* * *
A few weeks later, my mom takes me to buy a prom dress. It is the most fun we have had in a very long time. We laugh at the ridiculousness of some of the styles, and when we finally find the right one, she tells me how beautiful I am. How much I look like my father. It is the first time she has mentioned him in nearly a decade, and I am swimming with emotion. She tells me he would have been proud of me for getting into such a good college and for keeping things together without him.
There are a million questions I want to ask her. About him. About us. About why she changed so much when he died. But I don’t ask because her eyes are already telling me about all of her regrets. We are standing in the dress shop, with me in my new prom dress and her face only inches from mine. Her hands sweep my hair up and twist it gently against the back of my head. She holds it there and looks at me for the first time in what feels like forever. We are locked together, thoughts passing between us. Unspoken words seeping out of our faces. And then she is crying and telling me how sorry she is. I tell her that it is okay. That it is almost over. That I am going to college and moving on and things will be all right. I tell her that I believe Michael takes good care of her and that she’ll be all right, too. I don’t believe a word I am saying, but I think it’s what she wants to hear. She needs to know that I forgive her. She lets go of my hair and wraps her arms around me, hugging me tight against her. I am breathing as if it is my last moment on this earth, afraid to move because I don’t want her to let me go.
“It was my fault,” she whispers into my ear. “My fault that your father died. I should have forced him to get that test. I should have driven him straight to the hospital, and for the rest of my life, all I want to do is punish myself for making that choice. Marrying Michael was part of it. I needed someone to support us, but the idea of moving on was just so.....so wrong. I picked Michael because, if I was going to move on, I needed it to be with someone who was never going to replace your father. Someone who was incapable of replacing him. Because I don’t deserve any better. I don’t deserve a second chance at happiness. I never meant to punish you for it, too, Emma, but that’s what happened. And I am so sorry. So, so sorry.” She stops talking only long enough to let me go and smooth the dress against my skin. “You can hate me if you want to. You might already hate me. I deserve it. I can’t take it back, but I want you to know that I am proud of the woman you are becoming. Proud that you are surviving. Proud that you are so much stronger than me.”
I don’t cry because I’m empty. I don’t hate her. How could she think that? I give her a small smile and use my thumb to brush the tears from her face. All I can say is, “It’s all right, Mom. Everything is okay.”
After that, I think things are going to be different between my mother and me. But outwardly, they aren’t. Michael stays between us, steering both her actions and mine. But inwardly, I know that we do feel different. Each in our own way. I think we recognize that there is still love here, even though we don’t say it, even though we don’t show it. Because we know that if we keep it inside, Michael can’t have it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Emma—Present Day
Saturday is heavenly. David and I sleep in, eat a leisurely brunch, catch a movie and take a walk. Before we know it, evening arrives. I make us some dinner, and we talk about how to spend the night.
“I think Caleb and the guys are playing somewhere tonight. If you want, I can find out where and we can go,” he says. I don’t have to think twice about it. I tell him I think it’s a great idea.
Turns out they are going to be at a club on the south side of the city. The show starts at ten, and David calls Caleb to get us on the guest list. He seems excited to be going out to see his friends and tells me that this time we should plan on hanging out with them after the show.
“I’m not worried about them scaring you off anymore,” he says with confidence. “No matter what fucking song they decide to play for you.” I smile at him, remembering how ridiculously crazy he looked the last time. And then I promise him—and myself—that I will not get absurdly drunk tonight. I will stay in line, and I will not humiliate either of us. He laughs and tells me I can do whatever the fuck makes me happy. He doesn’t care, just so long as he’s the one who puts me in the shower this time.
We have so much fun. Before they start playing, we hang out with everyone backstage. I meet John and Steve’s girlfriends and enjoy watching David chatting and posturing with his friends. He seems so relaxed with them. And this time, when the band is playing, we don’t stand by the bar. Or rather, I don’t stand by the bar. I dance. With the other girlfriends and a few other people. I glance over at David from time to time and watch him watching me. It is the first time he’s seen me dance, and I hope I am not embarrassing him. He eyes are alight every time I glance at him, so I think I must be doing all right.