Whiskey at Midnight, page 29
Outside, where his name tag that says manager means nothing, Ed’s shoulders relax. He doesn’t smile, but the vein in the middle of his forehead doesn’t protrude as much. He strolls until he comes to a bench two stores down and sits there, waits until Emma collapses onto the bench next to him.
“It’s happening,” he says. He doesn’t look at Emma. He stares straight ahead at the parking lot. A woman out there is arguing with her five year old, pleading with him to get the fuck into the car.
“What’s happening?”
Ed laughs bitterly, like Emma has heard Wren laugh. Ed has been worried and happy and calm since Emma has known him. She’s been there long enough to have known him while he was going through his divorce and never noticed any sort of bad mood from it. Ed has never sounded bitter about anything.
“The nightmare,” he says. He touches the tan line on his ring finger. “When everything starts to fall apart.”
The part of Emma that isn’t so worried about the future, that doesn’t care about making money and playing nice rises up. It’s the part of her that doesn’t care about her survival. “Maybe you can stop talking like the end of the world is coming and speak plainly?”
Not the smartest thing to say to the man who has control over whether she works at the store anymore, or how many hours she gets, especially since he’s been fuming mad all day. But Ed smiles, one of those genuine ones that lights up his face. A smile that makes Emma wonder how his wife could walk away.
“The owner died. He was as old as time. Natural causes. But you know what happens next. Store gets sold, probably to some corporation. Everyone gets to worry about their jobs. Will they be replaced? Or are they safe?” Ed shrugs.
“Still, not the most normal response to hearing someone has died,” Emma says. “Everything will work out in the end.”
Ed’s smile is ghastly this time and full of pity. “Emma, you’ve got teaching to look forward to and a long line of minimum wage jobs ahead of you to supplement your income. I’ve been here for years. Forgive me if I take the news a little more harshly.” He stands and wipes the back of his pants.
“But you don’t know anything for certain.”
He shrugs. “I’d be the first to go. If it happens.”
Emma nods.
“Anyway, just thought you should know. The others are talkers. You can’t trust them with anything. But I can trust you, right?” Ed asks.
Trust can add weight to a person’s shoulders, cripple them. Emma blinks. “Yeah, you can trust me, Ed. I won’t say anything. Try not to let it get you too down.”
Ed goes back inside first. Over his shoulder he tells Emma that she can go ahead and take her break. She sits on the bench and plays with her phone, sends messages to Wren since that’s something she’s allowed to do again. She doesn’t eat even though her stomach grumbles.
Emma’s hands shake as she applies her lip gloss. Her mother is in her room, sitting on the bed, talking about the drive up that morning. “All of the crazy drivers were out,” she says. “It’s a miracle we got here safe and sound.”
Her father is in the living room, sitting on the couch, reading a book that he’s brought with him. It’s a detective novel, the kind he’s been reading for as long as Emma can remember.
Graduation day. The day meant for parents more than the students. Undoubtedly, there will be some classmates of Emma’s who are excited to put on their robes, to smile and pose for pictures. Emma wants to get it over with, this ceremony that her mother will end up talking about for years to come.
That’s just the nervousness talking.
There’s a long pause in Emma’s bedroom that Emma notices too late. Her mother’s chattering has been like a droning buzz, dependable and constant. She tells stories, things that she’s heard around Emma’s hometown that Emma doesn’t really care about, but hums in response anyway.
“Who is this?” her mother asks. She appears at the doorway of the bathroom, holding up the picture of Emma and Wren.
The picture has been in Emma’s room for so long that Emma barely notices it most days. She may look at it and smile, but it is like a door in the apartment, always there. Had she looked at it that morning, she might have wondered if she should hide it. This thing between her and Wren is so new again, so fragile, that her mother’s knowledge of it could spoil it all. Too late.
“That’s Wren,” Emma says, putting her makeup away. “Remember? I told you about her.”
Her mother smiles, rubs at the frame with the pad of her thumb. “Well, she’s beautiful. Things are on again, then?”
Pride swells up inside Emma. Not for graduating, not for making it through college, but for the tone in her mother’s voice. Emma has done something right by getting back with the girl Emma’s mother thinks is beautiful. It doesn’t matter that Emma’s an adult now, she still perks up at the thought of making her parents happy. Some things don’t change with age. “Yes,” Emma says.
“Good. Do we get to meet her today?”
Emma’s eyes widen. She hasn’t thought any of it through. Wren knows Emma’s parents will be in town. It’s Emma who hasn’t connected the dots until now. How by not inviting Wren over to meet her parents, it might seem like she doesn’t want them to know about Wren, like Wren is a secret. Even though Wren isn’t like most girls, probably hasn’t really thought about any of this, Emma looks at her mother with a panicked expression.
“Well, ask her then,” her mother says and goes back through Emma’s bedroom and then into the living room to sit with her father. There are hushed whispers then that Emma can’t make out. She doesn’t care.
With trembling fingers she sends the message. Too late, really. The plan has been for Emma to meet up with Wren and Steve after she has dinner with her parents. They’ll go to the bar and drink. It’s getting too close to the time they have to leave for the ceremony. Wren would never make it to the apartment in time. Wren will have to come to dinner if she wants to meet Emma’s parents.
Wren’s reply makes Emma smile and relax. Perfect. Wren can’t for some reason that she doesn’t say. If it’s really important to Emma, she will find a way to get to dinner. No pressure.
Emma tells her that it’s fine. They can meet later, when things aren’t so hectic. When things aren’t just starting up again.
She flips the light in her bathroom off, takes one last look in the mirror, and heads out into the living room. Finally ready. Her father used to make jokes about how long it took Emma to get ready. She would reply every single time that it wouldn’t take as long if she hadn’t inherited wavy hair from his side of the family.
He doesn’t say anything about her taking forever when she walks out. He looks at her and takes his reading glasses off. “You look beautiful,” he says, voice full of wonder.
The Nielsens look like a picture, Emma thinks. Her father wears a white dress shirt and a dark green tie she recalls buying him one Father’s Day. His hair has been cut recently, probably for this very day, so short that it actually looks like it might be straight if he were to grow it out. The hair by his temples has begun to turn gray. His slacks are black, like his shoes. Her mother has one hand on his knee. It’s a pose that Emma has seen them in more times than she can count. Her mother’s dress is black and long. It reaches down to her ankles. Dark green areas of it almost match her father’s tie. Her mother’s once bright blue eyes are a stormy gray now and her hair is dyed a blonde color just a few shades darker than Emma’s own. A camera sits next to her father on the couch. Yes, they’ll all want pictures today.
“Wren can’t make it today,” Emma says. “She says sorry, but she hopes to meet you two soon.” A little lie, but Wren wouldn’t mind.
“That’s okay, honey,” her mother says. Then, “I guess we should be heading off.”
In the car, Emma can feel her phone buzz inside of her small purse. Wren has this idea about not answering her phone. If it’s important, Wren says, people will try again. Emma steals this idea for the day and ignores the buzzing. It doesn’t buzz again.
Her mother cries during the ceremony. By the time everything is over and Emma can get a classmate to take a picture of all three of them together, her mother’s eyes are puffy. “Oh, there’s no point in pictures now. They’ll look awful. I’m so sorry, Emma,” her mother apologizes. Over and over she tells Emma that she’s sorry.
Emma smiles and kisses her on the cheek. “Mom, there are years of pictures ahead of us. We’ll just take one and be done with it.”
They end up at that little Italian restaurant that Cam took Emma to twice. The nice places have been booked for weeks, maybe longer. Most people are looking for a nice steak on graduation day instead of pasta and thus the restaurant isn’t full.
Their server is a tall boy who looks no older than eighteen. He tries to convince Emma’s mother to get a more expensive glass of wine.
“I wouldn’t notice the difference anyway,” her mother says and orders the cheaper glass.
Emma’s father orders eggplant parmesan as if it is an exotic dish. His voice is unsure as he first orders it, as if things will be ruined if he doesn’t like it. He repeats the order in a boastful tone. Eggplant parmesan, to him, is infinitely more adventurous compared to her mother’s spaghetti and meatballs.
No wonder Emma never understood people’s fascination with sushi, Emma thinks. She comes from a family who would scratch their heads at the word veal on a menu and then look around in horror upon realizing that people actually ate the stuff.
Emma orders pizza. It seems to be the safest option since she’ll be going to the bar later.
Emma’s mother drinks her wine too quickly. The first glass is already gone before their food arrives. She hardly ever drinks, saves it for special occasions, and her cheeks are already turning pink.
When the food arrives, Emma plucks a pepperoni off of her pizza and chews on it, burning her tongue just enough to be annoyed with herself. Though the Nielsens believe in religion, they only go to church sporadically these days and don’t pray before eating.
Her father looks at his plate like it might bite him, but he dutifully begins to cut his eggplant into tiny pieces.
“Emma has a girlfriend,” her mother announces, sipping at a brand new glass of wine.
“That’s great, honey,” says her father. His tone is proud but unsurprised.
Emma eats another pepperoni. When the server stops by to make sure the food is acceptable, Emma orders a glass of white wine. Whatever is coming next can be dulled by the alcohol.
“But Emma’s been a little confused by love lately,” her mother says, holding a fork with a meatball on the end. “I think we should discuss this. Get it all out there. Maybe it will help.”
Emma’s cheeks burn. She stuffs as much pizza into her mouth as she can and chokes. Embarrassing, all of it. Inwardly, she’s frustrated at herself. She should have known this was coming. There are no secrets among the Nielsens. Not while sober, not while tipsy.
“What seems to be the problem?” her father asks. He drops his fork onto his plate and folds his hands above it. The picture of helpfulness.
“Eat your eggplant, dear,” her mother says. She laughs at the dark look he gives her. “Emma views love much like I did in high school. Perfect. Easy to fall into. She doesn’t realize that it takes work, even in a good relationship. Like people are puzzle pieces and magically fit together.” She hiccups.
“Oh my God,” Emma mutters under her breath. She takes a long sip of her wine and ducks her head, staring down at her pizza. At least Wren hadn’t come.
Her father tentatively takes a bite of his eggplant and grimaces. “It’s great,” he says. “Really great. I’d order it all over again.”
“That’s what you get for trying new things,” her mother laughs.
“About the important stuff, I think we can help out there,” he says. “I think you’re both kind of right.” A sip of water. Another bite of eggplant. “This stuff is kind of greasy. First off, love isn’t as easy as some people make it out to be and it’s not as hard as others say it is. So, you find a girl.” He pauses, gestures at Emma. “The falling part is easy. The chase, the excitement. For a lot of people, that’s all the love they want and then they leave. They can’t handle the rest.”
“Oh my God, Dad.”
“But since people are involved, things get tricky. People ruin everything. Haha, joke. So you find someone that it’s easy to be with at first, but you still have to work on the upkeep. Imagine that people are like cars,” he continues.
“I don’t think cars are a good example,” her mother interrupts.
“No, hear me out. You find a nice car. It looks good, it runs well. But you still have to fill it with gas. You still have to change the oil. That’s all a relationship is. You find someone who fits you well, who you can work with, and then you check in on one another, make sure everything is going well. Real love is working through anything nasty that comes along. Maybe it’s something from the outside, maybe it’s something within the relationship. Communication is the key. You talk about stuff and you can get through anything. That’s how me and your mom have stayed together all these years.” He pops another piece of eggplant into his mouth.
“I know, Dad.”
“Oh. Why are we talking about this then?” he asks.
“We just wanted to make sure Emma was in a good place,” her mother says.
“Well, Emma, are you in a good place?” Her father takes a sip of water, swishes it around before swallowing.
“I think I am,” Emma says, confidently.
Emma’s parents drop her off at her apartment. The car idles as they say their tearful goodbyes. Her mother had managed to drink three glasses of wine before they left the restaurant. She’d been chatty in the car and Emma, in a re-enactment of her childhood, hunched down in the backseat as if that could hide her from her mother’s attention.
“Be careful tonight,” her father reminds her.
The first point of business for Emma is to change clothes. As nice as she may have looked on her big day, she doesn’t want to wear the same outfit tonight. She needs something comfortable that also looks good. She throws her purse on her bed and rummages through her closet. Everything is useless to her. Too bad the law says that she has to wear clothes out in public.
Huffing, she settles for another dress. It’s a dark blue color and it comes down to her knees before flaring out. Cute, but not cutesy. She puts on a comfortable pair of shoes that match and begins the process of fixing her makeup. Everything is a process now.
Her phone rings as she’s finishing in the bathroom. Stumbling into her bedroom, she grabs her phone out of her purse before it switches over to voicemail.
“Hello?”
“Emma, I’m outside.”
Emma takes the phone away from her ear, checks the screen. “Steve?” she asks.
“That’s me. Here to pick you up. Wren said it might be a good idea. Did she not tell you?” There’s whispering on the line, someone talking to Steve.
The buzz earlier. Emma still hadn’t checked it. “I’m sure she tried to. I’ll be right down.” She ends the call and upends her purse so that its contents fall out onto the bed. The essentials, that’s all she needs. A smaller bag is on the floor and she puts her phone, wallet, and keys into it. Perfect. Small enough that she can easily forget about it, resting across her torso, New York-style, but big enough to hold everything.
Emma has never been in Steve’s car. It’s cleaner than she expects. There are no wrappers on the floor or holes in the seats. The outside of it doesn’t shine, and it’s not a new car, but it’s still much better looking than Emma would have imagined. Steve just doesn’t seem the car type. He reads more like the type who would keep a boat in pristine condition than a boring old car.
“Where’s Wren?” Emma asks as she gets in.
Chase has vacated the front passenger seat and is in the back, sideways, with her legs across the seat. Chase doesn’t wear a seatbelt.
“Beats me. She told me to pick you up and meet her at the bar,” says Steve. He leans over the center console to hug Emma. “Congratulations, Emma girl. Ready to party?”
He begins driving before Emma can respond. He drives exactly as she might have imagined, if she’d ever given it the thought. He casually rests his hands on the wheel, never gripping it fully. He sings, if it can be called that, to a song on the radio. He doesn’t speed, but he accelerates quickly.
Even though Steve isn’t an exceptionally bad driver, Emma is happy to see the bar come into view. It’s starting to get dark outside. A group of smokers stand out front. She doesn’t know them. Wren’s car isn’t in the parking lot. Emma twists her neck around to look in every direction that she can, but still doesn’t spot the car.
Steve takes the lead, practically bouncing toward the bar. He has Chase’s hand in his and pulls her along behind him. Emma brings up the rear, grinning at Steve’s antics. Steve pauses when he opens the door, but Emma can’t see inside and he quickly recovers. He waves at whoever is in there and makes his way inside with Chase hot on his heels. Emma has to grab onto the door to keep it open and that’s when she sees what made Steve pause. She almost wants to congratulate him for only stopping a moment.
Wren is there already, standing at the bar with a drink in front of her. She holds onto one of her wrists tightly, not smiling, staring at Emma. Five feet to Wren’s left, away from the bar, is Cam.
It’s too much like a movie. Wren, gazing at Emma with a look that is almost challenging. And then there’s Cam, looking unsure of herself.
Cam’s shirt is wrinkled from the long car drive. She might have looked online to see when Emma was supposed to graduate then made a good guess as to where Emma would end up.
