She paused in my bedroom doorway. “You know, everyone asks me why I remain friends with you, Emmie.”
“Right,” I said. “I know you have a whole lot of them lining up to take my place. Go for it.”
She stomped out and down the stairs. I heard her open and close the front door, and then I flopped back on my bed and stared up at the ceiling. Mama was in the doorway. She was in her robe and slippers. Lately, if she didn’t have to go out, she wouldn’t get dressed all day, and she would do little or nothing with her hair. I was worrying more and more about her, about how pale and frail she was looking.
“What was that all about?” she asked.
“I’m tired of her, Mama. She’s such a busybody.”
“You just made that discovery?”
I didn’t say anything.
She came into my room and sat on my bed. “What is it really, Emmie?”
“I can’t stand not having Papa with us,” I said.
She sighed. “I know. He was very firm and on the surface seemingly insensitive at times, but you were the apple of his eye, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for you.”
“Are we all right financially, Mama?” I asked.
“We’re fine,” she said, patting my hand.
“Are you all right?” I eyed her carefully.
Her lips quivered, and she nodded quickly, patted my hand again, and rose. “Just a little tired. I’ll get to sleep early tonight,” she said. She leaned over to kiss me and then walked out.
I could feel the darkness seeping in behind her, following her out of my room. It made my heart skip beats. Here I was feeling sorry for myself when it was Mama who should have all the attention. I was young. I would survive. Roxy survived, didn’t she?
Or did she?
Maybe she was more unhappy than it appeared. Maybe that was why she stayed away. Maybe she didn’t want us to know how bad things really were for her. Just maybe, she was ashamed of who and what she was, too ashamed to face her mother. Perhaps I had been too quick to condemn her.
Never did I dream that I would be lying in my bed thinking I was too hard on Roxy. Was my desperation for a sister, for more family, so great that I would overlook so much, even the way she had treated my parents? I had tried to forget her. I was still trying to hate her, but for some reason, I just couldn’t do it. Somehow, my vague memories of her grew stronger and more vivid. I could see her smile, hear her voice again. It was as if a door had been nudged open in my mind and memories were slipping out.
There was one in particular that I hadn’t recalled until now, the memory of Roxy holding my hand as we walked on an avenue. It seemed we were alone, returning from some errand she had completed. Maybe Papa didn’t know that Mama had permitted Roxy to take me along. I remembered her being very careful and protective, guiding me along, her grip on my hand so tight that it actually hurt a little. But I didn’t complain, because I was so happy to be treated like someone older. Other pedestrians looked at us and smiled. Look at how responsibly that older sister is behaving. I felt very proud, too.
The memory brought a smile to my face, but that was followed by a deeper sadness.
It was a precious moment, and it was gone forever.
I turned over and buried my face in my pillow. I don’t want to think about her. I don’t want to remember her.
Papa was right to disown her and forbid my even mentioning her name. How could she leave us like that? How could she be so stubborn and mean?
There was another thought. Was it selfish to think it?
If it was, I couldn’t help it. It was the thought that took me to sleep.
How could she leave me?
12
Maybe I was dwelling too much on myself, soaking myself in a gray pool of self-pity. I was walking through the school day with blinders over my eyes, not seeing or caring about anything or anyone else. I sat like a granite statue, barely changing expression, no matter what my teachers said. Finally, after weeks and weeks of this, one of my teachers, Mr. Collins, pulled me aside after class to talk about my work. He was very tall and stout but almost always pleasant with an almost impish smile. I really liked him. Right now, he hovered over me like the shadow of my conscience.
He was the first to do this, but I knew that teachers talked about their students in the faculty lounge, and my other teachers probably would follow his lead shortly. I couldn’t say I didn’t expect it. This was, after all, a private school, where students had their teachers’ full attention. Two of my classes had fewer than fifteen students in them. Mr. Collins, who taught math, had one of those classes.