CHAPTER TEN
________
EMMA
The trip to my parents’ was less painful than I imagined. The sun had broken through the thick layer of grey clouds and the air smelled fresh, clean. My ears were frozen, and I felt my cheeks melt as soon as I stepped into the warm bus.
The journey wasn’t long, but the road, with its twists and turns, left me with nothing to do but stare at the endless greenery and farm animals. It was torture to some people, even to me most of the time, but this day it was different, comforting. I sat beside the window, bringing my knees close to my chest, and was mesmerised by how peaceful everything was, how the animals strolled around the grass without any worries. The last week had been full of turmoil, but life kept on going, and so would I. There was no point in moping around and waiting until the ground swallowed me. I was going to change my life, and I had to start small.
That’s where my dad came in. He would help me find an idea of what to do with my future, at least on where to start.
My parents’ house was modest in size, red brick and white windows with a matching white front door. The living room housed an ancient TV. There was a fully equipped kitchen with white tiles and equally white cupboards—my mother had an obsession with clinical whiteness. The same was to be said of the two bathrooms, and I was sure if she got her way, our rooms would’ve been the same shade.
“It looks cleaner,” she would reply if asked, as if the answer was obvious.
My room, like my brother’s, was upstairs. Both faced the back of the house where the garden lay—my father’s pride and joy, his sanctuary.
Receipts and used tissues tumbled out of my bag while I rummaged for the keys. Even if my parents were home, the door would be locked. My dad—a retired policeman—always said, with his eyebrows furrowed, that it was irresponsible to leave the front unlocked.
“It is begging to be robbed. Might as well have a flashing sign outside, welcoming any thieves into the house,” he would say through gritted teeth.
They lived in a middle-class area, relatively safe, where everyone knew each other’s business and where my family’s was the only door you had to knock at before getting in. As soon as I found the key to the door, it swung open. My mother stood smiling on the other side. Behind her was Mr Pickles, her Pekingese, who growled, ready for attack.
“Emma, how are you, pet?” Mum said, grinning.
She looked exactly the same; her hair was still perfect, and her pale pink, pleated skirt matched a white blouse with pale pink flowers, both starched and ironed.
“Hi, Mum!” I said, throwing my arms around her neck.
She stiffened, not comfortable with the sudden show of affection, but relaxed quick enough.
“Dad called. He said he needed help with the garden.”
“Yes, of course. Come inside, I’ll get the kettle on. You can tell me about your week with a warm cup of tea.”
Mr Pickles whimpered as my mother closed the door, begging for attention, and my mother picked him up. The dog, happy about getting what he wanted, wagged his tail and licked my mother’s nose.
She smiled at him, and with a baby voice that she’d never used with her own children, she told him, “Don’t worry. We’ll go for a walk soon. We are just going to have tea, and you can have a doggy biscuit.”
At this, Mr Pickles barked.
“Yes, baby, we need to make Emma feel welcome.”
Mum scratched him behind his ears and put him gently on the floor. The dog snarled at me, and I could’ve sworn he whispered my name.
“Cujo,” I whispered back, once my mother left the room.
Mr Pickles ran after her as if he were about to tell on me for doing something wrong. I couldn’t believe it. I knew the dog hated me, but it was like arguing with a sibling.
We walked through a long corridor to the kitchen. Pictures of my twin brother and me plastered the walls, a whole album of our growth on display for everyone to see, from childhood to adulthood, at least for me. My brother, Tom, on the other hand, the apple of my mother’s eye, had pictures of his graduation from Aberdeen University and his wedding photo. The photograph showed him standing tall and handsome beside his trophy wife, Lesley. He met her at university while studying medicine. Of course, my pictures stopped as soon as I finished high school and when I got a job in a supermarket. I was neither successful nor married.
Once we reached the kitchen, I sat on a chair while she hurried to boil the kettle and fetch the biscuits she kept for visits. I knew she wasn’t going to make me feel better, reassure me like other mothers would; instead she would throw in my face the “I told you so” and that I should grow up and take responsibility for my choices.
It didn’t matter how hard I tried, it didn’t seem to be good enough.
Before she could start with her sermon and try to steer the course of action I asked, “Where’s Dad?”
“Outside tending the flowers,” she answered without looking at me.
Of course he was outside. It was a nice day, and he took care of those flowers as if it were a matter of national security.
My mother took a deep breath and sat down beside me, placing a plate of chocolate chip cookies beside my cup. This was the start.
She lifted one eyebrow in a critical manner and said, “Mrs Thomas is looking for a girl to run her flower shop when she retires. How about if you give her a ring?”
Instantly I became defensive.
Not looking at her, I answered through gritted teeth, “No, Mum, I’m okay at the moment.”
She fell quiet, thoughtful while she swirled her tea. The only noise in the kitchen was the spoon clicking against the porcelain cup. I hated when she did this and wished that, just for once, she would listen instead of telling me her opinions.
“Emma, you could be doing so much better than working in a supermarket. It’s a dead-end job. At least in the flower shop you would be working as management instead of in the checkouts.”
“The supermarket also has the option to train for management,” I said, defending my chosen career. If you could call it that.
She stopped clicking her spoon and looked at me. “And have you applied for any of those opportunities?”
I didn’t answer. There was no need. Instead, I concentrated on defrosting my frozen fingers with the warmth of the cup.
“Oh, love, you have so much potential and you’re wasting it. Please tell me at least you’ll give it some thought?” She took a sip from her tea. “It would be a shame to lose a chance to better yourself.”
Anger simmered in my veins; she always tried to change me, and I knew it was so she could show off to her friends. Like she did with my brother.
“You should also do something about your hair, pet. How are you going to find yourself a man if you don’t take care of your appearance?”
That was it. The statement of the year. The punchline that made me stand up. My blood was boiling, about to erupt like a volcano.
“I knew I shouldn’t have bothered to come here. I was kidding myself that maybe once in my whole life, you would stop criticising me. I was wrong.”
“Come on, Emma, I’m sorry if I offended you. I just… I only wish the best for you.”
“Come on, Emma?” I repeated. I was so angry that I couldn’t think properly. I couldn’t get the words in the right order in my head. I was pacing like a madwoman while my mother sat, composed. She stood up and walked towards me. Without saying a word, she enveloped me in a hug. Taken aback, I froze, but it didn’t take long for my body to relax and enjoy the embrace.
“I’m sorry, darling,” she whispered as she rubbed my back, taking me back to my childhood. “I didn’t mean to be harsh. You know I just want the best for you.”
When my father came in, a pang of guilt washed over me. He looked older. His hair had thinned out around his temples and the curve of his stomach was rounder, now bulging over his trousers. The lines around his eyes were deeper. It had been a few months since the last time I’d seen them, but I couldn’t have imagined the change time would’ve caused.
“Hello, pet!” he said.
His green eyes crinkled and a broad smile appeared on his face. He gave me a bear hug, lifting me off my feet. Once he let me back down, I noticed his hands were covered in mud from working in the garden, leaving brown stains on my jacket.
“Look at you, looking as gorgeous as always, doesn’t she, Anne?”
“She does,” my mother answered politely, standing and picking up Mr Pickles’s leash. “Duncan, please don’t get mud everywhere.”
“So, Dad, you called. What is it you need help with?” I asked, once I let go of him.
“Oh, I don’t need any help. I have a surprise for you. Guess who’s here?” my dad asked, ignoring my mother’s comment completely, his chuckle contagious.
His cheerful mood made me smile.
“Is Tom home?”
“Guess again,” he encouraged.
I didn’t have a clue to whom he was referring, until he appeared in the doorway. My pulse quickened. A surge of emotions hit me like a ton of bricks. I hadn’t seen him since the night we’d kissed, seven years ago.
“Hey, Emma, long time no see,” he said, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed against his chest.