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“Nothing,” I tell her. “I want nothing from you. I will never, ever be able to forgive you. I’ll hate you for this until the day you die.”
“I want you gone when I get home from work tomorrow,” she says. “You’re not welcome in this house anymore.”
She stomps off to her bedroom and slams the door.
On wobbly legs, I make my way down the hallway to my old room and return the gesture.
eleven
Winter 2002
Iwake up the next morning with a hangover unlike any I’ve had in years. I sit up and immediately run to the bathroom and projectile vomit until my body is spent. I brush out my hair, splash water on my face, and brush my teeth, then go downstairs and make a pot of coffee. From the looks of it, the house is empty. Emma’s bedroom door is open, but I don’t see her anywhere. She must be at practice. Mom, presumably, has gone to work.
I toast a bagel while I wait for the coffee, then, with a pounding head, I pack my bags and prepare to do what she asked of me and get the fuck out of her house. The dead girl stays quiet; she doesn’t try to fight me on it. I get the feeling she’s done fighting.
But I do pack the old photographs. Just in case I do ever decide to let her out to stretch her legs.
I carry the small suitcase downstairs, then notice the shopping bags I’d left by the front door.
The presents for Emma.
I go to the hall closet where we’ve always kept the wrapping paper and sure enough, it’s still there. I sit on the living room floor, wrap the presents, and place them under the tree.
I hope she likes them. I guess it’s the least I could do after abandoning her for three years only to show up uninvited and traumatize her the way I’m sure I did last night.
The night with the marshmallows was better. Maybe I should have left it at that.
But in a way, I got what I came here for—I got closure. And Emma got a better life.
I look around the old cabin one more time before I go. New photographs line the shelves and adorn the walls. I guess I didn’t take the time to notice them yesterday, but I do now: my mom and Emma together, even a couple from their trip to California. It’s like I never existed here, just like I’ve pretended for the last three years.
Still, it hurts. But I won’t let this house hurt me any more than it already has.
With a heavy sigh, I wheel my suitcase out the door, pull it closed, and lock it. I turn to walk to my BMW but freeze when I see it’s been parked in by a red truck.
“Heard you were looking for me,” Ty bellows.
Slowly, I turn toward the porch swing and see him sitting there, lighting a cigarette.
“Yes.” It comes out softly, almost a whisper.
“You’re late.”
“I know,” I tell him.
“I don’t like your hair,” he says.
I laugh and wipe the tears from under my eyes. “I really like yours.”
“I look good, don’t I?” he says, flashing me a smile.
I nod. “Yeah, you do. Um…do you…want to come in?”
He looks into my eyes, then bites his lip and averts his gaze. “I better not.”
He takes a drag of his cigarette, then holds it out to me. I release my bags and take it from his hand, then bring it to my lips.
“Sit with me?” he asks.
