Burned

33 EMILY GETS HER WISHES

The next day, the shuttle van pulled into Emily’s driveway, and the kind driver, who’d talked Emily’s ear off the whole drive about his sixteen-year-old son who would be just perfect for her, trotted to the back and grabbed Emily’s bags.

“Looks like no one’s home.” He squinted at the Fieldses’ blue colonial. The windows were dark, the shutters were drawn, and there were windswept weeds and branches all over the porch.

Emily shrugged. Her dad had sent her a terse text shortly before she landed at Newark Airport saying he couldn’t pick her up after all and had arranged for the shuttle. He didn’t offer an excuse, and Emily wondered if it was just because he didn’t want to be stuck in the car with her for two torturous hours. Apparently, he didn’t sympathize with the fact that she’d had to escape the ship on a lifeboat.

She gave the driver the last twenty-dollar bill in her wallet as a tip, then punched in the garage code and watched as the door slowly rose. Sure enough, both her parents’ cars sat quietly in the garage. She walked around them and opened the side door.

The familiar smell of her house, a mix of slightly stale potpourri, bleach, and the musky cologne her dad always wore, made her throat tighten. For a few hours, she had thought she’d never have to come back here. And after everything that had happened, she hadn’t had time to prepare to return to this life.

All of a sudden, her legs wouldn’t move. She couldn’t endure another sidelong glance from her parents, another heavy sigh. She couldn’t tolerate the heavy, disappointed silence, her mother’s closed bedroom door, those horrible dinners with her father where neither of them spoke. And it would only get worse once she and her friends confessed.

She stood in the laundry room, one hand on the top of the washer. Maybe she’d turn around, walk out the door, and stay at a hotel for the night. They were going to call the police tomorrow—she’d probably be in custody within twenty-four hours. Why not spend the remaining hours of freedom somewhere peaceful and relatively calm? Why torture herself by being around people who hated her?

Swallowing hard, she started to turn. But then she heard a thin, eggshell voice call out from the family room. “Emily? Is that you?”

She froze. It was her mom.

“Emily?” Mrs. Fields called again.

Then there were footsteps. Mrs. Fields appeared in the living room doorway, wearing a pink sweater and jeans. Her hair looked washed. Her face had makeup on it. And—even more bizarre—she was looking at Emily with a faint smile on her face.

Emily tentatively touched her cheeks, wondering if she might be dreaming. “Uh, hi?”

“Hi, honey.” Mrs. Fields looked at her bags. “You want help?”

Emily blinked. These were the first words her mom had said to her in more than two weeks. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me home,” she squeaked, surprising herself.

Mrs. Fields pressed her lips together. Her shoulders rose up and down, and for a brief second, Emily saw the disappointment gather in the lines on her mother’s face and the bags under her eyes. Here it comes, she thought. Her mother was going to burst into tears and disappear again.

But then Mrs. Fields stepped forward, her arms outstretched. Before Emily knew what was happening, she’d pulled Emily into a hug. Emily remained ramrod-straight, her arms at her sides, still waiting for the tears … or a lecture … or something awful. But her mom just rested her head in Emily’s hair, breathing in and out steadily.

“I heard there was an explosion on the boat,” Mrs. Fields said. “And that you girls almost drowned at sea.”

Emily lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly.

“I’m just glad you’re safe.” Mrs. Fields shook Emily’s hands.

Emily looked up. “You are?”

Mrs. Fields nodded. “Honey, I’ve had a lot of time to think. We’re going to work through this. We’re going to figure out how to be a family again.”

Emily pulled away and stared at her mom’s face. “Well, say something!” Mrs. Fields urged, looking nervous. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s what I want,” Emily blurted. “I just … I didn’t ever … I …” She felt tears welling behind her eyes. “I never thought you’d forgive me,” she mumbled, bursting into sobs.

Mrs. Fields collected her in her arms again. “I had a long talk with Father Fleming when you were gone. I know we don’t talk about a lot of things. But I hate the idea of you hiding something so big. I’ve been hard on myself during this time, too, Emily. I feel like I’ve failed you as a mother.”

“Don’t say that,” Emily blubbered. “It’s my fault. I should have told you. I was just so …”

“… scared,” Mrs. Fields finished for her. “I know. Carolyn told us.”

Emily drew back. “Carolyn talked to you about it?”

Mrs. Fields nodded. “She feels like she failed you, too. She wants to come home for a long weekend soon to talk things out. This is a reflection on all of us, Emily. And if we’re ever going to heal, we all have to pull together. Don’t you think?”

Emily stared at her mom in amazement. “Yes,” she whispered. “I really want to be a family, too.”

Emily looked around the laundry room with its chicken baskets, old sweatshirts on hooks, and jugs of detergent. She’d never paid much attention to this room, but suddenly it was her favorite place in the world. The possibilities spread out before her. Reconstructing her relationship with her older sister. Making things right with her mom again. Having normal dinners, normal holidays—being a family. And being honest with them in the future, not running from them when she had a problem.

Then she remembered: Tabitha. But she pushed that aside for the moment, deciding to concentrate on this and only this. For one day, she could have her family back just the way she wanted it. She’d probably never have a moment like this again.

“Come on,” Mrs. Fields said, picking up one of Emily’s bags and dragging it into the kitchen. “Sit down, I’ll make you some tea, and you can tell me all about your trip.”

Emily let her mom guide her through the living room and sit her down at the kitchen table. It felt good to watch her fill the teapot with water and place it on the stove. She was about to launch into a description of the ship and the islands they visited, but then an Express Mail envelope caught her eye. Emily Fields, said the script in the address window.

She held it up. “What’s this?”

Mrs. Fields glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “I don’t know. It just came this morning.”

Emily ripped open the envelope and pulled out a postcard. When she saw the picture of the Bermuda International Airport on the front, her heart did a flip. The postcard was unsigned, but she knew immediately who it was from. Then she read the date, and her mind stalled. April 3. That was two days ago, the day of the explosion on the boat. She pictured Jordan’s body leaping from the top deck of the ship, the bubbles in the water, the FBI boats searching the bay. A smile spread across her face. Then she looked down and read the note once more.

Emily: I’m okay. Not going to where we planned, but somewhere even better. We’ll find each other someday—that’s a promise.