A Hope for Emily

I shower, dress, and force down a yogurt that is a day past its sell-by date, because I know I should eat something. I’ve lost my appetite for food; sometimes it feels as if I can’t actually taste anything. The yogurt is slimy but the strawberry flavour passes me by.

By half past seven I have my car keys in hand, ready to make the twenty-minute drive to the hospital. There won’t be traffic on a Saturday; I’ll be at Emily’s bedside by eight as usual. I imagine her turning to look at me, giving me a smile.

You made it, Mommy.

Of course I know that’s not going to happen. I’m not deluded, not yet anyway. I’m not living in some sad fantasy world, thinking that one day Emily will wake up. It’s just, sometimes it helps. To imagine she would, she could, that one day I’ll get my little girl back.

When I get outside the house, though, I am surprised, because there is a big white van in front of the driveway, blocking my car in. I fight a burst of annoyance when I see there is no one in the driver’s seat. Now I’m going to be late.

I turn around slowly, scanning up and down my street, but at before eight on a Saturday morning, it’s completely empty. I don’t know any of my neighbors, have barely seen them in my walk from door to car twice a day. I haven’t seen my closest neighbour, the thirtysomething woman in the other half of the duplex, in months.

I blow out a breath, repressing the urge to kick the stupid van. What am I supposed to do now?

Then a voice from behind has me stiffening. “Oh, sorry, are you blocked in? I didn’t think anyone would be going anywhere this early.”

I turn around slowly, trying to school my expression into something normal and neighborly. A man in his thirties with round cheeks and crinkly, hazel eyes smiles at me. I try to smile back.

“Would you like me to move the van?”

Um, yes? Obviously. I nod. “If you don’t mind.”

“Do you live here?” He gestures to the door of my half of the house. I nod again.

“I’m your new neighbour, then.” He sticks out a hand. “Andrew. And Jake. We’re moving in today.” He glances behind him and then calls, “Come on out, buddy.”

While I shake his hand, a tow-headed boy of about five years old slips out from behind the screen door and then down the couple of concrete steps.

“My son,” Andrew says proudly as Jake shimmies next to his father and presses his head against his side. Andrew rests his hand lightly on top of Jake’s hair; the blond strands catch the sunlight, turn them to gold.

I haven’t spoken, haven’t been able to, although I know there are some niceties I should be spouting. I can’t seem to manage them, not when the sight of this little boy, so close in age to Emily, feels like a fist to my gut.

It shouldn’t. Usually it doesn’t. I haven’t been the type to avoid children in the supermarket, or to get grouchy or bitter when I see a healthy child skipping down the street. In fact, I’ve made an effort to say hello to children when they look at me, to send a card when a former co-worker has a baby. Proof so everyone can see that I’m well-adjusted and okay, despite everything.

But with the dream still hanging over me like a gentle cloud, and the van making me late, and the sheer unexpectedness of this moment, I can’t quite kick my thoughts in gear.

Finally I manage something. “Nice to meet you. I’m Rachel.”

“Hi, Rachel.” Andrew gently nudges Jake between his chicken-wing shoulder blades. “Jake?”

“Nice to meet you,” Jake mumbles, half-hiding behind his dad.

He’s polite as well as cute. I keep my smile in place as I explain, “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to run. Did you just arrive?”

“Yes, this morning. We got here early because we couldn’t wait.”

I wonder where the mother is, if she’s in the picture. I sense something solitary from them both, a bit broken, but I’m not going to pry. The last two years have taught me not to ask personal questions.

“Sorry,” Andrew says with a grin, “I’ll move it now.”

I wait with Jake, both of us unspeaking, as Andrew hops in the van and moves it forward a few feet. I wonder why he couldn’t park in front of the house instead of the drive in the first place, but then I tell myself not to be so touchy.

“Thanks,” I say as I head to my car. “Good luck with the move.” There is a final-sounding note to my voice, as if I’m never expecting to see either of them again, and the truth is, I’m not, at least not more than in passing.

I force both Andrew and Jake out of my mind as I head to the hospital; it’s already quarter to eight. I’m going to be late.

Not that she’ll notice.

I force that voice to fall silent and I keep driving.