Elizabeth Flock - Me & Emma

Elizabeth Flock

www.mirabooks.co.uk

FOR MY PARENTS—BARBARA AND REG BRACK

“Nothing is sinful to us outside of ourselves,

Whatever appears, whatever does not appear, we are

beautiful or sinful in ourselves only.

(O Mother—O Sisters dear!

If we are lost, no victor else has destroy’d us,

It is by ourselves we go down to eternal night.)”

—Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, 1900

Many people helped breathe life into this book. My deep gratitude to Anne and Taylor Pace, who shared their beloved North Carolina with me and watched patiently while it became my beloved North Carolina.

My thanks also to my gifted editor, Susan Pezzack, and to my tireless agent, Laura Dail, who still has no idea that her encouragement is completely intoxicating.

I am blessed to have a friend like Mary Jane Clark, who is a constant source of strength and love.

My Emily gave me Carrie’s voice and helped me remember what it’s like to be a little girl. My Lizzie gave me support and unknowingly saved me from myself time and time again. And my Jeffrey gave me this whole new wonderful life and with unwavering support and love made it possible for me to be a writer.

T he first time Richard hit me I saw stars in front of my eyes just like they do in cartoons. It was just a backhand, though—not like when I saw Tommy Bucksmith’s dad wallop him so hard that when he hit the pavement his head actually bounced. I s’pose Richard didn’t know about the flips I used to do with Daddy where you face each other and while you’re holding on to your daddy’s hands you climb up his legs to right above the knees and then push off, through the triangle that your arms make with his. It’s super fun. I was just trying to show Richard how it works. Anyway, I learned then and there to stay clear of Richard. I try to stay away from home as much as I possibly can.

It’s impossible to get lost in a town called Toast. That’s where I live: Toast, North Carolina. I don’t know how it is anywhere else but here all the streets are named for what’s on them. There’s Post Office Road and Front Street, which takes you past the front of the stores, and Back Street, which is one street over—in back of them. There’s New Church Road, even though the church that sits at the end of it isn’t new anymore. There’s Brown’s Farm Road, which is where Hollis Brown lives with his family, and before him came other Browns who Momma knew and didn’t like all that much, and Hilltop Road and even Riverbend Road. So wherever you set out for, the street signs will lead the way. I live on Murray Mill Road, and I s’pose if you didn’t know any better you’d think my last name’s Murray, but it’s Parker—Mr. Murray passed on way before we got here. We didn’t change a thing about the Murray house: the way in from Route 74 is just grass growing up between two straight lines so your tires’ll know exactly where to go. The first thing you see after you’ve been driving till the count of sixty is the mill barn that’s being held up over the pond by old stilts. We still have the board with peeling painted letters that says No Fishing on Sunday nailed up to the tree on the edge of the pond. Just to the side of that, taking up a whole outside wall of the mill, is Mr. Murray’s old sign that shows a cartoon rooster cock-a-doodle-doing the words Feed Nutrena … Be Sure, Be Safe, Be Thrifty. It’s getting hard to read the words of the poster now that a fine red dust from the dirt outside the mill has settled over it top to bottom. But you can see the rooster clear as day. Tacked up to the door of the old mill is this: “WARNING: It is unlawful for any person to sell, deliver, or hold or offer for sale any adulterated or misbranded grain. Maximum penalty $100 fine or 60 days imprisonment or both.” I copied that down in my notebook from school.

“Whoa!” The notebook goes flying out of my hands into the dirt.

“Betcha didn’t see that coming!” Richard laughs at me as I scramble to pick it up before he gets ahold of it. “Must be something pretty important, you grabbing at it like that. Lemme see there,” and he pulls it out of my hands before I can make a squeak about it.

“Give it back.”

“‘Collie McGrath isn’t talking to me on account of the frog incident’ … what’s the frog incident?” He looks up from my diary.

“Give it back!” But when I go to try to get it back he shoves me away, flipping through the pages, scanning each one with his dirty finger. “Where am I? I can’t wait to see what all you write about me. Hmm,” more flipping, “Momma this, Momma that. Jesus H. Christ, nothing about your dear ole dad?”

He throws it back down to the ground and I’m mad I didn’t listen to my own self when I thought I shouldn’t reach down to pick it up until he leaves, ‘cause when I do bend down again he shoves me into the dirt with his boot.

“There! Gave ya something to write about!”

I live here with my stepfather, Richard, my momma, and my sister, Emma. Emma and I are like Snow White and Rose Red. That’s probably why it’s our favorite bedtime story. It’s about two sisters: one has really white skin and yellow hair (just like Momma) and the other one has darker skin and hair that’s the color of the center of your eye (that’s just like me). My hair changes colors depending on where you’re standing and when. From the side in the daytime, my hair looks purple-black, but from the back at night it’s like burned wood in the fireplace. When it’s clean, Emma’s hair is the color of a cotton ball: white, white, white. But usually it’s so dirty it looks like the dusty old letters Momma keeps in a shoe box on her closet shelf.

Richard. Now there’s a guy who isn’t like anyone we’ve read about at bedtime. Momma says he’s as different from Daddy as a cow from a crow, and I believe her. I mean, wouldn’t you have to be likable to make everyone line up to buy carpet from you like Momma says they did for Daddy? Richard’s not half as likable. I told Momma once that I thought Richard was hateable, but she didn’t think it was funny so she sent me to my room. A few days later, when Richard was back picking on Momma she yelled out that no one liked him and that his own stepdaughter called him “hateable.” When she said it I just stood there listening to the tick-tick-tick of the plastic daisy clock we have hanging in the kitchen, knowing it was too late to run.

Momma says our daddy was the best carpet salesman in the state of North Carolina. He must’ve sold a ton of carpet because there wasn’t any left for us. We have hard linoleum. After he died Momma let me keep the leaf-green sample of shag that she found in the back seat of his car when she was cleaning it out before Mr. Dingle took it away. The sample must’ve fallen off the big piece of cardboard that had lots of other squares on it in different colors so folks could match it to their lives better. I keep it in the drawer of the white wicker night table by my bed in an old cigar box that has lots of colorful stickers of old-fashioned suitcases, stamps and airplanes (only on the cigar box they’re spelled aeroplanes) slapped on every which way. Sometimes if I sniff into that shag square real hard I can still pick up that new carpet smell that followed Daddy around like a shadow.