Leah seems to be about the only person I've talked to about this who has a shred of compassion. No wonder Emily likes her. "You're right. It was the wrong one. But think about where she was, Jaxon. She was twenty years old and pregnant and the man she loved was gone. No one had heard from you… She thought you were dead."
I refuse to justify that. Women get pregnant all the time, but not all of them lie about the father of their baby.
"Mercy is yours, Jaxon. Emily has done a lot wrong but she's not lying about that." She pauses for a second and frowns at me apologetically. "She never stopped loving you. Whether she admits it or not. That's why she's so scared. She's not afraid of you. She's afraid of what it means that you're back… And I think she's afraid that you'll be too mad and want to leave again, because she still loves you."
I wipe the blood off my lip with the back of my hand. The cut stings and my knuckles are starting to bruise. The last thing I want to do is stand here listening to someone pleading Emily's case when I want to stay mad at her. She doesn’t love me. People who love you don't lie to you like that.
"I need to go," I mumble.
"Sober up first, then go talk to her, okay? You won't forgive yourself if you stay mad forever."
She keeps talking but I mumble, "Goodnight, Leah." And I keep staggering up the street hoping the city cops don't stop me for drunk and disorderly.
No, I won't go "talk" to Emily. I have no intention of trying to fix whatever the hell got broken, because while I was serving my country bleeding and watching my brothers die, she was herelying to me. I might not be worthy of a relationship because I walked out on her, but I never deserved to be lied to like this.
But Emily is right about one thing, Emily is afraid. And she damn well should be. Karma is a bitch and what she's put into this world will come back to her.
18
EMILY
The church basement is warm and crowded with craft supplies. I'm at a folding table with Mom and four other women, cutting red and blue streamers into strips while they assemble centerpieces for the Memorial Day festival. It's three days out and we're behind schedule, so the six of us are doing the work of twelve. I'm only here because sitting around home on my day off work will only lead to my brooding and getting stuck in my head.
Mom sits across from me wrapping ribbon around mason jars filled with white carnations. She hasn't brought up Jaxon or Mercy since the night Dad and I came home from the council meeting. Dad hasn't said a word to anyone either, as far as I know, though I'm not naive enough to believe he hasn't told Mom. She's been quieter and more patient, but thankfully, she hasn't pressured me to talk.
It's been three weeks since the farmer's market and Jaxon has disappeared completely. He hasn't been at the bakery or parked his truck across the street. Danny and Russ came by last week to finish the ventilation hood and plumbing without him, and whenI asked Danny where Jaxon was, he just shrugged and said he'd been taking other jobs. The repairs are almost done and I should feel relieved, but all I feel is this swirling cesspool of dread that won't go away.
"Emily, honey, you've been cutting that same streamer for five minutes."
I look down. The strip of red paper in my hands is about two inches wide and shredded along one edge where I've been dragging the scissors without paying attention. Dot Patterson is watching me from the end of the table with her reading glasses pushed up on her forehead and a glue gun in one hand.
Heat flushes my cheeks as I mumble, "Sorry. I'm distracted today."
"You've been distracted for weeks," says Gloria Marsh, who's seated next to Mom. The woman has no tact or compassion at all. I'd rather talk to a brick wall than her. "Susan, what's going on with your daughter?" I hate the fact that she speaks to my mother about me right here in front of me like I don't exist.
Mom looks at me across the table. I can tell from the look on her face that she's running out of patience for my silence. She's concerned, but so am I. I don’t know what to think or what to do. I thought when I told Jaxon about his daughter, he'd want to know more and be more involved. Granted, I did just blurt it out and start crying. But his reaction was the opposite of what I thought he'd do. He just ghosted me—again.
"I'm fine," I lie, forcing a smile.
"You're not fine," says Dot. She sets the glue gun down and folds her hands on the table. "You've lost weight, you've got circles under your eyes… Nobody in this room is going to judge you,Emily. But something is clearly wrong, and maybe it would help to talk about it."
The other two women at the table, Linda Faye and a newer member whose name I think is Connie, both stop what they're doing. It's awkward and really uncomfortable, but Mom smiles softly at me and tilts her head. These are her people, not mine, but I can tell she really wants me to open up.
My chin starts to tremble and I press my lips together hard to stop it. But I can't stop the tears that leak from my eyes.
"I, uh…" I feel like I might explode any second. It's worse than spilling it to Leah. She's my best friend. These are women who can sometimes be super judgmental. I don’t know what they may say. I can't even put words to it. So Mom does it for me.
"She just told Jaxon that he's Mercy's father…" Mom's voice is very quiet, but the other ladies chime in with compassion right away.
"Oh, sweetheart," Gloria says softly.
"Oh, dear, that must be so difficult," says Connie.
And Linda whispers, "Lord have mercy."
I start talking then and the words just tumble out so fast I can't stop them, along with more tears and snot and ugly crying. "He came back and started asking questions. I lied to him about everything, because I was terrified of what would happen if the truth came out." Linda hands me a tissue from her purse, but I keep talking. "I know I lied, but when I did tell him, he didn't believe me. He said I was lying and walked away, and I haven't heard from him in three weeks."
My head hangs as I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. I don't want to look any of them in the eye and see their critical expression.
