He reaches for me.
My eyes fly open, my chest rising and falling violently as I bolt upright, feeling the strange pull of tubes attached to me, in me. The first word out of my mouth is, “Bea,” and then, realizing my mistake: “Patty.”
Then, realizing it again, the room comes sharply into focus.
The Garrett Farmhouse.
I roll over slowly, my body aching in the way I imagine a body is meant to ache after a minor car accident—a novel experience for me. Sunlight creeps along the outside edges of the window blind and I can’t tell if it’s the end of a day or the start of one.
I slowly take in the room, registering the things I couldn’t manage to before. It’s small, doesn’t really feel like it belongs to anyone; a guest room for strays. The twin bed I’m currently occupying is wedged in a corner, a nightstand at the head of it—a glass of water and a lamp atop it—a desk in the opposite corner. I exhale when I see my bag rested neatly on it.
The bedroom door is partway open.
I touch my forehead and it bites back. I hiss. My shoes are off and there’s a blanket covering me. I don’t remember either of these things happening and I hate, so much, that I can’t. It was one of the worst parts of my hospital experience, to be so beyond my own control, and so wholly at the mercy of anyone or anything else.
I get out of bed gingerly, ignoring the protestations of my bones, and make my way to my bag. I find my phone in the front pocket, still intact.
9:30 a.m.
I replay the previous night in my head.
I was in the car.
I’d left the road to the farmhouse … I was headed toward the intersection.
There was a semi.
I sit back down on the edge of the bed with my arms draped over my knees, my head bowed, trying to remember the drive to the farm. The car was fine. The car was fine, I know this. I made it in one piece—but I also didn’t see a single semi. I curl my fingers into fists and bite my lip, trying to ignore the burn of shame across my skin, of Lev’s voice in my head. You live inside your accident … and you are so afraid of the next.
And it happened.
But it wouldn’t have, if I just …
If I wasn’t so weak.
After a long moment, I feel eyes on me. I raise my head and turn to the door, and there, peering at me through its narrow opening, is Emmy.
I stop breathing, seeing her.
She’ll never not be a perfect vision of Bea. Maybe she’s even more perfect because she’s free of all her mother’s mistakes and still young enough to grow up halfway decent in spite of the damage that’s already been done.
It is still so painful to look at her.
“Hi,” I manage, my voice raspy. “Emmy.” She brings her hand up to her cheek, like she did when she first met me. My scar, forever fascinating. “You remember me?”
For some reason, the question spooks her. She races down the hall.
I can’t stay in this room forever, so I shove my things into my bag and shrug it over my shoulder, using the camera on my phone to do a quick self-assessment because there’s no mirror in here. My clothes are rumpled, dried bloodstains on my collar.
No wonder Emmy ran away from me.
I smooth my shirt as much as I can. I run my fingers through my tangled hair, wincing when they catch. I knot it into a sloppy bun and then I open the door and face the hall. I make my way to the kitchen, where I find Lev at the stove, working two frying pans. He glances at me out the corner of his eye.
“What would you like?” he asks.
“Coffee. Please.”
He reaches overhead for a mug resting on a shelf above the stove, hands it to me and gestures to the carafe on the kitchen table. I pour myself a cup, ignoring the nervous tremor in my hands, and notice Emmy’s little body camped out under the table, not quite hiding, but not quite participating either. She’s playing with a puzzle, fitting big wooden numbers into their spaces on the board. I take a sip of my coffee. There seemed to be more people here last night, but maybe it was just the same two, my brain refusing to track …
“It’s quiet.”
“I asked for privacy. Foster is around. He took care of your car—”
“Took care of my car?”
“We’ve got a mechanic in town, a member. He towed it last night.”
“What’s the damage?”
He turns off the burners and faces me. “It’s totaled.”
I set my coffee on the table, closing my eyes briefly.
“I hit that hard?”
“You don’t have to hit hard, you just have to hit right.”
He grabs a small plate and spoons some scrambled eggs and hash browns onto it. He opens up the fridge and grabs a bottle of ketchup, dousing the breakfast with an ungodly amount of it, grabbing a kiddie fork from a drawer. He crouches down to set it in front of Emmy. It’s so sweet, it makes me sad.
“How much do I owe you for…?”
“Nothing,” he says, straightening. “What happened yesterday, Lo?”
The question hangs between us.
“I saw a semi and I … I panicked.”
He crosses his arms, leaning against the counter thoughtfully. “You don’t remember the first accident, do you?” I shake my head. “I think some part of you must. Deeply. Because that’s where you were last night. You had a thousand-yard stare.”
I look away from him.
“But there was also a part of you that was trying so hard not to be there anymore, to be present,” he adds. “You can live outside of it, Lo. You clearly want to…”
I ask him how in spite of myself.
Before he can respond, Emmy pushes her plate out from under the table. Most of the egg and half the hash browns remain, but the ketchup is gone. After a moment, she crawls out. She’s so small. Her clothes seem hand-me-down: a sweater with a faded picture of Rainbow Brite on it and brown corduroy pants, threadbare. Her sneakers are faded gray.
She makes a point not to look at me as she walks over to Lev, who scoops her up into his arms. She presses her head against him, her face fitting neatly into the curve of his neck. He rubs her back, kisses the top of her head.
“Who’s that, Daddy?”
It’s the first time I’ve heard her voice and the sound of it is startling. Its sweetness ripples through me. The words marble in her mouth the way a toddler’s words tend to. She can’t quite get the th sound out, turning that into dat.
“I’m your mother’s sister,” I say, before Lev can answer for me. Emmy doesn’t acknowledge my contribution, just stares at him expectantly until he answers because the answer can only mean something to her so long as it comes from him.
She asks it again: “Who’s that?”
Lev seems to hesitate. He kisses Emmy’s head once more, pressing his cheek to her forehead, and then murmurs quietly: “This is Lo. She’s Bea’s sister.”
Emmy’s eyes light at this in a way that takes me a moment to understand, and when I do it makes me feel sicker than anything else that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours.
* * *
When Foster comes back, Lev leaves Emmy with him.
He sits with me on the porch outside, while I wait for a taxi to come. Lev offered a ride, but I refused, desperate for time and space from him to think. My hands are shoved in my pockets, my eyes watering from the cold.