EMILY DICKINSON
I push myself up off the couch. Every cell in my body wants to run. But I force myself to stand my ground. It’s not Chatham’s fault my life is such a mess.
He’s a nice guy. But his jaw clenches as he approaches. I know what he’s going to say—that this isn’t working, that I lied to him, that he can’t take care of someone like me. And I get it. I really do. I just don’t want to hear the words.
Cindy smiles. When he bends down and whispers something in her ear, she skips toward the back of the store. Halfway up the aisle, she turns to me. “Come back and see me. Okay?”
I smile and wave, not sure whether I’m trying to reassure her or myself.
Chatham steps forward. “Emilie, we need to—”
“You don’t have to say anything.” Without my permission, my feet step toward the door. I clutch the handle but force my eyes to his face. He deserves at least that much.
Ms. White clears her throat. Chatham’s head jerks toward her, eyes widening as he obviously remembers we’re not alone. I bite the inside of my cheek.
“Please, not here.” I flick my eyes in the older woman’s direction, hoping he understands how difficult this is for me. If I’m going to get dumped, I’d rather do it in private.
“Then outside.” He places a hand on my upper arm. Citrus shampoo mixed with salty air and a hint of chlorine teases my nose.
“My mom’s out there.” I shake my head, looking away.
“Then where? When?” His grip on my bicep tightens. “You disappear. You won’t answer your phone. How are we supposed to talk?”
I shake free, pushing the door open an inch. “What’s the point in talking?” I peek out at Mom. She’s still on the phone. “Are you really interested in me after what you saw Thursday?”
His lips part, but he doesn’t speak for several long seconds. “I don’t know.”
His words cut like broken glass, but at least he’s honest. I’ve known from the beginning I’m too much work. I never would’ve expected him to say yes.
I push the door forward a few more inches. Cool, moist air brushes my ankles, and I shudder.
“I might want to be with you if I knew you.” He places a hand on the door, blocking my escape. “But you lied to me.”
How convenient. Now he can blame the downfall of whatever was happening between us on me. He can kill it with the “You lied to me” line and avoid the guilt of breaking up with the disabled girl.
I sigh. I’m not being fair. That’s not why he’s doing this. It’s because I don’t deserve him—not after all that I kept from him and all that I put him through.
“I understand,” I whisper. I press my shoulder against the glass door, pushing it from his hands, and trudge toward the Civic. I drop into the passenger seat, and Mom reverses without ending her conversation. Chatham watches as she executes a perfect three-point turn, his shoulders slumped, his lips compressed into a thin, firm line.
I stare out the window and fume—at God for dealing me this crappy hand, at Dad for abandoning me, at Mom for . . . well, for being Mom. And at Chatham—most of all at Chatham—for being too good to be true.
I press my knuckles into my thighs in an effort to refrain from banging my head against the glass.
Mom finally ends her call. “You okay?” she asks, turning toward me.
For a second I want to tell her. “No—yes—I’m fine.” I fold my hands together. “I’m just tired.”
“You’ve been through a lot these past couple days. You should probably take a nap when we get home. I’ve invited Roger to come over for dinner.”
The nonchalant way she says it irritates me, like it’s assumed I’ll be glad to see him. “I don’t feel like company.”
She presses the power button on the radio with her red nails. “He’s not company.”
He’s not family either, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut. She’s trying really hard—calling a truce on the whole school thing, taking me to breakfast. “Fine. You’re right,” I mumble.
My insides remain tense, but her hands relax a bit on the steering wheel. And it feels kind of nice to not be adding to her worries for once. I have no idea how I’ll accomplish it, but I’m going to try really hard to be civil when Rog arrives.
When we get home, I drag myself to my room. Lost in thought, I fail to acknowledge Hitch. He follows me anyway, sitting beside the bed. Tears sting my eyes. I want to hold them back, but the lack of sleep and the side effects of the extra meds are wearing on me. I’m sick of this life. I’m sick of life. Period.
Hitch whines and paws at the bed when the tears spill down my face.
“I’m sorry, buddy. You deserve better.” I pat the quilt, inviting him to join me, and dry my face on the bottom of my shirt.
He grins and leaps onto the bed. When he does, his bushy tail swishes the half-full glass of water I left on the bedside table last night before bed. Water runs into the partially open drawer and trickles to the floor.
I jump off the bed and grab a hand towel out of the dirty-clothes basket as Hitch drops into a down-stay on top of the covers and watches me with remorseful eyes.
“It’s okay, love.” I mop the water off the tabletop and floor and contemplate ignoring the water pooling in the drawer. Who cares if the seizure journal’s ruined? I have to start over now anyway. I pluck it from the soggy mess, carry it across the room, and chunk it in the trashcan beside my desk.
Back at the nightstand, I push the drawer with my hip, but it sticks. Ms. Ringgold would love the symbolism: the drawer that won’t budge is a perfect analogy for my clogged-up life. I dig around for whatever’s causing the jam. Several thick pieces of paper are wedged in the small space between the back of the table and the back of the drawer.
I draw them out for closer inspection. My breathing catches. Even with the ink smearing around the edges from the spill, I recognize the handwriting. I thought I’d put all the cards and letters from Dad in a shoebox under the bed. But somehow I missed these.
I open the first one. On the cover, a little girl sits on her father’s lap. The inside says something about a daughter outgrowing her father’s lap but never his heart. My chest hurts like my ribs are pressing in on my lungs. The second—or is it third—round of tears forms in my eyes, and I’m not sure whether I’m crying because I miss Dad so much or because it feels so good to read his scratchy handwriting.
I carefully tuck the card back into its envelope and move on to the next. There’s no text on the front, only a picture of early-morning pink skies over Nag’s Head Pier. The inside’s also blank except for Dad’s scribbled note.
He left this one on my pillow one night before bed, shortly after he was diagnosed with cancer. I’d been having nightmares about him dying. He’d tried to encourage me to count my blessings, to be grateful. He’d said his cancer wasn’t all bad, that it was a reminder of how short life is and an opportunity for us to celebrate our love and each other. And that’s what we did until he was too sick to do anything but lay in bed. The three of us read poetry at night and went for long walks on the beach looking for sea glass. We ate dessert for breakfast and splurged on soft-shell crabs and lobster tails for dinner. I smile at a memory of him and Mom shoving Cool Whip-covered blueberry pancakes into each other’s mouths.
By the time I reach the last line, I’m laughing and crying. I reread the last two sentences. Emilie, when the water gets deep and the current strong, you have to swim. Promise me, you’ll swim.
And God help me, I’d promised. The epileptic who can barely doggy paddle promised her dying father she’d swim. It was a metaphor, right? He didn’t actually think I’d swim. Right?
But what Mom and I are doing isn’t even doggy paddling. We’re treading water in a hurricane, choking on choppy water. Mom’s made a few tentative kicks and strokes, but I’ve been pulling her down. She can’t swim because I’ve tied myself around her ankles like a cement block.
I drop the cards on the bed and shove my feet into the nearest pair of flip-flops.
“Come on, Hitch.” He rises, eyes and ears perky, tail wagging.
We pass Mom deveining shrimp in the kitchen. I don’t speak.
“Where are you going?” she asks, pinching off a tail and adding it to the massive pile of heads and shells and guts.
“For a walk.” I hold the door open for Hitch.
She points at me with her black-plastic deveiner. “Don’t be late for dinner.”
Tromping down the boardwalk behind Hitch, I avoid Cindy’s house looming over me on the right. Guilt nibbles at my guts. That little girl had a lot of horrible things going on in her life, but when the current got strong, she swam. I’m twice her age. It’s time for me to suck it up, to take control, and quit rolling with the tide.
By the time I reach cold, hard-packed sand, Hitch is romping in the choppy surf. With the exception of the happy golden retriever, the scenery matches my mood: fifty shades of dreary. Charcoal sand melts into a slate ocean, which blends into a foggy horizon. A brisk breeze lifts my hair off my face, leaving me exposed. I survey the beach. Not a soul in sight.
Hitch seems to sense my dark mood, gives up on his game of chase with the receding waves, and stays mostly by my side. The wind picks up, spraying my cheeks with needle-like shards of seawater.
I clench my fists and look up at the sky. “What do you want me to do, Dad?” I shout.
Hitch’s head swivels back and forth in search of danger.
“You want me to swim?” I ask, stepping into the icy water. “Is that it? You want me to swim?” I slog forward.
It’s official. I’ve lost it. My sanity died when I started screaming at a ghost—the ghost of the person I loved more than anything on the face of the planet.
White breakers foam around my calves. For once Hitch doesn’t bound into the water. He stands to my right, frozen on the beach, whining. I ignore him, hauling myself farther into the surf.
A large wave knocks me off my feet. I lose a flip-flop and scramble to regain my footing. The toes on my bare right foot dig into coarse sand and crushed shells. I swallow a mouthful of salty water. My eyes stinging, I stumble back toward shore, try to catch myself, but fall flat on my butt. The wave that barreled over me seconds earlier rushes out to sea, pulling me along with it.
And I realize: I could unclench my fists and heart and go with the flow—let the ocean have its way with me. Mom and Roger could have their happily-ever-after. Chatham could move on to someone else. Someone right for him. Ayla could capture me in her art.
I loosen my grip on the sand, allowing myself to be pulled beyond the white foam and into deeper water. The frigid ocean numbs my pain. Hitch barks and charges into the water. He tugs on the sleeve of my drenched shirt, then retreats when I don’t follow and repeats the rescue attempt—bark, charge, tug, retreat—several more times.
He loves me. He’s always loved me just the way I am. And if I’m honest and quit being a snot-nosed brat, I’d admit Mom has too.
What if I quit worrying about what people think? What if I wasn’t afraid all the time? I’d be happier. I could live my life—really, really live.
Hitch barks like he can read my thoughts.
I brace myself on my arms, hoisting myself out of the sand. The water lifts me. I’m momentarily weightless. I realize I’m floating away from Hitch, and I heave myself over onto my belly and scramble on all fours toward shore. He meets me halfway, pulling me along by my sleeve.
Free of the icy water, I collapse face-first in the hard-packed sand. Hitch crouches beside me, licking and nuzzling my face until I force myself to my knees, wrap my cold arms around his muscular neck, and bury my face in his wet fur.
I pull back till we’re eye to eye. “Hitch, I want to live.”
He lifts one brow, smiles, then lowers his snout. I’d swear he nodded.
“I love you, big guy,” I whisper, glancing out to sea. A sliver of sun peeks through the fog, and I smile, my teeth chattering.
I want to live. And if I want to live, it’s time to start making some serious changes.