not because she was happy. It was meant to reassure.
“I’m here,” she told him, while Alison continued to hold his hands.
“Emma, that was your dad.” It wasn’t a question.
Had he been anyone else, she would have lied, and it would have come cleanly and naturaly. Lies were something you told other people to make things easier, somehow—hopefuly, for them, but often more selfishly for yourself. Lies, Emma realized, as her glance flicked briefly to her mother and back, were things you told yourself when your entire world was turned on its end for just a moment, and you needed to put it right side up again.
But Michael? Michael hadn’t even understood what a lie was supposed to do until he’d been nine years old. He hadn’t understood that what he knew and what other people knew were not, in fact, the exact same thing. Emma didn’t remember a time when she didn’t understand that. And she wasn’t certain why, at nine, Michael began to learn. But he had; he just didn’t bother lying because he could see the advantage of honesty and of being known for it.
Not lying, however, and not being lied to were different.
Emma could have lied, but that—that would have pushed him over the edge he was clearly teetering on. Because he knew what he’d seen, and nothing she could say was going to change that.
She took a breath, steadied herself. “Yes,” she told him quietly, just as Eric said, “No.”
Alison turned to stare at Eric. She rose, stil holding Michael’s hands. She passed them to Emma, who could now feel her feet properly. Michael looked at Eric and at Emma, and Emma said, quickly, “Eric doesn’t know, Michael. Remember, he never met my father. He’s new here.”
Eric opened his mouth to say something, and Alison stepped, very firmly, on his foot. She didn’t kick him, which Emma would have done. Alison hated to hurt anyone.
Michael, however, was nodding. It went on too long. Emma freed one of her hands and very gently stroked the back of Michael’s hand until he stopped.
“He’s dead, Emma.”
“Yes.”
“He used to fix my bike.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Why was he here?”
She started to say I don’t know, because it was true. But she stopped herself from doing that as wel. Things were always more complicated when Michael was around. But they were cleaner, too. “He was trying to help me,” she said, instead.
“How?”
“I think he knows what’s causing the—the headaches.”
“It’s not a concussion?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Pause. “Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wil he come back?”
“I don’t know, Michael. But I hope so.”
“Why?”
“Because I miss him,” she said softly.
Michael nodded again, but this time, it was a normal nod. “I miss him, too. Was he a ghost?”
“I don’t think ghosts exist.”
“But I saw him.”
She nodded. “I saw him, too. But I don’t know what he was.”
“He looked the same,” Michael told her. “And you said he was the same.”
She had said that. She remembered. “I think ghosts are supposed to be scary,” she offered. “I think that’s why I don’t think he’s a ghost. Was he scary?”
“No. Wel, yes. A little.”
Emma could accept that.
Emma could accept that.
“He doesn’t want to take you away?” Michael continued.
“You aren’t going to die, are you?”
“Everyone dies,” she told him.
“But not now.”
“No, Michael,” she managed to say. “He doesn’t want to take me away. And even if he did, I’m not leaving.” She knew, suddenly, where this would go, and she did not want to go there.
Michael closed his eyes. Emma braced herself as Michael opened them again and asked, “Wil Nathan come back, too?”
And, after a moment, Emma managed to say, “I don’t know.”
Emma knew her mother was upset. But upset or not, Mercy Hal insisted on waiting for a CAT scan. Emma told Alison she should go home with Eric and Michael, but that fel flat as wel.
They
“I’m here,” she told him, while Alison continued to hold his hands.
“Emma, that was your dad.” It wasn’t a question.
Had he been anyone else, she would have lied, and it would have come cleanly and naturaly. Lies were something you told other people to make things easier, somehow—hopefuly, for them, but often more selfishly for yourself. Lies, Emma realized, as her glance flicked briefly to her mother and back, were things you told yourself when your entire world was turned on its end for just a moment, and you needed to put it right side up again.
But Michael? Michael hadn’t even understood what a lie was supposed to do until he’d been nine years old. He hadn’t understood that what he knew and what other people knew were not, in fact, the exact same thing. Emma didn’t remember a time when she didn’t understand that. And she wasn’t certain why, at nine, Michael began to learn. But he had; he just didn’t bother lying because he could see the advantage of honesty and of being known for it.
Not lying, however, and not being lied to were different.
Emma could have lied, but that—that would have pushed him over the edge he was clearly teetering on. Because he knew what he’d seen, and nothing she could say was going to change that.
She took a breath, steadied herself. “Yes,” she told him quietly, just as Eric said, “No.”
Alison turned to stare at Eric. She rose, stil holding Michael’s hands. She passed them to Emma, who could now feel her feet properly. Michael looked at Eric and at Emma, and Emma said, quickly, “Eric doesn’t know, Michael. Remember, he never met my father. He’s new here.”
Eric opened his mouth to say something, and Alison stepped, very firmly, on his foot. She didn’t kick him, which Emma would have done. Alison hated to hurt anyone.
Michael, however, was nodding. It went on too long. Emma freed one of her hands and very gently stroked the back of Michael’s hand until he stopped.
“He’s dead, Emma.”
“Yes.”
“He used to fix my bike.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Why was he here?”
She started to say I don’t know, because it was true. But she stopped herself from doing that as wel. Things were always more complicated when Michael was around. But they were cleaner, too. “He was trying to help me,” she said, instead.
“How?”
“I think he knows what’s causing the—the headaches.”
“It’s not a concussion?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Pause. “Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wil he come back?”
“I don’t know, Michael. But I hope so.”
“Why?”
“Because I miss him,” she said softly.
Michael nodded again, but this time, it was a normal nod. “I miss him, too. Was he a ghost?”
“I don’t think ghosts exist.”
“But I saw him.”
She nodded. “I saw him, too. But I don’t know what he was.”
“He looked the same,” Michael told her. “And you said he was the same.”
She had said that. She remembered. “I think ghosts are supposed to be scary,” she offered. “I think that’s why I don’t think he’s a ghost. Was he scary?”
“No. Wel, yes. A little.”
Emma could accept that.
Emma could accept that.
“He doesn’t want to take you away?” Michael continued.
“You aren’t going to die, are you?”
“Everyone dies,” she told him.
“But not now.”
“No, Michael,” she managed to say. “He doesn’t want to take me away. And even if he did, I’m not leaving.” She knew, suddenly, where this would go, and she did not want to go there.
Michael closed his eyes. Emma braced herself as Michael opened them again and asked, “Wil Nathan come back, too?”
And, after a moment, Emma managed to say, “I don’t know.”
Emma knew her mother was upset. But upset or not, Mercy Hal insisted on waiting for a CAT scan. Emma told Alison she should go home with Eric and Michael, but that fel flat as wel.
They
Similar Books
