by Foxx, Gloria
Then, for the first time since it happened, I open the door because I want to. I share my past with someone new.
* * *
I’m nervous, my motions jerky, as I swing the door wide with too much force. It bounces against the wall and comes back again. Annie puts out her hand to stop it. I don’t know what I expect Annie to understand with only a glimpse into my bedroom, but anything she gets that I don’t have to say will be a bonus.
My eyes trace the room, lighting on furniture and a few scattered personal belongings to my left. The bed, also to the left is made up with sheets, but not blankets and pillows. They’re in the living room.
The closet door stands open as if I’d left in a rush. I suppose I had. I can see a couple boxes, a laundry basket and some abandoned clothes and shoes inside.
The dresser drawers are closed, but I know they are nearly empty. The top is clear except for a framed photo facing down. I’d looked at that photo many times, taking for granted those smiling faces, never realizing that one day our smiles would be gone.
“You have a baby!”
I jump at the sound of her voice. I’d forgotten she stood beside me as a deluge of memories flowed over me. Annie took her cue from me, remaining in the doorway as I looked in on a scene that I can’t manage to forget. My eyes stray to the crib opposite the bed. Pushed against the wall with pink bedding and bumpers frothing between the rails, it dominates the view. A lamb with silky swirly hair nestles with the bright green turtle in one corner. Emma’s name is spelled out in chunky block letters hanging over the crib. A changing table just past the crib no longer stocked with diapers still holds wipes, powders and creams. The bottom shelf held a baby bath, ready and waiting.
Shelves above the changing table overflowed with clothes, mostly pink, but not too tiny. She’d been three after all. I’d purchased the changing table instead of a dresser. I couldn’t afford both and thought the changing table would be more useful. I know better now. I’d stopped using the changing table after a couple months. If I’d bought the dresser, I’d be using it still. No, I correct myself, I wouldn’t.
A pang radiates through my chest as if my heart were a bell tolling for Emma, vibrating with the energy in the empty place inside me.
I knew how hard this would be. That’s why I shut the door, but trying to close out the past isn’t working as well as I’d hoped. It just keeps threatening.
Silent tears stream down my face. A lifetime would never be long enough, making the past six months seem paltry. The greasy black rot of grief and guilt eat at me. I struggle to keep it at bay, not wanting it to overwhelm me with Annie standing by my side.
I struggle for control, my hands fisted, jaw clenched, breathing rapid, almost gasping, I suck in air. I’m afraid I might faint and make a fool of myself. I have to get away.
Spinning, I dash into the living room, leaving Annie behind. There’s relief in not being able to see the bedroom, but not nearly enough. I don’t sit. Agitation pulses through me. My muscles jump and twitch with tension, unable to find calm. Instead I pace, back and forth in front of the sofa, from my desk to the bookshelf and back again.
Annie doesn’t follow immediately, although I didn’t know it at the time. I paced so quickly that time stood still until Annie arrived.
“Sterling? Are you okay?”
I stopped at the desk, resting my hands on the surface and hanging my head between my shoulders. “I don’t know ... no.” The words came almost without permission. “You’re wrong. I don’t have a baby. Emma’s my baby sister and she’s gone.” I can’t bring myself to say died, but I’d found people know what gone means.
“Oh Sterling, I’m so sorry.”
I can’t say anything. I’d heard this bit of empathy many times before and it never helps. I wonder why people say anything at all. I can’t imagine a single word in the world that might make a difference, might help. I’m not even sure time helps. I feel just as bad today as I did months ago. Time goes on and nothing changes.
“You know you’re wrong though.” I turn my head. Annie stands in the arch leading to the kitchen clutching something to her chest with both hands. The darkness inside me won’t let anything out except skepticism. I’d been here for months, except when I pretended to be someone else, someone strong enough to put this away and move on as if it never happened. “Emma will always be your baby sister,” she says. “Never forget that. She won’t be Emma the sassy second grader or Emma the sullen teen, but she’ll always be your baby sister.”
I turn away, not wanting to share my agony, even with Annie. The futon behind my knees catches me as I crumple, or maybe I meant to sit while a smear of grief seeps out of me. It scorches me, sizzling my nerve endings, blistering my soul.
“I’m sorry. I’m ruining your night.” I don’t want to cry anymore, but I can’t help myself and I can’t stop the confessions that tumble from my lips. “It’s all my fault.”
I remember the day she died clearly as if watching an old movie in Technicolor. Some parts are vivid, others faded, but everything from that day made it into the film. I’d dreamed of what my life might have been, if only she’d never been born. I’d imagined myself as a college student with no more responsibility than planning my future and passing the next test.
“It’s not your fault Sterling. Rand is prosecuting, what’s his name? Rock?”
“Brock, but I brought him into her life and in the end, I’d wished her away. Now she’s gone and I have what I always wanted. I’m no longer saddled with the responsibilities of my mother. It’s like the clock reset. Time turned back and it’s now moving forward again on the right path, a path I wanted so dearly. I have my life back, at her expense.”
“That’s not your fault Sterling. We all wonder what might have been. We all sometimes wish our lives had gone differently.” She leaned in the doorway, her arms hugging around her middle. “The trick is putting the bad days behind us, without losing touch with the good days. What happens to us is part of who we are. Instead of trying to shut out Emma or forget her, you should do something to remember her.”
I’m quiet as I contemplate. It makes sense, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. I’d been kidding myself, trying to compartmentalize. Maybe Annie’s right. Maybe I need to remember.
“Tell me what happened to Emma, and tell me about Brock?”
I don’t respond right away, not sure if I can talk about it yet.
Chapter 18
“Sterling? Are you still with me?”
I’m avoiding the question. I’m not ready to talk about this. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to talk about this.” My words sound almost like a moan.
“Okay then don’t talk about it. Tell my why your sister lived here with you?”
“My mom could never control her drinking. She got arrested for drunk driving just after Emma was born.”
“Oh no. Poor baby.”
“I’d mostly ignored her until then, caring for her when mom couldn’t but never becoming attached. I was eighteen when she was born and I had other plans.”
“You couldn’t help but grow attached to her though, could you?”
I shook my head no, although I’m not sure what I was denying.
“Child services wanted to take her. It was either me or foster care.”
“You made the right choice Sterling.”
“I’d taken care of my mom in one way or another for most of my life. I thought I could do it. I could take care of Emma, get a degree, pay the bills. I moved here, close to campus and it’s cheaper, but with one week left before classes, I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t think straight. I even considered calling child services, but I couldn’t do that to Emma so I withdrew from school before I even started. Now I’m not sure I made the right choice.”
“Of course you made the right choice Sterling.”
“Even if it’s true, it doesn’t make me feel any better.”
Annie still stood in the doorway watching me, waiting
for more. “Who’s Brock?”
“How do you know about Brock?”
“Rand called him by name when he and the detective brought the restraining order. Who is he?”
“An old boyfriend.”
“Abusive?”
“No. Well, not physically, not until that night.”
“What did he do?”
I didn’t want to talk about it. I considered sacrificing a friendship to avoid telling Annie my secrets, but I don’t think she’d let it go, or maybe she wouldn’t let me go.
“Tell me Sterling. You’ll feel better.”
“Once I started I couldn’t stop. It all came flooding out. It wasn’t the powerful, crashing tidal-wave kind of flood, but rather the insidious relentless flooding that comes from rain that won’t stop. The water keeps rising, inch by painful inch. The rain continues, floodwaters advancing, subtle, yet corrupt until there’s nothing you can do to stop them except to submit, overrun, defeated.
“My mom served thirty months. I guess the more drunk driving convictions you have, the longer you serve.”
“That makes sense,” she said.
I’m not sure if it did, but I slogged on. “My mom was finally out and she had Emma for the night. I still had placement, but Mom was building a relationship with her, working toward getting her back.”
“She didn’t drink and drive with Emma in the car, did she?” Annie’s eyes flared big, her mouth making an almost perfect round at the thought.
“She didn’t, although if she had a car she probably would have.”
“So what happened?”
“Emma was fussy and mom couldn’t take it. Emma didn’t know her. Anyway, Mom couldn’t handle it. Later she told me ‘If only I didn’t need a drink.’”
I paused in my disjointed, convoluted story and looked Annie’s way. She didn’t look confused. She appeared interested and compassionate I thought. Looking away again, I continue.
“Mom brought Emma back so she could go out drinking. I was at work. She left Emma with Brock.”
“Ohh nooo.” Annie whispered on a groan.
“Work was much like any other day. I didn’t know anything was wrong. I didn’t even realize my life had changed forever when I saw the accident on the freeway. It was below me as I passed over, almost home. I said a quick prayer for the people involved, like I always do, but I was too late.”
Annie didn’t speak, listening quietly and watching with big eyes round with shock.
“Brock was home and in a rage when I arrived. It wasn’t pretty. He didn’t hit me. No, he pushed me around, shoved my face into the floor, the counter, the kitchen table. At one point, he had the entire top half of my body jammed into the refrigerator. My head was wedged into a corner, a pitcher of fruit punch spilled across my back and shoulder, a jar of jelly under my chin, cutting off my breath.”
“He broke your wrist?”
“Yeah.” I trudged on with my story, like the advancing flood, not looking at Annie. I watched my fingers as one hand slid over the other, trying to relieve the tension that kept building in my wrist.
“At first I didn’t understand what was happening, my confusion making it all the more terrifying. I thought he’d gone crazy. Snarling eruptions prompted churning horror and helpless confusion. He ranted that it was my fault and threw me into the living room. I had no control and that left me feeling terrified for myself and thankful that Emma was with my mom.”
I relive that night as the words pour out. A jagged iciness floods over me and into me as I tell the story. Cold fills the hollow created by fear as I continue.
“He was incensed when I asked questions, so I stopped. Placating sent him off on a tirade. I wanted to be fierce. I wanted to fight back, but instead I took it until he stormed out the door.”
We are both quiet for a minute, but I’m not done yet.
“I ended up with a dislocated shoulder, broken wrist, black eye, bloody lip and too many bruises and cuts from flying debris and broken dishes to count. The funny thing was that it didn’t hurt, not while it was happening. Oh it hurt like hell later, but during I could handle anything as long as Emma wasn’t at risk.”
“I’m so sorry Sterling.” Annie sat down next to me, pulling my hands into hers, holding tight. I’m reminded of when Boston held my wrist, massaging it so I didn’t need to, although now, the bigger pressure flooded out of me in words.
“It turns out my noble intentions didn’t mean anything. Emma had already died.”
Annie patted my hand and brushed my hair from my face as I continued.
“When he stormed out, I thought my nightmare had ended. I picked myself up off the floor. My left arm was useless, but I applied a wet cloth to the swelling around my eye and mouth. I washed away the fruit punch, dabbed at the blood and managed to get my wet shirt off. Minutes later, a solid pounding knock rattled the door. The police had arrived.”
“Thank God,” said Annie
“I shuffled to the door, one flip flop missing, the other broken, flapping at my toes and threatening to trip me up. I pulled open the door and silently thanked the neighbors.”
I’m transported back in time as I tell my story.
“Sterling Adams?”
“Yes?” It came out like a question. “Yes I am.”
“Were you driving at the 762 interchange about an hour ago?”
I didn’t know how much time had passed, but it was maybe an hour. “Yes. Why?” Again I was wary. They didn’t seem interested in domestic violence. He went for his radio.
“Dispatch this is 242. I need an 11-41 at current location.”
“What’s that?” I began to panic, my voice rising
The officer reached for my arm saying something I couldn’t hear over the buzzing in my ears. I jerked away, pulling against my injured shoulder and wrist. The pain fired up my arm like a rocket and then everything went black.
“The next thing I knew,” I continued telling my story to Annie, “I was in the emergency room. I had one arm handcuffed to the bed, the other heavy, weighed down with a cast and numbness. I could barely lift it.
“Whaaaat? That’s outrageous!”
“Brock didn’t have a license, so he registered his car in my name. He was in the accident I saw on my way home from work. When he ran from the scene, they had no way to know I hadn’t been driving the car, especially since they found me injured like I’d been in a crash.”
“That slimy bastard!”
Annie’s defense made me smile, a closed-lip watery smile, even though the worst of the story was yet to come.
“Did he try to make it look like you were driving?” Annie asked. “Wait,” she interrupted herself. “If Brock was driving and fled the scene, where was Emma?
“She was in the car, without a car seat. The police say she died on impact.” A single tear made a solitary journey down my cheek, stopping to pool in the crevice where my nose meets my face. It finished it’s lonely expedition with a slow slide past the corner of my mouth before dropping off the side of my chin, falling into eternity.
“My heart breaks for you Sterling.” I liked that Annie called me by my name instead of using pet names. You’d be surprised how many people use baby and sweetie and honey for consolation, even when they’ve never used them before.
“Thanks.” It’s all I have to say, but it’s huge. This is the first time I’d thanked anyone for an expression of sympathy since Emma died. Maybe I’m getting better after all.
“Now you have to go get him, make him pay for what he did to your sister.”
“I guess I do.” One conversation on a cold evening and now I want to testify. I’m angry and I want Brock to pay for what he did to my sister, what he did to my life. I also feel bad for how he’s ruined his life and my part in bringing him into my mixed-up crazy family.
“I think you should leave the door open.” Annie pulled something from her lap, the photo from my dresser. She must have picked it up when we were in the bedroom. She handed it t
o me. “Close it if you must, but don’t shut her away. You should keep her here, close to you.”
I smile a watery red-faced smile, but it feels good as Emma’s loopy blonde curls and dimpled cheeks blur before my eyes.
* * *
“Sterling. Get up.”
“Hmm … leave me alone. I’m sleeping.”
“I’ve been pounding on the door for the past ten minutes. Now get up.”
I rolled, looking at Annie through half-slitted eyes. “How’d you get in here?”
“Your door’s not locked. Anyone could have walked in.”
“Looks like anyone did,” I grumble.
Annie opens the blinds before coming back to whip the duvet away. “Now get up!” She clucked. “I’ll make coffee while you get ready.”
She’s clucking at my clothes from yesterday, rumpled and twisted around my body. I feel better after telling Annie about Emma, but I feel strange too, off-kilter, like I can’t get my act together. I wasn’t drinking. It provided numbing relief the first couple times but never comfort.
Sitting up on the edge of the futon, I drop my head into my hands. Why is Annie here? Pressing my fingers hard into my eyes, I struggle to gather my thoughts. “What are you doing here?” I wince at the shrill demand in my voice.
She appears in the archway to the kitchen with a coffee pot in hand and a pointed look. “We’re going to student services today to talk about taking time off so you can go to court. Then we need to track down your instructors to make arrangements for your work. You might be able to complete some of it early rather than making it up during the Christmas break.”
I groan, sliding my fingers through my hair wishing I could climb into a hole and hide from the world. “Do I have to?” I know I’m whining and avoiding problems won’t make them go away, but oh what I would give to hide from the world for awhile.
“Yes you have to.” Annie slid the carafe into the coffee maker and came back to me. Sitting on the edge of the futon, she pulls my hands into hers and gets into my face. “Emma can’t speak for herself, so you need to speak for her. You need to be her voice.”