A Hope for Emily

I am still reeling from those numbers as I shower and dress and head to the hospital. I check it again before I go inside—seven thousand five hundred views, nearly double what it was a mere hour or two ago. I am thrilled and terrified in equal measure. What is happening?

All through the morning I check it—refresh, refresh, refresh. Eight thousand. Ten thousand. Twenty-five thousand. The numbers continue to soar, and I have no idea why. People have donated twenty-eight thousand dollars.

Then, when I am standing in line at the hospital cafeteria, my phone rings. It’s a blocked number, and I answer it as I always do, because there is the chance it could be about Emily, an emergency that I must know about.

“Is this Rachel Lerner?”

My heart lurches up towards my throat at the officious tone. A nurse? A doctor? “Yes…”

“I’m calling about the webpage regarding your daughter, Emily Harris, and how your former husband James Harris doesn’t seem to know anything about it?”

18

Eva

Things got out of control very quickly. That’s my only excuse, and I know it’s not much of one. I was going to tell James. Every day, I was going to tell him. The words formed a pressure in my chest, bottled in my throat… and then stayed there.

I told myself that despite my efforts, not many people were actually looking at Emily’s page, so it didn’t really matter. Another excuse. I knew that, but I let myself believe it anyway. And despite the dark cloud looming over me, James and I had a nice week.

We went to see a new indie film at an arthouse cinema, and met up with some of James’ work friends for drinks. It was full summer, the most social season of the year, when everyone wanted to be outside, when the days were long and balmy instead of short and dark and encased in ice.

A weight seemed to have slid off James’ shoulders, while another one rested squarely on mine. He was more relaxed, coming home an hour early from his evening visits with Emily, spending only half the day on Saturday. I noticed, but didn’t say anything. I wondered if Rachel knew, and suspected she didn’t, and that if she did, she wouldn’t like it, but I didn’t say anything to anyone.

It wasn’t my problem, or so I told myself, even as I continued to furtively and obsessively check the views on Emily’s page. Even as I continued to tweak the keywords and settings of the page, and post on Facebook groups and Twitter.

A week after we put the page up, I set up an Instagram account with Emily’s duck logo as the profile photo and posted every day—facts about experimental treatment, neurological conditions, anything to raise both awareness and interest. It was all part of what I’d promised I’d do, and I found it both interesting and heartbreaking, so it wasn’t any trouble. For some reason I didn’t choose to articulate even to myself, I didn’t tell Rachel about any of it.

Even as I sipped sangria with James’ friends; even as we discussed the moody, black and white film we’d thought was too self-conscious over Thai food; even as we made love slowly and languorously, as the last of the summer sun spilled over the bed, I thought about that stupid page and I never told James.

It was as if I had been fractured into two selves—the wife I was to James, and the woman I was inside. I’d become obsessed; even in the midst of it all I could see that. I started checking the page at work, sometimes every hour or more, and then, in a reckless moment of determination, I used my work contacts—lifestyle and beauty bloggers who were meant to care about things—to promote the page. It was just a few emails asking for favors—a mention, a post—but I knew, on some level at least, that what I was doing was risky, if not actually wrong. The lines had blurred so much my whole life felt like a canvas of gray, and yet it felt right. Whether it was or not, I couldn’t say.

And then Mara discovered what I had done. Stupidly, while at my desk, I was checking Emily’s page and updating the Instagram account I’d created for her when I heard someone clearing her throat behind me, and I turned to see Mara standing there, dark brows drawn together in a damning, straight line.

“Excuse me, Eva, but are you working on something personal during work hours?” Her voice rang out through the open space, and everyone glanced up from their laptop before ducking their heads down again quickly, ears perked up for the drama.

I hesitated, and then decided to play it light. “Sorry, Mara, I’m on a break and it’s a favour for a friend.” I wasn’t about to mention the complicated relationships involved—me and Rachel, me and James, me and Emily for that matter, even though we’d never met. I swivelled around in my chair and gave her a quick smile without any apology in it. “Her little girl is really sick—terminally, with a very rare condition—and she wanted me to manage the social media to raise awareness. Actually, I thought Maemae might like to be involved, but we can talk about that later.”

“I see.” Mara’s gaze was penetrating as she stared at me for a long moment. I held her gaze and my smile, and then finally she turned around and walked back to her office, her heels clicking ominously across the floor. I let out a shaky breath. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

But I still checked and posted on my lunch break, at home, before bed. As James came into the bedroom, toothbrush in hand, I slid my phone in the drawer of my bedside table, instead of keeping it on top as usual. He noticed, his gaze moving from the drawer to my face before he turned back to the bathroom. He didn’t say anything, and I didn’t know what that meant. Everything in my life felt tenuous, and yet just a few minutes later, when we were both in bed, James rolled over to me and kissed me gently on the lips. I kissed him back, and as his arms came around me, I made myself forget everything else.

And then on Sunday night, after a weekend where I’d hardly thought about Emily or checked her page at all, everything changed. With only half-hearted interest, assuming things wouldn’t be much different, I checked the page’s stats before going to bed. They were at four hundred. My tweaks and posts were helping, but not nearly enough, and I felt both relived and frustrated. I didn’t know what to do with either emotion, and I told myself, yet again, that I wouldn’t check the page tomorrow. I’d managed all weekend, more or less. It was time to let this go. And tomorrow I would tell James. I’d explain it all to him matter-of-factly, apologize for my deception but help him to understand why I’d done it. In my head, it all sounded so simple. So easy.

As morning breaks and James heads to the bathroom for the first shower, I keep to my promise. I don’t check it all morning, as I shower, dress and sip coffee in the kitchen while James scans the news on his phone, kissing my cheek before he leaves and suggesting we go somewhere downtown for dinner. I murmur my agreement and wave him off with a smile.

I’m not going to check it.

I walk to work and my phone stays firmly in my pocket. I work all morning on a new campaign, and I don’t do anything but what I am supposed to do. Just after my lunch break, a salad eaten at my desk, Rachel texts me. I don’t read her message. She’s texted me a few times, asking me about any updates on the page, as if she can’t see them for herself. It’s never anything urgent, and I decide to look at it later. I want to stay focused on my job, my life.

And that’s what I’m doing—working hard, staying focused—when everything begins to fall apart.

“Eva?” Mara’s voice, calling from the doorway of her office, is noticeably tense. I turn around in my chair. “A moment, if you please?” Her formality is ominous. I ignore everyone’s furtive stares as I walk towards her glassed-in box of an office, trying not to feel nervous. I haven’t done anything wrong…

Except I have.

I stand completely still, my face starting to burn, as Mara goes through the list of my offences—from being distracted, to using company time for personal matters, to accessing work contacts and pressuring—her word—them to feature my friend. Apparently some of the bloggers were unenthused about my suggestion and let Mara know. Somehow I’m not even surprised about any of it.

“I’m really shocked by all of this, Eva,” Mara says as she shakes her head. “Shocked and saddened.” She pulls a face, and I know exactly how this is going to go. Mara, my boss, is going to be disappointed in me. She’s going to lament about how much potential I’ve had, how thrilled she’s been