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“With her gone, my drinking became even worse in college. I needed it to function. I needed it to breathe. Every morning, every night, every day...And after taking some more of her misguided advice and having a vengeful bitch for a roommate, I couldn’t control my drinking anymore.”
“I drank for any reason that I could, and every extra dollar I had went to a new bottle. The night that I got arrested for the accident, they told me my blood alcohol level was five times over the legal limit, and that if had taken one or two more shots I probably could’ve died. And I think I wanted to...” I sigh, but I still can’t bring myself to cry. Holding tears back has been ingrained in me for far too long. “I think my mom influenced me into becoming the fucked up person that I am today, and I still hate her for leaving me, but I don’t blame her for anything...She tried her best and now I’m going to try mine. I’m going to try to change...”
“So, there...That’s all I have.” I step away from the podium and take my seat.
The room is still silent and I consider getting up and leaving because they’re supposed to clap. They’re supposed to tell me that I’m okay, that I did a good job, but no one has uttered a word.
I’ve just shared my story for nothing.
I pick my bag up and slide it over my shoulder—prepared to leave, but then I hear a single clap from Tim. Then the man to my right. Then the woman to my left.
And then everyone is the room is clapping and walking over to me, hugging me.
“Get the fuck off of me,” I say, trying not to smile. “I don’t want to be hugged...No. Seriously, I don’t like hugs...”
Chapter 16
I remove the hidden wooden panel in my sock drawer and count my savings from The Phoenix.
After paying the city for the street lamp and the stop sign, buying my car back from the state, and covering my court costs, I have eight thousand dollars of my own.
I figure I’ll dance for another week or two to try to earn a little more, but I’m quitting soon. I need to start finalizing my plans to move to New York.
For the very first time, I’ve received a positive response from an editor, an “I would love to discuss this manuscript with you” letter.
It’s not a guarantee, it’s not a promise, but it’s not a rejection.
Rolling my money into a sock again, I stuff it into hiding and hear a knock at my door.
“Hey, Emerald.” Virginia walks into my room.
“Hey. What’s up?”
“Is there a reason why you took all those papers down from your ceiling? I was starting to get used to them.”
“Not really.” I lie. I want to tell her that I no longer feel like a failure, that I no longer want to stare at things that remind me how miserable I was just a few months ago, but I can’t. I’ve done enough opening up over the past few weeks.
“Henry and I are so proud of all you’ve accomplished this summer.” She pulls me into her arms, hugging me so tightly I can barely breathe. “So, so proud.”
“All I did was finish rehab,” I say as she lets me go.
“No, you did more than that. You kept a job longer than you ever have before, you made friends, and you paid off all of your debts on your own. You did a lot, even though you still didn’t find the time to go to church.”
I laugh.
“Can you come downstairs with me for a minute? Me and Henry want to talk to you about something.” She doesn’t give me a chance to answer. She practically pushes me out of my room and down the steps.
“There she is!” Henry takes off his reading glasses as we enter the living room. “Have a seat, Emerald.”
I look back and forth between the two of them, wondering what the hell is going on. They’ve only cornered me like this one time before, and even though I was drunk at the time, I remember the conversation being anything but pleasant.
They look at each other, and then they look at me, sighing at the exact same time.
“I’m not sure if you knew this or not, but Leah used to call and leave us voice messages over the years...” Henry’s eyes are watering. “She would tell us that we’d never get to meet you and that she would never let us be a part of your life.”
Virginia wipes a tear from her eyes and Henry pats her shoulder.
“It was her way of driving the knife even deeper into our hearts. She knew it hurt us terribly, but as the years passed, I think she realized it hurt her too because she stopped. She started sending us pictures of you, copies of your report cards, and as you got older, she would send us copies of your essays and stories.”
I feel a lump rising up my throat, but I force it back down. I never thought Leah actually read any of my work, and I would’ve never believed her if she told me that she was sending it to my grandparents.
