“Pass,” I say as I fold my hands over my chest. I just want her to end our session with an inspirational quote and tell us that she’s going to see us next week, like always. But this time, my mom doesn’t let me off the hook so easily.
“For God’s sake, Emma. It’s been almost two months and we haven’t heard a word from you. We are here to figure out why we’re not the same family we used to be and how we can get back to that. You passing every time is not helping us work toward that goal. Now, we are not leaving this room until you say something.”
I see our therapist reveal, and then try to contain, a small smile, as if encouraging us to stay. She does get paid extra if we run over our time limit.
“Okay, fine,” I say as I uncross my legs and arms. “I’m not mad at Dylan.”
“But…?” My mom drags the word out, aware that there is indeed a but coming, not sure what to expect after it.
“But I am mad at you guys.”
“Why us?” my dad asks, his face shrouded in confusion.
“Because this is bullshit.”
“Emma!” my mom and dad yell as they slap their hands over Matthew’s ears.
“That’s what I think of all of this. It’s complete bullshit.” I put emphasis on my words to let them know that I don’t care to follow their no-cursing rule. When the words leave my mouth, I reach for my bag and head for the door. I drove myself here and I can drive myself home.
I’m one step away from freedom when my dad cuts in front of me. “Sit down, Emma.” His voice is firm, so I know he means business. “Now.”
I flash back to our phone conversation right before Keegan convinced me not to skip this. My dad’s been so consumed with his fear about Dylan that I couldn’t even share my good news with him. A few months ago, he would have been thrilled to hear that I’d settled on UCLA and was going to follow in his footsteps, but now, it’s as if he couldn’t care less. That’s how it’s been for a while. I should be used to it, but I’m not, and I think it’s time that I stop choking down my feelings.
“Why? So I can listen to you and Mom recount Dylan’s accident for the thousandth time, and then go back and forth about what’s wrong with our family and what we can do to ‘fix what’s broken’? No! I’m tired of this. I can tell you exactly what’s wrong here. It’s you guys. The Dylan stuff has been rough on me and Matt, but you guys? You’ve been in the way of everyone’s happiness for a long time, and I think it’s time somebody spoke up about it.”
I expect them to retort with a punitive comment about respect for adults and my current lack of it, but when they don’t, I continue with my rant.
“I get that you’re sad that Dylan’s in a coma, but guess what? If you haven’t noticed, you still have two children here, one of whom is leaving in a few months for college, and another who is struggling to get his schoolwork done in the middle of visiting the hospital just to watch you two pace around Dylan’s bed. For two people who are regretting not spending enough time with the kid they were fostering, you sure aren’t making an effort to invest time in your kids who are still walking and talking. You know, your actual birth children?”
For the first time ever in one of our therapy sessions, the room is completely silent. I can’t even hear anyone breathe.
“Emma, I think we should discuss this at home—” my dad starts.
“No, Dad. Let’s discuss this right now. And you want me to speak, right, Mom? Well, here I go.” I take two short breaths before I begin. I’ve been holding a lot of anger in, and I know the pot is about to boil over now that they’ve turned up the heat. “Again, I’m not blaming this on Dylan, because I know it’s not his fault, but ever since you brought him home, it’s like you guys stopped caring about Matthew and me. Your every parental impulse has been spent making sure that Dylan is adjusting well, or that Dylan is taken care of, or that Dylan isn’t overwhelmed by his past. Well, what about us? Did you forget that you had children before he came along?”
“Emma, how dare you speak to us in—”
“How dare I, Dad? No, how dare you! You completely bailed on my dance competition—we’re going to nationals, by the way—you didn’t even acknowledge my birthday, and when I called you to tell you about college admissions—the decision you’ve been waiting to hear for almost an entire year—you just blew me off like I didn’t even matter. But I guess I haven’t. Not since Dylan showed up, anyway.”
My mom’s lips tremble, and I’m not sure if it’s because she’s happy that I’ve finally made a decision about college or because she’s flabbergasted at my words. “Honey, I’m so—”
“Sorry? Yeah, you should be. Both of you, actually. In fact, you should be thanking me for coming forward now. If I hadn’t, you both would have probably missed my graduation.”
Stunned, my dad takes a second to process my outburst before speaking again. “We’re sorry, honey. We’ve just been distracted with—”
“Distracted? Yeah, maybe just a little, Dad.” I take another breath and look into his eyes before releasing the secret I’ve held in for far too long. “You both had no clue that Dylan and I were even dating.”
A deafening silence falls upon the room, and I’m glad because I need a moment to gather my thoughts to continue with my emotional purge. “Since he came along, I’ve been on the back burner in your lives. How do you think that makes me feel? You haven’t paid an ounce of attention to me all year, so how can I expect you to know what’s going on with me now?”
“Emma,” my mom starts, but doesn’t finish. She probably can’t find the words to do so.
“He was … is … my first love. The first person to make me feel like I mattered in this world. And I couldn’t even share that part of my life with you.” I feel the tears welling in my eyes again. It’s been so long since I last cried that their saltiness stings my lids. “It’s like you guys don’t want me anymore. Like you’ve moved on already.”
“What do you mean, Emma? We’re right here.”
“But you’re not! You’re only saying that because we’re in front of Dr. Turner. If she weren’t here … I doubt that you’d care.”
“Adjusting to new siblings is hard, at any age,” Dr. Turner says in a calm voice. “You know, it’s okay to be jealous.”
“Jealous?” I say, turning in her direction. “You think I’m jealous of Dylan? No. Wrong emotion. I tried to help it, but I couldn’t … I’m in love with him.” I hear my voice crack, trying to choke out another sentence. “But I’m scared that I’ll lose him.”
“He’ll wake up one day, Emma. You’re not going to lose him.” My mom has finally found words, but somehow, I didn’t think those would be the ones she would choose.
“Maybe. But what if when he wakes up, he doesn’t remember us, huh? Then what was the point of all of this? What was the point of me loving him?” I crack my knuckles like I’m about to partake in the fight of my life as I walk back over to the stool by the door. “What if I never even get to hear him say the three words I’ve waited my whole life to hear.” I can barely breathe now, and as much as I want to stick a plug in this heart-to-heart, I can’t. “I hate this.”
“Emma,” my dad breathes as he places his hand on my shoulder. I shrug it off; I don’t want his comfort now. He didn’t care before, and I don’t want him to now. It’s too late for that.
“It’s not fair. I was perfectly fine before he got here. I was going to go to college and leave these past four years—my worst four years—behind. But then he happened. I let him in and I fell. Hard. There was nothing I could do to stop it, not that I really tried. But now what am I supposed to do?” I scream at them again. I can’t control my volume any more than I can control the words that are coming out of my mouth. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Matthew press deeper into my mother’s chest, as if he’s scared of me. “He can’t just come in, make us different, and then disappear. That’s not fair to us … that’s not fair to me.” I swipe the back of my hand across my face; it’s wet with th
e tears that I’m finally letting myself cry again. Now’s the moment. I reach for the door handle, and this time, no one tries to stop me.
chapter 25
EVERYTHING IS THE way he left it, just like the last time I set foot in here. Every brush, every canvas, every tube of paint. They are all exactly where he placed them. When I was dating Dylan, his studio was always the first place I ran to. I’m not sure if it was the smell of the paint or the way his arms always wrapped around me perfectly, but whenever I came here, it calmed me down. Now it’s not the same. These four walls don’t bring me the same comfort they used to.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply; the mixed scent of paint and soap are still here. This room still smells like him, even though he hasn’t been here in months. There are drawers still open as if he just finished rummaging through them for a specific brush. He had a million of them, and I always found it hard to keep up with which ones he would use. Flat brushes, round brushes, thick ones, thin ones. How did he do it? How did he always know which one would make the perfect stroke?
“I blame myself.” At first, it feels like I’m thinking aloud, but when I turn around, I see my father standing in the doorway. His face is long, and he’s squinting as if the sun is shining in his eyes, though it isn’t; the saltiness of his tears has probably dried them out. “I set him off … that night of the showcase. This is my fault.”
“No. This all falls back on me,” I say, looking down into my hands. Two bluish-green lines start at the edges of my palms and run up my pale arms, weaving together underneath my skin. “In addition to the sleeping pills you guys would give him, Dylan was taking study buddies, and I knew about it.” I rub my hands together to keep them warm in the cold studio. “They’re these little white pills that are supposed to keep you awake so you can cram for tests and stuff.
“When I found out that he was using them, I told him to flush them, which he did, but I guess he got more behind my back. He said that he needed them … because there weren’t enough hours in the day. And that he was so busy with trying to balance our relationship and work and school and the showcase that he had no choice.” I feel the guilt pulse through my veins as I speak, my dad unable to meet my gaze. “On the night of the showcase, after I got in the car with him, he took a pill before dropping me off, and I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I think he mixed up his pills and took a sleeping pill instead.”
My dad opens his mouth to say something, but the words don’t come out. I wouldn’t know what to say either.
“So I knew about it. The pills. Even before the accident, I knew. I was just trying to protect him. I didn’t want the social worker to find out. But had I known that things would end up like this—with you and Mom fighting, and Matthew saddened by his absence, and me lashing out at everyone—I would have never kept that secret from you guys. Please, believe me.” I curl over and bury my head in my hands, trying to keep it together and hold it all back, but sitting in this room, talking about my part in Dylan’s coma is too much for me to take. “This is all my fault.”
I see a look of horror overtake my father’s face before he settles on top of the other stool, Dylan’s stool, and puts his own face in his hands, just like I’d done a second ago. “That damn showcase. I shouldn’t have pushed him so far.” This is the first time that I’ve ever seen my dad cry, and it’s not something that I ever want to see again. He’s supposed to be the strong one in the family, not the mess of a man who’s sitting before me now. “I never should have entered that painting for him. I took the one thing that he enjoyed most in the world and turned it into something he grew to hate.”
I don’t say anything. Not because of the truth in his words, but because I don’t know what to say to that. Maybe he’s right. If Dylan hadn’t been in the showcase—killing himself to crank out paintings every night—then maybe he wouldn’t be in this coma.
“You can’t blame yourself,” I hear my dad say after a while. I pretend not to look while he wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. He probably hates that I’m here to see him like this. Weak and vulnerable. “It’s not your fault.”
For a long moment, neither of us speaks; we just sit there with our heads full of remorseful thoughts and our cheeks stained with bitter tears. “I guess we all played a part,” I finally say.
We sit in silence for another minute, and I close my eyes to block out the image of Dylan that keeps popping into my head. The image of the glass-filled slits in his skin, bleeding out onto his clothes. With closed eyes, I can hear my dad sobbing, but I don’t draw attention to it.
“Emma, I’m sorry,” he says, still crying. “I didn’t know I was … I mean, had I known that you felt the way you did, I…”
“It’s okay, Dad.” I lean over and lay my head on his shoulder. “It’s okay.”
“But it’s not. I should have been there for you. And I know I’ve been a little absent, but I’m here now. Whatever you need from me, I’m here.”
After a moment, I clear my throat and say, “Okay. What do you think of my hair? Do you like this color, or would you rather I go back to the blond?” All of a sudden, I hear my dad’s sobs turn into chuckles. It starts low, but then grows into a full-blown laugh. “Dad, why are you laughing at me? I’m in serious need of your opinion, here.”
“Leave it to my teenage daughter to ask my opinion about her hair while we’re sitting here talking about your comatose foster brother,” my dad says, wiping his eyes. This time I know his tears are from him laughing, not crying.
“Speaking of, I think that Dylan would hate it. My hair, I mean.” I think back to his kind words on Thanksgiving night. He loved my hair. The length, the color, the smell. Everything about it. “All I can do is hope he doesn’t wake up within the next few months, because that’s how long the dye is supposed to last.” I run my fingers through the tips of my hair and frown.
“To be honest, I’m not too fond of the brunette look on you. I thought it was one of those strange teenage-girl phases that you’re supposed to go through, so I went with it.”
I can understand why he would think that. He’s never tried to keep up with trends. I mean, for God’s sake, the man still uses a flip phone.
“He wouldn’t be mad at you for changing your hair,” he says.
“How do you know?”
“From what I hear, he doesn’t hold grudges.” I smile at his words. They could not be truer. No matter how mad we would make each other or how many stupid fights we would have, Dylan never stayed mad at me. I loved that about him.
“And, Dad,” I say in a tiny voice. “About what I said … I don’t think you ruin our lives. I was just upset, and—”
“Are you still on that?” he says with a confused look. “I was over that a long time ago. I’ve heard worse.” He lets out another chuckle, and as he does, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. The father-daughter bond we lost a long time ago is finally making an appearance. “So, I found this on Dr. Turner’s floor when you left. Must’ve fallen out of your bag or something.” From his pocket, he pulls a folded sheet of paper, the UCLA logo printed in big, blue letters across its top.
“Does this mean what I think it means?” he asks as he hands it over.
I nod my head. “They offered to help me land an internship at L&B Books on top of giving me a serious scholarship, and that’s something I just can’t pass up.”
His face falls; I’m sure he was hoping that I’d say something about following in his footsteps.
“As much as I want you to go to my alma mater, I wouldn’t be upset if you wanted to go somewhere else. You’re free to go wherever you want, even if that means you’ll be in another country for four years. Whatever you want, we’ll go along with it.”
“Well, Westminster didn’t want me, so I’m US bound for now.” I frown, thinking of all the wonderful things that I could have experienced in London. The sights, the food, the history, the accents. This would be an entirely different conversation had I gotten in. But I
didn’t. “No, UCLA will be just fine. It’s only a two-hour drive—give or take a half hour for traffic. I could be back home at the drop of a hat if I needed to.” When Dylan wakes up, I think to myself.
“So, you’re sure about this?” He holds up my acceptance letter from UCLA with a notice telling me to confirm my seat by mailing in my deposit. “We can send this off today if you want.”
“Nothing’s ever felt more right.”
“I’m so proud of you, Emma.” His voice croaks as he hugs me.
“Me too.” Years of living with his overinvolved parenting style made me develop a tiny pinch of hatred for my father. But now I see why he wanted to be so involved with us. It wasn’t because he had no life of his own or because he wanted to embarrass me. It was so he could protect me. So that he could keep me safe long enough to experience moments like this one. I get it now, Dad. I get it.
I see him pull out his checkbook and his UCLA ballpoint pen. He used to tell me that he only uses it for special occasions, and I’m glad that my future in college is good enough for him to break it out again. “I’ve had this pen since I was a freshman at UCLA. My dad got it for me.” He signs his name on the bottom of the check and begins to roll the sterling silver pen between his fingers, our last name engraved in calligraphy on the barrel. “Here.”
“B-but this is your special pen! I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. I told myself that I’d give it to one of you if you ever decided to do what I couldn’t: graduate from UCLA.”
Sometimes I forget that my dad left college before he graduated. He went pro in the middle of his sophomore year and never returned, even though he talks a big game about UCLA being his alma mater. “Think of it as a late birthday gift. My most prized possession for my favorite daughter.”
“I’m your only daughter, Dad.”
“Exactly.” He laughs, pulling me into a hug. “So you and Dylan … you guys were really dating, huh?”
Wrong in All the Right Ways Page 28
