Since sleep was unattainable at this point, I paced around the house. This place was void of character—no family pictures on the wall, no quirky decorations or random collector items. It was as if all personality was shoved to that back room with those strange paintings. I never noticed before, but now it was unsettling.
It reminded me how little I knew of this family. Now, a
friend of Emelia’s showed up. He even knew her mother, which was weird to hear.
It was like breaking some imaginary wall I had put up. Of course she existed.
Emelia reminded us of that often enough, but it was easy to avoid thinking
about. Emelia would have gladly told me about her, but I didn’t want to know. I
was content to keep it the way it was.
I wandered into the back room. When the plastic on the floor crinkled under my feet, I winced. I listened for any movement coming from the living room and continued on. The painting Emelia showed me was in the corner now, around others that had the initials “E.M.A” written on them. I tilted the canvases left and right to get some sort of feeling from them. Was understanding the hidden purpose in each swirl and stroke the secret to understanding Emelia? Well, maybe we could get along without understanding, then.
I walked to the other side of the room, where the frames had their last name, “Andel,” written on the back. The front had single words written at the top, labeling them with emotions. Emelia was clearly following this style, though her mom’s paintings were darker, more random strokes and slashes. I shifted through the stack of abstraction. The painting on the bottom of the stack gave way to a real scene. It was of a cabin in a forest, next to a large pond. A mountain peak jutted through a clearing in the trees. The label at the top designated it as a “Sanctuary.” I took a picture of it with my phone.
A long yawn made me abandon my exploration into the maze that was this family. I ducked into Emelia’s room and pulled the blanket off of the bed. Then I returned to Emelia and threw the blanket over her and tucked it in around her cold feet. Her hair had fallen over her face while I was gone. When I lifted my hand to brush it back, the softness of it against my dry hands made me linger and that realization made me whirl back around and plop down on the floor.
I leaned my back on the couch. “What is going on with you right now, anyway?”
No response except for a twitch in her arm. At least she was asleep early, for once.
This is the kind of thing normal teenagers do—get drunk while parents are away, not lock themselves in their house. I suppose I should be relieved.
I meant to stay awake to make sure she didn’t die in her sleep or something, but I suppose getting out my science book was setting up for failure. I drifted asleep only to jerk awake in the middle of the night when my book slid off my lap and onto the floor. I spun around to check on Emelia, but her steady breaths persisted. I settled back with renewed determination that only lasted ten minutes before I was gone again.
The sound of pained groans was the next thing that woke me. My body was telling me that it was far too early to be conscious and, to be honest, my mind agreed. I fought past that to look over and see Emelia rubbing her temples.
“You okay?” I asked as softly as I could with a groggy morning voice. “Does your head hurt?”
She sat up with a start, only to whine and drop back down. “Just a bit. Sorry.”
(“Sorry” is the way she punctuates a sentence, just so you know.)
“Hold on. I’ll be back.” I rushed to the sink to fill up a glass of water and brought it back. She nodded in thanks and drank it.
“Ugh, what exactly—?”
“You don’t remember? Logan?”
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
She was doing better than I thought she would—until realization crept onto her face, accompanied by another pitiful groan. She hid her face beneath her hands. “Did I really do that? I’m so sorry. I feel so stupid.”
I wasn’t sure what part she was apologizing for, but her descent into rambling was rapid. “Hey, slow down. It’s okay. Just tell me what’s up.”
She exhaled deeply. “Well, I guess you met Logan. He always joked that he drank because thinking is for losers. And, well, I guess I finally understood that. So we drank and watched shows on his laptop.” This breath she held in. “You think I’m pathetic, don’t you?”
I shook my head. “Actually, I’ve never understood you more.”
She lifted one hand enough to peak out, perhaps that look was grateful relief.
“You regret it?” I asked.
“I don’t know how I feel about it. Even my mother never mentioned alcohol. But everything feels worse than it did before and all the PSAs say this is where it starts, one drink and then you turn into an alcoholic and then why stop when you’ve tried it once and—I’m so stupid.”
She stuffed her hand into her hair. She never stops overthinking, does she? No wonder she wanted to stop living in that hell for a minute.
“Whoa, okay. I don’t think your future is sealed just by a couple drinks. But if you’re worried about it…” Her mother wasn’t here to tell her how to think. She was spiraling. “Here, we don’t know how to feel about it right now, so let’s delay the decision. How about a pact that neither of us drink until we’re legal?”
“Is that... okay?” Always asking, always seeking permission.
“It’s fine for me,” I said. “But you have to make the decision for yourself.”
She paused and then gave a resolute nod. “Okay. I can do that.”
Okay. Great. Problem solved, right? Well, not exactly, but at least she’s focused on a goal instead of freaking out. And I definitely didn’t propose this solution just to prevent Logan from spending more time with her while intoxicated. Nope, not me.
“All right. Good. So, are you going to tell me why you’ve been upset this week?”
She fixed her eyes on the floor. “You could tell?”
How could I not? Is what I wanted to ask, but decided it would be best to wait for her to speak.
“Just thinking about stuff like... I am tired of being a burden to people or always getting in the way. My mother was always distant from people. Do you think that is why she is gone? Do you think she got tired of dealing with people, of dealing with me?”
Oh, Emelia. How could the one good human I’ve met be so insecure? How could someone who is good at everything call herself a burden? I guess her values differed from mine. She cared how people felt about her. My anxiety, on the other side, came from thinking about the future and wondering if I was good enough to make it.
And here she was, left wondering what she did wrong. I knew then, beyond whatever defense she had for her mom, that she was terrible. She had to be to leave Emelia like this. Where was she hiding? I thought of the scene that his mother designated as “Sanctuary” and clutched my phone.
I searched my mind for any of the normal things to say. “It’ll pass” or “I’m sure she loves you,” but none of them felt right. I couldn’t give her a nice inspirational phrase and pack her feelings into a box. I didn’t want to get the conversation over with because I didn’t want to have to deal with it. That was how I normally dealt with people, giving only what I had to in order to seem sympathetic enough, but she was more than that.
What could I say, though? Because I never tried to help before, I was clueless. I didn’t have the right words to make it better. She certainly wasn’t a burden to me, but I would have felt weird telling her that. Were my feelings even that important to her?
“And, okay, I’ve been dealing with that possibility for a while now,” she continued. "But it’s not just my mom. It’s you I’m burdening now, too.”
“What?”
“I guess I am causing a lot of problems. I mean, I did not even know that Allison is your girlfriend. I feel stupid. I should have known that or picked up on something. I am sorry for taking your time away from her. No wonder you are always annoyed. I feel awful.”
She spat it out so fast that I sat blinking for a few seconds until I exploded with obnoxious laughter. Considering how serious she was, I probably should have tried harder to stifle it. She lowered her head, clearly not understanding the humor I took in it.
“Is this because of what Allison said about me?”
She nodded.
“Tell me this isn’t why you’ve been so upset?”
She didn’t have to nod. The silence was confirmation.
It’s endearing how, in her world, “we’ve kissed” translates to “we’re dating.” Normally I let people assume whatever they want without correcting them, but for some reason, I didn’t like the look she was giving me. Her lips were quirked up in a wry smile that did not fool me. It was as if she resigned to be pathetic. I didn’t want her smile to be twisted by self-loathing.
“First of all, we’re the ones who won't leave you alone and bother you non-stop. If anyone should apologize, it's us, but we aren't like that. So, if you want us out of your house, just tell us to get out, okay? Second, don't smile like you want to cry. It's freaking depressing.” Okay, so maybe my choice of words didn’t help things. “As for the thing with Allison, well...”
It had been a long time since I had thought about that—not only because it didn’t come to mind, but also because I made a conscious choice not to think about it. There is an odd sort of detachment I get whenever I remember the stupidity of my past self, whether it was a month ago or, as it was in this case, back when I first started high school…
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