Go, she told herself, before you don’t go through with it, before Ma thinks something’s wrong. “Bye,” she said before rushing out.
“Bye,” her mother said.
Emilia stepped outside to a cold gray morning. She’d kept Ian waiting long enough, but she couldn’t help looking back at her house.
She imagined her father walking up the steps later today.
He’d been coming by, at least for a little while, most days. But Emilia knew he was just waiting until he was convinced she was okay.
Then he’ll leave again. That’s why he hasn’t gotten a job here. Or an apartment.
Emilia looked toward the living room window and her heart dropped. She spotted Tomás suddenly there, staring at her. She waved at him and saw the flurry of his hand as he waved back. It made her want to cry.
She quickly got in the car.
* * *
*
“So where are you going?” Ian asked as they came to a corner.
“The train station,” Emilia answered, avoiding his look.
“No, I mean, where are you going?”
Emilia looked out the window, trying to figure out how to answer his question.
“Not far,” she said, looking up at the sky.
“What’s that mean?”
They came to a stop sign. But Emilia kept her gaze out the window and Ian continued driving. He didn’t ask anything else, and only the screech of the car interrupted the cold silence between them as they drove past the street leading to the elementary school. Emilia looked down the block and then, suddenly, it was behind them.
She closed her eyes and pretended they were headed to the museum, that first time they went. That time they drove with the windows down and played the music so loud it drowned out the screeching of Ian’s car. Emilia could almost feel the hot wind whipping her hair again like it had that day.
Where do you want to go? Ian had yelled over the whooshing gusts and loud music.
I don’t know, she had yelled back, laughing, trying to keep her hair out of her face. She had said, Let’s go somewhere. Anywhere! Anywhere as long as I’m with you! And that’s what they’d done.
She could remember Ian looking back at her then, in a way he didn’t seem to anymore.
He used to be able to see me. Not poor Emilia who was attacked. Just me. When did his look turn into so much pity and looming questions?
In that moment, on the way to the museum, Emilia’s father was still in Alaska catching rabbits, and Jeremy was still guilty as charged instead of tragic, and Emilia didn’t know his mother, who stayed up all night reading horrible articles and following strangers, and Carl Smith, whoever he was, didn’t even exist.
And winter had still been so far away.
Why can’t we hold on to summer? Emilia wondered.
The screeching sliced into her thoughts and memories and maybe sleep, and Emilia’s eyes fluttered open as they turned into the parking lot of the train station.
“We’re here,” Ian said. He pulled into a parking space.
“Thank you,” she said to him.
He nodded, glanced at her backpack. “Are you running away?” he asked.
“Of course not,” she said as she pressed the tips of her fingers against the cold windowpane.
“Then why won’t you tell me where you’re going?”
Tell him, Emilia.
She turned and looked at Ian. Beautiful Ian. His eyes were pleading with her now. Ian, the boy next door. The boy who smiled at her when he handed back her graded test in third grade. The boy who grew wings for her. The boy she loved.
But he wouldn’t understand what she had to do. He couldn’t understand what she felt.
“Ian.” She said his name and reached out to put her hand on his cheek. He closed his eyes and she leaned in, kissed his lips so softly.
Maybe he would understand if she tried. But she couldn’t risk it. She would explain later.
“Don’t worry,” she told him. “It’ll be okay.” She exited the car and hoped he wouldn’t follow her.
He didn’t.
But he stayed there. And as Emilia headed to the platform, she turned to look at him one more time. Her heart ached for him.
“I’ll call you later,” she yelled. He stared at her for a moment. “I promise.”
He nodded and smiled, his face lighting up a little. And she blew him a kiss.
Emilia looked up and saw crows flapping in unison, cawing to her as she bought a train ticket.
She knew what they were saying. She’d forgotten how clearly she used to be able to understand them.
Careful, careful, Emilia. You’re getting too close.
They cawed their warning, and the whooshing of their wings filled the air, but Emilia got on the train anyway.
From the window, she saw they followed her.
Followed the train.
Waited for her to emerge again. She could feel their watchful black eyes on her.
Don’t get too close, they cawed. You must remember. You must stay away from those who hurt you. Stay away. Listen to us.
But Emilia didn’t listen.
The First Thing She Saw
The first thing she saw when she got off the train from Hempstead to Atlantic Terminal in Brooklyn were signs for a stoop sale. And when she turned the corner, she saw the sidewalk full of items. She walked on the opposite side of the street.
Emilia looked down at the other address she had copied and memorized from Detective Manzetti’s report. That was the place there, right where a man in a red sweatshirt stood outside, selling old, used items.
Emilia shoved her hands into her coat pocket, along with the now crumpled piece of paper, and she quickly diverted her attention.
That’s where he lived. That’s where he ate. That’s where he came home, after . . .
Emilia took a deep breath. She looked up just as the man in the red sweatshirt noticed her and they accidentally made eye contact. He smiled and waved.
It stopped her in her tracks.
Every nerve in her body told her to leave, to run. But Emilia kept telling herself, Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, because a part of her wanted to go over there.
But any bravery she’d felt earlier drained itself completely from her body, leaving her feeling hollow. She hurried to the end of the block, and into a small market she noticed on the corner.
She hadn’t thought past just getting here. She supposed, somewhere in her mind, she’d imagined an alternate universe, some version of herself ringing the doorbell, stepping far away, and looking at his face.
Did you think he would just answer? He’s dying. He’s in a hospital, right? On his deathbed. Or maybe that was him, out there, in that red sweatshirt.
Emilia felt confused and disoriented, unsure of the truth and everything she thought or had been told.
Why would you do this? Do you really want to see his face? she asked herself. Do you want it to haunt you? Do you want it to come floating into your mind at night, right before you fall asleep? Do you want it to jolt you awake?
Yes!
She wanted to see him. She wanted to see his face. She wanted to know who Carl Smith was. She deserved to know exactly who had attacked her.
* * *
*
She looked outside, across the street, at the man standing in front of the address she’d scribbled on a piece of paper.
Is it you? Is it?
Oh god, Emilia. What are you doing?
Emilia stood by the market window and kept her eyes focused outside. She watched the man.
He was thin. He wore jeans, and his sweatshirt was tattered. He looked like he’d been working outside forever, his face leathery and weathered. A lady called out to him, raised a bowl in the air, and he made his way to her as quickly as he co
uld, but he had a limp that slowed him down. His arms, unnaturally long and thin and bony, dangled at his sides. When he reached the customer, he looked at the bowl, crossed his arms in front of himself, and shrugged. The customer said something and the man disentangled his arms, swatted at the air in a way that said, Take it, take it.
That can’t be him, she thought as she continued watching from the market window. It can’t be. Can it?
No. Carl Smith is dying.
Her mind was spinning.
“Are you okay? Can I help you?” an older woman at the counter called.
Emilia spun around and saw the woman studying her curiously. “No, I’m fine.”
She grabbed an apple and put it in a plastic produce bag, as if to prove she was perfectly normal. Perfectly fine. She looked at the house again, at that place where he lived. Where he breathed and ate and what, remembered that horrible day? Emilia imagined him in one of those dark rooms. She was almost positive he was in there, looking out the window. At her.
“I’m not scared of you,” Emilia whispered.
Look at me. I’m here. And I’m not scared of you. I’m not scared of you!
Emilia kept in the words she wanted to shout. And she tried not to think of how she was hiding out at the grocery store.
He’s dying. There’s no way he can do anything to you anymore, Emilia. Don’t be afraid.
That’s what Ma had whispered in the darkness of her room that night.
Don’t be afraid.
“Kind of weird to have a stoop sale now, isn’t it? In the middle of winter?” she asked the woman, who was now looking at her suspiciously. The woman looked out the window.
“Oh, his brother’s been trying to get rid of some stuff. The man who lives there is dying.” Her face lost its suspicion for a moment as it took on that look people had when they discussed death.
“Oh,” Emilia said, her body buzzing with nerves and fear.
“Yeah, poor Carl,” the woman said.
Dizzying anger spread throughout Emilia’s body.
The lady outside, who’d asked the man about the bowl, was raising more items to him. He answered with the same gesture. Fine, take it, take it. The lady began sifting through a large box, clothes and shoes and pillowcases. She held up a brown sweater, threw it back in, and dug deeper before pulling out a dingy yellow sweatshirt. She held it up.
“Are you getting that or what?” the woman at the counter said.
Emilia’s memory flickered and she caught her breath. The sweatshirt. Its particular shade of yellow. Like a Cheerios box. The lady held out the sleeves as if wondering whether it would fit someone.
Someone small.
No!
Emilia raced out the door.
“Hey, hey! You have to pay for that!” the woman yelled at Emilia as she came out from behind the counter, faster than Emilia imagined she could. Emilia looked down at the plastic bag in her hand with a single apple in it. She threw it in the woman’s direction and ran as the woman complained and yelled some more from the doorway, something about being a thief.
But Emilia didn’t care. She ran across the street, headed toward the house, faster and faster. Until she was there, rushing toward the box, dumping all of its items onto the concrete. Emilia dropped to the ground as the man in red came toward her, saying something Emilia didn’t hear.
And there it was.
Cheerios yellow.
She didn’t know how it was so clean. Where had the blood gone? What was this man saying to her?
It’s mine! she thought, as she clutched the sweatshirt tight to her chest.
It’s mine!
Emilia looked at all the items: a pen, a flashlight, sunglasses. She noticed a small change purse. And a terrifying thought entered her head.
All these things—were they souvenirs? Of what—other crimes? Of other girls, just like me?
The world felt muted and dizzying as she stood up, clutching that sweatshirt and looking up to the sky, seeing birds flying above her. The reflection of a window caught her eye as it mirrored the smoke-white sky and her birds.
Emilia stared at it.
He could be there. Just behind that window.
Her body filled with hate and anger and fear, but she stood there a moment longer, before she looked back down at all the items displayed before her. She tried not to cry, but tears and choked sobs rose in her chest as she began to wonder about, and collect, various ones.
The man who had come over to her asked her something she couldn’t quite hear or understand. And when she looked at him, she took out all her money and held it out for him. But he shook his head and said more things Emilia couldn’t hear.
Emilia felt herself floating. Flying. She hugged the sweatshirt to her chest and as she walked away, she didn’t notice how the other items and her money slipped away and fell. But not the sweatshirt, not her sweatshirt. That she held tight.
Emilia walked in a daze, being pushed here and there as she finally entered the train station and into a throng of people rushing toward her as they exited. She made her way to the platform and stood there with closed eyes as the unmistakable screeching of an approaching train filled the air.
But all Emilia heard was the screeching of her crows.
A Guy in a Black Leather Jacket
A guy in a black leather jacket walked up to the register and threw a box of condoms on the counter. Tomás rang it up, avoiding eye contact. Without thinking, he mumbled, “Have a good night,” as the man stuffed the change into his pocket.
He looked at Tomás and smiled. His hair was dark and stylish and he picked up the small plastic bag, but not in a hurry like most people would. And before leaving, he said, “You have a good night, too.”
The man’s face was kind and gentle and beautiful. And Tomás felt that if he looked at him too long, the man might be able to guess the secrets Tomás kept.
Tomás started wiping the counter and tried not to think about him after he’d left. But all he could do at this job was think. Ring up a customer, think. Ring up a customer, think.
The man was nice. And handsome. And Tomás felt funny noticing how handsome men could be. He worried they’d know he was admiring them. He wanted to be like this man. He wanted to walk like this man, and smile easily, and have the kind of subtle confidence and sleekness of this man.
But he also wanted to be like the women in the advertisements. He wanted to wear vibrant, glossy colors on his lips and jewelry on his earlobes. He wanted to wear eye shadow and look like he had just woken up from a luxurious dream. He was hypnotized by the beauty of women, how they surrounded themselves with, and draped and smothered themselves in, so many beautiful things. He wanted to be beautiful.
Tomás looked around, sprayed more cleaner on the counter, and wiped at it over and over, as if the motion might somehow help wipe away his thoughts. It felt dangerous to think this way. It felt strange and lonely and as if he would have to be full of secrets and strange desires forever.
Tomás tried not to think of himself. He willed his thoughts instead to Emilia.
Something this morning had bothered him and came prickling back now quietly. He’d caught a glimpse of her after he came down the stairs and looked out the living room window. She was walking to Ian’s car.
Are they back together?
Why did he feel he knew so little about his sister since the attack?
Because she’d never seemed quite the same again.
She’d looked lonely somehow walking in the cold. She’d looked like he felt. As if she had some kind of secret. It had made him stop and watch her the whole way to the car.
“It’s slow, Tomás. I’ll keep an eye on the register. You start blocking, and I don’t mean cosmetics. Looks pretty enough.” His boss raised his eyebrows and Tomás felt a wave of shame. He was being careless lately.
Emilia’s face that morning, as she looked back at him, came flashing through his mind.
Do you see me? he thought when she didn’t notice him immediately. Emilia, see me, please. Do you see me? Say goodbye to me.
He almost ran outside because she wasn’t looking toward the window.
But then she did, and she waved, got in the car, and they drove away. And Tomás was filled with relief, just before the same sadness he’d felt the night when he saw his sister’s silhouette in the kitchen came over him.
Tomás pulled a box of ibuprofen to the lip of the shelf and remembered wanting to die. How he would open the medicine cabinet for a comb and look at those bottles of aspirin and ibuprofen and cough syrup and antacids. All of them there to help ease pain.
Sometimes he thought of taking them. Just taking lots and lots of them.
But he couldn’t imagine, not really, ever actually taking them. No, not really. He knew he wouldn’t because he loved life more than he hated his pain and he wanted to live, really live, one day.
He wondered how many other people thought these things he thought about. He worried the world could read his thoughts, especially when Ma looked at him one day after dinner and said in the most peculiar voice, I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you. Her voice was steady, but her eyes looked full of sadness, and he’d wondered what made his mother suddenly think about this and say it out loud. I love you, she’d said to him.
He’d nodded, unable to speak.
* * *
*
Tomás pulled pill bottle after pill bottle to the front. He thought back to their snow-filled night, to his sister and how happy she’d looked. And delicate. And cold.
Tomás stopped. The same cold sadness from that morning washed over him again. He’d seen something in Emilia, something he recognized in himself. A kind of covering up that slipped away for a moment? Is that what I saw? How sad she really is?
The Fall of Innocence Page 26