Sara Shepard - Burned

Emily tentatively touched her cheeks, wondering if she might be dreaming. “Uh, hi?”

“Hi, honey.” Mrs. Fields looked at her bags. “You want help?”

Emily blinked. These were the first words her mom had said to her in more than two weeks. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me home,” she squeaked, surprising herself.

Mrs. Fields pressed her lips together. Her shoulders rose up and down, and for a brief second, Emily saw the disappointment gather in the lines on her mother’s face and the bags under her eyes. Here it comes , she thought. Her mother was going to burst into tears and disappear again.

But then Mrs. Fields stepped forward, her arms outstretched. Before Emily knew what was happening, she’d pulled Emily into a hug. Emily remained ramrod-straight, her arms at her sides, still waiting for the tears … or a lecture … or something awful. But her mom just rested her head in Emily’s hair, breathing in and out steadily.

“I heard there was an explosion on the boat,” Mrs. Fields said. “And that you girls almost drowned at sea.”

Emily lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly.

“I’m just glad you’re safe.” Mrs. Fields shook Emily’s hands.

Emily looked up. “You are?”

Mrs. Fields nodded. “Honey, I’ve had a lot of time to think. We’re going to work through this. We’re going to figure out how to be a family again.”

Emily pulled away and stared at her mom’s face. “Well, say something!” Mrs. Fields urged, looking nervous. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s what I want,” Emily blurted. “I just … I didn’t ever … I …” She felt tears welling behind her eyes. “I never thought you’d forgive me,” she mumbled, bursting into sobs.

Mrs. Fields collected her in her arms again. “I had a long talk with Father Fleming when you were gone. I know we don’t talk about a lot of things. But I hate the idea of you hiding something so big. I’ve been hard on myself during this time, too, Emily. I feel like I’ve failed you as a mother.”

“Don’t say that,” Emily blubbered. “It’s my fault. I should have told you. I was just so …”

“… scared,” Mrs. Fields finished for her. “I know. Carolyn told us.”

Emily drew back. “Carolyn talked to you about it?”

Mrs. Fields nodded. “She feels like she failed you, too. She wants to come home for a long weekend soon to talk things out. This is a reflection on all of us, Emily. And if we’re ever going to heal, we all have to pull together. Don’t you think?”

Emily stared at her mom in amazement. “Yes,” she whispered. “I really want to be a family, too.”

Emily looked around the laundry room with its chicken baskets, old sweatshirts on hooks, and jugs of detergent. She’d never paid much attention to this room, but suddenly it was her favorite place in the world. The possibilities spread out before her. Reconstructing her relationship with her older sister. Making things right with her mom again. Having normal dinners, normal holidays—being a family . And being honest with them in the future, not running from them when she had a problem.

Then she remembered: Tabitha . But she pushed that aside for the moment, deciding to concentrate on this and only this. For one day, she could have her family back just the way she wanted it. She’d probably never have a moment like this again.

“Come on,” Mrs. Fields said, picking up one of Emily’s bags and dragging it into the kitchen. “Sit down, I’ll make you some tea, and you can tell me all about your trip.”

Emily let her mom guide her through the living room and sit her down at the kitchen table. It felt good to watch her fill the teapot with water and place it on the stove. She was about to launch into a description of the ship and the islands they visited, but then an Express Mail envelope caught her eye. Emily Fields , said the script in the address window.

She held it up. “What’s this?”

Mrs. Fields glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “I don’t know. It just came this morning.”

Emily ripped open the envelope and pulled out a postcard. When she saw the picture of the Bermuda International Airport on the front, her heart did a flip. The postcard was unsigned, but she knew immediately who it was from. Then she read the date, and her mind stalled. April 3 . That was two days ago, the day of the explosion on the boat. She pictured Jordan’s body leaping from the top deck of the ship, the bubbles in the water, the FBI boats searching the bay. A smile spread across her face. Then she looked down and read the note once more.

Emily: I’m okay. Not going to where we planned, but somewhere even better. We’ll find each other someday—that’s a promise .

The doorbell at Byron’s house pealed around 8 A.M. the following morning, and Aria shot up from the couch. The house was empty—Byron was at work, and Meredith had taken baby Lola to a doctor’s appointment.

She peered through the window in the door. Hanna, Spencer, and Emily were standing on the porch, grave looks on their faces.

“Thanks for coming,” Aria said in a small voice when she pulled the door open.

No one answered. She led them to the den. All three of her friends lined up on the couch facing the TV. They sat with perfect posture, their eyes glazed and red-rimmed, like they were at a funeral. Which, of course, they sort of were.

“Are you sure we should do this?” Spencer blurted.

Everyone exchanged a glance. “I don’t want to,” Hanna whispered.

“Me neither,” Emily said. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.

Aria perched on the wing chair, feeling just as conflicted. Every moment of this morning had felt like the end of an era. It was the last time she’d ever wake up in her bed. The last time she’d ever brush her teeth in her bathroom. The last time she’d ever kiss Lola without a prison guard standing over her. Would Meredith even bring Lola to visit her in prison? A’s taunting text haunted her, too: Will Aria’s boyfriend visit her in jail?

Hanna picked at her nails. Emily stared at a coffee cup she was holding, but couldn’t seem to bring herself to drink it. And Spencer kept picking up a magazine, staring at the cover, and then putting it right back down again.

“Maybe we’ll get a really kind judge,” Emily said. “Maybe someone who understands how scared we were about Real Ali coming back to hurt us.”

Spencer scoffed. “No judge will buy that. They’ll say everyone knew Real Ali was dead.”

Emily wriggled in her seat, either looking like she was about to burst or pee her pants. “Actually, not if we tell the court I left the door open for her the day of the fire.”

Everyone’s heads shot up. “Ex cuse me?” Spencer sputtered.

Emily buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t just leave her on the floor like that. I don’t know if she got out, but I did leave the door open.”

“But I saw the door,” Hanna said. “You shut it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Aria stared at the ceiling, trying to recall those hot, horrible, frantic moments before the house blew up. She swore she’d looked back and saw that the door was closed tight—or was that just a fabrication in her mind after the fact?

“ God , Emily,” Spencer whispered, her eyes wide.

Hanna ran her hands down the length of her face. “Is this why you’re so convinced Real Ali is the one stalking us now?”

“I guess so.” Emily fiddled with the coaster on the coffee table. “But I’ve been thinking about it, and, you guys, maybe it’s a good thing. If I bring up how the door was left open and how afraid we were that she’d escaped, maybe the judge will understand our paranoia in Jamaica.”