Untouched

“Sure she can.” Emerson interrupts, but I ignore him, keeping my focus fixed on the woman’s watery eyes.

“Just hold onto me, OK?” I tell her brightly. “Easy there.” I put my arm around her shoulders, helping her along, and slowly, we shuffle out of the bathroom and back into the diner. Thankfully, it’s almost empty, and the family in the corner is more concerned with the toddler grabbing at their plates than us. “Don’t worry,” I tell Dawn, guiding her outside. “We’ll get you home soon, OK?”

Emerson’s red truck is parked out front, slung at an angle across the street like he didn’t take the time to park.

“I got it from here.” he tells me curtly, when Dawn is delivered into the passenger seat. He doesn’t meet my eyes, or say anything more, he just slams the door and strides around to the driver’s side like I’m not even here anymore.

I stand a moment there on the sidewalk, frozen. I know I should leave them. This is none of my business, and God knows, it looks like he’s got enough to deal with, but something about the hollow resignation in his voice and the brisk way he shuffled her out of the diner breaks my heart.

He’s done this before.

Before I can stop myself, I open the cab door and scramble up beside Dawn in the passenger seat. Emerson looks over, his mouth dropping open in shock to see me here.

“I’m coming with you.” I say breathlessly. “I can help.”

Emerson scowls at me. “Get out of my truck.”

“No.” I reply, amazed at my sudden bravery. “I’m coming. I can help.”

He glares at me, fierce. “We don’t need your help.”

“Well tough, you’re getting it.” I snap my seatbelt on, and then help fasten one around Dawn. She’s sitting limply between us, crying softly like she’s got no energy left. “Go on, drive.”

Emerson stares at me another moment, his jaw clenched, then starts the engine. He drives angry through town, taking the corners too fast so I have to hold Dawn up against me to stop her slipping against her belt.

I don’t dare tell him to slow down. I still can’t believe I demanded he take me with them, I just know somehow, deep down, I can’t let him go through this alone. Even if he’s a stranger to me, even if hates me for it, nobody should have to go through this alone.

I should know.

Emerson takes us a little ways out of town, pulling up outside a squat, small bungalow half-hidden in the woods. It’s an old, run-down home in desperate need of repairs, but as I follow him to the front porch, I can see that the lawn is freshly mown, and there’s a fresh coat of paint on the door.

The small details make my heart twist: the sad evidence of someone desperately trying to keep things together.

We carry Dawn inside. I expect Emerson to kick me out or tell me to leave now, but instead, it’s like he’s given up on getting rid of me. When I send him to make some coffee, he obeys without a word, disappearing while I run a hot bath, and feed Dawn some aspirin and a glass of water. She sits, red-eyed in her underwear in the water. She’s zoned-out now, limp as a rag-doll as I wrap her in a robe and settle her on the bed in the master bedroom. She curls into a ball, ignoring everything.

On the bedside table, there’s a photograph in a cheap plastic frame. It must have been taken years ago, because it takes me a second to recognize Dawn, bright-eyed and smiling. She’s got a new baby in her arms, and another blonde toddler in her lap, and standing shyly beside her is a dark-haired boy I can’t believe is Emerson. I look closer. The edge of the photograph is ragged, as if someone’s been torn out of the shot.

The sound of Dawn’s breathing beside me slows, so I put the photograph back and cautiously wander out into the living room, still bracing myself for Emerson’s anger. The house is empty, but I see a flash of movement out in the yard, so I pull the screen door back and step outside.

Emerson is pacing in the back yard, a beer bottle in his hands. The sun is setting, and his features are shadowed in the dim light. I feel a flutter of nerves, but push them down, waiting for him to say something. Anything at all.

Nothing.

“She’s sleeping now.” I break the silence. “She should be better in the morning.”

“Better?” Emerson turns, spitting the word back at me. His face is still etched with anger, his eyes clouded and bleak. “How can you say that?” He demands, coming closer. “What the hell are you even doing here?”

“You needed me.” My response is quiet and trembling.

“Yeah? How?” Emerson roars. “What the f**k do you know about any of this?” he demands, furious.“You’re just some pampered brat with a beach house! What gives you the right to come into our lives, and act like you know a damn thing about it?”

“Because I know!” I yell back, my frustration finally boiling over. “Because I’ve had to scrape my daddy off the floor more times than I can count. You think I haven’t been here?” I demand, advancing on Emerson. I shove at his chest, sending him reeling back. “You think I don’t know what it’s like, getting the call to come pick him up, because he’s passed out in the back room somewhere, choking on his own vomit? Believe me, I’ve seen it all.” I spit, hollow from years trying to keep the truth from Mom. “So quit acting like I’m the one to blame here, when all I wanted to do was help!”

Emerson

I stare at Juliet as her words sink in.