She doesn’t say anything else as she turns on her heel and heads back toward the house. A gust of wind rattles the barn walls, slapping me with cold air like some kind of cosmic wake-up call.
“What am I doing?” I mutter then bolt after her.
“Emma!” I call, but she doesn’t slow down. Her green beanie bobs as she picks up the pace. She’s trying to get away from me. “Em, please wait!”
She stops only when she’s shielded by the line of cars, out of earshot from anyone who might be trying to eavesdrop, which is very likely.
“I’m sorry.” I reach for her, but she’s as stiff as a board. “Em, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
Her eyes snap to mine at the crack in my voice. The anger dissolves from her expression, replaced with genuine compassion. Compassion for an oaf screaming at himself in a barn, nonetheless. I don’t deserve her.
“I don’t know what’s happening.” My breath shudders. “I feel…” I gesture wildly, helplessly, at my head and chest, as if this demonstrates whatever the hell is happening inside me.
“Angry,” she says flatly.
I sigh. “Yes. But I don’t know why—”
“Steven,” she cuts in, her frustration now spilling over. “You lost your memory.” She practically yells it. Then quieter and as sharp as glass, she says, “You don’t remember your kids. Me. Your mother is upstairs, fading away, and you haven’t seen her in nearly three years.And you don’t remember.What do you mean you don’t know why you’re angry?”
Her words, thetruth, hit me like an airbag, knocking the wind and life out of me. I blink at her, dumbfounded at the brutal truth.
“I’m sorry to speak on your behalf, butthatis what’s wrong.”
The clouds overhead shift, a sudden beam of sunlight cutting right between us. She lifts a hand to shade her eyes and lets out a shivery breath.
“I can’t force you to talk to me,” she says. “I can’t make you come to terms with any of this. I know that. But this is what’s happening, and we have to accept it. We have to work through it. If not, you’ll obsess over it and miss out on everything else. I wish we could go back in time, make sure this never happens to you, but honey, we can’t.”
She cups my face, brushing away my tears. “I’m so sorry, Steven. This isn’t fair, but you saw her. I don’t want you to regret not trying to make the most of this time while we have it, okay?”
I hate that she’s right. The urge to scream and fight coils inside my ribs, but I force it down. “Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Let’s get through the weekend. Monday morning, you can be angry and sad and bitter all you need.” She smirks, knowing that as appealing as that sounds, we’ll probably end up in therapy, talking through it like adults.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Without another word, she kisses my cheek and disappears into the house. Sunlight beats against my neck, sweat prickling my skin as I stand there. The anger still churns beneath my sternum, twisting around my heart, seeping into my blood. It doesn’t fade when I go inside. I hide it behind a brittle smile, blaming overwhelm, blaming my brain, the missing memories.
Nobody questions me, but Emma and Dad watch me with wary eyes. When I sit with Mom, or eat my food, or even when I play with Josie, their eyes never leave me.
Like I’m some wild animal, ready to bolt at any second.
Chapter thirty-two
Emma
When We Tried New Things
Becominganartistwasalways a flicker of a dream for me. Never fully formed, but always lingering in the back of my mind, waiting for the chance to take root. It never felt feasible, and becoming a wife and mother pushed it even further out of reach. But that didn’t stop me from dabbling over the years.
Pottery classes. Oil technique workshops. Even a modern media class where we used magazine scraps as the base of our pieces. I wasn’t a master, and none of my art was going into a museum, but my Statue of Liberty replica made out ofPeoplemagazine clippings was a hit with Easton and Sawyer. That eventually turned into teaching them art and, later, some of the moms I met at the park as well.
When I offered a free sketch class at the library, I set the bar low. I was mostly hoping for some kind of outlet, something that belonged only to me. The class was sold out for months, and I discovered I actually enjoy teaching—art just made it more fun.
So when an overly enthusiastic dark-haired man approached me after class and asked me to meet him at the high school for a job interview, I couldn’t help but feel skeptical. Terrified, actually. Was this guy going to murder me?
“It’s not weird, I swear.” He laughed, handing me his business card.
Bayani Divata — Vice Principal, Glendale High School
