Little Do We Know(86)

I’d decided it would be easiest to think of this whole exchange with Mom as a play, complete with stage marks and a rehearsed script. So when I got home from school, I walked from the kitchen to the table and back again, picturing invisible Xs on the carpet as I spoke the words aloud, listening to the way they sounded. I crafted and re-crafted my words carefully.

It was a good exercise. It helped me distance myself from the fact that this conversation was happening in real life, and that when it was over, Mom and I would never be the same.

“He’s in New York until Friday,” she called out as she grabbed a bottle of wine from the rack and reached into the drawer for the corkscrew. She worked the bottle while I put the finishing touches on the chicken and started rinsing the spinach. She leaned against the counter and swirled her wine in the glass. “Hey, while you’re cooking, let’s go over the list.”

“Can we not?”

“Oh, it’ll only take a minute. You’ve been so busy with the play and distracted by all that’s been going on with Luke. But from here on out it’s all about proms and weddings. Nothing but happy things. Sound good?”

It sounded great. I wished it was going to happen that way.

She left the room and returned with her giant binder. She set it on the counter, popped open the three rings, and removed the top sheet.

“Okay, so according to The Knot we’re in good shape. Invitations are out and we’ve got my last two dress fittings scheduled. Your dress is being altered.” She kept going through the list, reading aloud, checking boxes while I tried to block out her voice. “The caterer has been paid, the cake is ordered. Oh, and, Emory…I forgot to tell you! You know how David keeps saying the music is a surprise?”

Hearing her say his name made the spatula start shaking in my hands.

“Well…I think I know what he’s up to.” She leaned against the counter. “This band played at his company Christmas party last year, and we danced all night. He keeps reminding me of that night, telling me how much he loved that band.”

Stay calm. Stick to the script.

“I’m thinking maybe he pulled some strings to get them to play at the wedding….”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I bet he’s paying them a fortune.” She took a sip of her wine and then let out a sigh. “He’s the sweetest man.”

My hands were clammy, and I could feel the sweat beading up on my forehead. I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t hear her say one more word about D-bag or the wedding reception or bands or invitations.

“No, he’s not,” I whispered, but she didn’t hear me.

“What?” she asked.

“No, he’s not!” I yelled. I tossed the spatula into the skillet and sauce went flying everywhere, splattering all over the counters and onto the wall.

Mom set her glass down and brought her hands to her hips. “What do you mean by that?”

I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t remember the first word in my script. I sat there, frozen and frustrated, trying to remember where I was supposed to start. Mom was staring at me, looking confused and maybe even a little bit irritated, and I was staring back at her, begging her to read my mind so I didn’t have to speak the words aloud.

Slowly, her expression changed, and I swear, I saw a trace of panic in her eyes, as if she already knew. “Are you okay?” she asked cautiously.

I nodded. “I’m fine.”

It was true. I was fine. I’d always been fine. The thing with David was weird and awkward and over. I. Was. Fine. Why was I even having this conversation with her?

But Mom wasn’t letting it go. She stepped in closer, gripping my arms, making me keep talking to her.

I remembered the first line of my script. It was totally out of context, but I was relieved to have discovered it, so I blurted it out. “I was looking at the mail.”

“The mail? What are you talking about?”

“You were at the gym. The game was on TV and I was looking at the mail. I didn’t even hear him come up behind me.” I was barely one minute into this thing and I was already way off. I had no idea what I was saying or what I was going to say next. The words just started spilling out of my mouth.

“He’s your boyfriend. I thought of him as your boyfriend. And my future stepdad. And I never thought he saw me as anything but your daughter.”

Mom’s face went pale. “What did he do?”

I wanted to pull away from her grasp and race out the door. Hannah promised she’d be home. Luke was only a text away.

“What did he do, Emory?” she repeated, gripping my arm even harder.

I pointed to the kitchen table. “It was last year…right before Christmas. You weren’t home. He came up behind me…and he pressed me against the table and he…he…” My voice was shaking too hard to finish my sentence.

I forced myself to stop and breathe, like I did when I got nervous on stage. “He told me I should know better than to dress that way around him. He told me he couldn’t be responsible for what he’d do to me.”

Mom covered her mouth as thick tears welled up in her eyes and started spilling down her cheeks.

“He tried to kiss me. And he—”

“Did he touch you?” Mom cut me off. Her voice was shaking now, too. I was glad she asked so I didn’t have to say it first.