“Don’t put words in my mouth, or thoughts in my head,” I snap. “You’ve just offloaded a ton of information on me, Emma, and I’m trying to process it. I’m trying to understand it. And I’m trying to figure out the best way to support you. But I am not disappointed in you, okay?” My voice has risen to something close to a shriek, which I recognize is not a good thing.
Emma gives me a level look. “You sure sound it,” she says, and with a groan of frustration I rise from the sofa. I have a sudden, frantic need to move, like there is an itch all over my body and I have to scratch it, but I can’t. I’m not allowed to.
Emma twists around to look at me as I pace the kitchen. “What are you doing?”
“I’m unloading the dishwasher,” I tell her, and I start to do just that.
She lets out a huff of breath, as if she can’t believe I think a clean kitchen is more important than a healthy daughter, and I know she doesn’t understand this need of mine to move, and not to think, because if I do, I will break down right there, sobbing and shrieking, and that won’t be good for either of us.
After several minutes of stacking plates, I feel calm enough to ask, “So if you’re not going back to Harvard, what are you thinking of doing instead?”
Emma shrugs. “Get a job, maybe, for the rest of the year? Then see what I want to do. Maybe travel. I’d like to go to Thailand.”
I nod slowly, as if this idea doesn’t appall me. She’s nineteen. She needs to make her own choices. I know that, and yet… dear God. Harvard, and now this. Some minimum-wage job and following a hippie trail through Thailand.
“Okay,” I say, and start taking out the cups.
“You think that’s awful, don’t you?” Emma says, rising onto her knees on the sofa so she can see me better. “You’d be embarrassed if I had a job at McDonald’s or something, and I served your friends their McSalads.”
“My friends wouldn’t go to McDonald’s,” I retort before I can think better of it, and Emma smirks. Is she baiting me on purpose? Why?
“You know what I mean.”
“I would never be embarrassed by honest work,” I tell her, which sounds like something Nick would say.
“Even if I was serving up Big Macs to Julie and Anita and everyone else?” Her eyes spark defiance.
“I wouldn’t.”
“You so would.”
I slam the dishwasher shut, which does not make nearly as satisfying a noise as slamming a door does. “Do you want me to be disappointed in you, Emma?” I demand. “Is that what you’re going for here?”
“I want you to be honest.”
“You’ve already decided what that looks like.”
“I know what it always has been before,” she fires back, and we stare at each other—me drained and weary, Emma defiant and more energized than I’ve seen her since she’s come home. She looks beautiful, with her dark hair and rosy cheeks and bright eyes. Is being angry with me so worthwhile, so enjoyable, an activity for her?
“I don’t know what to say,” I finally tell her, because I honestly have nothing left. “I don’t feel like there’s an answer I can give you that you’d be happy with.”
“I just want you to admit it.”
“Fine. I’d be disappointed. With your intelligence and ambition, as well as the opportunities you’ve had, I’d feel like you were wasting your life asking if people want fries with that.” I give her a flat look; I feel empty inside. “Happy now?” I say, and Emma just glares at me and huffs out of the room. Perfect.
I recount the conversation, as painful as it is, to Nick that night as we get ready for bed, our voices hushed because Emma is just across the hall. She gave me the cold shoulder for the rest of the day, and I pretended not to notice. I was busy enough, anyway, catching up on work, runn
ing errands, and then coming home to make dinner and clean the kitchen, which looked like a bomb site after I’d been gone for several hours. No one seems to know how to load the dishwasher except me.
“I know I didn’t handle it well,” I tell Nick as I slip into bed, everything in me aching. “But I don’t know how I should have.”
“She’s just trying to push your buttons.” Nick sounds irritatingly unfazed. I know he likes to be calm in a crisis, but right now I would be happy to see him emote a little, the way he did when we were walking up Avon Mountain.
“But why?” I demand, my voice rising before I remember to lower it. “Why is she so angry with me?”
“She has to be angry at someone.”
“Why?”