I don’t know what to say. Before I can form a sentence, Despina shakes her head, her expression darkening. “I still cannot believe that woman. To leave her own child, to just walk away—she iskakia, a wretched woman—”
Across the table, Emma’s head snaps up. Her eyes, wide and blazing, lock onto Despina. “That’s not true!”
Despina gasps, her hand flying to her chest. She’d clearly forgotten the five-year-old was within earshot. “Emma,mou, I didn’t—”
“You’re lying!” Emma screams. She’s standing up on her chair now, her small chest heaving. “My mommy is coming back! And when she does, you’ll be sorry you said that! You’re mean!”
“Emma, honey, hey,” I start, reaching across the table, but it’s like a switch has been flipped.
Emma’s hand dives into a bowl of Galaktoboureko—the messy, syrup-soaked custard pie. Before I can even blink, she flings a massive, sticky handful of it. It hits Despina square in the chest, the yellow custard sliding down her dark wool sweater in a goopy, pathetic trail.
Despina lets out a strangled shriek of horror.
Irene rounds the corner, her eyes darting from Emma’s sticky fingers to her sister-in-law’s ruined outfit. “Emma!Panagia mou!What happened?”
Emma points a trembling, syrup-covered finger at Despina. “She was saying mean things about my mommy! She’s a liar!”
Despina is stuttering, trying to wipe the custard off with a napkin, looking mortified. “I didn’t mean…it was just talk…”
But Emma isn’t finished. She rounds the table with alarming speed. Before anyone can intercept, she delivers a sharp, solid kick to Despina’s shin.Crack.
“Emma Roussos!” Irene gasps.
The house, which has been a riot of noise for over five hours, falls into a deafening silence. The knitting needles have stopped. The backgammon dice are still. Cori’s eyes are as wide as dinner plates, and Marcus, frozen with a cookie halfway to his mouth, nudges her and whispers, “That’s what you have to look forward to.”
“Not the time, Marcus!” Cori hisses.
Irene tries to grab Emma’s arm, but Emma wriggles out of her reach like a feral, sugar-fueled eel, her face twisting in a mask of pure, heartbroken rage. She’s screaming now—high, wordless shrieks of frustration.
Shit.Where thehellis Leo?
I don’t wait for him. I lunge forward, catching Emma around her waist just as she’s about to take another swing at Despina’sknees. She’s a whirlwind of elbows and heels, hitting and kicking at me as I haul her back.
“Emma! Emma, stop!” I’m trying to keep my voice steady, but she’s gone. She’s not even seeing me; she’s just seeing the hurt.
I wrap my arms tight around her middle, pinning her arms to her sides as best I can, and start dragging her toward the nearest door. I’m praying it’s a bedroom and not a closet, a sanctuary, anywhere away from the stunned silence of the dining room.
I kick the door open—it’s a small, quiet bedroom with a quilt on the bed—and haul her inside, the sound of her screams echoing off the walls as the door clicks shut behind us.
“I hate you! I hate everyone!” she howls, and my heart breaks right along with her.
The room is cool and smells of lavender and mothballs, a sharp contrast to the butter-heavy warmth of the hallway. Outside, the orange glow of a streetlamp filters through the blinds, casting long, slanting shadows across the floor.
Emma is still a whirlwind of limbs. A heel catches me in the shin, and a small, sticky fist thumps against my ribs, but I don’t let go. I can’t. If I let go, she’ll shatter into a million jagged pieces, and I know exactly what it’s like to try to glue yourself back together in the dark.
“I’ve got you, Em,” I murmur, over and over, a mantra against the storm. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
I sink to the floor, my back against the side of the bed, and pull Emma into my lap. The fight is draining out of her, leaving behind a raw, shuddering wreck. Her frantic kicks and hits have turned into jerky little tremors, and then finally, into deep, gulping sobs that shake her whole tiny body. I just hold her. I don’t try to talk yet. I smooth her damp, tangled hair away from her forehead and rock us gently, the way Eileen used to rock me.
It’s a physical ache, watching her. I’m sixteen years old again, but I’m also ten, and I’m five. I’m the little girl in the empty mansion throwing a crystal vase at a marble floor because my mother chose a gala in Paris over my birthday. I’m the little girl who would scream until my throat was raw, not because I wanted a toy, but because I wanted them. Eileen would eventually find me. She wouldn’t yell. She’d scoop me up, take me to the laundry room—the warmest, quietest place in the house—and hold me in her lap on the old wicker chair. She’d sing songs I didn’t know until the anger burned itself out and all that was left was a bone-tired sadness. She’d kiss the top of my head and say, “There now, little storm cloud. The sun’s still there.”
I know this kind of rage. It’s all I knew for a very long time. It’s not about Despina or a kick in the shin. It’s about the hollow space where a person is supposed to be.
Emma’s sticky, custard-coated hands are fisted in my shirt, her face buried in the fabric. It’s growing damp with her tears and, probably, dessert.
“She…she doesn’t love me anymore,” she hiccups, the words muffled and wet.
My own throat tightens. “Oh, sweet girl. That’s not true, Em. Not even a little bit.”
