Give, a novel

by Erica Carpenter Witsell

  Emma bobbed helplessly between rage and misery. Her face streaked with tears, she crammed Katherine’s things into garbage bags and left them on the stoop—she didn’t want Katherine in the apartment. She didn’t deserve to come in. But then she waited anxiously for two days for her to come to retrieve them, desperate to see her, disconsolate when she came home from work one afternoon to find the bags were gone. Out of spite she had not included in the bags a few of Katherine’s things: a set of flannel sheets, a cashmere sweater. Let her feel she had lost at least something, Emma thought.

  Then, a few days later, as Emma was taking a bra from her underwear drawer, she noticed that the dildo and the harness were gone. Rage hit her like a punch to the gut. She doubled over, steadying herself against the dresser. How dare she? As soon as Emma could walk, she rushed to the computer and wrote Katherine an outraged email, then clicked “Send” without pausing, knowing even as she did so how pathetic and petty she sounded, how dog in the manger.

  The next day she found the dildo on the doorstep, discreetly wrapped in plastic bags. But this only made Emma feel worse, because of course having it back didn’t mean that Melinda and Katherine weren’t doing it; it only meant that now Melinda knew Emma was a fool. To make matters worse, Emma had missed seeing Katherine again when she had dropped it off, which could only mean that Katherine was purposefully avoiding her, and this knowledge slid Emma right back down into despair.

  “There’s a beauty to grief,” a friend had remarked to her once, years ago, after she had complained of some disappointment, some unmemorable malaise. “You know, doing it right. Eating chocolate cake in your pajamas and all that.”

  Emma had smiled at his words, thinking he was on to something. Now she realized just how stupid it was. Grief wasn’t picturesque; it wasn’t poignant. It was a dark place that held you under, that didn’t let you breathe.

  It was May; there were still two more weeks of school to be gotten through. Emma stumbled through them, shrugging off the condolences offered by the people who knew. The poems she chose for her class were all miserable, gloomy things.

  Grief is a quiet thing

  Deadly in repose

  A raging horror, a thunder of abuse

  “Can’t we read some happy poems, Ms. Walters?” her students teased her.

  But all the same, they seemed to notice her mood and were kinder to her than normal. Then, one day in third period, she opened the textbook to the chapter on imagery and there was “Fog” by Carl Sandburg:

  The fog comes in on little cat feet It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on

  The tears leaped to Emma’s eyes. She had to leave the room lest her students see her cry. She stood in the empty hallway, leaning heavily against the cement block wall, remembering one bright morning in bed. She had held Katherine’s instep gently between her thumb and fingers.

  “Your little Kat feet,” she had joked, and they had both laughed at the pun. She had never thought to remember the end of the poem, but it seemed, now, like a forewarning.

  When the two weeks of school were over, Emma rode BART to the Oakland airport and boarded a plane for Bakersfield. In the empty place that grief had hollowed out in her mind, one clear thought had formed: Emma wanted to go home.

  It was not new to her, this ache of homesickness in her gut. Every summer of her childhood it had been the same. When Raisin was carted away from Baymont in a pickup, when Emma had crawled, numb with fear, on all fours along the dam, when her sister lay on the bathroom floor, her body curled around her pain . . . Each new trauma had released in Emma the same fierce longing to be home, to be where she was truly loved.

  What a fool she had been to ever doubt that love. Emma had always wanted Sarah to prove her affection, as if words and embraces were what mattered most. It was only now, sitting in the window seat of the airplane, her forehead pressed against the glass, that Emma felt she understood at last.

  Katherine, she thought bitterly, had told Emma she loved her a dozen times a day. And Emma had believed it, had thought that because Katherine touched her—held her, kissed her, made her come—that she was hers for good. But Emma had been wrong. It was another kind of love that mattered, Emma saw that now: the kind that stayed. The kind that gave and gave and did not stop giving even when the next best thing came along.

  “It’s good to have you home, Em,” her father told her the next morning, while she sat at the kitchen table, drinking English Breakfast, and he flipped blueberry pancakes at the stove. “I’m sorry you’ve had a rough time of it, though.”

  Emma tried to smile. “I’ll survive.”

  She rose and got three sets of silverware from the drawer. But even once she’d laid out all their forks and knives, their plates and napkins and juice glasses, the table still looked bare. At Christmas, when Emma had last been home, her family had barely fit around the table, with Jessie and Heath visiting from Oregon, and Jay home from college in New York.

  “Do you mind it just being you and Mom here now?” Emma asked.

  Her father paused, considering. “Well, we miss you kids, of course. But we never really had this time, you know, when it was just the two of us.”

  He added three more pancakes to a large stack warming beneath the light. “I still make too many pancakes, though. Would you go and get your mom?”

  Emma climbed the stairs quietly, then gently knocked on her parents’ bedroom door.

  “Mom?”

  “Come in,” her mother said. Emma stepped inside the room. Her mother was not yet up, her face peeking out at Emma from beneath the covers.

  “It’s time for breakfast,” Emma said, her eyes sweeping over her mother’s bed. It was just as she remembered it: the same billowy comforter, piled high, with crisp, white sheets beneath. Emma couldn’t help herself. Without saying anything, she walked around to the other side, kicked off her shoes, and climbed in next to her mother.

  For a long moment, she and Sarah lay side by side without speaking, both gazing at the morning light that flickered on the blinds.

  “You doing okay, dear?” her mother asked at last. Emma began to nod, because a second before she had been doing okay, maybe for the first time since Katherine had left. But even before the nod was over, the kindness in her mother’s voice undid her. She began to cry.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, ashamed. Her mother never cried except in private, and Emma had always suspected that her mother wondered at her, at how easily her tears could come. She squeezed her eyes tight but the tears found their way out, trailing each other down the sides of her face to make damp gray shadows on the white pillowcase.

  Her mother said nothing, but Emma heard the rustle of sheets and felt a wisp of warmth as her mother stirred. And then her mother’s hand was on her forearm, her thumb stroking back and forth, back and forth.

  “Oh dear,” she said. “Oh dear.”

  “Oh, Mom,” Emma sobbed, and then she got it out at last. “What if nobody ever loves me?”

  “Of course they will, Emma. You just wait and see. Of course they will.”

  They lay like that for a long time, Emma quietly sobbing, her mother’s thumb moving back and forth on her arm, until at last Emma had cried herself out. Her mother shifted in the bed to reach for a Kleenex and then waited while Emma blew her nose.

  “You know,” she said tenderly. “If Laurel didn’t love you when you were a baby, it wasn’t because you were unlovable. You were very loveable, Emma. You are loveable.”

  She sat up in bed, suddenly matter-of-fact. “And if that Katherine person doesn’t have the sense to see that, well then, she doesn’t deserve you.”

  With that, Emma’s tears started again.

  “Oh dear,” her mother said softly. “I didn’t mean to reopen the floodgate.” She pressed Emma’s arm sympathetically and reached again for the box of Kleenex. Emma was laughing through her sobs now, clutching half a dozen sodden Kleenexes, not sure of what to do with them in her
mother’s perfect bed. But she felt a new lightness inside, as if all those tears had, at last, washed something out of her.

  “The pancakes are almost ready,” Emma said, pulling the comforter up to her chin.

  “We’d better get up then, hadn’t we?” her mother said. But she made no move to rise. “I think your dad will understand.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Jessie

  The large wooden shelter had a roof but no walls. There was that, at least. Jessie did not want to get married inside, but the rain would not let up. It came down in sheets and then in trickles, awful trickles that gave her hope, then in sheets again. The ground squished underfoot.

  When they had chosen this place as their venue, Heath had pointed out the shelter where Jessie stood now.

  “That’ll be good to have, just in case it rains.”

  She had nodded distractedly, ignoring him, trying to picture where they would stand in the meadow—by the creek, or by the trees? But there was no chance of that now, even if the rain did stop. The meadow was a wash.

  It is cozy here, she thought, looking around at the dry platform, resigning herself. Cozy and dry, with the rain dripping down off the sloped roof and the brilliant green of the forest beyond, its colors vibrant with so much to drink.

  Jessie zipped up her rain jacket and ducked back into the downpour. She had better go start moving chairs.

  Jessie had wanted a small wedding, and they had tried. But even with only immediate family and friends, the guest list had turned out longer than she had expected. She was relieved when the chairs all fit in the shelter.

  “Thanks for helping, Em,” she said, moving the last one into place.

  Emma was toweling off a row of chairs. She straightened. “Of course.”

  “Em—” Jessie began. “I know we should have talked about this before, but—”

  “You want to know what to expect on your wedding night?”

  Emma said this with such a straight face that Jessie had to laugh. Emma grinned.

  “Seriously, though, Jess . . . What should we have talked about?” she asked.

  “Well, you know Laurel’s coming right? With Jim and Sue.”

  “I assumed so.”

  “They’re bringing Elizabeth.”

  “Oh.” Emma looked away. “How old is she now?”

  “She just turned two. You . . . You didn’t tell Mom and Dad, did you, Emma?”

  Emma looked back at her sister sharply. “No, I didn’t tell them. I said I wouldn’t.”

  Now Jessie sighed. “I guess I sort of wished you had. And that they didn’t care.”

  “Well, I didn’t tell them. And, well . . . it’s sort of hard to imagine they won’t care, isn’t it? But wait . . . You’re not planning to tell them today, are you?”

  “Of course not,” Jessie said. “I just thought you should know that Elizabeth would be here. So you wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Emma nodded. She studied her sister’s face. “Jess? Did you know she was going to be here? Are you okay with it?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Jessie said, not meeting her sister’s eye. “I mean, why wouldn’t I be?”

  Emma raised her eyebrows. “Well, it is a little odd, isn’t it? To have your kid at your own wedding?”

  “She’s not my kid, Emma. Please don’t call her that.”

  “Well, whatever she is. Are you sure you’re okay with it?”

  “I’m fine.”

  In truth, Jessie wasn’t sure how she felt. When she had sent the invitation to Laurel, she hadn’t expected they would all come. And at first it had seemed they wouldn’t. Laurel had talked of coming alone with Jim; Sue would stay home with Liza. But then, two weeks ago, they had changed their minds. Laurel had called her excitedly with the news.

  “Just wanted to let you know it’ll be the whole crew!” she said. “So you can adjust your numbers.”

  Jessie had sighed, abandoning once and for all any hope she still had that they would keep the guest list under thirty.

  “Okay,” she said. “That’s fine.”

  “And since Liza is coming . . . Well, I just wondered—would you want her in your wedding? You know, flower girl or something? She would be so cute.”

  But Jessie had drawn the line at that. “We’re not having that kind of a ceremony,” she had explained. “It’ll just be us and the justice of the peace. I don’t even have bridesmaids.”

  “Well, okay,” Laurel said, sounding slightly wounded. “I just thought I’d offer.”

  “Mom?” Jessie had said. “Dad and . . . Sarah—they still don’t know, okay? So can you please . . .” Jessie had flushed, stumbling over the words. She wouldn’t call Sarah “Mom” to Laurel; it rang too cruel. But to say “Dad and Sarah” when Jessie had always called Sarah “Mom”—there was a tinge of treason to it, and she felt ashamed.

  “Can we please be discreet?” Laurel had finished for her. “Of course!” She sounded almost gleeful at the prospect, as if she had just been granted a leading role. “Not a word.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Emma

  Emma’s insides felt wrapped so tight she was sure she would have gas. She sat next to her brother on one end of a semicircle of wedding guests, clutching a folded paper in her hand. On it, in her own handwriting, was a little homily to her sister. It was what she would share during the ceremony, when it came time for that. Emma liked what she had written; she was proud of how well she knew her sister. She knew the sensibilities that hid beneath Jessie’s eccentricities, the softness and the savage strength of her. If Jessie didn’t fit into the mainstream, it was because she didn’t want to, because, to her, the world was something else entirely. Something grander and more complicated, Emma thought, something Jessie could revel in and wonder about and strive to make better.

  Emma felt a flash of pure pride in her sister, washed of envy, and she clung to the feeling, wanting to hold it. For she had resolved—she would not feel sorry for herself. She would not let herself be green—or blue—today.

  Emma looked around at the gathering guests and felt a stab of nerves. Gently she unfolded the paper in her hand, which had gone limp in the damp air, and began to read it over.

  “Wasn’t Laurel going to come to this?” Jay said, his voice low, startling her. “I thought she would be here. I wanted to see—you know.”

  Emma’s gut made another twist. Her brother was right—where was Laurel? She scanned the small crowd. But just at that moment, the music started; all around her, guests shifted and smiled and strained to see. Suddenly, there was Heath, walking down the path toward the shelter, wearing an REI rain jacket and weathered hiking boots and looking, despite his sheepish expression, almost exactly as if he might be setting off on a hike through the dripping woods.

  A low murmur ran through the guests, and Emma smiled. Everyone’s thinking what I’m thinking, she thought. He’s perfect for her.

  Heath cleared the steps up onto the shelter in two easy bounds, and then stood before the small crowd, grinning nervously. But nobody was looking at him. Suddenly another murmur went up, this one louder than the first. Emma looked back toward the path and smiled when she caught sight of her sister. She was wearing a dress, not white but burgundy. The color was high in her face, and her wet hair, loose to her shoulders, had dampened the fabric so that it was almost black. Emma guessed that she had squeezed a run in, and had just come from the shower. As Jessie passed in front of her, Emma could see drops of perspiration beading up on her forehead, and she had to stifle a laugh. Jessie had been running, Emma was sure of it now. Despite the shower, she was still sweating.

  Jessie caught her eye as she passed and smiled. Beside her, Jay gave a low chuckle. “Only Jessie,” he murmured, and Emma grinned.

  Their sister took her place beside Heath and looked out at the guests, smiling broadly. But almost immediately her face grew serious; Emma watched as her sister scanned the crowd.

  The tangle in Emma’s stomach tightened. Where was L
aurel?

  Jessie murmured something to Heath, who frowned, shook his head, and mouthed a question. Jessie shrugged and straightened, then nodded at the justice, who cleared his throat and opened a small notebook.

  “Welcome,” he said.

  Emma tried to listen to the justice’s words, but found herself instead watching the tendrils of dampness sneaking down the back of her sister’s dress. She forced herself to keep her eyes pinned to her sister; otherwise they kept darting down the little path, watching for Laurel’s arrival.

  But even with her eyes on the ceremony, Emma knew the minute they arrived. She watched Jessie startle at the same moment her own gut lurched. Heath, Jessie, and Emma all turned to look at the same instant; through the woods came the high-pitched timbre of a child’s voice, indecipherable, and the lower ones of an adult, answering. Still hidden in the trees, they had no idea how close they were, how much the sound carried.

  The justice paused, mid-sentence, as all the guests looked, too, until everyone’s neck was craned toward the little path, as if the bride were still to come.

  A child’s voice again, louder, but now the colors of them were visible through the trees, and they must have seen the shelter, too, standing hushed now and waiting, because the grown-up voice was softer, shushing. In another instant, they were out of the trees, and although there had never been any question of who it was, now it was certain. There was Laurel in the lead, in a long paisley skirt she held in both hands, hitching it up above the dampness of the grass. Behind her came the two other adults. Sue carried the toddler in her arms; Jim walked at her side. The child had gone silent now, hiding her face against her mother’s shoulder.

  Laurel smiled apologetically as she mounted the stairs.