by DC Renee
“Then he wouldn’t want this for you.” His tone said he meant business. “He wouldn’t want you sitting here, calling yourself ugly, saying you’re a terrible person, pushing everyone away, shutting yourself out, and not living life to the fullest. He didn’t give up his life so you could stop living yours.”
“I … I don’t …” I didn’t have a response. He spoke with so much passion behind his words, so much sincerity in his voice, that I was breaking apart. I was split in two – one side stuck in my own world, the other desperately trying to find truth in his words.
“I know what it’s like to feel guilt,” he said much more softly. “It’s hard to move on, but it happens, Em. You just wake up one day and realize you have to keep living your life. Otherwise, the chance you were given is being wasted. It takes time, Em, but it happens. I guess for some it takes longer.” And I knew he was referring to me. “But either way, your father’s death wasn’t your fault.”
His words made sense but hearing them and acknowledging them were two different things. Feelings you’d been feeling for twelve years didn’t switch off like a light just because someone told you they weren’t the right feelings. I heard Carter’s words, I could even understand his meaning, but that didn’t mean my heart comprehended them. Nevertheless, I was still grateful to him for checking on me, for consoling me, for being there for me when I really needed someone. And I broke down again. I cried for my father, I cried for my mother, I cried for the little girl I was, and the woman I had become, but mostly, I cried because of Carter. He made me feel something other than pain. I hadn’t felt that for so long, and it was too much.
“Shh, it’s all right,” he said as he pulled me to him again. I didn’t fight him. I let him lead me into the comfort of his embrace.
“Thank you,” I whispered, still clinging to him. “Thank you for being here.”
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” he said. And we stayed that way, hanging onto each other for a little while longer, with him whispering soft words against my head as my tears slowly subsided. And when I was calm enough, I lifted my head from his chest and moved my glasses off my face slightly, just enough to wipe the wetness from my eyes.
“Your eyes,” he said almost reverently. “They’re beautiful.” I knew most of my makeup had washed off with my tears, no longer overpowering my eyes, and the removal of my glasses hadn’t helped. “Why do you hide them?” he asked.
“I don’t … it’s just … that’s who I am, Carter,” I stuttered through that sentence. “Please, just drop it.” He nodded in response, but after he tinkered around in my kitchen and made us a couple of sandwiches, I saw him staring at my eyes while we ate in comfortable silence.
It was only after I assured him I would be all right and the worst of my sadness had dissipated that he finally went home. And when he did, I immediately felt his loss.
Twenty
Carter
I kept thinking about Emerson’s eyes. I couldn’t stop. I asked myself every five minutes how I could have missed them before. But I hadn’t ever really paid attention to her individual features. I only looked at her as a whole, and her entire package had been lackluster, to put it mildly. I never thought to focus on any one of her attributes to see if something was underneath it all.
The only thing I knew was that she wasn’t as fat as her clothes implied. That was pretty obvious, but I didn’t know anything about her body beyond that. And frankly, I never cared to know either. But her eyes. Damn.
When the horrendous makeup she usually caked on all but washed away from her tears and smudged off from her wiping her eyes, I could just get a hint of what her eyes were. But when she lifted that monstrosity she called glasses that literally took up more than half her face, I gasped.
She had the most crystal-clear blue eyes, like the warm water lapping at the white sand beach of a tropical island. And they held just as much depth as the ocean. And like that saying about the eyes being the window to the soul, I swear I saw into her very core. I could feel her emotions through her body, but I could see them all written clear as day, projecting through those pale blue eyes of hers.
And then I thought back to her words. She wasn’t a terrible person—far from it. But those weren’t the words that stuck with me. It was that she called herself ugly. Ugly inside. How could she even think that? She was caring, loyal, tough, but with a vulnerability you couldn’t fake, and even when she tried her hardest to push people away, she never abandoned them. She felt remorse for things outside her control, she punished herself when she didn’t need to, and she felt everything so passionately that I was even a bit envious at the kind of love she was obviously capable of. How in the world did that make her ugly … ugly inside? As if she was beautiful on the outside, but outer beauty didn’t matter. And really, she was right. What was inside was what counted. What made Emerson so special, someone who people were drawn to despite her looks, someone who even a shallow person like me wanted to hang around her, was what she had on the inside.
I didn’t think she was beautiful, no, but I didn’t see her as ugly, either. Not anymore. At some point, I had started seeing her good qualities without even realizing it.
Add in what Erick had said, coupled with the very clear fact that she truly was hiding something, and I saw her in a completely different light.
She was far from ugly … even on the outside. Her laugh made others want to join in, her smile, her genuine smile, although rare, was what lit you up inside, made you feel happy just being around her, and now, her eyes … damn. I couldn’t get them out of my head. They were really something else. I’d never seen eyes so translucent, so unique, so perfectly pale blue.
I had literally forgotten all thoughts, every painful feeling, every sympathetic word, every horrid memory, every comforting situation when I got a good look at Emerson’s eyes. They were mesmerizing, and she was clearly hiding them. And doing a damn good job of it too.
It made me want to know what else she was hiding. And even though I felt like I had been given a rare look inside the workings of Emerson, I wanted to know more. I hadn’t had enough. I wanted to know what made her tick, what made her cry, what made her smile. And not just the parts I already knew. I wanted to know what else she hid underneath.
“Hey, Beth, I need a favor,” I told my sister after she picked up when I got a crazy idea.
“Sure, C, what’s up?”
“It’s Emerson,” I responded.
“Oh?” I could hear her smile, and if she was standing in front of me, I knew I’d see a twinkle in her eye. She loved me incredibly, but I think she loved Emerson more. I couldn’t blame her, though. Emerson really was special.
“Could you maybe take her shopping to get some clothes that fit better? Take her to your salon and see what you can do about her hair?” I felt equally like an ass for suggesting it and a hero for trying to help Emerson. She might feel ugly on the inside, but I could help make her feel pretty about her exterior at least.
“Is Em asking for this?” Beth questioned, and I could hear the skepticism in her voice.
“Not exactly, but something happened.”
“What happened?” she cut me off, and I could practically hear her salivating for more details.
“No, nothing bad. She was just upset the other day and mentioned something about feeling ugly. I thought maybe if you helped give her a makeover, she’d feel better.” It wasn’t my place to tell Beth the details Emerson had trusted me with, but I needed to give her something.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“I think it’s a fantastic idea,” I countered.
“You’re basically telling Em that you agree she’s ugly, but that you can fix it with a little help from me. I don’t know if I want to be involved in that.”
“You’re getting it all wrong. I’m trying to help her, but come on, Beth, you know I don’t know shit about this girly crap. That’s why I need you.”
“She’s going to kick
your butt and mine with you,” she responded with a chuckle.
“You let me worry about that. You in?”
“If it’s something she wants, then yeah, sure.”
“Perfect,” I said and hung up confidently.
A couple of hours later, I made my way over to Emerson’s home.
“I can’t seem to get rid of you,” she said but didn’t bother to hide the smile on her lips. We had texted since the anniversary of her father’s death, and aside from the fact that I couldn’t get her eyes out of my mind, things had gone back to normal. “And you apparently don’t know the meaning of calling ahead, huh?”
“What’s the fun in that?” I asked as I walked in.
“So what’s it this time? Bored? Lonely? In need of some ego deflation? If so, you’ve come to the right place. Step right up and I’ll knock you back into place,” she joked.
“You always know exactly what I need,” I teased.
“Okay, okay, cut the shit. What do you want?” she asked.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” I started.
“What I said? The ego deflation?” she asked with a smirk on her lips, but her tone was completely serious. “I’m all for that if you want. All day, every day. Just say when and I’ll start. Your shirt’s too tight. It makes you look like you shopped in the kiddie section. Your hair is messed up, and I’m pretty sure you’ve been off your game lately.”
“That’s not what I— Hey, my shirt’s too what?” I cut myself off. “I’ll have you know, this is a perfect fit. It hugs my body while allowing some breathing room. Slim fit and stylish.”
“You’re also turning into a girl,” she deadpanned.
“Whatever,” I said.
“Correction, a teenage valley girl,” she interjected.
“Okay, wiseass. I’m trying to be serious here.”
“Okay, fine. What’s up?”
“So as I was saying, I was thinking about what you said the other day.”
“What did I say?” she asked.
“The day of the anniversary of your father’s death,” I practically mumbled, not really wanting to bring it up.
“Seriously, Carter, I can’t thank you enough for being here for me. You don’t know how much that meant to me, but can we not talk about that day? Just pretend it didn’t happen.”
“That’s fine.” I nodded. “But you talked about perception,” I said, not wanting to use the word “ugly.”
“Uh … what?” she asked and scrunched her nose. It was quite adorable, and I couldn’t figure out why I hadn’t noticed that before.
“So how about a makeover?” I sprung it on her.
“A what?” she screeched. “For who?”
“For you,” I told her. “Beth can help you pick out clothes that fit better, give you some tips on makeup application, find the right hairstyle, maybe get rid of those glasses.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she asked, raising her voice.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you even hear yourself?”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “I’m offering to help you.”
“I don’t want your help!” she yelled. “And I sure as hell don’t want you telling me how horrible I look. I know that, Carter. I know exactly how I look.”
“But if you changed a few things, maybe you’d feel better about yourself.”
“Nothing can make me feel better about myself. Nothing!” she screamed. “Do you hear me? I don’t care what pretty words you told me or how you tried to convince me it wasn’t my fault, but it is. I am responsible for a person’s death. My father’s death. People like me don’t deserve to be beautiful on the outside because we’re ugly inside.”
“But it wasn’t your fault, Em!” I screamed back at her. “I thought you got that through your head.”
“You can’t change the truth with pretty lies,” she responded. “I want to believe you. God, I do. But it’s just not true.”
“You’re not ugly, Em.”
She snorted in response. “Look at me, Carter. I’m the same on the outside as I am on the inside. And I don’t want to be any different. I don’t want a makeover. I don’t want to be pretty on the outside. I don’t want your help.”
“Why not?” I asked, frustration filling my voice. We were arguing, fighting, battling back and forth with words, voices yelling over each other. I didn’t like it, yet somehow, I felt alive, felt like I could literally touch Emerson’s feisty spirit with my own.
“Because if I wanted to be beautiful, I would be, damn it!” she yelled.
“You what?” I asked, not comprehending what she said.
“I’ve worked too hard …” she trailed.
“Worked too hard at what?” I question.
“It doesn’t matter,” she tossed at me.
“It does. I want to know why you’re so closed off, why you’re so distant, and why it was such a struggle to be your friend. Why a person like you has no one close by, and why you don’t want my help unless I force it on you.”
She stared at me, not speaking for minutes. I stood frozen in place, waiting for her response. Finally, she hung her head and whispered with defeat in her voice. “Because I don’t deserve it. Because it should have been me. Because my father—my vibrant, young, handsome father, who loved watching the sun set, taking me to the park to just walk along the path, and look at the trees change color, who called me his beautiful little princess, and told me my hair was like golden rays of sunlight—was taken away, taken far away from everything he thought beautiful. Because of me. Don’t you see? What made me beautiful made me ugly.”
“It’s a tragedy, Emerson. But he didn’t want this for you. This suffering inside.”
“How would you know?” she asked. “You didn’t know him.”
“No, but I know you. And I care about you. And if I left this world for whatever reason, I’d never want you to stop living. And he loved you enough to save you, Em. He loved you enough to let you keep living. Don’t throw that away. Let me help,” I urged as I took a step closer to her, then another until I was standing right in front of her. Her head was still down, and she wouldn’t look at me.
I put a hand under her chin and lifted her face gently so that I could see those crystal-clear depths I had been thinking about nonstop. So much sorrow filled them. I wanted to take that away from her. I would have shouldered it myself if it meant she could smile instead of frown.
“I wanted it this way, Carter. I don’t expect you to understand. But please don’t ask me to change. You’re offending me, hurting me, and frankly, disrespecting my wishes.”
“I’m sorry,” I told her, looking directly into her eyes. “I just wanted to help.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I know,” she repeated.
I pulled her into a hug, and she let me. After a beat, I felt her arms around me. “I appreciate everything you’re trying to do, C,” she told me. “But I am who I am. Accept me or don’t.”
“I accept,” I told her, and just like that, we were back to normal. We ate dinner together and joked and were our usual selves. And you know what? I liked it. I liked Emerson just the way she was.
Twenty One
Emerson
“You’re not in a funk,” my mom pointed out a few days after the anniversary of my father’s death and one day after Carter momentarily tried to change me. She tended to handle me with kid gloves for about a week after that day, even though neither of us ever mentioned anything. I never said anything to her because I didn’t want to upset her. She had gone on to live her life, and I didn’t want to mess that up for her. She didn’t say anything to me because she didn’t want to set me off. I usually did a good job of that on my own.
It was only after about a week, give or take, that she’d ask me how I was doing. She still didn’t mention my dad, but the implication was always there.
Her words caught me off-guard this time. “Uh, what?” I asked, stopping my coffee midway to my m
outh.
“Sweetheart, I know we don’t talk about it, which is fine with me, but you can’t say you haven’t noticed, year after year, what this week is like for us. We tiptoe around each other, avoiding the subject and pretending we’re okay, but you know we aren’t ever truly all right. Most of the time, you’re a zombie, a shell of what you usually are, and frankly, Em, that’s saying a lot. But the past few days have been normal. No, better than normal. You’ve been someone completely different for the last month. You’ve been your old self. My baby girl.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I answered defensively.
“Yes, you do.”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Your father would be happy to see you like this.”
I gasped in response. She rarely brought up my father and especially not this time of year. “I’m not talking about this. I can’t … can we please not—”
“This is a good thing, sweetheart,” she cut me off. “You needed this. You needed to wake up and see that life is worth living, that the world is still going round, and that the things that were beautiful are still beautiful. You’re doing that. Slowly, but you’re doing that. I can see the change in you. And you don’t understand how it thrills me.” She choked up on the last sentence as I watched a lone tear trail down her cheek.
As she walked up to me, I sat still, waiting to see what she’d do, what she’d say. She lifted her hands and gently pushed the sides of the wig I was wearing away from my face. “I see you, Em. I’ve always seen you. You can hide behind ridiculous clothes and horrible wigs, but you can’t hide how beautiful you are on the inside. You’re a wonderful person, sweetheart. What happened with your father doesn’t change that. If anything, the guilt you feel, the remorse that courses through your veins as if it was your life force, just emphasizes how special you truly are. No one who was ugly on the inside could feel those emotions. They’d just not care.” She paused and dropped the wig as she wiped at her tears. I didn’t dare speak. She took a breath and continued, “Your father saw that in you. That’s why he loved you so much. That’s why he wanted you close to him so he could feed off the love inside you. You can’t switch that off, Em. You can’t just turn off the person you are because life stole from you. You can bury yourself, you can push people away, you can change how you look, but you can’t change you. And believe it or not, no matter what kind of life you’ve been living for the past twelve years, you’re still you inside.”