Emmy And Me

A week later, life had pretty much settled down to a routine. The morning and afternoon rides became a regular thing. Edouard would knock on my door at 6:10, then walk me to the car where Emmy would be waiting. After school, Edouard and Emmy would give me a lift home. It was heaven. No waiting, no dealing with smelly drunks perving on me on the bus, and best of all- a half hour extra of sleep in the mornings. I’m telling you, it was glorious. I could get used to that lifestyle, I thought.

On my practice days Emmy would wait for me after school. Sometimes she’d sit in the bleachers in the gym and watch, other times she’d be somewhere else. When I asked her what she did for those couple of hours, she replied “It is a good time for me to catch up on my homework. I can get it all done, so when I get home I do not have to worry about it.”

Must be nice, I thought. One day, when she was watching us in the gym, I took a break and went up into the bleachers to chat. I saw that she had her little laptop out and was writing her paper for AP English. “What’s that?” I asked.

“I am writing about the LeRoi Jones play we read,” she replied. “I am almost done.”

“But our papers aren’t due for another couple of weeks!” I protested.

“I have the time, so I am getting it done early,” she agreed.

“Wow. I wish I had that kind of dedication. I’ll probably start on mine at the last minute.”

“Oh, but you are very dedicated. I have been watching you practice, and you are very good at this,” she said, waving her hand at the V Ball court. “That means many hours and hours of hard work.”

“Thanks, but it’s not the same.”

“No, it is not the same, but complaining about lacking motivation to pursue your goals seems a little unlikely, coming from you. You are always the first one to be ready to practice, and the hardest worker on the team. It is obvious, even to someone like me who knows nothing of the sport.”

Cheered by her compliment, I returned to the court, ready, I guess, to prove her right.

When we pulled into the parking lot at my complex, I asked “Do you have any place you need to be? Do you have time to come up and see my house?”

“I do not really need to be home until six o’clock,” Emmy said, thoughtfully. “But I do not want to keep Edouard waiting for too long. I could visit for a perhaps half an hour, but no more.”

Tiff and Mom wouldn’t be home until six, so they weren’t going to get a chance to meet Emmy, but I was a bit nervous about showing her my apartment anyway. I mean, we keep it clean enough, but Emmy’s family is rich, so I was sure her place was quite a bit nicer than mine. Our complex is nicer than most and the management company does a good job keeping up with the maintenance, but still- it is just a little three bedroom second-floor apartment.

That didn’t seem to bother Emmy at all, though. She seemed to be thrilled at the prospect of seeing where I lived, as mundane as it was.

Walking up the steps, I warned her “I apologize in advance if it’s messy.”

“I am certain it will be lovely,” Emmy said, and at first I thought she might be mocking me, but then it occurred to me that I’ve never actually heard her make fun of anybody but herself. Sure, she teases every now and then, but that’s about it.

Thankfully, the house wasn’t too bad. At least there were no huge piles of laundry that needed to be folded and put away or anything else equally embarrassing. Emmy wandered around the living room taking in everything, her big green eyes wide with discovery. She spent a while looking at the photo of Dad in his dress blues, holding me as a baby in his arms. She looked at the other family photos Mom had arranged as sort of a gallery on the entry wall, spending a surprisingly long time on each one. She reached out but didn’t actually touch the folded flag in its cherrywood frame, but she sure studied it and the medals for a long time. After that she looked around the rest of the living room, stopping to pet my cat, Sylvester. Normally Sylvester doesn’t like strangers, but she seemed to take to Emmy just fine.

“Her name’s Sylvester,” I told Emmy. “She seems to like you.”

“She is beautiful,” Emmy responded, still stroking the cat, who had finally gotten her lazy butt up and was standing on the back of the couch, rubbing up against Emmy. Emmy then picked Sylvester up and held her, petting her while continuing to examine the room. As surprised as I was at Sylvester’s original reaction to Emmy, this totally astonished me. Sylvester hated to be picked up. Absolutely hated it, and yet there she was, purring in Emmy’s arms.

Emmy’s inspection of our living room complete, she set Sylvester back on the couch. “I like your house, Leah. It feels very warm and friendly.”

“Is that kinda like how realtors use the word ‘cozy’? To make a positive out of a negative?” I asked.

The puzzled look on her face when she asked “What do you mean ‘negative’?” convinced me that she hadn’t been yanking my chain.

“Don’t worry about it,” I responded. “Here- let me give you the grand tour.” With that, I showed her the kitchen, the hall bathroom, then my and Tiff’s bedrooms. I pointed out the closed door that led to Mom’s room, and explained that when the door was closed Tiff and I weren’t supposed to go in.

Looking into Tiff’s room, Emmy was wide-eyed at all the dolls and stuffed animals Tiff had amassed in her short seven years.

“For some reason, everyone in the family gives Tiff stuffed animals and dolls for presents. Because she has so many, they all think she has a collection, so they give her more. It’s crazy,” I said, “but that’s just how it’s worked out.”

When we went into my room, Emmy again examined everything with great interest. She looked at the books on my bookcase, at the knickknacks, and admired my V Ball trophies. My room is tiny so there really isn’t a whole lot to look at, but she seemed fascinated by what there was. Finally, she asked “May I sit down?” and pointed to the desk chair.

Since I’d plopped down on my bed without even thinking about it, I sheepishly said “Of course! I’m sorry- I should have offered.”

“No, it is O.K. Thank you.”

Indicating my dad’s guitar on its stand in the corner, she asked “Do you play? You have never said anything about playing the guitar.”

“No, I don’t. That was my dad’s. I guess I don’t know why I still keep it.”

“May I?” Emmy asked, tentatively reaching for it.

“Yeah, sure. It’s gotta be out of tune, and might not even play at all. It’s been sitting a long time,” I responded.

She picked it up and wiped a bit of dust off with her sleeve, then started tuning it up. Quickly she had it tuned to her satisfaction, and gently started strumming a few chords. It sounded vaguely familiar, and the feeling grew as she began to pick out a haunting melody. Finally, when she started to sing, it hit me like a freight train- it was that old Pink Floyd song my dad loved so much. Emmy’s playing reminded me of my dad sitting at the kitchen table, playing that very same song. Emmy continued playing, and as she sang those words I used to know so well I felt my vision getting blurry as my eyes welled with tears. I loved hearing Dad play, and used to beg him endlessly until he would take out that old guitar.

When Emmy got to the line about wishing you were here I completely lost it. I couldn’t help it- I just started crying, my tears flowing out in an unstoppable flood. I hated myself for it, but there was nothing I could do to stop. The sadness, the loss- it was unbearable. It somehow still felt as fresh as when I was ten, too young to even understand war, politics, and why my dad was never coming home again.

When Emmy realized I was weeping, she put the guitar down and sat next to me on the bed, putting her arms around me in a gentle hug. “I am so sorry. Please do not cry,” I heard her say, but I just couldn’t stop. The memories of my dad and the feelings of loss that I’d thought were all behind me just wouldn’t let me go. I mean, crap- it had been seven years, I should be over this by now, right?

With a little bit of a shock I realized that Emmy had stopped talking, and was holding me tightly, and worst of all, kissing away my tears. She was murmuring something I couldn’t understand and gently rocking me as she continued to kiss my cheeks, my eyes, and my chin. Somehow, she wound up sitting straddling my lap, holding me against her and continuing to kiss me. It was mortifying- I felt as if I could just die. Crying like a baby in front of this girl I hardly even knew, and worse, being comforted like a baby. As embarrassing as it was, part of me didn’t want Emmy to stop what she was doing. It was nice to be held, and the feeling of sympathy I was getting from Emmy was confirmed when I looked up and saw tears in her eyes as well.

The concern on her face made me feel guilty for distressing her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” was all I could say.

“No, do not be sorry. I am the one who made you so sad. It is all my fault,” Emmy replied, as her own tears rolled down her inky black face. I couldn’t think of anything else to do, so I wrapped my arms around her and held her tight, as she had been doing for me. We both just stayed that way for a while, sobbing out our own miseries in the quiet stillness of my tiny bedroom.

Eventually we both stopped crying, and although I still felt that Emmy’s comforting embrace was nice, the awkwardness of the situation became too great and I let go of her and put my arms behind me to support myself while I leaned back. Emmy leaned back, too. Although she was still straddling my lap, it did create some space for us to look at each other.

“I am so very sorry,” Emmy began. “Leah, I never want to do anything to make you unhappy like that. Please forgive me.”

I shushed her, saying “No, it wasn’t your fault. It’s just that that was one of my dad’s favorite songs, and it made me think of him playing when I was little. You couldn’t have known.”

“I saw the CD in the living room. It was on top, so I thought that perhaps you had played it recently. That is why I chose that song. I should have asked. I am sorry.”

“No, seriously- don’t feel bad. Your playing was so beautiful… that used to be one of my favorite songs when I was little. Mom must have been playing the CD, that’s all. Really, I’m O.K. I guess I’m not as over the whole thing as I’d thought I was, that’s all.”

“And you are O.K. now?” Emmy asked, brushing a strand of my hair back from my face.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I really am. Thanks.”

She got up off my lap and carefully picked up the guitar. She then did something unexpected. She gently kissed the guitar, and then tenderly put it back on its stand. She looked up and saw my puzzled expression, and explained “For the memory of one who has gone.”

This simple act brought tears to my eyes again, and although they threatened, they didn’t overflow again.

Emmy saw, though, and came over and hugged me again. “Do you want me to stay?” she asked.

“No, if you need to go now, I’m all right.”

As she headed to the door, I grabbed her hand. “Emmy- thanks. Seriously. Thanks.”

She didn’t say anything, just gave my hand a squeeze before letting go. I sat there on the bed, and as I listened to her carefully shut the front door on her way out I wondered what had just happened.