Dear Emmie Blue

by Lia Louis

  I find Louise’s tote bag down the side of her bed, where she always left it as she slept, Eliot or I placing it there gently, in reach when she was ready to sleep. It was her survival kit, she said, and she’d hang it over the backs of chairs she sat in, and on the handles of the Zimmer frame she used toward the end.

  “You got the antidote to the future zombie virus in that thing?” Eliot used to say, and she’d laugh and reply, “If by zombie virus you mean indigestion, then yes, I do.”

  I pick it up, sit on the edge of her bed with it, and flick through the contents. Seed packets, lists and reminders scrawled on the back of receipts. Pens and packets of tissues and Rennies. Then I see it. A CD. A blank CD, I think at first, but when I pull it out, open the case and hold it in my hands, I see. I see the track listing on the inside sleeve. Five songs. I see the words. Not “Dear Balloon Girl.” But “Dear Emmie Blue.” And at the bottom, not “Balloon Boy X” but “Eliot X.”

  The ninth CD.

  I am holding the ninth CD.

  * * *

  Mix CD. Vol. 9.

  Dear Emmie Blue,

  Track 1. Because I wish I could tell you it was me (these songs)

  Track 2. Because I wish I could tell you it wasn’t me (that night)

  Track 3. Because I miss you. Every single day.

  Track 4. Because I loved you the moment I met you

  Track 5. Because I always will

  Love,

  Eliot

  X

  I can’t believe I am here, in the walls of the place that broke me. The night I sat down to make my list, I opened a web browser and headed straight to the job sites. I checked the “education” box that I always leave blank, and could hardly believe the third job down.

  School counselor, trainee position, at Fortescue Lane Secondary School. My school. The school in which my life fell apart. The fields of which I stood on and let go of the balloon that made its way to Lucas. The school I have been too frightened to even picture in my mind, let alone go to the same town it’s in. But I hit apply. I hit upload and attached my CV. I spent a whole hour on a cover letter. A trainee school counselor. I studied education for this reason. Before I dropped out, I had started to study counseling and psychology alongside it for this reason. And I loved my job at the photo studio for this reason—yes, it was a completely different occupation, but talking to the kids, to families, learning their stories, was the best part of that job, for me.

  Laura, Senior School Counselor, and the woman interviewing me today, smiles at me from across the desk, then looks down at my CV in front of her.

  “And you are working at the Clarice in Shire Sands at the moment, is that correct?”

  I nod. “Kitchen staff,” I say. And she grins and says, “I have a soft spot for that place. I had my wedding reception there. Do they still do that sticky plum pudding thing?”

  “Yes,” I tell her. “I think there would be a revolution if we took it off the menu.”

  “Quite right,” Laura chuckles. “I’d get sacked working there, I think. I’d eat it all.”

  I took the bus today, into Ramsgate, and saw it as the bus rumbled past it—my old flat. The flat Mum and I moved into when we got back from Cheshire. The flat I lived in until I was nineteen, and from age fourteen, mostly alone. I felt nothing really, other than the smallest of pangs at the sight of my old bedroom window. But that was it. Just a building. Just a window. Just a shell in which people make home with things and people; a shell which goes back to being just that, when those things and people are removed. And once I’d seen the flat, and once the bus had driven slowly down the old route Georgia and I would walk to school, past the chip shop, past the pet shop, and the weird hole-in-the-wall cobblers nobody ever seemed to use, my fear of walking into the school—into Fortescue Lane—had dissipated. From stomach-nauseating, leg-wobbling panic, to usual pre-interview nerves. It was another lifetime ago. I was a child. I am now an adult. He can’t hurt me now.

  “Emmie, why do you think,” says Laura, who keeps on firing questions at me from a pre-typed list slipped in a folder on her lap, “that you, more perhaps than others, are suited to this role, as junior school counselor?”

  I take a deep breath. I look Laura in the eye, and I finally say the words I was so afraid to tell the person on the other side of this desk fifteen years ago.

  “I was sexually assaulted by a man who worked here at this school,” I say. “And the worst part of it all was that I had nobody to talk to. I’d like to be, if I can, that someone to talk to for someone. It was the thing that saved me in the end.”

  * * *

  I can hardly believe it’s him, when I turn out of the school grounds. He leans against the car, keys in hand, his skin bronze. He looks taller, more grown-up. Maybe that’s what happens when you’re married, when you’ve pledged forever to someone—it shows in your face, in the way you carry yourself.

  “Hey, Emmie Blue,” he says, and a smile spreads across my face involuntarily at the sight of him. “You look like someone who has just smashed their interview.”

  “This is a nice surprise.” I smile. He puts an arm around me as I approach, pulls me into him, kisses the top of my head. “Like, really, really nice.”

  Lucas pulls back, gives a smile. “Yeah, well, I actually wanted to drive you to your interview, make sure I was there when you walked in, but I couldn’t get out of a conference call at work this morning.”

  “But you’re here now,” I say. “With… potatoes?”

  Lucas laughs, and lifts the bag of potatoes he’s carrying under his other arm the way a lawyer carries a heavy file. “I thought we could go back to yours and have chips and radioactive ketchup. Like old times. Celebrate.”

  “I don’t have the job yet,” I tell him.

  “That’s not what I’m celebrating, Em.” Lucas squints up at the school behind me, and nods toward it. “I’m celebrating you walking in there.”

  I look over my shoulder. “I didn’t know whether I would ever be able to.”

  “I did,” says Lucas. I look up at him now, the sun turning his hair the color of spun sugar, the spatter of freckles on his nose, and all I see is the friend who was there when nobody else was. The only friend I had in the world, who showed me what it was to be loved. To have a family. Nothing else. Nothing more.

  “Hey, remember all those times I’d say I wish I could be waiting for you at the school gates?” Lucas says. “Show those fuckers.”

  “I do,” I say.

  “Finally made it.”

  “But there’re no fuckers to show anymore,” I say, and Lucas lets go of me and says, “No. I suppose all the fuckers have moved on. Like us.”

  “Like us,” I say.

  When we get back to Fishers Way, we cook chips together, Lucas peeling and cutting the potatoes, and me turning off the gas every few seconds once the oil is boiling because I’m scared of setting fire to the house. My house. My home.

  “Will you stop bloody turning it off?”

  “Those chip pan fire demos on Blue Peter never left my memory, Luke, I’m only keeping us safe.”

  We talk nonstop at the dinner table. Lucas tells me about Guadeloupe. And I tell him about Marv, Carol, and Cadie. I tell him about the wonderful, warm, and cozy three-hour afternoon I spent with them.

  “We had a roast dinner, crumble, and then played Trivial Pursuit,” I tell him, and Lucas’s eyes widen. “Shit. Family goals, or what? And Cadie. Was she nice?”

  “Amazing, Luke. She cried when Marv introduced us. And so did I. She’s really funny, and so intelligent. She looks like me. We have the same chin, the same shifty side-eye.”

  Lucas grins, shakes his head. “It’s unbelievable, Em. You have a half sister. I have a half brother.”

  I smile. “Always meant to be.”

  We finish eating, and Lucas excuses himself to use the toilet, while I sip my beer. When he walks back in, he’s holding the box I gave him on his wedding day. The box of CDs.
The box of CDs Eliot made for me, all those years ago. He sits next to me at the table, places it down, and pushes the box toward me.

  “These are yours, Emmie. Not mine.” I see him swallow as he steels himself to speak.

  “I know,” I say. “I already know they were Eliot.”

  Lucas looks up at me, lips parted. “Did he—”

  “I found a CD with Louise’s things. I think he was gearing up to tell me and then didn’t. Louise actually was going to, I think. She said she had something for me, before she died, and I kept wondering what it was…”

  Lucas stares at me, nodding his head slowly.

  “I called him, straightaway. Left some warbling mad voice mail, telling him I knew.” I don’t tell Lucas that I told him I was glad they were him. That I felt like I knew, on some level. That my heart knew before my head.

  Lucas clears his throat, fiddles with the corner of the napkin in his hands. “You sent me the French tape, and… Eliot listened to it. He got a distinction in languages and I wanted to make sure you had the best feedback. And he said you talked about some bad bands and how I should send you a mixtape. The way brothers do, when sharing tips on impressing girls.” Lucas laughs embarrassedly, the skin beneath his freckles going pink. “But I know shit all about music, really, compared to him, so he made me one, and I’d just posted it. You loved it so much that when you wanted another, I’d just ask him, and he’d hand it over, and I’d just send it, Em. I didn’t even look inside. I just knew it made you happy.”

  And they did. Those CDs were proof I was loved. That someone cared enough to spend time making something for me.

  “And then, in your room one day, I saw them. And… I was jealous, of all the shit he’d written inside. I knew he had feelings for you. So I stopped it. Then the stuff with Stacey happened at the party, and all three of us sort of… broke up—that was that, you know?”

  The cold creeps in outside, the sky turning gray with heavy, black clouds, and the kitchen darkens.

  “I wish I’d known,” I say.

  “I know,” he says. “And I really wanted to tell you, Em. So many times. But I was so conscious of not upsetting you, or making you feel like you couldn’t trust me as your friend. That is all I’ve ever cared about. And… I’m a coward. I am.”

  “Maybe you were.” I smile. “But you’re not so much now.” I look down at the box of CDs. “Not even close.”

  “I thought you might throw me out.”

  I laugh. “No chance. You’d have to top previous Dick Moves to get thrown out, and that’d be quite a hard thing to do at this point.”

  Lucas laughs. He holds out his glass, and I clink it. We drink.

  “When I spoke to him,” Lucas says. “When we talked, after the wedding, about Ana’s house and our stupid argument and…” The kiss, he wants to say, but he can’t bring himself to. “I told him.”

  “Told him what?”

  “That you belong together. And I should’ve never stood in the way. Even if I didn’t realize I was at times.”

  I blink at him, my heart swelling behind my ribs. With happiness. With sadness. “Do you really believe that?”

  Lucas nods, squeezes my hand across the table.

  “I think if Emmie and Eliot doesn’t happen, then there’s no hope for the rest of us.”

  I smile, tears sting my eyes. I hide my face with my hand, and Lucas laughs. “Ah shit, she’s getting all snively. Sort your life out, Emmie Blue, nobody likes a sap.” But he squeezes my hand again and pulls me toward him. We hold each other across the table.

  “You should call him,” Lucas says as he pulls away.

  “I have. Numerous times. Voice mail.”

  Lucas groans. “God, he’s such a caveman. I mean, I know people talk about turning their phone off, having some downtime while they’re away, but nobody really does it. They just tell Instagram they are.”

  “Except for Eliot,” I say.

  “Except for Eliot,” Lucas repeats.

  “Unless he’s blocked me or something.”

  “Mm-mm,” says Lucas, shaking his head. “Nah. Never. He’ll come around. He’ll be back.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  Lucas takes my hand again, balls his into a fist, like we’re about to arm wrestle. “Then you’ll get through it, Emmie Blue.”

  “I’m made of strong stuff,” I say, and Lucas says, “Always have been.”

  Dear Emmie,

  I hope my email finds you well, and I apologize for the delay in getting back to you. Things have been very busy in the run-up to exams here.

  It was a pleasure meeting you and I feel, along with the rest of the team, that you would be a perfect fit for Fortescue Lane. I would therefore love to offer you the position of Junior School Counselor, starting on Tuesday, May 28.

  I look forward to hearing from you and do so much hope that you accept.

  Kind regards,

  Laura Borne

  WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:

  Fox has got even posher since we got here to London. And OMG his dad is like a fucking royal or some shit. He has a mustache. Like a proper woolly mammoth mustache and keeps saying things I have only heard in Downton Abbey. I’m hiding in the loo texting this.

  WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:

  Also, Fox’s brother told me that Fox was “agonizing” over telling me he liked me last year. HE LIKED ME LAST YEAR! Can you believe it? Fox literally choked on his bread at that point. Then choked again on his meringue when they started telling me all about his ex-girlfriend, Beatie. BEATIE. I asked if he dated her back in 1917.

  WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:

  (and also if I inherited his dad’s house if he dies from all this choking.)

  WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:

  Anyway Em, see you at the hotel next week for your LAST WEEK. God. I am going to cry when you leave. I might stage a protest.

  * * *

  UK Stargazers Unite! In the early hours of May 6, keen star-spotters will be able to watch the incredible show of the Eta Aquariids: a meteor shower caused by the debris of Halley’s Comet, and one that even the most unseasoned of astronomers will be able to enjoy, with up to thirty shooting stars an hour.

  * * *

  Eliot and I never really had plans. We’d barely got off the ground before he’d left for Canada, before it all unraveled messily and went wrong, but I knew the only way I’d get through today—the day we’d planned to watch the meteor shower—without that heavy, empty feeling in my chest, without the nauseous pull in my stomach of missing him, was keeping busy. I have been alone for the whole day, but I have spent it painting the hallway of Two Fishers Way, the stereo turned up loud, the windows and back doors open, pushing a fresh spring breeze through the house. I want to make every room here a clean slate, but decided to keep some of Louise’s things—her handmade curtains, her framed traveling photos she took with Martha—so her stamp is always on it in some way. It’s going to take awhile, but once it’s completely clear and decluttered, I’ll contact the charity Laura told me about during my interview. A charity organization that offers rooms to young teenagers escaping abuse or facing homelessness. I’d get some rent from the charity to help pay the utilities, and people that really need it, get a home. I feel good about it. It felt right the second she told me about it. And that way, the house will always be full. For them. For me. Like Louise and I were, really; an unconventional but functional family, in a way.

  I stand back now, old jeans smeared with white paint, the smell of emulsion stuck in my nose, and smile. It looks bright and fresh; with new life breathed into it. I check the time on my phone. Almost six. I’ll shower, have some toast, watch a film. Then I can go to bed, and when I wake up, our planned night with the shooting stars will be over, the sky no longer dark, but blue. And it’ll be just another day. Missing him.

  * * *

  When I sit myself in front of the TV an hour later in fresh pajamas and my wet hair in a towel, a Tom Cruise film is the f
irst thing that flashes onto the screen when I turn it on.

  “Why is he always holding a gun?” I’d said to Eliot once. “It’s so boring.”

  “Well, you would say that. You’ve been spoiled with the groundbreaking likes of Pucked.”

  “Exactly,” I’d said. “Pucked. My now favorite movie of all time.”

  And my favorite only because I had watched it with him, snuggled up together on this sofa, watching and talking and laughing, hours ticking by. I miss him. And it doesn’t seem to be getting easier. In fact, I miss him more every day, and it’s physical. It hurts.

  I take out my phone. I find his name. My thumb hovers above it. Should I? Should I?

  I look at the television, then through the blinds to the darkening sky, preparing for its show. And before I talk myself out of it, I press his name. Eliot. And it rings. God. It’s ringing. It’s ringing. I don’t breathe. My heart thumps in my throat like a drum. I feel sick. I wait. Wait for his voice. Wait for his lovely voice to say hello. But it keeps ringing, and voice mail, once again, clicks on.

  I hang up before the beep.

  If his phone is back online, he’d have heard the voice mails I have left, the texts. And he’ll see. He’ll see a missed call from me when he next looks at his phone. And if Eliot wants to talk to me, he will call me. He knows how to reach me. He knows I miss him.

  I place my phone on the table, pull a blanket over my legs, and turn up the volume on the TV.

  * * *

  My phone vibrates; a buzzing on the coffee table, jolting me awake.

  I didn’t mean to fall asleep on the sofa, and for a moment, I am disorientated. The dark sky outside. The toast, half-eaten on the coffee table. The soap opera I started watching, now finished, and in its place a panel show, and audience laughter. I sit up, pushing my hair from my face, and feel like I’m still dreaming when I see Eliot’s name on the screen.