Give, a novel

by Erica Carpenter Witsell

  Once inside her office, Dr. Haskin sat down in a straight-backed chair beside her desk. Angled in the far corner of the room was a small couch, and facing that a striped armchair.

  Laurel, Jessie, and Emma stood in the center of the room uncertainly.

  “Have a seat?” said Dr. Haskin. She smiled slightly.

  Jessie was the first to move. She plopped down on the couch; Emma sat next to her. Laurel sat down in the armchair opposite but did not lean back.

  “Well,” said Dr. Haskin when they were finally settled. “Thank you all for being here. Ms. Black, I’m glad you could make it.”

  “Of course,” Laurel said. “I’d do anything . . .” Her voice trailed off, and again there was silence. Emma studied the rug in front of the couch. She could feel the cushions move as her sister shifted beside her.

  “I suggested that we meet like this before the hearing. To give the girls and you, Ms. Black, the chance to—”

  “Yes. Yes,” Laurel interrupted. “The chance to talk. Because I never get to see Emma, you know. Len won’t let her visit anymore.”

  Emma’s head shot up. Laurel was looking right at her, hungrily. Emma looked quickly away.

  He’ll let me, Emma thought. I just don’t want to go. But she kept her mouth clamped shut.

  “And why?” Laurel went on. “What did I do? What did I do to have my child taken from me? So that I never even get to talk—”

  “But,” Emma said, the word coming out as a squeak. All eyes turned to her; she lowered hers to the rug again while she spoke.

  “But I wasn’t taken from you. You didn’t want us. You gave Daddy custody. Nobody forced you. And it was my choice not to go to Baymont anymore. Mom and Dad didn’t tell me to stop, I just . . . I just . . . I just chose. I just didn’t want . . .”

  She didn’t finish the sentence. She had been going to say, “I just didn’t want to see you anymore,” but even with her eyes on the rug, she could feel Laurel’s presence in front of her, and she couldn’t say it. It sounded too unkind.

  “I just didn’t want to go anymore,” she finished quietly.

  “But why?” Laurel’s chin began to quiver. She looked pleadingly at Dr. Haskin. “Why? What did I do?”

  “Now, Ms. Black,” Dr. Haskin said sternly, but her voice was not unkind. “Do you really not understand that there were choices you made that may have made Emma feel uncomfortable? Even unsafe?”

  Laurel let out a disbelieving puff of air that was almost a laugh. “What? Raisin? I sold a pony, for Christ’s sake. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry, Emma, that I sold that damn pony. Forgive me for thinking you’d be over it by now.”

  Her tone was belligerent, and Emma found her eyes drawn to Laurel’s face despite herself. Laurel had been watching her, but now she looked quickly away.

  “What else? What else did I do that was so awful?” She meant the question to be rhetorical, perhaps, but Emma heard herself whisper, “The dam.”

  “What? Oh, the dam. The goddamn dam.”

  “Ms. Black,” Dr. Haskin interrupted. “Please watch your language. I understand that you are upset. But you are with your children.”

  Laurel snorted. “Of course. I’m sorry.” Her voice quieted. “Look, the dam wasn’t my fault. The babysitter . . . I even got rid of the babysitter after that.”

  “It is my understanding that it was Dr. Walters who insisted that you find a more responsible babysitter or he was going to come and get the girls.”

  “The summer was almost over, for crying out loud. And Candy was seventeen. It was her last summer anyway, so I would have had to find—”

  “Ms. Black,” Dr. Haskins interrupted gently. “I think this is all beside the point. Which is, that the girls were in your care. Is it so hard to understand that Emma might have been frightened? Felt unsafe?”

  Laurel laughed humorlessly. “Okay. She felt unsafe. But that was one day out of how many summers? For that I’m going to be denied my rights as her mother?”

  “Ms. Black,” Dr. Haskin interrupted. “No one is trying to deny you anything. I, for one, am merely looking at the best interests of the children.”

  Laurel seemed not to hear her. “Because of that, I’m going to lose all—”

  “Ms. Black,” Dr. Haskin said sternly. “We are speaking of the best interests of your daughters.”

  “But I didn’t do anything,” Laurel pleaded. “I just want the chance to be with my girls. I’m their mother, for Christ’s sake.”

  Suddenly Laurel’s tone changed, softened. “Shouldn’t I be allowed to be with my own daughters?” Her chin began to quiver violently. Watching her, Emma felt her jaw grow tight, then begin its own answering vibrations. She clamped her teeth hard against each other, horrified. She wanted nothing to do with this soft, emotional, needy woman in front of her. She didn’t want to hear the echo of her shrill voice in her own. She didn’t want her wobbly chin. Emma had a sudden vision of herself sobbing in her bed, while Sarah perched, dry-eyed and rational, on the edge of her chair. Is this how Emma looked to Sarah: dramatic and tearful, her emotions practically dripping from her sleeve? She shuddered at the thought. She was not like Laurel—she couldn’t be.

  She snuck another glance at her mother. Laurel was slumped back in the armchair now, sobbing into a crumpled tissue.

  “. . . and some inappropriate behavior, Ms. Black,” Dr. Haskins was saying. She paused to pass Laurel a box of Kleenex.

  Dr. Haskin’s voice went on and on, but Emma found she could register only occasional phrases: “not acknowledging . . . not the best choices . . . it isn’t about blame . . . Emma and Jessie’s best interests . . .” Instead, Emma watched, horrified, as Laurel cried. Was her mother really crying about her? Why would she? How could she? You didn’t want us, Emma thought. When we were little, you didn’t want us . . .

  “Oh, Mom,” Emma heard Jessie say from beside her on the couch. Her voice sounded almost exasperated. “Stop crying. It’s all going to work out.”

  Laurel looked at Jessie through her tears and gave her a small smile. “Really? Do you think so? Because I really don’t know.” She blew her nose loudly.

  Emma sat on the couch stone-faced, staring again at the whirling design on the rug, the erratic colors like a mirror of the turmoil inside her. There was no denying it: Emma knew what it was like to cry like that. The thought disgusted her, that from Laurel she had inherited those hideous tears, that indeed there was anything at all that linked them.

  “You are not my mother,” she wanted to say. But for Laurel’s garish emotion, it could be so simple: she need not visit her—need not, in fact, have anything to do with her at all. Sarah was her mother; Laurel was not.

  But Laurel’s sobs unnerved her. Despite her gaudy tears, her ridiculously quivering chin, it was undeniable: Laurel was sad. And as unbelievable as it seemed—for never had Emma felt that Laurel held much real affection for her—it was clear that she was sad about her.

  But what can I do? Emma thought. She wanted nothing to do with this sobbing woman who claimed to be her mother. And yet, inside her stubborn heart she felt her pity rise, unbidden. She could make Laurel happy. She could go to her now. She could say that she had changed her mind, that she would go to Baymont again. For a moment, she let herself remember the pastures and the pond, the smell of horses on her hands. But just as quickly, the other memories came. Laurel looking on as Raisin was lifted into the truck. Laurel splayed on the bed, milk leaking from her bare breast. Laurel . . .

  No. Inside her chest, she felt the stone valves close. Laurel was wrong. It was her fault. She had made her bed, let her lie in it. Her mother had not wanted them as babies. She did not deserve her now.

  Laurel might be sad, but it wasn’t Emma’s fault. No one could deny this, and now Emma clung to it. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault . . . The words cycled in her head. No, she would not betray her parents by faltering now. Any show of compassion for this quivering woman before her seemed to Emma a back-handed blo
w to her true mom and dad. Emma straightened on the couch. Laurel could cry all she wanted; she was not Emma’s mother. She would never be.

  It was almost four-thirty by the clock on her desk when Dr. Haskin finally rose.

  “Would you like a hug from your daughters perhaps, Ms. Black?” she asked kindly. At the unexpected compassion in her voice, Laurel’s wobbly chin began again. She clenched her jaw and nodded.

  Jessie stepped forward. “Bye, Mom,” she said. “And I mean it. It’s going to be okay.”

  Emma stood where she was, her face hard, her heart harder.

  “Emma?” Dr. Haskin prompted. “Do you want to give your mother a hug? She’s come a long way to see you.”

  Emma shook her head imperceptibly and did not move. She is not my mother.

  “A handshake, maybe?”

  Laurel looked at Emma plaintively and held out her hand. Emma stepped forward unwillingly and took it.

  Laurel’s hand in hers was warm despite the coolness of the room. Her flesh felt pudgy and damp, so unlike the smooth firmness of Sarah’s small hands. Laurel’s grip was soft, almost liquid, pleading. Quickly, Emma withdrew her hand and looked away.

  Dr. Haskins sighed. “Emma, you don’t have to love someone to give them a hug, you know,” she said. “You don’t have to love someone to have a Coke with them.”

  Then she opened the door that led back to the waiting room, where their father sat in the same chair as before, waiting for his daughters.

  You don’t have to love someone to have a Coke with them. You don’t have to love someone to have a Coke with them. You don’t have to love someone to have a Coke with them. All the way home through rush-hour traffic, the car air-conditioner blasting, the late afternoon light as harsh as noon, Dr. Haskin’s words rattled in Emma’s brain. You don’t have to love someone to have a Coke with them.

  How could Dr. Haskin’s not understand? Emma wanted her family to be her family. They were perfect; Laurel had no place. She had a mother—a dear, wonderful mother. She didn’t need Laurel. She didn’t want her. Oh, why had Dr. Haskin said that? Emma didn’t want to have a Coke with her. She didn’t want to have anything to do with her at all. Emma sat in the back of the silent minivan and hid her face against the torn vinyl of the seat in front of her.

  That night, Emma dreamed she was on a ship with Laurel and her sister.

  “Let’s go get ice cream,” Laurel suggested, smiling. She took Jessie’s hand in hers, then turned to Emma. “Emma? Let’s go.”

  Emma stood there, unmoving, her face of stone, her legs leaden.

  “Don’t you want to get ice cream?” her sister asked.

  Emma shook her head.

  “You know, Emma, you don’t have to love someone to have an ice cream with them,” Laurel snapped, turning away.

  The dream shifted, and now Emma was alone at the railing of the ship, the waves breaking against the hull below her. Across a narrow stretch of water there was another ship, and Laurel and Jessie stood on its deck, their shoulders almost touching, each holding an ice cream cone.

  “Jessie!” Emma yelled. “Jessie!”

  But her sister didn’t hear her. Their ship was pulling away, the water between them widening, their figures shrinking as the distance grew.

  “Wait!” she screamed. “Okay, I’ll have an ice cream. Wait!”

  But the ship did not stop, and at last Emma’s cries woke her.

  “Mom,” she called. “Mom!” But it was the middle of the night, and Sarah was fast asleep and did not hear her through all the doors that separated their rooms.

  CHAPTER 29

  Emma

  “Ouch,” Emma said. “Geez, Aunt Margie, I can do it myself.”

  Aunt Margie tugged the elastic band roughly from Emma’s ponytail, so that her blonde hair cascaded around her shoulders.

  “There,” she said, running the brush through it. “That’s better. Your hair is so pretty, Emma. You should wear it down more often.”

  “But it’s so hot, Aunt Margie. And I don’t see what difference it makes. It’s not like the judge is going to care about my hair.”

  Margie shook her head. “Maybe not, but there’s nothing wrong with trying to make a good impression.”

  Emma reached for the brush. “At least let me do it,” she said. “I’m about to turn thirteen, Aunt Margie. I think I can do my own hair.”

  But Aunt Margie moved the brush out of Emma’s reach. “Just let me,” she said, positioning Emma’s head with her hands. “Your parents asked me to be here, so I might as well make myself useful.”

  Emma caught her aunt’s eye in the mirror. “Are you nervous, Aunt Margie?”

  “Of course I’m not—” Aunt Margie began and then stopped. “Yes, I suppose I am, a little.” She held the brush aloft and studied her niece. “Are you?”

  Emma looked away. “Yeah. I guess.”

  Aunt Margie sighed. She smoothed Emma’s hair with her fingers. “Well, it will all be over soon.”

  “But what if—?”

  Aunt Margie shook her head. “There’s never any point to what-ifs, Emma. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Emma had expected a courtroom like in the movies, the stands full, a podium where she would have to raise her hand and pledge to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  But she never saw a courtroom. She walked with her sister and Aunt Margie down a long, tiled corridor, and then into a small, empty room with brown walls and straight-backed chairs.

  “Where are we?” she whispered to Aunt Margie, but her aunt just shook her head.

  Emma felt overheated and uncomfortable in the pantyhose her mother had told her she had to wear. The crotch had inched down as she walked like it always did; she could feel the material tugging at her thighs. She longed to reach down into her skirt and hitch them up. She wanted to gather up her loose hair into a ponytail again, just to get it off her neck.

  “I have to go to the restroom, Aunt Margie,” she whispered. The elastic waist of her pantyhose pushed uncomfortably against her bladder.

  Her aunt sighed. “Can it wait?”

  She shook her head.

  “Do you need to go, too?” Aunt Margie asked Jessie. Emma’s sister sat stone-faced two seats away. She shook her head.

  “Well, stay right here, then” Aunt Margie said. “We’ll just be a minute.”

  In the stall, when she had finished on the toilet, Emma bent down and tried to coax the stockings up her legs. But the material clung stubbornly to her skin and was hard to get ahold of.

  “Hurry up, Emma,” Aunt Margie called to her. “The judge will be asking for you soon.”

  Emma reached for the fabric where it gathered, a bit more loosely, at her ankle.

  “I am hurrying. I just need to—” Emma began. She felt her finger go through the thin fabric of her pantyhose. “Shoot.”

  “What happened, Emma?” her aunt asked anxiously.

  Emma stared as the run wasted no time in creeping up her leg. In a moment, there was a long ladder from her ankle to her knee, her flesh pale and freckled between the rungs.

  “Aunt Margie,” she said. “My—”

  But at that moment there was a knock at the outside door and a woman’s voice.

  “Excuse me? The judge will see the girls in her chambers now.”

  “Emma,” Aunt Margie hissed. “Come on.”

  “But my stockings—”

  “Just come on.”

  They hustled back down the hallway. Emma could feel the uncomfortable pull of the pantyhose between her legs, hobbling her. She could feel the air against her skin where the ladder crept up her thigh. Her face burned.

  Back in the room where they had waited, her sister was gone.

  “Where’s Jessie?” Aunt Margie said, and Emma could hear the panic in her voice. “She was right here—”

  “She’s with the judge,” said the woman who had retrieved them from the bathroom.

  “Oh God, I was supp
osed to be with them.”

  “It’s fine,” the woman said kindly. “She’s in with the judge now. It may be a few more minutes. Perhaps I was premature in coming to find you. Would you like to have a seat?”

  But neither Aunt Margie nor Emma moved. Aunt Margie held Emma’s hand tightly. Emma tried to keep her leg turned so that the woman would not see the run.

  In another minute, Jessie was back. She met Emma’s eye for an instant, then gave the briefest smile.

  “Don’t worry, Em,” she said. “She’s nice.”

  The woman led Emma into the judge’s chambers. The judge was seated behind a large, wooden desk, but she rose as they entered. She nodded at the woman, who excused herself, closing the door behind her.

  “Please have a seat, Emma,” the judge said, gesturing to an upholstered chair.

  Emma sat. It was impossible to hide the run now, but she pulled her skirt down over her knees.

  “How are you, Emma?”

  Emma shrugged. “Okay. I just . . . There’s a run in my pantyhose.”

  The judge smiled. “It happens to the best of us. You look very nice.”

  Emma shrugged again and looked away.

  “So, Emma,” the judge said, settling in the chair across from her. “I’m sure you understand why you are here?”

  Emma met her eye for a second, then nodded. “I guess so.”

  “Well, I would just like to hear from you . . .” The judge paused. “I’d like to hear from you what you would like. With respect, of course, to your parents.”

  Emma spoke quickly. “I just want Mom to be my mother. I don’t want—”

  “When you say, ‘Mom,’” the judge interrupted, holding up her hand. “You mean—?”

  “I mean Sarah,” Emma said quickly. Her mother’s name on her lips felt strange, as it always had. She didn’t like the distance it seemed to carry.

  “I call her Mom,” she said. “I consider her my mother. I always have.”

  The judge nodded. “I understand. But you realize, of course, that your birth mother, Laurel, would like joint custody. Would you like to live with Laurel, even if only for part of the year?”