“What else did you take?”
“Nothing.”
“How many times have you moved?”
He closed his eyes. “From the time I was a kid until I moved in with the Marshalls, I lived in sixteen different foster homes.”
“And you took this blanket with you every time?”
“Yes.”
We were on the ground, beside the stream. “But you’re getting it covered in dirt,” I told him.
He was leaning over me, his cigarette breath warm against my face. He still smokes all the time, just not around me.
“It’s not covered in dirt,” he said. “It’s covered in you.”
I don’t know if my parents have any clue what’s going on. If they do, they haven’t said anything yet. Besides, we don’t talk about things like boys when we meet with Dr. Miller. We talk about nightmares.
Dr. Miller, my parents, and I have been having basically the same session for the past year or so. In short, we’re not making any progress aside from what she always says at the end of every session: “So, Emily. It’s very important that you get the rest you need in order to develop into an intelligent adult. I’m going to increase your dosage, and we’ll see how that works.” Then she winks. “Okeydokey?”
Usually I just pretend to go along with whatever she wants to do. But since I’ve been seeing Del, I’ve felt more … I don’t know, more liberated. I don’t want her to increase my dosage. I don’t want to have to take the pills. All I want is for the nightmares to stop.
So I tell her this, my parents listening. I can feel both of them stiffen at my sides as I speak, more than a hint of annoyance in my voice. They both know that most of the kids treat Dr. Miller as kind of a joke, but I guess she is highly qualified.
She leans forward in her chair, fingertips pressed together, listening. She actually seems excited that I’m challenging her. “So you haven’t been taking your pills on a regular basis?”
I hesitate for only a moment. “No. I only take them when I’m desperate.”
Her eyes are wide with interest. “Desperate for what?”
“For rest. Real rest—for sleep without dreams.”
“Okay. But everyone dreams, Emily.”
I sit up straight, shaking my head. “Not like me. You know that.”
“You mean sleep without nightmares.”
I don’t say anything. I put my head on my mom’s shoulder. Her body is still stiff. On my other side, I can tell that my father is frustrated by our lack of progress. He’s barely said three words the whole hour. I get the feeling he’s as tired of this as I am.
“Emily, I know I’ve asked you this before, but do the nightmares ever change?”
“Not really. They’re always about fire or water. Sometimes I’m in a fire, kind of trapped, like I can’t breathe. Other times it’s nothing but a lot of smoke everywhere. Sometimes I’m in a big body of water, and I can’t find the surface, or else there’s this deluge, like I’m standing under a waterfall. But they all make me feel the same way.”
“And what way is that?”
I swallow. It’s hard to say out loud. “Like I’m going to die.”
“You aren’t going to die, though. They’re only dreams. Dr. and Mrs. Meckler, I know we’ve been over this before, but is there anything at all from Emily’s childhood that might be prompting these memories?”
Over my head, my parents glance at each other. We’ve been through this a million times; I don’t know why Dr. Miller bothers asking. My parents wouldn’t just lie to me.
“No,” my mom says. “Nothing I can think of.”
My dad is still quiet.
Dr. Miller taps her fingertips together again. She takes a good fifteen seconds to consider the situation. Finally, she says, “Okay, Emily. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to increase your medication, and I want you to promise me that you’re actually going to take it. I want you to take it every night for two weeks. And during that time, I’d like you to keep a detailed dream journal. Every time you have nightmares, write down exactly what happens. Maybe”—she winks—“if you do what I say, we’ll be able to get to the bottom of this and really start dealing with the root issues.”
The root issues? I hadn’t even considered that there might be root issues. I’ve never been in a fire. I’ve never almost drowned. What root issues could there possibly be?
For the first time since I’ve been seeing her, I decide to do exactly what Dr. Miller wants. I’ll take the pills every night for two weeks. At this point, I’ll do anything to get the nightmares to stop.
But something tells me they’re not going anywhere. I’ll take the pills, I’ll keep the journal, and then she’ll see that they’re only night terrors. People get them sometimes, and I happen to get them a lot. Maybe they’ll never go away. Maybe I’ll learn to live with them. I might not have a choice.
We’re leaving Dr. Miller’s office when my dad puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “Emily. Talk to me in the hall.”
School is over. We stand in the quiet hallway, our voices echoing. “I want you to come home before dinner,” my dad tells me.
I bite my lip. I’d been planning on stopping by Winchester to see if Del was around.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I kind of have other plans.”
“Plans to do what?”
I start to feel uneasy. I almost never go to my parents’ house during the week. “I have plans, that’s all. Why? What do you want to talk about?”
My father stares past me, down the hallway. “Come home. Now.”
While my mom goes upstairs to change her clothes, my dad sits me down in his home office. I don’t know why we can’t sit in the kitchen or the living room like we usually do. In the past couple of weeks, my dad has been more reserved than usual. Maybe it’s because of the broken window. Maybe it’s something else. I honestly don’t know.
Unlike in Dr. Miller’s office, I feel a lot more comfortable relaxing in my dad’s office. I settle on his leather sofa (identical to the one in his office at school, the one in Dr. Miller’s office, and the one in the office of our college admission director, Dr. Sendell) and prop myself up on my side while he takes a seat behind his desk.
He opens a white file folder and quietly looks it over. Then he gazes at me with a combination of affection and concern. I’ve seen the look a million times.
“What is it, Daddy?”
“What is it?” He takes a deep breath. He seems weary, older all of a sudden, and I feel a flutter of anxiety in my stomach.
Then he says exactly what I’ve been hoping not to hear: “I’ll tell you what it is, sweetie. Del Sugar.”
His look is grave, but I can’t suppress a smile. I remember the first conversation we ever had about Del, the night of the Dadmobile incident—which my father hasn’t mentioned yet, although the plate is no longer on his car. I remember his quick, cloudy expression of hesitation when I’d asked if I should befriend Del.
“Okaaay,” I say, pretending to be clueless. “What about him?”
“You’re dating him. Is that right?”
I’m not sure why I don’t tell him the truth. Maybe because I know it won’t make him happy.
I try to keep my tone light, but it’s hard. Like I said, I almost never lie to my parents. “No,” I say. “Stephanie likes him.”
He rubs his temples, taking another deep breath. “Emily, don’t play dumb. I am not in the mood for it. I have seen you two on campus together. The Diggers have told me they’ve seen you taking walks off campus. Holding hands. Kissing.” My father stretches his arms behind his head. “I need to know the truth, Emily. Now.”
I hesitate. “Okay. We’re friends.” I nod, like I’m trying to convince myself that it’s the truth. “We’re good friends.”
I can tell my response doesn’t please my father by the way he leans back in his chair, goes “aghhhhhhhh,” and then stares at me with wide, tired eyes, and says, “Emily. This doesn’t make me ha
ppy. At all.”
All of a sudden, I realize what he’s looking at in the folder that’s sitting in front of him: it’s Del’s whole history, or at least whatever his parents decided to disclose. Seeing the folder makes me think of something else.
“You have a folder like that for everyone,” I say.
My dad nods.
“Even ex-students?”
He taps his fingers impatiently on the table. “Emily, what are you getting at?”
“Can you tell me what happened to Madeline Moon-Park? She just disappeared off the face of the planet, and everyone wants to know—”
“Let me stop you right there.” He closes the folder and slides it closer to his body, as though I’m going to leap across the room and grab it. “Whatever I do or do not know about Madeline is confidential, honey. You know that.”
“So you know what happened? You know where she went?”
“I didn’t say that. And you’re trying to change the subject. I brought you in here to tell you that I don’t want you seeing Del anymore.”
I tilt my head. I squint at my father. “I told you, we’re friends. What’s wrong with that?”
“From what I understand, it’s a pretty close friendship.” He gives me this heartbreaking look. “And it’s going to stop.”
The words come out before I even realize what I’m saying. “No, it’s not.”
“And why is that?” His tone becomes mildly sarcastic, just enough to irritate me. “Do you love him? This boy you know nothing about? You’ve known him for how long? Two months?”
“What makes you say I know nothing about him? You didn’t even know for sure I was seeing him until what—ten seconds ago? What is it, Dad? Is it his tattoo? Is it the fact that he was a foster child? Oh wait, let me guess. It’s that his father isn’t in Congress, or on the board of directors of one of the companies you’re a shareholder in, isn’t it?”
My dad is stunned. I’ve never spoken to him like this in my life. “No, Emily. That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?” Even I’m a little surprised by my attitude.
My father blinks a few times, like he’s trying to calm himself down. He opens the folder, stares at it, closes it, opens it again. “Emily,” he says quietly, “you do not know this boy the way you think you do.”
“Why don’t you tell me, then? Why did you let him in if he wasn’t Stonybrook Material?” My tone is beyond sarcastic.
“Del’s adoptive father, Doug Marshall, is a close friend of mine.”
“I’ve never heard you talk about him.”
“Would you listen to me? We were college roommates at Penn. The Marshalls are good people. They love their son.” He sighs. “What I’m about to tell you is confidential.”
“Oh, please. Tell me.”
“Del was taken from his mother’s home when he was just a toddler. He ran away from a number of foster homes before the Marshalls found him. He was abused, Emily. His sister was abused. Every time he ran away, the act was twofold: to find his sister, who he hasn’t had contact with in years, and to escape a terrible situation.”
I shake my head. “I already knew. Del told me about all of this.”
My dad studies me. “He didn’t tell you everything.”
“How do you know that?”
“Did he tell you what happened at his last boarding school?”
I only hesitate for a second. “Yes,” I lie.
“Oh, he did? He told you that the Marshalls pulled him out because, in the first week of school, his roommate—who also happened to be his best friend—almost beat another student to death with a baseball bat for allegedly raping a girl?”
I shake my head. “What?”
“Del’s roommate was his best friend,” my father says. “His name was … I don’t remember, Keith or Kevin or something like that. Kevin’s sister was on a date with another boy, and she accused him of raping her. So Kevin snuck into the boy’s room in the middle of the night with a metal bat and put the boy in a coma.”
Del has always been gentle. I swallow. “So? What does that prove? You don’t know if Del had anything to do with it.”
“Emily, they were seen leaving the dorm together that night, right after it happened. Who’s to say they didn’t both come up with the idea? Del was lucky not to get kicked out, or I couldn’t have done his father the favor of admitting him here.” My dad takes a deep breath. “Del is incredibly intelligent. He might be a nice boy, I don’t know. And I don’t know what the two of you have been up to with this special friendship of yours. But I am certain that he is not the boy for you. Emily, he is damaged. It might not be his fault, but it’s true.”
Before I can say a word, my dad continues, his voice growing louder with every syllable. “And another thing. Let’s talk about that broken window in your room.”
I give him my most innocent stare. I can’t believe the way I’m lying to my own father. “What about it? I told you, we woke up and found it that way.”
“I find that very interesting, Emily. Because I was having a conversation with Digger shortly after it happened, and I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth.”
“Which Digger?” I bat my eyelashes.
“You know damn well which Digger. The same Digger who saw you outside your dorm that night with Del. What happened? Did he throw something at your window to wake you up? I am telling you, Emily, you’re done with him. Case closed.”
He sits back in his chair, taking a moment to let it all sink in. While we’re sitting there in silence, he takes the folder, places it back in the filing cabinet beside his desk, and locks the cabinet door with a tiny key on his keychain.
I know he expects me to be shocked, and I suppose I am. But I can tell that he also expects me to be disturbed by what he’s told me, upset with Del, and ready to turn my back on him like any good girl would.
But all I want to do right now is find Del. I want to tell him I don’t care what happened at his last school; I know that he couldn’t have been involved. All I care about is now.
“It’s almost dinnertime,” my dad says. “You should go get dressed. I want you to sit with your mother and me tonight.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“And I don’t want you seeing Del Sugar anymore. You understand?”
I clear my throat. For a few seconds, I don’t say anything.
“Emily? You understand, don’t you?”
It’s easier not to fight. “I guess so.”
“Good. Come here.”
I cross the room and sit in his lap, like I’ve done countless times before. He pulls me into a hug. “Emily,” he says, his arms wrapped around my waist, “if you knew how much I love you—”
“I do know.”
“No, you don’t.” He looks into my eyes. “Children never know. You won’t understand until you have babies of your own someday.”
“Dad, okay … I have to go.”
He holds on to me, studying my expression. “That seemed too easy.”
It sure did. “Don’t think that,” I say. “I’ll tell Del I can’t see him anymore. It’s okay. I understand.”
My dad nods. I can tell he’s not buying it 100 percent. Maybe not at all. But I don’t care; all I want to do is get out of here.
I don’t even have to knock on Del’s window; he’s perched on the edge, leaning his head out to smoke.
“Hi,” I say.
He tosses the cigarette away when he sees me. “Hi, yourself. What took you so long?”
“I had to talk to my dad.”
Del shakes his head. “You are a daddy’s girl.”
I ignore the comment. “I couldn’t wait to see you.”
“Oh, you couldn’t?” He grins. “I’m flattered. Want to come in?”
“I can’t.” I really do have to get ready. “Just … look, I can’t talk much at dinner. My dad wants me to sit at his table. But I wanted to make sure you were coming by tonight.”
He studies my expressio
n. “Emily? Is anything wrong?”
“Are you coming tonight?”
He nods. “Yes. Sure, I am.”
“Then everything’s fine.” I stand on my tiptoes, leaning forward to give him a kiss before I begin to back away. “Everything’s perfect.”
chapter seven
During Friday morning’s school announcements, we learn that Mr. Henry, the intern, has come down with double pneumonia. Our announcements are personal like that. My dad’s secretary, Paula, does them over the loudspeaker in her office. After she tells everyone about his pneumonia, she adds that it would be nice if we made him a card.
For some reason, Franny gets it in her head that we should make him soup. From scratch. She doesn’t actually ask the rest of the quad if we’re interested in helping; instead, she goes to the store on her own early Saturday morning and returns with three grocery bags full of food.
Stephanie, Grace, and I are sitting on my bedroom floor, studying vocab words for English class.
Stephanie doesn’t look up from her cards. “Whatcha gonna do with all that food, Franny? You sure as hell aren’t going to eat it yourself.”
When Franny tells us about the soup, we all stare at her for a few seconds. Then we start laughing.
“What?” Franny asks. “What the hell’s so funny?”
“Franny,” Grace says, “I’ve never even seen you boil water. Have you ever cooked anything?”
Her bottom lip trembles a smidge. “I thought it would be a nice thing to do for him. He has double pneumonia, you guys.”
“I know,” Stephanie says. “We made him a card in my Latin class.”
“You did?” I ask, frowning at her. “In Latin?”
“Yes,” she says. “It said Get Well Soon. In Latin.”
“He’s my study hall proctor,” Franny continues, raising her voice. “He’s always nice to me. I like him.” Tugtugtug.
“Franny,” I tell her, “we can’t make that in the kitchenette. There isn’t enough space.” It’s true; all we have downstairs is a tiny electric stove, a minifridge, and a microwave.