Mary Sullivan - Always Emily

“What the heck?” They were a tangled mass in the corner. He picked them up, straightened them and covered her, tucking them close around her body until they cocooned her, as he used to do when she was little.

She used to giggle and say, “Make me a mummy, Daddy.”

She didn’t laugh with him these days. She no longer called him Daddy, but he still thought of her as his little baby, a child who was growing up too fast.

He stared down at his daughter. No, she wasn’t a child. She was becoming a woman, too quickly. He thought of those children’s toothbrushes he’d been buying. He knew Aiyana went to the store and bought her own feminine products. Yes, she was becoming a young woman.

He’d missed turning points in his daughters’ lives, and that made his chest ache.

When had he gotten so out of touch with them? With life around him?

Salem’s ambition to be an architect, and his part-time school studies, were admirable, but his children had grown up while he’d had his head buried in one book after another, studying for tests and writing papers. Had his ambition harmed his children?

When he finished tucking her in, he kissed her forehead and said softly, “Good night, Eternal Blossom.”

“Night, Daddy,” she whispered, but as asleep as she was, probably had no idea that she had. She would certainly forget by morning when she’d be prickly as a porcupine again, as she’d been for the past year.

He had no idea how to deal with her. All he could do was give her the creature comforts—food, clothing, a roof over her head—and hope it was enough.

Satisfied that she was warm and safe for the night, he left the room, turning out the light and closing the door behind him.

He checked in on Mika, who slept as though she hadn’t a care in the world. A turtle-shaped lamp on her bedside table sent a soft glow around the room, highlighting her collection of raccoon statues that friends and family had given her every birthday and Christmas since she was old enough to talk, to express her desires, which had been early.

There was nothing shy about his Mika. Intelligent Raccoon.

On her dresser, she kept a bowl of tiny soaps and bubble bath capsules in different shapes and sizes. Mika wouldn’t mind if he gave one to Emily. She’d inherited a generous spirit from her mother. Annie had been screwed up in many ways and her drug use was out of control at the end, but her generosity had been amazing.

For a split second, to his astonishment, he missed Annie, especially the good parts. Sure, she’d been neurotic at times, but she’d had a heart of gold. They hadn’t loved each other, but they had tried hard for respect.

For Emily, he chose a pink heart-shaped soap, because he was just that foolish. In case she might want a bath instead of a shower, he also took a gold bubble bath bead in the shape of a star.

Emily Jordan. His shooting star, here today and gone tomorrow.

He leaned forward and kissed Mika’s forehead. She still smelled like a kid, not like the perfume he’d detected on Aiyana.

He turned off the light before he left. She liked to fall asleep with it on, but she was a heavy sleeper. She wouldn’t need it for the rest of the night.

Salem smiled. No trouble with Mika yet, but then, she was only thirteen. Maybe adolescent hormones hadn’t kicked in yet.

Back in the bathroom, he placed the soap and bath bead beside the ridiculous toothbrush. Was it enough? It had been years since there’d been a grown woman in the house—four years since Annie’s death, and many more years since they’d had a guest. This wasn’t really a guest, though. It was only Emily.

That thought brought him up short. There wasn’t, never had been, and never would be anything only about Emily.

With one finger, he touched the pink heart soap that smelled like roses, and imagined her using it. He shook himself out of his foolish, romantic reverie, turned out the light and stepped into the hallway. Romance and Emily in the same thought? Dangerous.

“You sleeping downstairs?” His dad stood on the landing.

“Yep.”

“Good night, then.” His father entered the bedroom next to Salem’s.

Salem nodded and went downstairs, turning off the remaining lights as he went. In the living room, he gathered afghans and blankets from the backs of the two armchairs and made himself a bed on the sofa.

He stretched out, but his six-foot frame was too long for the furniture, so his feet hung over the arm.

Not the least bit comfortable, he eventually fell asleep, but was awakened by a hand shaking his shoulder.

“Go take care of Emily.” His father stood over him, illuminated by the streetlamp shining through sheer curtains. “She’s making noise.”

Salem threw off his covers and took the stairs two at a time. Emily thrashed on the bed.

“Hey, hey,” he crooned, lifting her into a sitting position, but she sagged against his chest.

“Here,” he said, reaching for the glass of water he’d left beside the bed. She gulped it down, with him holding her head to still her shuddering. He laid her back against the pillow and got fresh water from the bathroom.

Leaving it on the bedside table, he stared down at her. He couldn’t leave her like this, too small and fragile. Too alone.

His Emily didn’t do fragile. What did he mean his Emily? She wasn’t his and never had been. She’d left too many times, dashing his hopes, for him to ever trust her again, the anger she inspired in him a constant throughout their relationship.

What relationship? You don’t have one.

Damn right.

Remember that, Salem.

But she was his friend; or rather, he was hers. Sort of. Maybe. Reluctantly.

She shivered. He crawled in under the covers and nestled her against his chest. Gradually, the shaking stopped and she settled into an easier sleep.

He, however, did not sleep, not while he held Emily Jordan in his arms.

* * *

“I’M NOT GOING to school tomorrow.” Aiyana stood in the doorway of the kitchen, scowling. Her eyes were red. She’d been crying. Dread hollowed out his gut. He couldn’t take tears. He could handle—had handled—a lot in life, but crying made him feel useless.

“Are you sick?” Salem hoped this was physical, something the magic of chicken soup could fix. “What is it? The flu?”

She shrugged. Her hair stood out in all directions. She must have washed it before bed and fallen asleep while it was still wet.

“Dad, how about heating some of your soup?” Salem finished doctoring his coffee and caught his two slices of toast as they popped out of the toaster.

“You got it.” His father retrieved the Tupperware.

“I don’t want soup.” Aiyana sounded like an odd mix of little-girl sulkiness and teenaged defiance.

Mika sat at the table eating her cereal, her brown eyes darting between him and Aiyana.

“How about toast?” Salem asked Aiyana. “You can have these and I’ll make more for myself.”

“No.”

“But...”

“I don’t want anything, okay?” she cried. “I just want to go back to bed. Just leave me alone today, okay?” She ran from the kitchen without waiting for anyone to respond.

Salem stared at her retreating back and what he could see of her feet running up the stairs.

His dad grunted. “I don’t think it’s the flu.”

“Pardon?” Salem asked.

“It ain’t the flu. It ain’t physical.”

That’s what he was afraid of. “Crap.”

“Why crap?”

“The flu or a cold would be easy. Soup, medication, hot tea. Boy or girlfriend or school trouble? Not so much. I don’t know how to talk to her anymore.”

Mika stood and picked up the present she’d wrapped yesterday. The social daughter, she was attending a friend’s birthday party for the day. Aiyana, the quiet studious one, was more like him than Salem suspected she wanted to be.