Wish You Were Gone(8)
“Of course I would.” Kelsey held on to her own hands for dear life. “I swear.”
EMMA
Emma stood at the kitchen threshold, unable to make herself break the plane. There was a time when the kitchen had been the place where Emma lived. She made herself morning smoothies there when she was feeling health-conscious, full-fat cappuccinos when she wasn’t. She fixed breakfast for the kids every morning, then sat at the island for hours, going through her most recent photographs and deciding which ones to frame for Lizzie’s shop, searching the internet for decorating ideas, or mentions of her old art school friends, and posting projects and inspirations to Instagram. Around one o’clock she’d make herself lunch—a salad from the leftovers or a grilled cheese sandwich or a bagel and fruit. Then, after errands or the gym or whatever else she had to do, she’d be back, cooking dinner, cleaning up after dinner, watching TV while she sipped wine and tried not to look at the clock. The kitchen had been her home—her favorite room in the house.
Was that only days ago? Time really had lost all meaning. But it seemed impossible. Now, all she could do was stare at the garage door and not breathe.
James dead. James dead.
It had gotten to the point that her children were regularly bringing her food in her bedroom—reheated casseroles from Gray or Lizzie or from their friends’ parents, takeout from the burger place in town, and then, last night, semi-burnt frozen waffles and water.
The leftovers, clearly, were starting to dwindle, and Emma was going to have to start feeding her kids again before they got to thinking that boxed cereal and Trader Joe’s pizza were actual nourishment. Which was why, today, after a twenty-minute pep talk under the covers that involved promising herself an afternoon of binge-watching The Great British Baking Show guilt-free, Emma finally made it down for breakfast.
The sun shone brightly on the chrome and marble and Italian tile as Emma forced herself to walk toward the garage door. This was the Everest she needed to scale. It was just a door. A broken building behind it. The car was gone. The body, her husband, was gone. All the yellow police tape had been balled up and shoved in the garbage. Someday, some way, she was going to have to open the damned door.
Her hand landed on the gold handle, her palm slick with sweat. How drunk did you have to be to drive through the back of your own garage? He’d been sober enough to hit the button to open the scrolling door. What the hell had happened between that and him pressing his foot to the gas? Had he even been awake? Had he known what was happening?
At some point a cop or a coroner or that sad-looking social worker had said something about his blood alcohol level, but she hadn’t registered the number. A certain reading would have gotten him arrested, maybe even sent to rehab, but the reading didn’t matter this time.
“Mom!” Emma flinched as her daughter walked into the kitchen, wearing a black turtleneck and jeans. More sophisticated than her usual clothes. “You’re up!”
“Yeah. Yes!” Emma’s voice was a croak. She cleared her throat and released the door. “I thought I’d make you guys French toast.” Provided there was any bread in the house. Or eggs. She really hadn’t thought this through.
“Oh.” Kelsey flitted over to the refrigerator, executing an elegant twirl before she reached for the door, blond ponytail flying. “I already ate.” Emma’s expression must have changed, because her daughter quickly added, “But I could go for French toast.”
“No. That’s okay. If you already ate, you already ate.” Emma went to the sink and rinsed out Kelsey’s bowl. At least it looked like she’d cut up a banana into whatever cereal she’d consumed. Her head felt weightless, like it could float off at any moment from lack of substance, but her body felt impossibly heavy, pinning her down.
“No, really. French toast sounds great!”
“No time for French toast.” Hunter walked in, grabbed a few protein bars from the pantry, and shoved them in his battered backpack. “We gotta head.”
Emma hated that expression. Just finish your sentence. She turned off the water. “Head where?”
He looked at her like she was dense. He’d been a teenager for so long now that she was almost immune to the shock of being looked at like that. Almost. “To school,” he said.
“School?” Emma felt dense. “What day is it?”
“Monday?” Kelsey shook a small bottle of juice.
Clearly, someone had dropped off groceries. Gray, most likely. Emma had to call and thank her. Gray would be pleased to hear that she was finally out of bed.
“I told you to take the week off.”
Her kids exchanged a look that Emma didn’t appreciate. Her substance-less brain was having a hard time keeping up. “We did. We were off all last week. Nana was here… remember?”
There was an awful tickle at the back of Emma’s throat. Her eyes flicked to the digital screen on the fridge. There it was, plain as day. 7:23 a.m. October 1. Apparently, it was going to be sunny and 62 degrees. “Of course I remember.”
Another Monday? A whole week had gone by? She couldn’t remember seeing her mother off, but she must have done it. She did remember the woman tucking her in and smoothing her hair back and thinking, Did you ever do this when I was little? And having the distinct feeling she hadn’t.