, not now. Nothing’s wrong. Tomorrow.”
She heard him rustling around. “Why?”
She hesitated. “I’ll tell you tomorrow, but will you? Please?”
There was a short pause. Then, quietly, he answered, “Yeah, of course. Of course I’ll take you.”
Emilia breathed a sigh of relief. She closed her eyes and pictured him. She pressed the phone to her ear, listened for his breathing.
“Thanks.”
There was a long silence on the other end and she felt sheepish suddenly, for calling him, for asking him for this favor after she’d cut him out of her life. She heard his gentle breathing and thought of his mouth, of how it felt on hers. And she missed him.
“So, how are you?” he asked finally.
“I’m okay.” She tried to sound convincing. “You?”
How are you? I miss you. What happened, Ian?
“I . . . ,” he began, but then paused. She could tell he was being careful. “Good. I’m good,” he answered. There was so much silence between them, and with each quiet moment, Emilia felt sadder and sadder. She closed her eyes and mouthed his name silently. She wanted to feel him on her lips even as she felt the two of them falling into some place they’d never get out of. She wished there were an easy way to tell him everything, but there wasn’t. And it felt like there was too much to even try.
“Emilia?”
She opened her eyes, focused back on their conversation. “That’s good,” was all she could say. She could almost picture the look on his face, sitting on his bed, where they had lain and kissed when his mother wasn’t home. It felt like so long ago.
“What time?” he said suddenly, and there was a distance in his voice that caught her off guard and pulled her out of the memories of who they used to be. “Tomorrow. What time?”
“Oh . . . like you’re picking me up for school.”
Another long silence before he asked, “Do you want me to come with you?”
Say yes, Emilia. Say yes!
“No,” she heard herself say. She felt a pang of disappointment with herself and tried to explain. “The thing is . . .”
“Forget it, don’t—”
“It’s just that . . . I need to do this by myself, you know?”
“No, I don’t know,” he said quickly, then more softly, “What is it you’re doing, anyway?”
She twisted the phone cord around her foot. “Can I just tell you tomorrow?”
“Why can’t you tell me now?”
She wasn’t being fair to him. If she were Ian, she would’ve hung up and had nothing to do with her ever again. But that wasn’t his way. He’d always been there for her. When no one else was.
Even when she was a bird.
Just tell him, Emilia.
“Tell me tomorrow, then,” he said. “Or, you know, don’t tell me. Whatever.”
She was about to reply, but she heard the sudden click of the phone.
See you tomorrow? she thought, and it was stupid because if he’d said it, she knew she would have resented him.
But he didn’t say it. Of course not, Emilia. He doesn’t owe you anything.
She looked over at his window, the yellow glow of his bedroom light. She reached impulsively for her lamp, to switch the light on and off, but then stopped when she saw his window suddenly go black.
Emilia hung up the phone.
The Next Morning
The next morning, Ian’s car pulled up in front of her house, red and dull and screeching as he turned into the driveway. Tomás shot Emilia a funny look across the living room when he heard it.
“I’m going,” she called to her mom as she slipped her backpack over her shoulder.
Her m
other came out from the kitchen and stood in the doorway.
“Okay,” she said, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
Emilia looked at her mother, dressed in a brown outfit she had worn weeks and weeks ago.
“Ma . . . ,” Emilia said.
Her mother noticed the way Emilia took in her outfit, and she brushed her skirt. “I know. You hate this outfit.”
“No,” Emilia said, looking at her mother. Ma was pushing her auburn hair out of her face, revealing a beauty too often hidden by worry and concern, by a hardness that looked at the world with too much suspicion and worst-case expectations.
Ma turned her head, revealing the earrings Emilia had given her for Christmas, and smiled. “How do they look?” she asked.
“Beautiful,” Emilia said. Her nose tingled with the oncoming tears.
Her mother looked at her. “You okay?”
Ian beeped the horn.
Emilia smiled and nodded. “You need to worry less, Ma. Gotta go.”
Emilia rushed to leave, but her mother came over and gave her a hug. And Emilia suddenly felt such tenderness for her family, and sadness, too, that it threatened to come bubbling out.
Don’t! she told herself as she pulled away from her mother. It would alarm Ma. She would move up Emilia’s appointment, immediately take her to the psychologist, whom they’d be seeing soon enough anyway. Emilia had been able to avoid going by making excuses each time. She was bombarded with schoolwork; could they reschedule? She had an important test coming up; couldn’t they wait just a little longer? Until Ma finally said no, they could not, and Emilia circled the day on her calendar, staring at it each day with dread.
I love you, she thought as she pulled away from Ma. If she said the words, Ma would know she wasn’t feeling quite herself today.
“See you later,” Emilia said quickly.
“Okay . . . have a good day.”
“Yep.” Emilia opened the door. She wanted to stay home. She wanted to climb into her mother’s bed like she did when she was a child. She didn’t want to go out into the cold. But she felt like she had to do this.
The Fall of Innocence Page 25