A Hope for Emily

“Yes,” I finally say with a smile and a shrug. “It has its moments, both good and bad.”

“Have you lived here very long? I mean…” He nods towards the wall that separates his home from mine.

“About eighteen months.” I pause and then because I can see the uncertain question in his eyes, I clarify, “I got divorced.”

“I’m sorry.” Another pause; there are so many, like molehills we have to move around. “I’m in the same boat, actually.” He lowers his voice even though Jake is outside. “Jake’s mother—my wife—left us four months ago.”

I can’t quite hide my surprise; his word choice is so stark, that I know there must be a story there. “I’m sorry,” I say, because what else is there to say?

“Yeah, it hasn’t been great.” Andrew sighs and then shrugs. “Let me go check on the burgers before they’re totally charred.”

I follow him out to the small, scrubby backyard that is identical to mine in size and shape; the two lawns are bisected by a rather unsightly waist-high fence of chain link. Mine looks empty, deserted and forgotten, the grass patchy, the deck empty of anything but a trash can. In contrast, Andrew and Jake have already put a friendly mark on theirs.

There is a barbecue on the postage stamp of decking, along with a table and a couple of chairs, and a battered, plastic jungle gym on the grass that Jake is scrambling on. A couple of bikes lean against the fence.

The sky is turning pink, and the air is still warm. The burgers smell delicious. Something inside me, amazingly, loosens. I’m not going to think about Emily right now. I’m not going to let myself feel what a betrayal that is. For once, for a few minutes, maybe an hour, I just want to be.

“I hope you’re not a vegetarian,” Andrew says with an uncertain laugh.

“Nope.” I take another step out onto the deck. “They smell wonderful. Are you sure you have enough?”

“Yeah, I bought a package of four and decided to cook them all.” He smiles at me. “But Jake will only eat one.”

“Thank you. It’s very kind to invite me over.”

“You had a busy day?” There is a deliberately casual note to his voice that I recognize; he doesn’t want to seem nosy, but he’s wondering.

“Yes,” I answer after another one of those pauses. “But not too bad.” And I don’t say anything else.

Andrew nods, letting it go. He’s not going to be one of those people who press, thank goodness. He bends over the barbecue, intent on the burgers. “Can you give me any recommendations for the neighbourhood?” he asks. “Good takeout places, playgrounds?”

“There’s a good Chinese place on Oak Street, although I think technically it’s Taiwanese.”

“Okay.” He smiles at me, but I can see he’s waiting for more.

I take a quick, steadying breath. Why does this have to be so hard? “As for playgrounds, there’s a small one on Chestnut Street. Emerson Park is probably the best one in the area.” For a second, a memory pierces me—the winter before last, when Emily was having a good day. We’d moved to Upper Falls a few weeks before, and I’d walked to Emerson Park, Emily in a stroller even though she was four and a half, old enough to walk. She’d been exhibiting symptoms for sixteen months by then, and her speech and mobility were starting to become limited. She hadn’t been able to manage any of the climbing equipment, and I could see the other parents and carers giving us speculative looks, wondering about our story.

At one point, as Emily painstakingly moved across the tarmac, I heard a child say in a too-loud voice, ‘What’s wrong with that girl?’ and his mother shushed him.

I don’t know, I wanted to cry. No one knows, and it’s killing me. But worse, I was afraid it was killing Emily.

Now, as I stare unseeingly at Jake happily scrambling over his little jungle gym, I remember helping Emily into one of the accessible swings—the kind with a big bucket seat and straps with buckles to keep her in. The kind of swing you’re supposed to steer your own children a

way from, so the ones who really need it can use it.

I remember how excited she was; she couldn’t speak much, but she made little gurgling sounds that I recognized as joy. I remember her flying high in the air as I pushed her, her head tilted back, her mouth wide open. She was making a screeching sound that made the other people in the playground shoot us uncertain looks, but I knew she was happy. I knew.

And in that moment I fought the sadness that she was like this—that she couldn’t talk or walk properly any longer—and just let her be happy. But later, as I pushed her stroller back towards home, I had to fight off the black cloud of despair that threatened to descend on me and never lift. Why had this happened? Why Emily? Why me?

And yet, looking back, I’d take that moment in a second. I’d snatch it and hold onto it and live in it for the rest of my life, if I could. So Emily couldn’t talk. She could still communicate. So she couldn’t walk. She could still throw her arms around me. Joy still lit her eyes; her smile was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Oh God, I think now, just give me that moment, or one like it again. That’s all I want.

“Emerson, huh,” Andrew says, and I drag myself back to the present.

“Yes, I’ve heard it’s a good one.” That feels like a lie, but I’m not ready to go into the whole do-you-have-kids conversation. For once, I don’t want to talk about Emily, and I’m not going to feel bad about it.

“Come on, Jake,” Andrew calls. “I think the burgers are ready.”

The next few minutes are filled with busyness rather than conversation; I help set the table outside, and Jake climbs onto a seat. Andrew dishes out the burgers and asks if I want something to drink.