Emerson Page and Where the Light Enters

by Christa Avampato

  “Whoa,” said Truman. “Yeah, you do. I might need to card you for that triple shot.”

  Skylar grabbed his wrist. “I’m serious, Tru.”

  “Someone’s a little stressed,” said Truman. “Is this what happens to all freshmen at Columbia during the first week of classes?”

  “Guess who paid a visit to Stargrass today?” she asked.

  Truman arched his left eyebrow, and Skylar stared at him until he got her meaning.

  “No,” said Truman.

  “Yes.”

  Truman pulled her over to the far side of the counter as he continued making her drink. “Cassandra?” he whispered.

  “Alive and well. Or her version of well anyway.”

  “What did she say?”

  “The same things she said five years ago,” said Skylar. “She wants the book, and she thinks we have it.”

  “Did she see Emerson?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” said Skylar impatiently. “She was solely focused on the book. If she thought Emerson was alive, she would’ve said something. Or done something.”

  “Does Oliver know she was there?” asked Truman.

  “I’m sure Grandpa’s called him by now. Or gone to see him.”

  “What’s the plan?” asked Truman.

  “I don’t know. But I won’t let that woman anywhere near Emerson.”

  “Jasper has no idea what he’s up against,” said Truman.

  “My grandfather has every idea of what he’s up against,” said Skylar through clenched teeth, “and I resent you thinking that he—”

  A strong wind blew into the café and sent several drinks flying through the air. Skylar whirled around as Truman catapulted himself over the counter.

  Emerson was gone.

  CHAPTER 6

  A HIDDEN POWER COMES TO LIGHT

  While Emerson sat at the table waiting for Skylar to come back with their drinks, she admired her new book. The fuzzy texture of the uneven pages made it look and feel handmade. No author was listed. No publication date. On the first page, she noticed a handwritten note in the margin in tight, neat script: “Light transforms everything it touches.”

  She leafed through the rest of the pages. The margins were filled with handwritten notes, diagrams, and arrows. “How can I transform light into something I can hold?” “How can I get everything to reveal the light stored within it?”

  All the notes were a matter of how, not if, and they were written in the first person as if the reader was talking to the book the way a student questions a teacher or a child questions a parent. She flipped to the back inside cover hoping for a “Property of” declaration. It read:

  “Come close. Closer. I have a secret to tell you. There’s magic waiting for you in an uncomfortable place.”

  Emerson’s eyes widened, but a blinding flash of light turned her attention to the street outside. A pack of teenagers had surrounded a young boy. Emerson recognized him. Max lived in the public housing development on the corner of 100th Street and Columbus Avenue. He loved to pet Friday whenever Emerson walked that way toward Central Park.

  Max cowered as a massive boy raised his hand high in the air over Max’s small, trembling body. Max was screaming.

  Sensing her alarm, Friday sprang to his feet, his tail stiff as an arrow and his ears forward. Emerson grabbed his leash and ripped open the café door. She felt the burning in her stomach again, and again it spread through her body. The wind grew more violent. The sky had gone black. She felt her muscles tense and her heart race. She and Friday charged across the street directly at the gang.

  “Stop it!” she screamed.

  The wind whipped her long hair into a tangled mass that resembled a tornado. She and Friday broke through the gang’s circle and positioned themselves between Max and the giant boy with his hand still raised. He wore a full set of rings on each one of his enormous hands, and he had two black teardrops tattooed on his cheek.

  “Well, what do we have here?” said the boy. He lowered his hand with a sick smile, and Friday bared his teeth.

  “That one’s got some fight in him!” said one of the girls. She was dressed in tattered black clothes, and her aqua hair framed a sickly white face save for the single black teardrop painted below her right eye.

  Emerson shot her a steely glare.

  “I’ll give you $5 if you give me your dog,” teased the boy.

  “Stay away from my dog,” Emerson yelled. “And stay away from Max.”

  “So you two know each other, huh?” said the boy. “Max, is this your girlfriend and her little puppy?”

  The gang laughed, and the boy reached for the scruff of Friday’s neck. Friday snapped at him.

  “Whoa, fella. We’re just gonna have some fun with ya,” said the boy as he put his face dangerously close to Friday’s.

  The burn in Emerson’s throat flooded into her stomach, hands,

  and eyes.

  “Leave him alone!” she yelled as she grabbed the boy by the face to push him away from Friday.

  The boy shrieked. The gang laughed at him until they saw the boy fall down, clutching his face. He scrambled backward on his hands and feet, his eyes locked on Emerson. Her fingers had branded bright red burn marks on his face. The gang members shrieked and fled with arms and legs flailing. Friday held his ground next to Emerson.

  “Don’t hurt me! I don’t need your dog. Forget your dog,” the boy yelled as Emerson and Friday took a step toward him. He struggled to his feet and ran away at full speed, tripping over himself.

  Emerson’s whole body ached with exhaustion. She turned around to face Max.

  “Are you okay?” she asked as he stood up.

  “What happened to your hands?” Max asked.

  For a split second, Emerson could see a misty white glow on her palms and fingers. She blinked hard, and it was gone. Skylar and Truman ran across the street at full tilt.

  “Are you okay?” asked Skylar.

  “I’m fine,” said Emerson. “Those kids were going to hurt Max.”

  Suddenly, she felt like she might faint. She lowered herself onto the sidewalk. Her friends formed a circle around her.

  The wind showed no sign of dying down. Sirens blared as police cars shot past them. The cars screeched to a halt ahead, blocking the intersection, and the officers stormed out of their cars and chased the gang members as they fled up Columbus Avenue. The chorus of screams swelled.

  Just as Emerson looked up, Oliver and Jasper were running toward them.

  “What are you doing outside?” Oliver yelled through the wind.

  “We were in the café and—” Skylar began.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Oliver said as he hugged Emerson. “I was so afraid I’d lost you.”

  “I’m still here, Dad. I’m still here,” said Emerson. “A boy was going to hurt Max.”

  “What boy?” asked Jasper.

  “This huge kid was going to hurt Max and wanted to take Friday,” said Emerson. Her head was throbbing so loud that it drowned out the howling wind.

  Jasper and Oliver exchanged glances as news vans arrived and tried to interview people.

  “Let’s get you home,” Oliver said to Emerson.

  “We’ve got to take Max home, too,” she said.

  “I can walk him home,” said Truman as he narrowed his eyes against the wind. The crinkling of his face made the long scar across his cheek more prominent.

  “Promise?” asked Emerson.

  “Promise,” said Truman.

  Max hugged Emerson. “Thanks,” he said. “That was really brave of you. And really dumb.”

  Without warning or reason, the wind died down. Oliver put his arm around his daughter and took Friday’s leash, and they started their walk home. The othe
rs watched them leave. Oliver turned back to raise his hand as a sign that they were okay.

  Truman headed off with Max in the opposite direction. Once they were out of earshot, Skylar grabbed Jasper’s arm.

  “It’s time,” she said. “We have to tell Emerson the truth.”

  “Skylar, we’ve talked about this,” said Jasper. “She isn’t old enough to handle all this information.”

  “We can’t wait anymore,” said Skylar.

  “Why?”

  “It’s in her hands. The light’s in her hands. Just like Nora’s.”

  Jasper’s eyes widened. “You saw it?” he whispered.

  “And not just in her hands,” Skylar said. “Her whole body glowed. We could see her clear as day from the café door. Pure white.”

  “Did anyone else see her?” asked Jasper.

  “That whole gang of kids,” Skylar said. “Max. Maybe even some people in the café.”

  “They say when the student is ready the teacher will appear,” Jasper said. “And here you are.”

  “When do we start?” asked Skylar.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “Time is a luxury we no longer have.”

  CHAPTER 7

  A LONG WAY HOME

  As they walked home, Emerson rested her head against Oliver and closed her eyes. She always felt safe next to her dad. Her head was still pounding, and she wrinkled her face to help bear the pain. She felt overheated even though the air was cold.

  “Roses and thorns,” said Emerson.

  “Roses and thorns,” Oliver repeated. “Rose. I heard from an old friend today who said he can help me with something at work.”

  “You never need help at work,” Emerson said. “You help everyone else.”

  “Well, this time I need help.”

  “Thorn,” said Emerson.

  “Thorn,” Oliver repeated. “That scene back there might be one of the worst thorns I’ve ever had. What were you doing outside with that gang roaming around?”

  “They were going to hurt Max, and I couldn’t let that happen.”

  Oliver sighed and stopped in mid-stride then knelt down on one knee so he could be eye to eye with Emerson. “You can’t protect the whole world, Em.”

  “I’m not trying to protect the whole world. Just the part I’m in. That boy was so big, and Max is so small. He could have killed Max.”

  “Em, you’re not much bigger than Max.”

  “But I’m a little bigger, and older, and I have Friday,” she said. “I had to help him. I couldn’t just watch and do nothing.”

  “But you should’ve asked for help from someone in the café,” said Oliver. “Skylar, Samuel, Truman, somebody. Anybody. You could’ve gotten hurt. What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking about Mom,” said Emerson. Her eyes filled up and her lower lip started to tremble. The fear she felt from the events of the day hit her all at once. She couldn’t hold it together any more.

  Oliver closed his eyes, and a tear trickled out without his permission. Though he was a master of language, comments like this from Emerson left him speechless. How could he fault her for wanting to be like her mother?

  “If she were me, she would’ve done the same thing, right?” Emerson asked.

  “Yeah, that’s what your mom would have done,” he said. “You are so much like her. More and more every day.”

  “Do you mean that in a good way?” asked Emerson.

  “I mean that in all the best ways,” said Oliver.

  Emerson smiled, feeling less tired now, and they started to walk again. The clouds had cleared and a blanket of stars peeked out from the inky black sky.

  “That’s weird,” Emerson thought. “New York rarely lets us see the stars.”

  CHAPTER 8

  A REFUGE IN THE STARS

  Upstairs in Emerson’s bedroom, Friday flattened his body against the floor and scrambled under her bed.

  “Can you get them, Friday?” Emerson asked.

  Friday used his nose to push a stack of papers and a large wooden box toward Emerson.

  He emerged victorious and sat down facing her. She took his furry cheeks in her hands and pressed her forehead to his, a motion that relaxed both of them.

  “Good job, buddy,” she said.

  Emerson picked up the old, weathered travel brochures and laid them out side by side on the carpet. Even with all the information she could find online about faraway places, she liked these relics of her mother’s childhood the best. When her mother was a child, she used to send away for travel brochures advertised in The New York Times. She told Emerson that getting the brochures in the mail reminded her that there was a whole world out there waiting to be discovered.

  If she closed her eyes and held the brochures to her nose, Emerson could still smell the faint scent of her mother’s perfume. Sometimes she would imagine herself sitting in her mother’s lap as she helped Emerson pronounce their names with just the right accent.

  “Bhutan, Chichen Itza, Petra,” she said softly.

  Saying their names made her long for the day when she would see those places with her own eyes just the way her mother had. Emerson hadn’t left New York since her mother died. Her father had developed a weird attachment to the city, as though it might disappear if they went away for even a day. Emerson was sure her mother would want her to travel.

  Friday rested his head against her leg as she looked through the brochures.

  “Someday, Friday. Someday.” They sighed together.

  Emerson opened the box and dug out her mother’s photo albums. There she was ice climbing, scuba diving, and standing on the Inca trail with Machu Picchu in the background. Most of the time her mother was alone in the photographs, though her dad was in some of them, too. A few photos included another woman who was about her mom’s age. They looked similar but not exactly alike. When Emerson had asked her dad about the woman, he said she was an old friend of theirs, someone they’d lost touch with. The last photos in the book had her dad, her mom, and Emerson as a child at the beach. On the last page, Emerson had put the New York Times article about Nora’s death:

  Nora Emerson Page, the renowned anthropologist known for her research on ancient cultures and languages, died on Saturday in New York City outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She was 40 years old.

  “This death is particularly disturbing,” said a spokesperson for the NYPD. “The cause of death is still unknown. Life has gone out of her with no explanation. There seems to be no foul play. We’ve never seen anything like it. We are continuing our investigation. No further information is available at this time.”

  Mrs. Page was the wife of Oliver Page, the acclaimed forensic linguist who often works with the NYPD, FBI,

  and CIA.

  Emerson closed the photo album and held it to her chest. She was sad that she hadn’t been named in the article. Her father said it was because she was young and they didn’t want her name dragged into the press. Emerson’s headache returned. She let out a groan.

  Friday lifted his head.

  “It’s okay, Friday,” Emerson said as she wiped away a few tears from her cheeks. “I’m okay.”

  That seemed to satisfy him, and he went back to dozing.

  Emerson got up from her seat on the floor and opened the doors of a large cabinet to reveal the vision board she’d made in January. It seemed foolish now in September: a woman on a mountaintop looking at a colorful valley at sunrise signifying travel, a basket of puppies signifying getting a pal for Friday, and the word “SOLVED” in bold type. As far as she could tell, none of this would happen before December 31. Why did she let Skylar talk her into making this? It was a physical reminder of the life she wanted but didn’t have.

  Nighttime always did this to Emerson. The sun went down, and the darkness crept into her mind. She knew she was lucky; she knew she
should be grateful for what she did have. Her dad. Their beautiful home. Skylar and Jasper. Friday. Still, she was lonely.

  She needed some fresh air. She opened the doors to the tiny balcony outside her bedroom and let the chill fill her up. She held the cold air in her lungs as long as she could. She felt feverish. The lights of the city, nearby and far away, distracted her. The water towers stood like soldiers in the distance, guarding her against something she couldn’t see, didn’t want to see. Up here, she felt safe. A couple danced in their apartment in the building next door. In another, a little boy was being tucked into bed. She would have felt bad about snooping, but those glimpses of happiness gave her hope. Families could be normal, or at least normal in small doses.

  Friday bumped her hand with the top of his head. She noticed more of the white hairs in his soft brown muzzle.

  “Time’s marching on, isn’t it, Friday?” she said.

  Emerson remembered the day she had gone to meet him at the training facility two years ago. Two weeks before that, the school principal called her dad because Emerson hadn’t made it to class. Her dad found her two blocks from the school sitting on the sidewalk and sobbing. She couldn’t remember where she was going or how she got there. She was so lost in her own thoughts that she barely recognized her dad when he approached her.

  After that, she was afraid to leave the house. Where would she end up next time? Would anyone find her if it happened again? Nightmares and intense headaches had haunted her right after her mother died, but they were nothing compared to the disorientation and flashbacks she started to have once the police declared her mother’s murder a cold case. She would wrack her brain trying to remember the night her mother died but couldn’t remember anything.

  Without knowing who killed her mother and why, Emerson was terrified they’d come back to kill her and her dad, too. Jasper heard about someone who trained shelter dogs to assist kids who had panic attacks and anxiety. Friday was the answer to Emerson’s prayers, her lifeline, especially on nights like this when sleep just wouldn’t come. He kept her company. Now she could go anywhere and do anything as long as she had him by her side. He was her freedom.