Page 52 of Dark Ugly Places

Careful.

“No. And don’t talk about it anymore, okay?”

“Why? Did something happen?”

I reach out and grab her hand. I pull her toward me across the counter. “Look at me,” I tell her. “Stop asking about it, okay, Em?”

Emmy nods slowly. Her eyes brighten. “You went, didn’t you?”

“I’m not going to discuss it, Em, okay?”

Her eyes grow bigger. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”

“I told you. Please, just leave it.”

“Did you see him? Did you see his wife?”

Keep her out of this.

“Emmy, please …” I beg her.

“What were they like?”

“Em, stop!” My fist comes down hard on the counter. So hard, I don’t think it’s my fist. In fact, I know it isn’t mine. It’s Martha’s.

Damn, Emmy. Look what you did.

I climb off the stool. No. She climbs off the stool. She takes the plate of grilled cheese and hurls it at the wall, the plate smashing behind Emmy’s head.

“Mom, stop! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Emmy’s cries are distant now. Martha squirms through like a cockroach beneath a doorjamb. She’s so quick, so relentless. Emmy screams, and I know it must be loud because of the look on her face. I know I’m scaring her, but there’s nothing I can do.

It isn’t me anymore. I feel myself sinking back into that black space where I can’t be a part of anything, where the world is not mine anymore, and life continues on without me.

22

Martha

I despise teenagers. Boys and girls in equal measure. They are good for nothing, truly. Like, what is the point of a teenager? They still live in your house and drain and drain and drain you while they become educated. And the education part takes a really long time and so much energy that any adults left in the house are depleted beyond recognition. This is what pushes them into this thing called middle age. It’s a hideous and unworthy phenomenon.

When Nicola said we were dealing with Emmy—dear, sweet little Emmy—I expected some nice, little pre-pubescent thing that wasn’t menstruating yet. Instead, I walk in to find some vegan-cheese-eating witch questioning me on where I was last night. If she knew what was good for her, she would just keep her mouth shut, eat her grilled cheese, do the dishes, clean the house, and go to sleep without talking so much. That’s not what happened.

My hands are on her shoulders, my fingers pressing into her flesh. Let’s get one thing straight, Nicola. Emmy is not my kid. She’s yours. I’m single, remember? I’m here to assist. That’s the deal.

Nicola squirms inside, begging me to stop, freaking out about the fact that she’s only living for Emmy, etc., etc.

But what about me? I insist. Haven’t I made your life better, Nicola? Aren’t I worth getting out of bed for? I mean, fuck! Before I came along, where were you? You know you couldn’t even figure your shit out, let alone deal with the debt you’re in, the case, or Redfern.

But I can.

“Listen, kid,” I start. “I’m sorry I threw the plate, but you were warned a couple of times. Stop asking about the other night.”

Emmy’s eyes won’t stop tearing. She’s sniffling like some girl in a horror movie.

“If you talk about it, if you bring it up, if you ask about last night or anything like that,” I press, “That’s an issue. We can’t have that.”

Emmy sniffs once, long and loud. “We?”