More Than We Can Tell

by Brigid Kemmerer

  “Nowhere.” His backpack goes over one shoulder, and he strides away from the table.

  I want to let him go. I don’t like confrontation. But maybe that’s the whole problem.

  “Watch my stuff,” I say to Declan.

  Matthew beat me through the door to the hallway, but I catch up to him fairly easily. He’s heading toward the south side of the school, which surprises me. All that’s down this way is the fine arts wing. Juliet is probably down here in the photo lab.

  He doesn’t stop walking. He doesn’t even look at me.

  Without warning, he ducks into a classroom.

  It’s so unexpected that I almost walk right past it. This is the art studio, a room where I’ve never had class. A fine arts elective is required to graduate, but I took Music Appreciation freshman year, just to get it out of the way.

  The art studio is a huge room, but it somehow seems cramped. Color is everywhere, from the paintings and drawings strung along the walls to the reams of paper, jars of tempera paint, and rolls of newsprint lining the back half of the room. Half the room has six long tables, with stools pushed underneath. The other half has a dozen easels. The lighting in here comes from overhead track lights instead of the fluorescents everywhere else. It’s a quiet room. A peaceful room.

  I wonder if he has class here or if this is just a convenient place to hide. “Do you take art?”

  He hesitates, then shrugs. “Yeah. It’s just an elective.” He drops his bag under the whiteboard at the front of the room, then moves to the narrow shelves under the window. A dark canvas slides free, and he carries it to an easel.

  Once the canvas is in the light, I realize it isn’t dark. The painting is. Most of the canvas has been painted in wide swaths of red, with black streaks and jagged, broken curves throughout. The uppermost part of the canvas is still untouched. It’s very abstract, but the painting radiates with anger.

  Matthew sets it on an easel. He hasn’t looked at me since we’ve walked in here. The air is uncomfortable suddenly, as if I’ve walked in on something very private.

  “This is more than an elective, isn’t it?” I say.

  He doesn’t answer that question, but he doesn’t have to. “I started it a few months ago. Mrs. Prater still had it. At first I was glad, because it always sucks to leave something unfinished. But I keep messing with it and I can’t get it right. I might trash it and start over.”

  The more I look at his painting, the less I want to look away. My eyes keep finding tiny details. Small streaks of purple and orange almost hidden by the twists of red and black.

  “How did you learn how to do that?” I say.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs. “One place where I lived, the woman was an illustrator—like for kids’ books? She used to let me paint.” He pauses. “And it’s something you can do at pretty much any school.”

  A wistful note has entered his voice, and I wonder what happened to this illustrator. It’s the first time he’s mentioned a foster home without any resentment in his voice.

  He glances at me, as if reading my thoughts. “Her husband’s job got transferred, and they weren’t interested in adoption. You can’t leave the state with a foster kid, so …” He shrugs again.

  “You’re really good.”

  He gives me a cynical smile. “You don’t even know what you’re looking at.” But he looks pleased.

  “Do you have anything else here?” I say.

  He nods, and his eyes lift to the wall. “Up there. The woods?”

  I find the painting he’s indicating. It’s primarily black and gray, dark trees on a night sky. Stars peek between barren branches. There’s nothing to indicate winter, but somehow the painting makes me think of cold weather. At the base of one tree is a small dark form, like someone crouched, and a burst of color, yellows and oranges, like a fire.

  I think about what he just said. It always sucks to leave something unfinished. I wonder how many paintings of his are stashed in art rooms around the county, works that he began and then abandoned.

  This feels like more of a secret than what he told me about his prior foster homes. There’s nothing to indicate an affinity for art among his things. It softens him somehow.

  “You should tell Mom and Dad,” I say. “Tear down that alphabet border in your room and paint something of your own.”

  He smiles. “That would be cool.” But again, the smile vanishes. “They wouldn’t let me do that.”

  “Why not? It’s just paint.”

  “Because it’s not my house.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. But I do know I can’t force it. I shrug. “Well, you should tell them about the artwork. They’d get you some supplies. Paint or whatever.”

  For the briefest instant, he looks like he’s considering it, but then his expression closes down. “They already spent money on the bed and things.”

  It’s the second time he’s mentioned money. What did he just say in the cafeteria? Don’t you understand that I’m trying not to cause a problem? I’ve thought about all the things he’s done since he moved in with us. The running. The knife. The hiding in the dark. I haven’t really thought about the things he hasn’t done. He hasn’t given Mom or Dad a hard time. He hasn’t gotten in trouble at school. He hasn’t dodged chores or started fights or even raised his voice.

  He hasn’t fought back against the kids who’ve been tormenting him.

  It reminds me of Dad’s comment about how we have to ask questions to hear the quiet people.

  For all Matthew’s bravado about jumping from foster home to foster home, and for all his certainty that his time with us is limited, I hadn’t realized how much that must weigh on him. It reminds me of being with my father, the span of time between action and discipline, when I knew something terrible was coming, but I didn’t know when, and I didn’t know how.

  The uncertainty, the waiting, must be awful.

  My phone chimes, and I pull it out of my pocket.

  Wednesday, March 21 12:05:34 p.m.

  FROM: Robert Ellis

  TO: Rev Fletcher

  SUBJECT: Answer me

  “My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle, And come to an end without hope.”

  Perhaps that is too subtle. Perhaps you’ve forgotten your lessons.

  I demand a response.

  Maybe it’s the demand. Maybe it’s the time I’ve spent with Mom and Dad. Maybe it’s everything going on with Emma, or with Matthew, or with Declan.

  But this time, his e-mail doesn’t upset me. It pisses me off.

  The lunch bell rings. I need to get back to the cafeteria to get my stuff.

  Matthew is sitting on a stool in front of his easel. “I think you know what you want to do.”

  I snap my head up. “What?”

  “She likes you. I think you know what you want to do. You just have to get your nerve up and do it.”

  He’s talking about Emma.

  I’m thinking about my father.

  Students begin filing into the room. Matthew glances at the clock on the wall. “Don’t you need to get to class?”

  He’s right. I do.

  I shove the phone in my pocket and turn for the doorway.

  But then I stop and turn back. “Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low. “You don’t need to keep running from them. I’ve got your back. Dec does, too.”

  He looks startled, but he covers it quickly. He looks back at his painting. I don’t think he’s going to say anything.

  And I really am going to be late to class.

  “Hey,” he calls after me. I barely hear him over the rush of students fighting to get into the classroom.

  I turn back. “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  Declan is waiting in the hallway with my backpack. He’s got a free period after lunch, so I know he doesn’t need to be anywhere.

  “All okay?” he says.

  “Yeah. Hold on.”


  I pull up my father’s e-mail, and before I can think about it, I hit Reply.

  Wednesday, March 21 12:09:14 p.m.

  FROM: Rev Fletcher

  TO: Robert Ellis

  SUBJECT: RE: Answer me

  I’m not doing this over e-mail. If you want to talk, we’re doing this face-to-face. Tell me when and where.

  I hit Send before I can think better of it.

  Then I grab my backpack and start walking.

  Dec hustles to catch up with me. “What just happened?”

  I hold out my phone so he can see. He reads quickly.

  “Holy shit, Rev.”

  Normally, I’d give him a look, but right now, I don’t even care about profanity.

  Dec glances at me and misreads my silence. “Sorry. But you doing that deserved a ‘Holy—’ ”

  “I got it.”

  “Here. He wrote back.” Declan thrusts the phone at me.

  Another e-mail. An address—his apartment, judging by the fact that he includes a unit number. Or an apartment, but the city is Edgewater, so I’m guessing it’s his.

  A time. 4:00 p.m.

  Holy shit.

  Declan is studying me. “What are you going to do?”

  My breathing has gone shallow, and my heart rate has tripled. Despite that, I feel surprisingly calm.

  I look back at him. “I’m going to borrow your car.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Emma

  He hasn’t texted me.

  I’ve checked my phone at least a thousand times today. Nothing. And now I’m on the bus, heading for home.

  Emma. The way he breathed my name is locked in my ears, looping on repeat. Emma. Emma. Emma.

  I need to fix this. My relationships with everyone are fractured and unstable.

  “He’ll text you,” says Cait. She’s been watching me open and close the iMessage app. “And even if he doesn’t, he said he’d meet you tonight, didn’t he? Didn’t you say he has a lot going on?”

  “Yeah.” And he does. I know he does.

  But so do I.

  I bite at my lip. “I’m so worried that I broke our … whatever.”

  “You didn’t break anything.”

  “I might have. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  Cait is quiet for a little while. “Emma, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you. You speak your mind. That’s a good thing.” She pauses.

  “Is that your way of telling me to stop being such a bitch?”

  “You’re not a bitch. I think you’re just trained to protect yourself.”

  It makes me think of Rev, how he’s trained to do the same thing, just in a different way. For different reasons.

  “Maybe you’ll need to approach him differently,” says Cait. “When you fix things.”

  I give her a watery smile. “Thanks for saying when, not if.”

  The bus pulls up to the end of my street. Cait reaches out and gives me another hug. “Call me if you need to come over, okay? Mom will come get you.”

  The air is cool when I climb out of the bus, but sunshine pours down. By all measures, a stunning day. It’s half past three, and the afternoon is mine alone. I fill my lungs with fresh air.

  Things with Mom are tense, but not unbearable. I’m sure I’ll eventually work things out with my father.

  I’m okay. Another deep breath. I’m okay.

  Then I turn the corner and see the For Sale sign in front of my house.

  She really did it. I didn’t think she’d do it.

  I’m light-headed. My vision fills with spots.

  I need to breathe. I need to breathe.

  My feet move me forward. The world zooms down to the letters on the sign. F-O-R S-A-L-E. The white wooden post. The metal board, swinging in the breeze.

  The strange cars in the driveway. One is a sleek sedan. The other is a larger SUV. Both are expensive and shiny.

  As I get closer, I realize people are on our front porch. A woman in a sharp pin-striped suit is standing by the front door. A young couple with a baby in a carrier stands beside her.

  “You said this just went on the market today?” the man is saying.

  “Yes,” says the woman in the suit. “It’s unusual to find a Craftsman in Annapolis. The interior is impeccable. The family really took care of the property …”

  She unlocks the door. They disappear inside.

  She can’t do this. She can’t.

  She hasn’t even told me where we’ll go. I thought this was a threat against Dad. Something to spur his sympathy. Something to try to save the marriage.

  I had no idea she was serious.

  And the house went on the market today? She didn’t think to mention this over breakfast?

  I can do better.

  Me too.

  What a crock.

  I’m standing on the sidewalk in front of my house, hyperventilating. I need to get out of here before the happy couple looks outside and sees me lose my lunch on the lawn.

  And Texy! Where is Texy? Why isn’t she barking?

  I burst through my front door. They haven’t moved past the dining room. All three people stare at me like I’m insane. The woman puts a hand over her baby’s head, like maybe she doesn’t want the infant to see such a train wreck.

  Miss Pinstripe frowns at me. “Can I help you?”

  “I—just—my dog—” My voice is shaking. I swallow. “I need to walk the dog.”

  “Oh! Are you Emma? Dr. Blue told me she would board the dog this week for showings. I’m sure she’s having a good time at the kennel.”

  She put Texy in the kennel. She took my dog and she didn’t tell me.

  What a bitch.

  “Are you feeling all right, dear?” The real estate agent moves toward me. Her voice is a little worried, a little irritated, like this isn’t going to help her earn a commission.

  I need to get out of here.

  “No—I’m sorry.” I swipe at my eyes before I start bawling in front of complete strangers. “I need—I need to go—”

  And then I’m outside, and the pavement is below my feet, and I’m running.

  Rev isn’t beside the church. I have no idea why I thought he might be here. It’s the middle of the afternoon. I’m panting and sweaty and I’m ready to collapse.

  I pull out my phone and text him.

  Emma: Rev. I need to talk to you.

  I wait and wait and wait. He doesn’t answer.

  Emma: Please. I know you’re mad. Please don’t ignore me.

  He ignores me.

  Or maybe he doesn’t see my messages. But the way fate’s been treating me, I think he’s ignoring me.

  I dial Cait. It’s only been fifteen minutes since I saw her last, so I know she’s still on the bus, but her mom might be home.

  She’s not home. They have an answering machine, but I’m sobbing so hard by the time it gets to the beep that I just hang up.

  I call my mother.

  By some miracle, she answers. “Emma?”

  “You put the house up for sale?” I yell.

  A pause. “Emma, I told you that we can’t afford to keep the house. When I called, the agent said she had a couple who wanted to come by today. I had to make a quick decision. I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t even tell me! Where are we going? What’s going to—”

  “Emma.” Her voice drops. “I need you to get it together. I am not in a place to discuss this.”

  “You were supposed to do better.” My voice breaks. “Do you think this is better?”

  A sigh. “Emma—”

  “Forget it.” I can’t believe I made her breakfast. I can’t believe I felt any pity for her at all. I push the button to end the call.

  Then I sit down in the grass and cry. I cry forever.

  I try Cait again. No answer. I don’t leave a message this time either.

  Am I desperate enough to walk to Rev’s house?

 
; Apparently so, because I find myself on his front step, knocking on his door before I’m ready. I hear someone throwing dead bolts, and I hurriedly swipe at my face.

  I’m a mess.

  What am I doing?

  If I’m lucky, they won’t call the cops and say a maniac is on the front step.

  The door opens, and Rev’s foster brother stands there. I don’t think Rev ever told me his name.

  He takes one look at me and says, “Rev isn’t here.”

  That brings on a fresh round of tears before I can stop them. I press my hands to my eyes. “Of course not. Okay.” I turn away.

  “Wait—do you want me to get Kristin? Or—”

  “Matthew, honey?” A woman’s voice calls down from the upstairs. “Who is it?”

  “No. No.” I wave my hand at him and choke on tears. “No.”

  “But—are you okay? She can call him—”

  “No.” I run down the steps. This was such a mistake. This is so humiliating. I’m such a fool.

  I collapse in the grass beside the church again. The stained glass windows glitter in the sunlight.

  I try Cait again. Still nothing. It’s almost four, so she should be home by now. This time I leave a tearful message. “Call me? Okay? Call me.”

  I hang up.

  Almost immediately, my phone pings with a text. My heart leaps. Is it Rev?

  It’s not Rev. It’s Ethan.

  Ethan: Hey. I haven’t heard from you all day. All OK?

  Emma: No. Not OK.

  Ethan: What’s wrong?

  Emma: Everything.

  My phone lights up with an incoming call. It’s Ethan.

  I don’t even hesitate. I swipe to answer.

  “Hello,” I say, my voice thick with tears.

  “Emma. What’s wrong?”

  His voice sounds exactly the same as it does in-game, which is surprising for some reason.

  My breath hitches. “My mom is selling the house. She took my dog away. There were people there looking at it. I’ve been trying to call my friend—”

  “Whoa. Slow down. She took your dog?”

  “She took her to a kennel so people could look at the house.” My voice breaks and I start crying again. “I don’t know where we’re going to live.”

  “Oh, Emma. I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t know where to go. My friend won’t answer her phone. I can’t go home because those people are there.”