Always Emily

by Mary Sullivan

  Or had she? He thought of her muddy hands.

  “I’m dropping you off at your dad’s, right?”

  He felt her roll her head on the headrest and watch him.

  He glanced at her. “What?”

  “I need a friend, Salem. I can’t go home tonight. Too many people there.”

  No, he didn’t want her in his home. “There’s no room at my house. You know that, Emily.”

  “I’ll take anything.”

  Salem struggled to hold back his objections. This push-pull of love and anger was a struggle he’d lived with for too many years.

  “Hey,” Emily said quietly. “Why aren’t you at Dad’s party? You two are good friends.”

  “I meant to go after work, but started reading and lost track of time.”

  Emily’s soft chuckle filled the interior of the car. He’d missed her laugh, and how it could lighten his darkest moments. “You’ve always been one for getting lost in a book. Remember when I used to sit in your office and say outrageous things about you and you would be so immersed in a book you wouldn’t hear a thing?”

  He remembered, with enough pleasure that he drove right past the turnoff to her dad’s house to take her home with him.

  Crazy fool, letting her use you like this.

  Yes, I’m a fool, but I like having her close. This is just for tonight.

  It had better be. You know how she breaks your heart when she leaves. Every time.

  “What happened to you?” he asked.

  “I left him. For good. Just like you said I should.”

  “What about work?”

  “I left that, too.”

  “For how long? A couple of weeks?”

  “For good.”

  She was leaving her career? The light from the dashboard wasn’t strong enough to tell much more than that she had her eyes closed.

  The nature of the silence in the car changed, became laden with censure, as though Emily were holding up a giant No Trespassing sign, making it clear that she’d said as much as she was going to.

  Salem didn’t know how he knew this when she hadn’t said a word, but he knew, and held his tongue. Did he believe she’d left Jean-Marc for good? Not a chance. Had she left archeology for good? Never.

  On the far side of town, he turned down his street and pulled into his driveway, where he helped her into the house. He led her to the kitchen. She plopped onto a chair and rested her head on her folded hands on top of the table.

  His father wandered in. “Emily, hello.”

  She raised her head. “Hello, Mr. Pearce.”

  “You don’t look good, girl.”

  “Feel awful,” she said with a wan smile. Here in the brightly lit room she looked even worse than she had in the dim Heritage Center office. Her skin was as ghostly as her voice had sounded in the car. Fever painted round red spots like old-fashioned rouge on cheekbones that didn’t use to be so sharp. She put her head back down on fragile-looking wrists.

  Salem should go to the Sudan and kill the bastard who did this to her, and that puzzled him. Emily had always been able to take care of herself. She’d never needed him to fight her battles for her.

  “She has malaria, Dad.”

  “You need fattening, girl,” Dad said. To Salem, he directed, “Warm her some of that soup I made yesterday.”

  Salem took a container of chicken soup out of the refrigerator and heated a bowl in the microwave. Old wives’ tale or not, his father figured it was good for anything that ailed a body. He made a fresh pot every week.

  Emily lifted a spoonful of soup, but the effort cost her. She needed to be in bed.

  “Give me,” he said. He took the utensil from her and raised soup to her mouth.

  “Not a child.”

  “I know, but if I leave it to you, we’ll be here all night.” He got most of it into her before she batted his hand away.

  “So tired,” she whispered.

  “Okay, let’s get you to bed.” He carried the bowl to the sink to wash it, but his dad took it from him.

  “Take care of her,” he said with a jut of his jaw toward Emily.

  Salem led her upstairs to his bedroom and left her there while he went to the closet in the hallway to get fresh sheets. When he returned to his bedroom, Emily had stripped to her underwear—plain white cotton panties and bra.

  He could probably wrap his fingers around her waist. There was a time when he’d craved her tight little body, but not tonight. Every part of Emily had been stripped down to bare essentials.

  “Do you have a spare T-shirt?” She pulled back the covers.

  “Of course.” He took one out of his dresser then turned his back while she finished undressing. He heard her climb into bed.

  “Wait.”

  She stopped with her knee on the mattress and watched him warily, her strange blue eyes with the odd hazel rings huge in her drawn face.

  “I need to change the sheets.”

  She made a sound—a cross between a raspberry and an old-fashioned pshaw—and finished scrambling under the blankets.

  The second her head hit the pillow, she closed her eyes.

  By the time Salem returned the clean sheets to the closet and came back to the bedroom, Emily was asleep.

  He grabbed a T-shirt and flannel pants, and washed up and changed in the bathroom. When he finished, he laid a fresh towel and facecloth on the counter beside the sink and hoped neither of the girls used them in the morning before Emily got up, or before he could warn them he had a visitor.

  From his supply of spare toiletries he kept under the counter—toothpaste, deodorant, tissues—he grabbed a toothbrush, unwrapped it and did a double-take. He held a child’s toothbrush in his hand. With a sick sensation, he realized he was still buying his girls small toothbrushes when they were no longer children. They were adolescents.

  He placed the foolishly small brush onto the facecloth. He also needed a fresh bar of soap, but couldn’t find any under the counter. They were all out. He headed toward his younger daughter’s room. She owned a collection of small soaps.

  The light bleeding around the partially closed door of his older daughter’s bedroom caught his attention. He pushed it open and said, “Hey, kid, time for lights-out.”

  Aiyana slept in a tight fetal ball on top of her bedsheets, her fingers curled over her shoulders—an egg with hands and feet. Where were her blankets?

  “What the heck?” They were a tangled mass in the corner. He picked them up, straightened them and covered her, tucking them close around her body until they cocooned her, as he used to do when she was little.

  She used to giggle and say, “Make me a mummy, Daddy.”

  She didn’t laugh with him these days. She no longer called him Daddy, but he still thought of her as his little baby, a child who was growing up too fast.

  He stared down at his daughter. No, she wasn’t a child. She was becoming a woman, too quickly. He thought of those children’s toothbrushes he’d been buying. He knew Aiyana went to the store and bought her own feminine products. Yes, she was becoming a young woman.

  He’d missed turning points in his daughters’ lives, and that made his chest ache.

  When had he gotten so out of touch with them? With life around him?

  Salem’s ambition to be an architect, and his part-time school studies, were admirable, but his children had grown up while he’d had his head buried in one book after another, studying for tests and writing papers. Had his ambition harmed his children?

  When he finished tucking her in, he kissed her forehead and said softly, “Good night, Eternal Blossom.”

  “Night, Daddy,” she whispered, but as asleep as she was, probably had no idea that she had. She would certainly forget by morning when she’d
be prickly as a porcupine again, as she’d been for the past year.

  He had no idea how to deal with her. All he could do was give her the creature comforts—food, clothing, a roof over her head—and hope it was enough.

  Satisfied that she was warm and safe for the night, he left the room, turning out the light and closing the door behind him.

  He checked in on Mika, who slept as though she hadn’t a care in the world. A turtle-shaped lamp on her bedside table sent a soft glow around the room, highlighting her collection of raccoon statues that friends and family had given her every birthday and Christmas since she was old enough to talk, to express her desires, which had been early.

  There was nothing shy about his Mika. Intelligent Raccoon.

  On her dresser, she kept a bowl of tiny soaps and bubble bath capsules in different shapes and sizes. Mika wouldn’t mind if he gave one to Emily. She’d inherited a generous spirit from her mother. Annie had been screwed up in many ways and her drug use was out of control at the end, but her generosity had been amazing.

  For a split second, to his astonishment, he missed Annie, especially the good parts. Sure, she’d been neurotic at times, but she’d had a heart of gold. They hadn’t loved each other, but they had tried hard for respect.

  For Emily, he chose a pink heart-shaped soap, because he was just that foolish. In case she might want a bath instead of a shower, he also took a gold bubble bath bead in the shape of a star.

  Emily Jordan. His shooting star, here today and gone tomorrow.

  He leaned forward and kissed Mika’s forehead. She still smelled like a kid, not like the perfume he’d detected on Aiyana.

  He turned off the light before he left. She liked to fall asleep with it on, but she was a heavy sleeper. She wouldn’t need it for the rest of the night.

  Salem smiled. No trouble with Mika yet, but then, she was only thirteen. Maybe adolescent hormones hadn’t kicked in yet.

  Back in the bathroom, he placed the soap and bath bead beside the ridiculous toothbrush. Was it enough? It had been years since there’d been a grown woman in the house—four years since Annie’s death, and many more years since they’d had a guest. This wasn’t really a guest, though. It was only Emily.

  That thought brought him up short. There wasn’t, never had been, and never would be anything only about Emily.

  With one finger, he touched the pink heart soap that smelled like roses, and imagined her using it. He shook himself out of his foolish, romantic reverie, turned out the light and stepped into the hallway. Romance and Emily in the same thought? Dangerous.

  “You sleeping downstairs?” His dad stood on the landing.

  “Yep.”

  “Good night, then.” His father entered the bedroom next to Salem’s.

  Salem nodded and went downstairs, turning off the remaining lights as he went. In the living room, he gathered afghans and blankets from the backs of the two armchairs and made himself a bed on the sofa.

  He stretched out, but his six-foot frame was too long for the furniture, so his feet hung over the arm.

  Not the least bit comfortable, he eventually fell asleep, but was awakened by a hand shaking his shoulder.

  “Go take care of Emily.” His father stood over him, illuminated by the streetlamp shining through sheer curtains. “She’s making noise.”

  Salem threw off his covers and took the stairs two at a time. Emily thrashed on the bed.

  “Hey, hey,” he crooned, lifting her into a sitting position, but she sagged against his chest.

  “Here,” he said, reaching for the glass of water he’d left beside the bed. She gulped it down, with him holding her head to still her shuddering. He laid her back against the pillow and got fresh water from the bathroom.

  Leaving it on the bedside table, he stared down at her. He couldn’t leave her like this, too small and fragile. Too alone.

  His Emily didn’t do fragile. What did he mean his Emily? She wasn’t his and never had been. She’d left too many times, dashing his hopes, for him to ever trust her again, the anger she inspired in him a constant throughout their relationship.

  What relationship? You don’t have one.

  Damn right.

  Remember that, Salem.

  But she was his friend; or rather, he was hers. Sort of. Maybe. Reluctantly.

  She shivered. He crawled in under the covers and nestled her against his chest. Gradually, the shaking stopped and she settled into an easier sleep.

  He, however, did not sleep, not while he held Emily Jordan in his arms.

  * * *

  “I’M NOT GOING to school tomorrow.” Aiyana stood in the doorway of the kitchen, scowling. Her eyes were red. She’d been crying. Dread hollowed out his gut. He couldn’t take tears. He could handle—had handled—a lot in life, but crying made him feel useless.

  “Are you sick?” Salem hoped this was physical, something the magic of chicken soup could fix. “What is it? The flu?”

  She shrugged. Her hair stood out in all directions. She must have washed it before bed and fallen asleep while it was still wet.

  “Dad, how about heating some of your soup?” Salem finished doctoring his coffee and caught his two slices of toast as they popped out of the toaster.

  “You got it.” His father retrieved the Tupperware.

  “I don’t want soup.” Aiyana sounded like an odd mix of little-girl sulkiness and teenaged defiance.

  Mika sat at the table eating her cereal, her brown eyes darting between him and Aiyana.

  “How about toast?” Salem asked Aiyana. “You can have these and I’ll make more for myself.”

  “No.”

  “But...”

  “I don’t want anything, okay?” she cried. “I just want to go back to bed. Just leave me alone today, okay?” She ran from the kitchen without waiting for anyone to respond.

  Salem stared at her retreating back and what he could see of her feet running up the stairs.

  His dad grunted. “I don’t think it’s the flu.”

  “Pardon?” Salem asked.

  “It ain’t the flu. It ain’t physical.”

  That’s what he was afraid of. “Crap.”

  “Why crap?”

  “The flu or a cold would be easy. Soup, medication, hot tea. Boy or girlfriend or school trouble? Not so much. I don’t know how to talk to her anymore.”

  Mika stood and picked up the present she’d wrapped yesterday. The social daughter, she was attending a friend’s birthday party for the day. Aiyana, the quiet studious one, was more like him than Salem suspected she wanted to be.

  “Boys,” Mika said, with a nod of wisdom and a shrug that said, isn’t it obvious? “See you after the party, Grandpa. Bye, Daddy.” Then she was out the door and off to meet her friends down the street, so blessedly uncomplicated Salem thanked his lucky stars.

  “What do I do about Aiyana?” Salem buttered his toast.

  “Get your woman to talk to her.”

  His knife clattered to the counter. Clumsy fingers. “She’s not my woman.”

  “Ask her to talk to your daughter.”

  “No.” He might have let Emily sleep here last night, and he might have held her while she slept, but he’d be damned if he would expose his daughter to Emily’s brand of heartache.

  “She has been good to Aiyana since that girl was born.”

  True. She had showered Aiyana, and later Mika, with gifts and stuffed animals and postcards from abroad. “I know, but—”

  “And Aiyana loves her.”

  Yes, he knew that, too, but maybe not so much lately. Anger at Emily had grown in Aiyana since her mother’s death. Perhaps she’d hoped Emily might replace her mom, but that hope had been dashed every time Emily left.

  Aiyana used to adore
Emily, used to trail around behind her imitating her every move, and singing all of the silly songs Emily taught her.

  When Emily would leave at the end of her visits, it was okay because Aiyana had her mother. Once Annie started using, though, she became less and less available to her daughter. Aiyana looked forward to Emily’s visits too much after that, and was more devastated when she left.

  Then, after Annie died, the questions started.

  “Why is Emily going away? Doesn’t she want to be with me? When is she coming back?”

  Salem explained about her career, but it was hard to be convincing, because he’d always suspected there was more to it than there appeared to be.

  “Aiyana is angry with her,” his dad said, “but still loves her.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Who else is there?”

  No one now that her mother was dead. They didn’t have an extended family.

  “Ask her.” Dad could be as persistent as a bear in the mood for dinner.

  “No.”

  “Stubborn.” His father sniffed. “Like your mother.”

  He was not. “Emily is trouble.”

  “You need a little trouble.”

  Salem rounded on his father. “How can you say that? You of all people? After everything Mom did to you? To us?”

  “I loved your mother, warts and all.” His dad leaned back in his chair, crossed his feet and cupped the back of his head with his hands, as though they discussed nothing more serious than the weather. “Emily isn’t like your mother.”

  Salem turned away and stared out the window.

  “She isn’t Annie, either,” his dad said. “She is a different kind of lively. Not trouble trouble. Fun trouble.”

  “So what?”

  “Aiyana is unhappy,” Dad said. “Has been for a while.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “You would know more if you spent more time at home.”

  “I work hard—”

  His father cut him off with a shake of his head. “So what? Listen to what is important here. Something is wrong with Aiyana. I’m no good for her. You’re no good. She needs a woman to talk to.”