by Matthew Fish
“Oh,” Ethan says as he reaches in his pocket and pulls out a card. “It’s mostly home improvement.”
“Could you knock down a wall? Would that be in your capabilities?” Emma asks. She begins to realize that perhaps there truly was a reason coming here beyond an unpleasant memory and some rather attractive eye candy.
“Yes,” Ethan says as he looks puzzled for a moment. “That would be a pretty easy task.”
“Great,” Emma says as she begins to head towards the door. “It was great seeing you again Brian—I’m glad I got a chance to thank you for all the help with my mom. It was really great meeting you Ethan. I am definitely going to give you a call, once I get my cell—and maybe you can come and knock down a wall for me?”
“Yes, of course,” Ethan says as he continues to keep that slightly puzzled look upon his face. He hands Emma a card for his home improvement business. “Feel free to call me anytime, my days are pretty busy but any evening I’m free. I mean pretty much every evening I’m free.”
“Thanks again,” Emma says as she places his card in her pocket and leaves the building in a hurry.
Her cheeks glow a deep red as Emma returns to her car. She does not know whether she should be angry at Elizabeth for leading her back to that office, or thankful that she had inadvertently introduced her to Ethan. Or perhaps it wasn’t happenstance, but planned. As Emma drives away, she waves to both Brian and Ethan; who both wave in return. Her last vision of Ethan is of that wonderful smile, Emma is glad that he no longer appears puzzled. Perhaps he still is—as Emma runs over the conversation in her mind it seems a bit mad. However, given her newly reacquired social skills, she feels that she fared fairly well.
*
“I don’t know,” Emma says as she looks at the array of phones that are spread out before her. An entire buffet of technology that she has not been keeping up on for two years is laid out like some gluttonous feast. “What’s popular?”
“The latest Iphone is always a popular choice,” The representative whose nametag reads Michael says as leads Emma to a small selection of square phones. “The newest one you can ask questions, tell it to set up important dates, and look up directions--all by voice.”
“So I can talk to it?”
“You haven’t seen the commercials?”
“I haven’t been keeping up with TV stuff,” Emma admits as she picks up the tethered display model.
“Have you ever had an iPod touch? Michael the salesman asks.
Emma thinks back. She had something similar two years ago—perhaps an earlier version. She recalls throwing something in a fit of rage and the glass breaking against the end of the kitchen table…that would account for the small dent that she has noticed over the years. “Yeah… I believe I had one of those.”
“It’s just like that, only a phone as well.”
“So I’d be familiar with it,” Emma guesses.
“Yep, only with the added voice control you can ask it things.”
“I have enough strange things talking or interacting with me,” Emma says as she realizes how absurd and crazy that statement must sound. She shrugs it off; after all, she is buying a phone—not being psychologically evaluated. “I’ll take one that isn’t sentient.”
“Do you want the warranty? You know, in case anything happens with the phone you can have it replaced for a small fee—instead of paying the full price?”
“In like six days…” Emma begins, and then stops herself. “Let’s just go with no.”
*
Emma tosses the box for her new phone into the backseat of her car. She powers on the device as she pulls Dr. Riley’s phone number from the glove box and punches it into her contacts. She then digs through her pocket and adds Ethan as well. There is a sense of familiarity in the whole phone process—Emma must have owned one in the past, where it was now, is anyone’s guess. She has a faint memory that it was her mother that was technologically simplistic, not Emma. Bits of a conversation come to mind of Emma attempting to convince her mother to at least go wireless and ditch the antiquated twisted cord wall-phone, to obviously no success.
Emma dials Dr. Riley’s number—she is making her first call in at least two years. She feels nervous as the phone rings.
“Hello?”
“This is Emma,” Emma states simply.
“Oh, of course,” Dr. Riley responds as her tone lightens. “Is this your new number?”
“Yep,” Emma replies as she attempts to say something more but feels somewhat uncomfortable speaking over the phone.
“Are you still coming in for tomorrow’s session?”
“At three o’clock?”
“Yes, that’s what I have you down for.”
“I’ll be there…,” Emma says as she attempts to end the conversation but is cut off.
“So how are things going, how are you feeling today?”
“I’m good,” Emma answers in a rushed voice. “Going to go and get a few things today—then going to call someone to have some work done at the house. I met someone, seems nice, hopefully a good friend at least.”
“That’s great Emma,” Dr. Riley says in a cheerful tone.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Emma says as she pauses for a slight moment and then blurts, “Goodbye—“
“Goodbye Emma, take care.”
Emma presses the ‘end call’ button on the phone and slips it into her pocket. She has no idea why she feels so nervous and awkward while speaking over the phone, especially to someone who is already familiar to her. Maybe it has something to do with the past—receiving that fateful phone call that her mother had died. That event was so…unexpected and traumatic. Emma felt regretful that her mother could not be here to see that she had accepted her true self. She would have liked to talk to her one last time, at least, in her renewed form.
Emma pushes away the negative thoughts as she puts the car into drive and heads towards the electronics store.
Once there, she is greeted by a pushy salesman who attempts to talk her into buying something large and flashy. It is at this point that Emma’s experiences in design kicks in. She knows what is good and what is bad regarding laptops—the memory of working with them and on them comes in short flashes as the man attempts to recite his pitches on the pros and cons of screen sizes, ram, and processor speeds. Emma picks out something small, but fast and ultra-portable. She finds a nice orange purse style case with little red and green flowers imprinted in the fabric. She ignores most of the salesman’s suggestions—she also does not buy the warranty that he recommends.
On her way to check out, she picks up a wireless router. She also procures a list of service providers from a much friendlier cashier named Ann who has no ulterior motives and nothing to gain from a sale. Emma tips the cashier a twenty for being helpful.
On her way out in the parking lot—Emma picks the first internet service provider and calls them. As quickly as she can, she places an order to for service to be hooked up at her house. Luckily, she is not too rural to get high speed internet. An offer of extra money seems to put her on the top of the list and she only has to wait one day instead of the three she was just quoted.
As Emma begins to slip the phone back into her front pocket, it begins to ring. She looks at the display and sees a familiar number—her own, from the house. For a moment she is shaken by the eerie sight, but realizes rather quickly that it must be Elizabeth. However, how she got this number is a mystery unto itself.
“Hello?” Emma answers.
“This is Elizabeth,” The soft voice speaks over the phone.
“I had a suspicion,” Emma says, it seems as though some of her snarky personality remains intact. Then, remembering the pain that Elizabeth had gone through, she changes her tone to one that is more caring. “How are you feeling?”
“Better…much better,” Elizabeth says, although she sounds tired.
“I saw you earlier—you could have warned me about where I was going. I know we needed someone
to take care of that basement wall, but did it have to be him?”
“Just like the basement, if I had told you…would you have gone?”
“Fair enough,” Emma reluctantly accepts.
“Also…” Elizabeth says as she lets out a short cough. “I didn’t leave the house today.”
“I saw you,” Emma objects as she shakes her head—which serves no purpose as Elizabeth cannot see this reaction.
“It could have been another.”
“What do you mean ‘another’? …another you…another me?”
“It is possible?” Elizabeth answered, unreassuringly.
“Great…”
“Are you having a good day?”
“I suppose so,” Emma says as she pauses for a moment to reflect the events so far—she could have done without being ambushed by Brian Metcalfe, however, his son was nice to look at. Shopping was fairly boring, but at least she had gotten out. “Should I head home?”
“There’s a beach a few blocks away from your therapist’s office,” Elizabeth replies.
“I should go?”
“I cannot force you to go—however; you should go before the weather changes.”
“Will you be there when I get back?” Emma asks as there is still plenty of daytime left.
“There’s a storm coming later,” Elizabeth says sadly. “I don’t think so. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry,” Emma whispers. Although, she does not know exactly why she feels sorry—she supposes that it is the horrible way that Elizabeth reacts in the absence of the sun.
“What a silly thing to say,” Elizabeth whispers. “Not that… I don’t appreciate it.”
Before Emma can say goodbye, Elizabeth disconnects the call.
*
Emma reaches the beach a short while later. Seeing as it is a work day, she easily finds an empty spot. Seagulls cry as they fly overhead, encircling the sky above the beach. Emma steps her sneakers into the sand, to her dismay they quickly fill. She is not prepared for a beach visit. Cursing to herself, she removes her shoes and tiptoes through the parking lot and tosses them in the trunk of her Impala. She then sidesteps sticks and manages past dodgy looking items strewn against the pavement until her bare feet are back in the soft beige sand.
A bead of sweat drips down the back of her neck and is caught by her grey shirt. She walks a short distance away—not too far, after all there is still a fair bit of anxiety within her. She looks at the lake ahead; it appears as real as any ocean. The calming sounds of meek waves sloshing against the shore make her feel a bit less on edge, and feeling slightly more regretful that she had no peed earlier.
Far upon the horizon, where the deep blue water meets the azure sky, dark clouds loom in a cluster to the east. This must be the storm that Elizabeth mentioned. Emma begins to walk towards the water. As she continues along her trek she notices a large pier lined with elaborate wrought iron lamps. The pier is empty, save for a little girl with blonde hair and a white dress.
“Must be in style this year,” Emma says sarcastically to herself, she then changes direction and heads for the pier. As she gets closer, she can make out the features of the girl that stares off blankly to the endless expanse of water. The wind blows her hair about and causes her dress to flail about like a flag against a stiff wind. She looks to be around twelve or so—or at least, she looks just like Emma did when Emma was young.
“What are you watching?” Emma asks as she approaches the familiar young girl and places her arms around herself to shield her body from the cold wind coming off of the lake.
The little girl turns to face Emma; she pushes away a long strand of wheat blonde hair from her deep blue eyes and reaches a hand out towards Emma. “It’s good to meet you.”
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you to not be so friendly to strangers?”
“We’re not strangers Emma,” the little girl adds as she nods and raises her hand up even higher.
“Of course we aren’t,” Emma says as she takes the girl’s warm hand in hers. “How old are you?”
“Eleven, almost twelve,” the girl replies as she smiles, “How old are you?”
Twenty-four,” Emma replies after a short pause to make sure her math is correct. “I’ll be twenty-five next… well. I would be turning twenty-four next month.”
“I would be twelve next month…”
“So what do you call yourself?” Emma asks as she stares off to the water. There is something hypnotic about the scene—the gentleness of the small waves, the diamond like sunburst sparkles upon the rippled surface, the constant wind, and just the scale of it all. It made Emma feel small, but not in any bad sort of way.
“Hope…”
“That sounds familiar,” Emma says as she remembers that she used to believe her middle name was Hope. It was a strange idea, now that she reflected upon it. She supposed that in some way, even at her lowest, she had not given up completely.
“You weren’t using it anymore,” Hope says as she leads Emma to the end of the pier and sits down, pulling Emma along with her so that they may sit side by side.
“It suits you,” Emma says as she looks to the younger version of herself. She is suddenly filled with a moment of sadness—this moment, this version of her…this was right before her father left. She thinks to ask if he has left yet to her, but figures she does not really need t know. “Did I see you earlier today?”
“I stay here,” Hope replies as she shakes her head vigorously. “Mom and dad used to bring us here all the time.”
“Is that why you stay here?”
“I don’t know.”
“You could come home, you know—you don’t have to stay here,” Emma says. After all, she is already living with one version of herself, what trouble would one more be?
“I don’t like it there,” Hope says as she releases Emma’s hand. “If I come back it would be just to play in the woods again.”
“That would be fine,” Emma adds, hoping that she has not upset the girl. “You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to. Is there something wrong with the house?”
“You ask too many questions,” Hope replies as she folds her arms against her chest and pouts.
“I’m sorry Hope,” Emma says as attempts to take Hope by the hand, Hope refuses. “I did not mean to upset you. I am just trying to figure out what is happening. I know that you know—we don’t have much time.”
“It’s okay,” Hope concedes, “The house is just… creepy.”
“Well you can come and play in the woods—that’s something we used to do right?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I’m having a hard time,” Emma says as she attempts to piece together her scattered past. She still has memories of being Emma Hope—mixed in with fragments of memories of her life as Emma Alexis. “It’s a bit of a mess I’m afraid.”
“One of these days will you play with me in the woods?” Hope asks as she takes Emma’s hand back into her own. “It will help you remember.”
“Of course Hope, anytime—“
“It’s going to rain soon,” Hope says as she points to the oncoming dark clouds. “You should go.”
“Are you going to be alright?”
“It hurts more than… it hurts a lot,” Hope says as she buries her head between her knees. “It doesn’t last long though.”
“I’m sorry hon,” Emma says as she places her arms around the small girl and embraces her tightly.
“It’s Hope,” the girl objects as she pushes Emma away. “Go away—I don’t want you to see it happen.”
“Okay… Hope,” Emma replies sadly as she gets to her feet and dusts the sand from the pier from her bottom. “We’ll play together soon—just come and find me when you need me.”
“I will, just go already!”
Emma turns without another word and began to make her way back to the parking lot. As she neared the houses, she saw a small shop that looked like it was being run out of noth
ing more than a tiny wooden beach shack near the towering apartments close by. Curious, Emma met eyes with someone through the small colored glass windows. She wondered if this person had been watching her. She rounded the small building and saw a sign that read ‘Celeste’s Crafts.’ A yellow door with a colorful open sign stands before her. She enters the building, half sure that she would run into another version of herself.
“Hello,” A young woman replies from behind the counter as Emma enters the tiny shop.
Emma is relieved to find a taller, slender, stick-legged girl with long brown hair and dark green eyes and no familiar shared features other than tanned skin. She nods to the woman and returns the greeting, “Hello…”
“This is all of my art,” the young lady says as she gestures about the small room that is filled with many wonderful colors that shine in from the different panes of glass. “I do a little bit of painting, some jewelry—mostly glass. I love colored glass. Is there anything you are looking for in particular?”
“I just saw you through the window,” Emma admits as she paces around the small building. “Was I alone…?”
“Yes,” she replies. “I get bored and that pier has always had a special meaning to me—I spend a lot of time watching the waves. Why do you ask?”
“I just…” Emma begins, then attempts to find some kind of more acceptable answer. “I just kind of felt like I wasn’t alone when I was there.”
“Maybe you weren’t,” she says as she reaches over the counter and extends a hand. “The name’s Justine… Justine Celeste.”
“Emma Corbeau.”
“Corbeau…”
Emma let out a short laugh, “Most people get it wrong even when I say it first—I think you’re the first person to repeat my name without messing it up.”
“Did you know it’s a color?”
“I was not aware of that.”
“Sorry…” Justine says as she shakes her head. “I’m obsessed a little with colors.”
