Page 11 of Dark Ugly Places

The traffic pulls off, and Emmy squirms in the seat. “Ugh, I feel so sick.”

“Eat the granola bar,” I instruct her and turn toward Santa Monica Blvd, which leads to West Hollywood.

Emmy lets out a very long breath and starts unwrapping it.

We fight through the traffic toward West Hollywood and the In-N-Out Burger. I find a parking spot but let the engine idle for a second.

Emmy stares out the window at a homeless couple standing under a shop front with a small gray Chihuahua. “We should get them something, Mom. They look hungry.”

My stomach flips, and I feel my hands clench a little. “You know I would, Em, but we just don’t have the money.”

“I have some.”

After we order, Emmy gets another two burgers. I watch from our little window seat as she takes them the food. I think I can see them saying “God bless” to her over and over.

Back inside, Emmy comes over and slides into the little seat facing me.

“That was sweet of you, honey.”

She gives a little half smile. “It wasn’t much.”

“It was a lot to them.”

Our food is up, and Emmy hops up to the counter to collect it. Outside, a leaf blower pushes garbage around the street. Emmy has recently become vegan, so all she has in front of her is a baffling array of fries and a bun with the vegetables, which she dips in packets of ketchup and mustard smeared onto a napkin. I watch her stroke the colors along the white paper, mixing them together until they make brown. She takes a bite and chews the meatless wonder.

“What?” she asks, gazing up at me. I feel the sadness emanating from her like a scent and behind it a small, barely perceptible bite of anger that no one would notice but me. Anger for the unfairness. The stupidity. At the scar on the side of her head that won’t grow hair. At this dinner and the one tomorrow and the next day and the day after that spent with just me, just the two of us. The piece missing from its tightly wedged spot between us. The gap it left, growing bigger. Emptier.

I put down my burger and look at her.

“Tell you what—in a few weeks when my paycheck comes in, we’ll go to Nordstrom for some shoes, okay?”

Emmy stops chewing for a second. “But I thought you said we don’t have the money …”

“Let me worry about that, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” She looks at me skeptically.

A man and his son sitting to the left of our table turn and stare at us. The father turns away, but the boy in a little league outfit keeps looking. I sense Emmy growing uncomfortable.

A bite of burger sits in my cheek. With effort, I push it down, feeling a strange stab of palpable rage. It’s remarkable how it manifests in such acute ways, a hot fire that could swell any minute.

“Why are you vegan?” The words come out of me, even though I don’t intend them to. It’s the Topamax. Sometimes I say things I shouldn’t.

Emmy glances at me up from her bun, curious. “What do you mean?”

“I never asked you before, and you never got the chance to tell me. You know, without judgment.” I put down my burger.

Emmy carries on chewing, slowly. “There’s truth, and there’s lies. You can eat the truth, or you can eat lies. Do you get what I mean?”

I nod even though I don’t.

“Okay, good,” she says. She grabs my burger and positions it in front of her. Her forefinger lifts the bun, revealing the remarkably thin, gray patty. “When you eat a ‘burger,’ most people want to think that they are eating ‘beef,’ but that’s a polite way of saying they are eating a ‘cow.’ Not even just one cow. Odds are, hundreds of cows are right here in this single patty.”

My stomach churns.

“Beef is the lie. Cow is the truth. The truth is, a whole bunch of cows—living creatures—suffered and died for your burger. Your burger is made of hundreds of dead animals. So you are basically eating death. People don’t like to think about that when they chomp down on a juicy burger, but like I said, truth and lies.”

“You have a point,” I say. “It’s just that … it’s a little extreme. Don’t you think?”