More Than We Can Tell

by Brigid Kemmerer

  Declan pulls his pillow away from the wall, fluffs it up, and lies back down. He yawns. “Now. Tell me about the girl.”

  ELEVEN

  Emma

  Saturday, March 17 3:22 a.m.

  From: Ethan_717

  To: Azure M

  I don’t want to sound like a stalker, but I didn’t see you. I hope everything is OK with your mom. Signing off for the night.

  The Internet is back. I wake to flashing lights on the front of my router.

  When I saw the 5Core message on the face of my phone, I was almost afraid to click on it. Thank god it was just Ethan.

  That said, I don’t want to sign on. I don’t want to deal with Nightmare yet. I know I need to block him, but it can wait another ten minutes. I go downstairs to find coffee.

  Mom is in the living room doing yoga. Country music pours out of the speaker near her, which I find amusing. She never listens to anything tranquil. It’s like she has to be contrary, even when she’s supposed to be mindful.

  She’s in this pose called Dhanurasana, where she’s on her stomach, her arms and legs curled up to meet over her back. She used to make me do this with her every Saturday until I realized I could just stop showing up.

  “You’re up early,” she says. “Get a good night’s sleep?”

  I scowl and head into the kitchen. It shouldn’t be a dig, but it is.

  What she means is, Get a good night’s sleep without your game?

  I pour coffee into a mug.

  “Do you want to join me?” she calls.

  “I like my spine the way it is, thanks.”

  “The recycling needs to go out to the curb.”

  It’s not a request—but at the same time, it is. I don’t want to do it, but I also don’t want her to call Verizon and kill the Internet entirely. I leave the coffee on the counter and head into the garage. The large yellow bin sits by the wall near Mom’s BMW.

  Dad’s car isn’t there.

  Huh. I’m not sure what to make of that.

  I drag the recycling to the curb, then head back inside.

  I really don’t want to talk to Mom, especially about Dad, so I grab my coffee and head back up the stairs.

  “You shouldn’t be drinking that!” she calls.

  “Okay!” I call back. Then I shut myself into my room with my mug.

  I open my laptop and go into iMessage.

  I was going to send a message to my father, but my last messages with Cait sit right there in silent judgment.

  Thanks for the invite. I think I’m going to bed.

  I message her now.

  Emma: Hey. You there?

  Cait: Yes. What are you doing up?

  Is it really so shocking? I scowl.

  Emma: You sound like my mother.

  Cait: It’s 7:30. I don’t usually hear from you until noon.

  Emma: OK.

  She doesn’t say anything. I don’t know what I expect her to say.

  I don’t like this feeling.

  I start a new message to my father.

  Emma: Hey, Daddy. You’re out early. ♡

  I wait. And wait. And wait.

  He doesn’t respond.

  A new message from Cait appears.

  Cait: Are you OK?

  Emma: I don’t know.

  Cait: You don’t know if you’re OK? You texted me. What’s going on?

  I don’t answer her. I close iMessage. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

  OtherLANDS takes a minute to load. No new messages from Nightmare. I leave his account alone. Maybe blocking him has been the wrong strategy. Maybe I’ve been giving him attention he doesn’t deserve. Ignoring him might be the better bet.

  My phone rings.

  I check the display. Cait.

  I slide the button to silence the ring.

  I am such a horrible friend.

  At the last second, I slide the bar to answer.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey,” she says back, her voice low. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t sound fine.”

  “Yeah? What exactly do I sound like, Cait?”

  She’s silent for a beat. “You sound angry.”

  “I am angry.”

  “Okay. Are you angry at me?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Are you going to repeat everything I say?”

  “Em?”

  I can practically hear her frowning over the phone. “I’m not angry at you, Cait.” I can’t even think why I would be. She’s done nothing wrong. And I’m certainly not jealous of her.

  For some reason, this is not a good feeling.

  “Is the Internet still off ?” says Cait. “Are you mad at your mom?”

  “No. She turned it back on. Probably for herself.”

  Another few beats of silence. “Do you want to come over?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to come over?”

  Maybe. I don’t know. “I need to finish waking up first.”

  She sighs. “Did something else happen? I’m just … I’m trying to figure out what’s going on.”

  My father’s not home, and it doesn’t feel right. My mother is constantly on my case. I have some weirdo sending me bizarre messages through my game. I’m a slacker who’s good for nothing more than late-night gaming.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I’m just PMS-ing.”

  “Mom is making chocolate-chip pancakes,” she says. “Are you sure you don’t want to come over?”

  “Of course she is.” I’m sure Cait and her family will be lining up to share a lovely weekend breakfast. My parents can’t even be in the same room without arguing.

  “Are you going to have a snippy comeback to everything I say?” says Cait.

  “Maybe. Keep talking.”

  I mean it as a joke, but instead, it comes out exactly like everything else I’ve said.

  “Mom’s calling me,” she says resignedly. “I need to go.”

  “Wait,” I say.

  “What?”

  I need to apologize. I think.

  This has gotten so complicated. I don’t know why I’m taking everything out on Cait.

  I do know that I don’t want her to hang up. If she hangs up, I’m at my mother’s mercy. Ethan won’t be awake if he was still online at 3:30 a.m., and I don’t want to take my chances with Nightmare.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m supposed to see Rev Fletcher tonight.”

  There’s a moment of stunned silence. “Like … a date?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Is that what you’re so keyed up about?”

  “No. Maybe.” I clench my eyes shut. “I have no idea, Cait.”

  “How did this come about?”

  I pause. “I ran into him again. We … talked.”

  “He said more than two words to you?”

  I had a rough childhood.

  “Yeah. He … I think maybe he’s misunderstood. I think he’s quiet for a reason.”

  Her voice turns wry. “You mean he’s not really the Grim Reaper?”

  “Stop it.”

  “Jeez, Em. I’m just kidding.” She pauses. “He doesn’t strike me as the ‘date’ type.”

  “We’re meeting behind the church.” I realize how that sounds, and heat finds my cheeks. “To talk.”

  “Wow, that doesn’t sound incredibly sketchy.”

  “It’s—I don’t know. He’s very thoughtful.”

  “Like, he gives you presents?” She sounds confused.

  “No! No. I mean—thought provoking. He feels—I don’t know, Cait.” I flop back against my pillows. “He feels real.”

  Now there’s a long silence.

  So long that I say, “Are you still there?”

  “Yes. I think that’s an interesting statement.” She pauses. “I don’t want you to snap at me, but …”

  “But what?”

  “I think it’s a
good statement.” Another pause. “I think you need someone real, Em.”

  It doesn’t make me want to snap.

  In fact, it makes me want to cry. “I think I need someone real, too,” I say.

  She must hear emotion in my voice because she says, “Are you sure you don’t want me to come over?”

  Yes, I realize. I do. I so desperately do.

  I don’t like being desperate for anything. I sniff and get myself together. “No,” I say. “I’ll let you go … before your brothers eat all the pancakes.”

  TWELVE

  Rev

  Saturday, March 17 04:09:29 a.m.

  FROM: Robert Ellis

  TO: Rev Fletcher

  SUBJECT: Disappointed

  Do you remember your lessons? Perhaps you were too young.

  Here is one from Proverbs I remember well. “If one curses his father or mother, his lamp shall be put out in utter darkness.”

  The e-mail doesn’t wake me, though it’s a nice little morning surprise when I find it. Does my father ever sleep?

  Kristin texts me at 8:00 a.m. I’ve been staring out the window, watching the sun rise for an hour.

  Mom: Please tell me you’re at Declan’s.

  Rev: Yes. Sorry. Should have left a note.

  Mom: Did something happen?

  How am I supposed to answer that?

  Rev: No. All OK.

  I bite at my lip, waiting. She doesn’t write back.

  Matthew must not have left, because I’m sure she would have mentioned it. I should feel relief, but I don’t. I don’t feel dread, either. I don’t know what I feel.

  Declan continues snoring beside me, but there’s no way I can go back to sleep. I ease off the bed and move to the desk chair, sitting in the dim light of early morning, thinking.

  My father’s e-mail shouldn’t be a fist to the gut, but it is. I wish I had a shred of Declan’s attitude, his ease with bucking authority. For Declan, there’d be no hesitation. He’d take a selfie of himself flipping off the camera and reply with that.

  I don’t like bucking authority. You don’t need a degree in psychology to figure out why: when your father tortures you for breaking a rule, it’s hard to let that go.

  But that’s just one side of it. My father wasn’t always horrible. When I earned his praise, he made me feel like the most cherished child alive. I learned to crave it.

  I crave it now. And I hate myself for it.

  Without warning, Declan rolls over and rubs his eyes. He finds me sitting in the chair. “Have you been up for a long time?”

  My eyes flick to the clock on the dresser. It’s almost nine. “Yes.”

  “You should have woken me.”

  “It’s okay.” I pause, keeping my voice low. “Alan and your mom got back a little while ago. No baby.”

  He sits up and looks at the door. “Are they awake?”

  “I don’t think so. I heard their door close.”

  “Okay.” He rubs his face again. “I need ten minutes. Do you want to go make coffee?”

  Good. A task. I need a task. “Sure.”

  I know my way around his kitchen as well as my own. The white cabinets, the drawer that sticks, the one loose handle that’ll come off if you tug. I could do this with my eyes closed. Making coffee takes no time at all.

  Which sucks.

  I read the e-mail again. I know the verse by heart. It was one of my father’s favorites.

  I want to twist this phone in my hands to watch the screen shatter. Worse, I want to write back and beg his forgiveness for ignoring the last three.

  I slide my sleeve back and trace my fingers over the arcs burned into the skin. I don’t remember everything, but I remember the stove. The pain was so strong it became more than pain: a scream in my ear, the brightest light in my eyes. I could taste the pain.

  I never ran from my father before that day.

  He caught me, of course. I was seven. He caught me and spun me around so hard that it caused a rotational fracture in my forearm.

  I made it outside before he caught me. My screaming drew a lot of attention.

  That, and the fact that I’d thrown up all over myself.

  “Rev.”

  I jump and yank my sleeve down. Declan stands in the kitchen doorway.

  “The coffee’s almost ready,” I say, though I have no idea whether that’s true.

  He comes into the kitchen and pulls down steel mugs from a cabinet. “Something else is up with you.”

  I blink at him, startled. “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know. But you were fine when we fell asleep and now you’re a wreck.”

  He’s right, but I have no idea what to say to that. He pulls a spoon from the drawer, then dumps an obscene amount of cream and sugar into both mugs.

  Once he’s done stirring, he holds one out to me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, then come on.”

  He turns and heads for the back door, not even waiting for me to follow.

  I go after him. The air is cold, with just a hint of warmth to come. Clouds thicken the sky, and the humidity promises a rainstorm later. “Come on, what?”

  Declan stops to unlatch the gate between our yards. He looks back at me. “The girl you met at the church doesn’t have you this keyed up. You said you barely know her.”

  I don’t move. “Yeah, so?”

  The latch gives, and he pushes through. “There’s only one more variable.”

  A chill locks into my spine. Did he figure out the e-mails somehow? “One more—what?”

  “I think I need to meet Matthew.” Then he sprints up my porch steps and goes through the sliding door, without waiting for me to catch up.

  Oh. Oh, wow.

  In the ten seconds it takes me to cross the yard, I consider how this will go. Every scenario I can imagine ends badly. By the time I get into the kitchen, I expect to find Declan cornering Matthew while Kristin and Geoff wring their hands and beg him to stop.

  But I really should know my friend—and my parents—better than that. Declan has helped himself to a slice of bacon from a plate on the counter, and he’s dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. Kristin has two quiches cooling on racks by the stove. Matthew is nowhere to be seen.

  “How is your mom feeling?” Kristin is asking Declan when I burst through the door.

  She gives me an odd look, but Declan acts like nothing is amiss. “She’s fine,” he says. “Alan took her to the hospital last night, but nothing happened.”

  “She must be getting close.”

  “I told her that I’m going to move in here so I don’t have to listen to a baby crying.” He takes another piece of bacon. “But I guess Rev’s already got a roommate.”

  “Maybe we can trade,” I say. “I don’t mind crying babies.”

  Kristin glances between us, but she lets the comment go. She picks up a pan to wash from the overflowing sink. “Rev doesn’t have a roommate for long. We’re going to pick up a twin bed for the other bedroom this afternoon. We’ll put the crib and the rocker in the garage for now.”

  Good.

  As soon as the thought hits me, I frown. So much for welcoming everyone with open arms.

  “Where is he?” I ask. It sounds like a demand. Or a threat.

  “Taking a shower.” Kristin holds out the pan and a dish towel. “Dry this, please.”

  I do, and she moves on to the next dish. My movements are tense and forced.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” she says quietly.

  “I don’t know.”

  As soon as I say the words, I realize how true they are. I don’t know what’s going on. What am I supposed to say? Matthew won’t talk to me in the middle of the night. I think he might have been watching me work out. He doesn’t want to ride to school with me and Declan.

  It all just sounds so … juvenile. Maybe I could whine about eating broccoli
or cleaning my room next.

  Kristin is looking at me while she washes the next pan, and she holds it out for me to dry. Her voice remains quiet, nonconfrontational. “Did something happen?”

  Kristin has always had this magical way of making people talk, and now is no exception. I sometimes tease her that she should have been a therapist instead of an accountant. I have a great relationship with both of them, but with Kristin, her warm acceptance of everything makes it so difficult to keep my father’s e-mails a secret.

  I take a breath and hold it for a moment, though I know she won’t judge me for anything I say. “Matthew makes me nervous.”

  Another dripping pan extends across the counter. “That’s interesting.”

  “Why?”

  “Because half an hour ago, he was sitting here telling me that you make him nervous.”

  My hands go still with the dish towel. “Why do I make him nervous?”

  “He didn’t say.” She pauses, then holds out another dish. “I just thought you should know.”

  I consider Matthew’s reaction when I barely moved last night. I realign what he’s said—and what he hasn’t said—over the last two days. Geoff said he’s been in and out of four different foster homes so far this year. He said Matthew started a fight in the last one. I took all that to mean Matthew was the problem.

  It’s not like he’s done anything to correct my assumptions.

  Declan was wrong. I’m totally the resentful son.

  “Hey, man,” Declan says, and the tone of his voice says he’s speaking to someone new. “Want some bacon?”

  I turn to look. Matthew hovers in the shadowed hallway. His wet hair is slicked back, making him look even younger, the bruises along his face more pronounced.

  His gaze bounces from me to Declan and back. Then to Kristin.

  “There’s plenty left,” she says brightly.

  “No, thank you.” He turns and disappears down the hallway.

  I hand Kristin the dried pan and take another wet dish. She doesn’t say anything, so I don’t either.

  Declan rises from his chair and comes to get more bacon. He keeps his voice low. “Rev. Seriously. You’ve got that kid by like forty pounds.”

  “He doesn’t make me nervous that way.”

  “What other way is there?”