Girl, Forgotten (Andrea Oliver 2)

He said it again. “Go home.”

Emily turned. She walked across the diner. She opened the glass door.

The weather had turned. Emily closed her eyes against a stiff breeze. Drying sweat prickled her skin. She had always loved escaping outside. When her parents were fighting. When things at school got too hard. When the clique was warring about something that had seemed very important at the time but was later laughed off or forgotten. She had always gone outdoors to get away. Even in the rain. Even during a storm. There was respite in the shadowy embrace of the trees. Comfort in the solid earth beneath her feet. Absolution in the wind.

Now, she felt …

Nothing.

Her feet kept moving. Her hands dug into her pockets. Emily didn’t realize that she was going home until she looked up and saw the gates at the end of the driveway. They were rusted open. Her mother had wanted to repair them but her father had said it was too expensive so that was that.

Emily walked up the winding drive, head down against the wind. She didn’t feel trepidation until the house came into view. Her legs didn’t want to keep moving, but she forced herself forward. It was time for her to face the consequences of her actions. Dr. Schroeder was nothing if not true to his word. He would’ve called Emily’s father hours ago. Her mother would know by now. They would both be waiting for her in the library. She imagined her father would already have his belt out of the loops, the leather slapping into his palm as he told her exactly what he was going to do.

The temperature dropped slightly inside of the garage. Her hand wrapped around the doorknob, and she suddenly became aware that she could feel the cold metal against her palm. Emily splayed out her fingers and, like that, she felt the sensation flow back into her body. First with her fingers, then up her arms into her shoulders and down into her chest, then hips, then legs, then feet. Oddly, the last part of her that awakened was her belly. She was suddenly ravenously hungry.

Her palm cupped the curve, and there it was. The gentle swell of pregnancy. The unmistakable sign of something growing inside of her. Gravity hadn’t put the roundness there. A boy had.

Which boy?

The door flew open.

She saw her mother’s strained face. Esther Vaughn seldom showed emotion, but now Emily could see her mother’s mascara was running. Her eyeliner was so smudged that she looked like Tammy Faye Bakker. Emily would’ve laughed at the likeness, but then she realized her father was looming behind the door. His presence filled the cluttered hallway. If his anger had given off heat, they would’ve all burned alive in that moment.

As if by magic, the trepidation was gone. Emily felt awash in calm. She was resigned to what was about to happen, even eager to get it over with. She had learned from her mother that sometimes it was best to just curl onto the floor, protect your face with your arms, and take the blows as they came.

And the fact was, she deserved it.

“Emily!” Esther dragged her toward the kitchen. She closed the hall door behind them in case the housekeeper was still there. Her tone was sharp, yet quiet. “Where the hell have you been?”

Emily’s eyes found the clock on the stove. It was nearly five o’clock. She still had no memory of the time between now and leaving Dr. Schroeder’s office.

“Answer me.” Esther yanked her arm like the clapper on a bell. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Emily shook her head because she didn’t know why. Mrs. Brickel had told her to call Esther. Why hadn’t she obeyed? Was she losing her mind? Where had the last eight hours gone?

“Sit down,” Esther said. “Please, Emily, please tell us what happened. Who did this to you?”

Emily felt her soul trying to float out of her body again. She gripped the chair to keep herself grounded. “I don’t know.”

Franklin had quietly followed them into the kitchen. He crossed his arms as he leaned back against the counter. He’d said nothing. Done nothing. What was happening? Why wasn’t he yelling, punching, screaming?

“Baby.” Esther knelt on the floor in front of her. She held onto Emily’s hands. “Please tell me what happened. I need to know. How did this happen?”

“I was …” Emily closed her eyes. She saw Clay putting the tab of acid on her waiting tongue. She couldn’t tell them that. They would blame Clay.

“Emily, please,” Esther begged.

Her eyes opened. “I drank some alcohol. I didn’t know that it would … I passed out. I think I passed out. And then I woke up and I didn’t know that anything had happened. I had no idea.”

Esther pursed her lips as she sat back on her heels. Emily could tell that her mother’s brain was working, drilling past the emotion in search of a solution. That was why there was no yelling or spanking or beating. Her parents had had eight hours to scream at each other.

Now, they were handling this like they did any threat to the Business of Being Judge Esther Vaughn—the same way they’d handled Uncle Fred when he’d gotten caught at that men’s bar or when Cheese’s dad, Chief Stilton, had brought Gram back after she’d wandered into the grocery store wearing her nightgown. Emily knew the steps as if they had been carved into the family crest. Acknowledge the problem. Pay off whomever it takes. Find a solution that keeps the family name out of the headlines. Move on as if nothing ever happened.

“Emily,” Esther said. “Tell me the truth. This isn’t about recriminations. It’s about solutions.”

“Recriminations aren’t off the table,” Franklin countered.

Esther hissed at him like a cat. “Emily. Speak.”