huddled together in silence. Emma’s mother said almost nothing to anyone who wasn’t a doctor, and Michael sat quietly, thinking Michael thoughts. Alison was worried, but she didn’t say much, either; it was hard to find a place to put words in al the different silences in that waiting room.
The CAT scan was a four-hour wait. The results, they were told, would be sent to the Hal family doctor, which meant, as far as Emma was concerned, that they hadn’t found anything that constituted an emergency. To confirm this, the doctor filed out discharge papers, or whatever they were caled, gave Emma’s mother a prescription for Tylenol, but stronger, and also gave her mother a prescription for Tylenol, but stronger, and also gave her advice on headaches. Emma was tired, and her body stil felt strangely light, as if part of her had gone missing. But she was no longer in any pain.
Not physical pain.
Eric said nothing. He waited. When Emma’s tests were done, he offered Alison and Michael a ride home. Emma would have preferred to have their company, but it was clear that her mother wouldn’t. Michael and Alison went home with Eric.
Emma went home with her mother in a car that was as silent as the grave. It was worse than awkward. It was painful. Mercy kept her eyes on the road, her hands on the steering wheel, and her words behind her lips, which were closed. Her expression was remote; the usual frantic worry about work and her daughter’s school were completely invisible.
Emma, who often found her mother’s prying questions difficult, would have welcomed them tonight, and because the universe was perverse, she didn’t get them. She got, instead, a woman who had seen her dead husband, and had no way of speaking about what it meant. Possibly no desire to know what it meant; it was hard to tel.
When they got home, it was 8:36.
Petal greeted them at the door with his happy-but-reproachful barking whine.
“Sorry, Petal,” Emma said, grabbing his neck and crouching to hug him. She knew this would get her a face ful of dog-breath, but didn’t, at the moment, care.
breath, but didn’t, at the moment, care.
Emma’s mother went to the kitchen, and Emma, dropping her school backpack by the front door, folowed, Petal in tow. They briefly, and silently, held council over the contents of the fridge, which had enough food to feed two people if you wanted to eat condiments and slightly moldy cheese. There were milk and eggs, which Emma looked at doubtfuly; her mother often stopped by the grocery store on the way home from work.
Today, she had stopped by the hospital instead.
“Pizza?” Emma asked.
Her mother lifted the receiver off the cradle and handed it to her daughter. “Pizza,” she said, and headed out of the kitchen. It was a damn quiet kitchen in her absence, but Emma dialed and hit the button that meant “same order as previous order.” Then she hung up and stared at her dog. Her dog, the gray hairs on his muzzle clearer in the kitchen light than they were in the light cast by streetlamps, stared at her, his stub wagging.
She apologized again, which he probably thought meant “I’l feed you now.” On the other hand, she did empty a can of moist food into his food dish, and she did fil his water bowl. She also took him out to the yard for a bit; she hadn’t walked him at al today, but she knew that tonight was so not the night to do it.
From the backyard, she could see the light in her mother’s bedroom window; she could also see her mother’s silhouette against the curtains. Mercy was standing, just standing, in the room.
Emma wondered, briefly, if she was watching her or if she was watching Petal. She kind of doubted either.
was watching Petal. She kind of doubted either.
When Emma was stressed, she often tidied, and god knew the kitchen could use it. She busied herself putting away the dishes whose second home was the drying rack on the counter. She had homework, but most of it was reading, and
The CAT scan was a four-hour wait. The results, they were told, would be sent to the Hal family doctor, which meant, as far as Emma was concerned, that they hadn’t found anything that constituted an emergency. To confirm this, the doctor filed out discharge papers, or whatever they were caled, gave Emma’s mother a prescription for Tylenol, but stronger, and also gave her mother a prescription for Tylenol, but stronger, and also gave her advice on headaches. Emma was tired, and her body stil felt strangely light, as if part of her had gone missing. But she was no longer in any pain.
Not physical pain.
Eric said nothing. He waited. When Emma’s tests were done, he offered Alison and Michael a ride home. Emma would have preferred to have their company, but it was clear that her mother wouldn’t. Michael and Alison went home with Eric.
Emma went home with her mother in a car that was as silent as the grave. It was worse than awkward. It was painful. Mercy kept her eyes on the road, her hands on the steering wheel, and her words behind her lips, which were closed. Her expression was remote; the usual frantic worry about work and her daughter’s school were completely invisible.
Emma, who often found her mother’s prying questions difficult, would have welcomed them tonight, and because the universe was perverse, she didn’t get them. She got, instead, a woman who had seen her dead husband, and had no way of speaking about what it meant. Possibly no desire to know what it meant; it was hard to tel.
When they got home, it was 8:36.
Petal greeted them at the door with his happy-but-reproachful barking whine.
“Sorry, Petal,” Emma said, grabbing his neck and crouching to hug him. She knew this would get her a face ful of dog-breath, but didn’t, at the moment, care.
breath, but didn’t, at the moment, care.
Emma’s mother went to the kitchen, and Emma, dropping her school backpack by the front door, folowed, Petal in tow. They briefly, and silently, held council over the contents of the fridge, which had enough food to feed two people if you wanted to eat condiments and slightly moldy cheese. There were milk and eggs, which Emma looked at doubtfuly; her mother often stopped by the grocery store on the way home from work.
Today, she had stopped by the hospital instead.
“Pizza?” Emma asked.
Her mother lifted the receiver off the cradle and handed it to her daughter. “Pizza,” she said, and headed out of the kitchen. It was a damn quiet kitchen in her absence, but Emma dialed and hit the button that meant “same order as previous order.” Then she hung up and stared at her dog. Her dog, the gray hairs on his muzzle clearer in the kitchen light than they were in the light cast by streetlamps, stared at her, his stub wagging.
She apologized again, which he probably thought meant “I’l feed you now.” On the other hand, she did empty a can of moist food into his food dish, and she did fil his water bowl. She also took him out to the yard for a bit; she hadn’t walked him at al today, but she knew that tonight was so not the night to do it.
From the backyard, she could see the light in her mother’s bedroom window; she could also see her mother’s silhouette against the curtains. Mercy was standing, just standing, in the room.
Emma wondered, briefly, if she was watching her or if she was watching Petal. She kind of doubted either.
was watching Petal. She kind of doubted either.
When Emma was stressed, she often tidied, and god knew the kitchen could use it. She busied herself putting away the dishes whose second home was the drying rack on the counter. She had homework, but most of it was reading, and
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