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She was pregnant at eighteen years old. Even if my sister was deemed an adult by age, Sammie was merely a child herself. There was such an innocence to her that she seemed too gentle for a world as harsh as ours.
She waited a week before she told our parents about the pregnancy. Seven days passed before she felt comfortable enough to share the news that had taken place in her life. I hated that she’d told them, thinking our parents would give her the comfort her soul was begging for. Instead, she received disgust.
“You’re a statistic,” Mama commented. “We raised you well and pushed you hard to make you the complete opposite of this. You were on your way to an Ivy League school, and you threw it away. For what? For this mistake?”
“Mama, be easy—” I started, but I was instantly cut off.
“Stay out of this, Emery. Lord knows you are probably the one who influenced your sister to act out this way.”
“Wait, what?”
“You think I didn’t find the pack of cigarettes under your mattress after you moved out to college? You’ve been a troublemaker from the beginning, and poor Sammie’s probably taken after some of your sinful ways.”
“This has nothing to do with Emery, Mama. Really,” Sammie said, defending me. She was wasting her breath, though. It was no secret that my parents saw me as the troubled child and Sammie as the saint. I’d come to terms with that many moons ago.
“It’s Devin’s?” Mama asked. Dad was standing behind her with his arms crossed and a look of coldness behind his eyes. Most people feared when their parents spoke, but it was quite the opposite for me with my father. His silence terrified me more than any words ever could. My father could make a person feel like nothing, simply with a blink of his eyes.
I’d been nothing to that man more often than not.
It was scary that those looks of coldness were now being directed toward Sammie—his pride and joy.
Sammie didn’t answer Mama’s question, but it was the only thing that made sense, for it to be Devin’s child.
Devin was the pastor’s son, the one who would someday take over the church down the line, and he and Sammie had been high school sweethearts. Out of everyone in the world, Devin was the only boy my parents approved of Sammie being with. I wasn’t allowed to date in high school, but Sammie could, because she found Devin. A boy of God.
If anyone would’ve been more upset about the pregnancy than our parents, it would’ve been Devin’s. They were the definition of strict. I would’ve been surprised if poor Devin even knew what sex was. My parents’ reaction was probably tame compared to his parents’.
“Do you know what that will do to that boy’s life? You’ll ruin his whole future,” Mama scolded, and in that moment I hated her a little. My parents were more loyal to the church than they were to their own children. “What will people think of us?”
“I-it’s not his,” Sammie said as her voice shook.
All of our eyes widened in shock. That was a surprise to me, to say the least.
Mama cocked an eyebrow. “Then who’s the father?”
Sammie lowered her head and didn’t speak.
That only made things worse.
Mama cringed from the silence. “You don’t know, do you? You went out running around town like a little hooker—”
“Mama!” I cried out, disgusted.
“Stay out of this, Emery. I don’t even know why you’re here. You’re not wanted during this conversation,” she said so coldly. “You haven’t been wanted for a very long time.”
A rush of air left my lungs. I felt that one. It felt as if Mama had slammed her fist straight into my chest.
Where Dad abused with his stares, Mama’s power was through her words. Mama spent her whole life working inside a library, and it was as if she’d learned how to use her words to hurt others. If only she’d learned a few words from her Bible, then maybe things would’ve been different.
Calling her daughter a little hooker? Telling her other child that she was unwanted?
Seemed a bit unholy to me, but who was I to say?
“Don’t talk to her like that,” I ordered.
“Watch your tone, Emery Rose,” Mama demanded right back.
“Watch your words,” I replied as my hand rested against Sammie’s shaky forearm. I wanted her to feel my closeness to her. I wanted her to know that she wasn’t alone.
Mama’s black-as-coal eyes locked with mine. I hated how much I looked like that woman. From our doe eyes to our full lips and kinky hair, we were identical. She aged slowly, too, and often looked as if she could’ve been an older sister to me. I hated that when I looked into mirrors, I saw my mother’s face. That face had disapproved of me and my sister for so long, to the point that the way she pouted triggered something tragic in my chest.
